Snake eyes, p.16
Snake Eyes, page 16
One of them saw him and set his dough down. “What can I get you?” he said. “We close in ten minutes. But I got a slice special, and a free refill on fountain soda and water ice.”
“I need to see Sal,” Carl said. “Tell him Carl needs a word.”
“He ain’t available,” the young man said. “As a general rule.”
“He will be for me.”
“Well, ain’t someone full of themselves, with their assumptions.”
Carl turned to his left. The old man in the doorway to the back room was tiny, maybe five-three in heels. He’d seemingly shrunk even more over the years, loose, age-spot mottled skin over a tiny, stooped frame, hair long gone, eyebrows like gray wire caterpillars.
“You always said I was welcome to visit,” Carl replied.
“I was thinking maybe a little sooner than twenty years.” Salvatore ambled over unsteadily and hugged him. “Come on, let’s go in back and talk. Hey, Thomas! A bottle of the Valpolicella from my cousin’s farm!”
They went into the back room. A pair of desks were surrounded by towers of empty pizza boxes. Carl looked around. “Just pizza?”
Sal waved dismissively. “Eh… I’m way too old for the game anymore, kid. I’m retired.”
“I thought that wasn’t really an option.”
“Nah… that’s just legend, myth. They prefer if people go quiet, the dons and capos. Keeps everyone from bustin’ each other’s heads.” He turned, his elderly brow furrowed deeply. “Why so long? What did I do to deserve that?”
Carl shook his head gently. “That’s not it, old man, you should know that.”
“Yeah? Tell me what I know, then.”
“Well, you know I’m not Italian, for one thing. And you know I got pride.”
“Too much!” Sal said.
Thomas arrived with the wine and both men shut up while he opened it.
“Good, good, gimme here,” Sal demanded.
Thomas handed him the bottle and both glasses. Sal filled each and handed one back to Carl. “Some guys figure it’s best to leave some air in the glass, let it breathe. Me, I like to fill that part with wine.”
“Heh!”
“Salud,” Sal said, taking a healthy swig.
Carl joined him. “Ah! Yeah, that’s all right.”
“Grab a seat,” Sal said, gesturing to a beaten-up leather sofa. He ambled creakily over to an old office chair by the desk and sat down. “So… what happened?”
“You remember Louisa Gambino? She was maybe two years younger, nineteen or twenty—”
“Yeah, yeah! I remember her. Who could forget, with the blonde hair and the big bazooms? She was Paul DeCesare’s brother’s daughter, from Chicago.”
“Yeah… well… I knocked her up. And she wanted me to pay to get it fixed, so I did. And then I found out her old man was ‘old school’ about that.”
Sal’s head dipped. “That’s it? That’s all it was? I could’ve helped with that. I could’ve intervened.”
“Nah. Nah, you couldn’t. You’re forgetting how it was back then, after the old families had basically died out of the picture, everyone scrapping for turf. You were a capo, Sal. I was just the kid you gave a roof to, a nobody. You do me a favor, and it costs you one in turn. And at that time, there’s a good chance that favor involves clipping a rival. Then, you’ve got a target on you because of me. And Pauly still would’ve figured a way, because I’m not ‘made.’ So it would’ve been open season.”
Sal nursed the wine for a moment, swirling it in the glass, watching the red, syrupy consistency as it slowly coated each inner curve. “I promised you when you was little, after your old man…”
“You know I never held that against you,” Carl said. “He got what was coming to him.”
“For the things he did to you? No,” Sal disagreed. “He got off real easy.” He looked off at the wall, distant, his mind elsewhere, sorting through a life of bad memories. “What pieces of work we were, letting a little kid see any of that world. What terrible beasts of men.”
The gaze was nostalgic, yearning for different choices, as if they’d had any. “You did what you had to in order to survive,” Carl said. “That’s what we all do.
Sal sipped his wine. He was still slightly not there, Carl thought, stuck in contemplation, perhaps a continual challenge now that he had so much time on his hands. That, and he was nearing eighty.
“Life is not so simple, my boy. There are always more options than just black or white, either/or, do or don’t, us versus them. Maybe that’s the biggest mistake we make, this notion of self-determination, of strength being the best life has to offer. Still…”
He put the wine glass down and slapped both thighs with his palms. “I’m an old, morose gangster, full of regrets… and there ain’t nothing more annoying in Philadelphia than that. So… I figure you come today, you need help with something.”
Carl nodded. “I wouldn’t risk Paulie D’s wrath otherwise.”
Sal peered at him wistfully. “Paulie D’s been dead two years, son. And he was retired a decade before that. Nobody cares about that now.”
The tone was tinged with regret for time lost. “No one cares about some girl getting knocked up and not having the kid, not after all this time.” He looked down and sighed a little. Then he took another swallow of wine and shook it off. “So spill. What can I do you for, kid?”
“I’m in some trouble. I need details on a poker game, held every Friday night by Jerry Grosso at the Lucky Seven. Assuming it won’t come back on you, can you help with that?”
Sal smiled. “As a matter of fact, I can. And… no, I do not want to know the details.”
Tim Wright opened the door wearing a bathrobe and a quizzical expression. “Bob, it’s…” He glanced over at the wall. “… nearly one in the morning.”
“It couldn’t wait,” Bob said. “Can I come in?”
Wright turned slightly and swept a hand by way of invite. Bob walked past him and into the townhouse’s tiny living room.
“My girlfriend is sleeping upstairs, so we need to keep it down,” Tim said. “And… man, I don’t wish to be rude, but I would really like to go back to sleep.”
“I need you to call in sick tomorrow. And make it convincing.”
Tim studied him. “Now… that doesn’t sound good.”
“We’re going to rob Jerry Grosso,” Bob said.
The expression shifted solidly to doubt. “Because… you’re a fucking lunatic?”
“I know who he is, Tim. I also know he’s the casino’s real owner. But we have no choice.”
“Why?”
“Stuck in the middle of something. One of the guys helping me rob the place probably shot Taylor. I’ve been working on figuring out who. In the process, it turns out they robbed a gangster. Now he wants us to rob another gangster.”
“Grosso. Goddamn…” Tim muttered. “This is out of hand, all of it.”
“It was before we even got involved,” Bob said. “The guys helping me were the ones Taylor figured were washing cash. The gangster is the guy they stole it from.”
“Let me help,” Tim said. “I owe Taylor.”
The truth, Bob knew, was that they needed all the guns they could muster. But he wasn’t about to let an innocent like Wright risk his life. “Not a fucking chance. These guys are not stable and they would not react well to your sudden presence, believe me.”
“But I—”
“Not an option,” Bob cut him off. “Please, Tim. If you trust Justin, trust me on this. Stay home tomorrow, okay?”
30
Carl opened the hotel room door.
Bob was standing in the hallway, both hands held high, each holding two well-stuffed white paper bags, one also holding a thick paper file. “I brought breakfast.”
“You’re a little early. It’s only eight thirty.”
“My intel source got back to me sooner than expected, and we need to get some prep work done, not to mention… you know… planning a heist and all that hoo-ha.”
The bank robber looked past him. “Where’s Boone?”
“Making himself look pretty. Let’s talk.”
Bob followed him into the room and set the bags down on the round breakfast table, near the windows. Carl looked into one and withdrew a burrito stuffed with scrambled eggs and bacon.
“All right,” he nodded. “I can dig that.”
Petkovic stepped out of the bathroom. “What’s up?” he demanded.
“Bob brought breakfast.”
“Bob also bought three vehicles, two of which Bob parked at pay lots within a block of the hotel, one of which is far enough away to give us time to switch vehicles unseen.”
“Good.” Petkovic grabbed a burrito and pointed it at Bob. “You’re smarter than Boone at least.” He opened the paper wrapper and took a bite, then mumbled while chewing, “We’re all still going to fucking die, I imagine, but at least it will be a well-planned death.”
The room door opened and Boone entered. “Morning, boys,” he said. He sniffed the air. “Do I smell bacon?”
Bob tossed him a paper sack. “Go nuts. Well… more so, I guess.”
“So we’ve got wheels,” Carl said. “What about the job itself? You said you had information.”
“Yeah, I know a guy who knows a guy,” Bob said. “He’s sent me a schematic of the place, along with details on the catering company that feeds them every Friday night.”
Bob took the file over to the table and opened it. “I printed some of this off. This is a tabloid-sized overhead shot of the casino and property. According to the instructions given to the caterers, Fratelli Brothers, they deliver not via Grosso’s private elevator in the lobby but by a private service elevator exclusively for staff. It exits into his penthouse’s kitchen, where he has a chef overseeing the catering crew.”
“So we go up dressed as caterers?” Carl asked.
“Not necessary — or possible, really. We’re going to cover our faces — I’ve gotten us translucent masks that obscure any features — and there will be no use of names or anything that identifies us. And we’re going to grab the lead catering guy to open doors, as the elevator is coded to his retinal scan. The most important consideration for now,” Bob said, “is to understand the penthouse map.”
Boone looked at the blueprint copy. “Okay. What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“This short hallway, here, connects one of the three doors out of the kitchen to the living room. Halfway along it is Jerry Grosso’s personal washroom. And the reason I say that is that if you look over here…” His finger traced across the blueprint to the top right corner. “… you find his and hers guest bathrooms, and sizeable ones at that.”
“We get him when he goes to the john.”
“We wait in the john until he enters and take him hostage,” Bob said. “Then we rob the game. Or something like that. Tell us about the game, Carl.”
“I had words with an old mentor of mine. If there’s a gaming racket in this town, he knows about it. He’s never played in this one, because it rolls too rich for him. But he’s been there, as a guest of one of the players. So, he knows his shit,” Carl said.
“What kind of take are we talking?” Boone asked. “If it’s not heavy enough, we’ve got zero chance of keeping Stoll off our backs.”
“Grosso brags that the game has a million-dollar buy-in,” Carl said. “That doesn’t mean they all lose or play until one person takes all. They’ve been known to play for as long as thirty hours, into early Sunday morning. But they’ve also wrapped in less than five. It does mean they each bring a million to the table. He never has fewer than five players. He has had up to eight.”
“Your friend has seen the money?” Bob asked.
“No, like I said, he was there as a guest. But it’s well established.”
Petkovic whistled gently.
“Appropriate response,” Carl said. “That’s why each guy usually brings two heavies. My friend did say Grosso limits the size of entourage, but that still means between ten and sixteen guns, plus the main attractions themselves. And in that case, we’re talking about Grosso, we’re talking about Sal ‘The Gent’ Genovese, we’re taking Michael ‘Pavement Mike’ Benvenuto, we’re talking Pat McSweeney… these guys are captains in some pretty powerful families.”
Petkovic sighed. “This… this is nuts. There, I said it, gentlemen.”
“Now, hear me out,” Bob said. “Grosso has been protected his whole life, first as the son of a former Don, then as the man in charge of his own family. He’s never had anyone actually challenge his authority and as his men make good money, he’s popular with the New York families. But that also makes him vulnerable. We go in hard, we extract the money, we use the extra vehicles to blow Philly.”
“One problem,” Boone said. “We don’t got no armor, we don’t got no rifles. And the game is in twelve hours.”
“I’ve got that figured,” Carl said. “You fellas forget. I’m from Chester.”
Crisp Home Brewing sat in an old strip mall off 6th Street. It was rundown, like much of Chester, a suburb in continual decline for a half-century, once home to factories and thriving families, now known for crime and futility.
The door jingled as Carl pushed it open. He entered and held it for Bob, behind him.
The store was warm, the heat cranked to ward off the earliest traces of winter, humidity building on the lower portions of the tinted front windows. It was a rectangular box perhaps twenty feet deep by thirty long, a counter occupying ten feet of corner just ahead of the doors. Past it, the walls were lined with shelves containing brewing kits, as well as large glass mason jars full of hops and barley.
Behind the counter, a man sat on a tall stool, stooped, his sweater too big for him, a science fiction novel propped on one knee. “We’re all out of glass flasks, try the head shop at the corner,” he called out without looking up.
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind if I need a bong,” Carl said.
The clerk looked up. His eyed widened. “Carl!” He put the book down on the counter and rushed around. The two men hugged. “Damn, son! Well, goddamn! It’s good to see you, man!”
Carl extricated himself and clapped his friend on the back. “Same, man, same.” He nodded over his shoulder. “This is Bob. We’re working something together. Bob, this is Darryl.”
Bob figured the address was close to the one he’d seen on John Butcher’s list, but he wasn’t sure. “Our friend in Tucson says to keep it weird,” he said.
Darryl formed a finger gun with his right hand and clucked his tongue knowingly. “Gotcha, chief!”
Carl frowned. “What… what’s that about?”
“We have a mutual friend in the world of supply-side economics,” Darryl said. He walked over to the door and flipped over the “open/closed” sign, then locked the deadbolt. “Truth is, outside of meth heads trying to buy glass to cook with, I don’t get much business for beer kits no more.”
He nodded for them to follow him, walking behind the counter and opening the door to a back hall.
He led them to a room at the very end, where he unlocked a steel door’s padlock. “It ain’t sophisticated, but she does the job.”
He pulled the door open. “Gentlemen.”
Bob stepped in cautiously. The collection of illegal weaponry wasn’t huge, but it was clearly tailored towards pros. “Nothing cheap in this lot,” he said. He eyed a Czech-made Bren gun, HK416s, a pair of Colt Python revolvers with six-inch barrels. Along one wall, a table contained a series of dual-joystick remote controls, as well as an array of small explosives.
“You have body armor?” Carl asked.
Darryl moved to the wall to their far right and unlocked a tall metal locker. He slid out a rack of hanging body armor choices. “Now, it’s not the latest and lightest. But it’s procurement-grade, designed to take anything the average cop dishes out.”
“Eh… So you figure Darryl’s got what we need?” Carl said, unzipping the inner pocket of his money belt.
Bob nodded and looked around. “Yeah, it’s fine. The body armor is your bag, though, Carl, not mine.”
“You’re wearing a vest,” Carl insisted. “I don’t need Boone or Petko getting any dumb ideas and no matter how good you think you are, I know they need the protection.”
“If we do this right,” Bob said, “nobody fires a shot.”
“That would be great. But I like to plan for the worst. One or more of them goes down, and I’m stuck with just you for cover. You’re wearing a vest.”
“Fine.” Bob rolled his eyes. Cut down my mobility; head’s still exposed, any crossfire in an apartment is counterproductive. So if anything happens it’s two sides in cover, in all likelihood. But sure, saddle me with the body armor.
“Carl mentioned M4s,” Darryl said. “I’ve got a dozen in varying conditions, none new.”
Bob pointed at the far wall. “Nice scope. That’s the FLIR model.”
“It is.”
“We’ll take it.”
Carl shot him a hard look. “Is that really necessary? It’s not exactly dark in a casino.”
“We aren’t staying in the casino. Trust me. You never know when you need eyes in the dark.” He nodded towards the door. “I’ll go back up the car to the rear entrance.”
Carl paid his old friend and picked up the first crate, just as Bob reentered the store through the front door.
“Okay, I moved the car around back,” Bob said.
“Make yourself useful, Big D,” Carl said. “Grab one.”
“You go on ahead and load there for a sec,” Darryl said. “I need to talk to Bob about our friend in Tucson.”
“Gotcha.” Carl headed for the hall.
“What’s up?” Bob asked.
“Keep an eye out for Carl,” Darryl said quietly. “He’s an old friend — we go back to childhood. He had a real rough time of it, real bleak, abusive shit. Gave him a hair-trigger temper. He’s got his ethics, but he’ll look out for number one.”
“I got that impression.”
