Savage code, p.22
Savage Code, page 22
part #4 of The Porter Series
What Porter liked best about them was that they would also hold a good deal of weight.
He took his time, tying Osito’s hands together, then reached up, his height and outstretched arms bringing him close to the rafter, and tossed the twine through the open space. It came falling down over the metal beam and Porter grabbed it and pulled it quickly down, like a captain working the rigging of his sailboat.
Osito’s arms went from in front of his waist to over his head, higher and higher, Porter pulling until the man's feet were nearly off the ground and only his toes touched.
“Puta madre,” Osito hissed.
“Too much? Does that hurt?” Porter said.
“Hell yeah, it hurts.”
“Good,” Porter said, stepping away from the man.
Harsh was leaning against the wall, a look that Porter almost thought was a smile on the boxer’s face.
Porter turned back toward Osito. “So, you know how this thing goes. I mean, I’m sure you’ve had people strung up somewhere before too, right?”
“Yeah. Maybe you next time.”
Porter laughed, stepped close to Osito, and uncorked an enormous right hand to the man’s gut. The pain shot all the way up to his neck. He stepped back and shook his hand.
“That was dumb,” Porter muttered, and looked toward Harsh. “Feel free to hop in when the spirit moves you.”
Osito’s face twisted into a mask of pain, then his mouth opened and he vomited on the floor in front of him.
“Did you have shellfish?” Porter said with a smirk.
Osito coughed a couple of times, then leaned his head backward. “Puta madre.”
Porter nodded. “I’m serious as a heart attack. You wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. All I want is a name. You give me a name, and I can make all this stop.”
“What name, huh? I don’t know why you’ve been up my ass.”
“Don’t play dumb,” Porter said. He walked slowly around the hanging man, careful not to step on the vomit, his Chuck Taylors quiet on the industrial linoleum. “I’ve had the same question this whole time.”
“The kid.”
“Yep,” Porter said. “The kid. I just want to know who you gave him to. Simple. If you would have told me before, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“You don’t get it. I can’t tell you. If I do—”
“Let me guess—they’ll kill you, right? Why do people always say that? I don’t understand the issue. Look at yourself. You’re one wrong answer from a body bag right now. The hell with what the other guys might do to you.”
“I’m dead either way. You already told Oscar I was a dead man.”
“I did say that.”
“Will you let me go?”
“I don’t lie,” Porter said.
“Then why the hell should I tell you anything?”
“You tell me, I make it go quick. You don’t, this could take days.”
“It can’t take days, stupid. My staff will be here soon to open.”
“So?” Porter said. “I’ll tell them you’re closed. Give them a few bucks to take the week off.”
Osito looked at Porter, then looked at Harsh, and said nothing.
“Really?” Porter said. He walked over to the corner and picked up the broom that was leaning there. He popped the dustpan off it and walked over to Osito. The man’s eyes lit up.
“What are you going to do with that? Huh?”
Porter looked at the broom’s handle, then back to Osito. “Oh, you think… you think I’d…” Porter made a circle with his left hand and slid the broomstick into it.
Osito shook his head vigorously. “No, man, no. Don’t do that.”
Porter laughed. “Come on, Jimmy. That’s disgusting. I don’t get down like that. But the fact that your mind went there… makes me wonder if you usually do that to the guys you work over.”
Osito started to stammer, but Porter cut him off.
“No, this is all about me living a dream,” Porter said. “Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to play baseball. I never could, you know, because the ball is just so small. Hard to hit it. I couldn’t make the team. I had to stick to football and wrestling. But the baseball players, they got all the girls. Mind if I get a little practice in?”
Osito didn’t say anything.
Porter glanced at Harsh, who stepped over to the back door and checked the deadbolt.
Without another word, Porter swung the broomstick and brought it crashing into the cast on Osito’s leg. Then he swung it three more times.
By the time he was done, Osito was twisting and writhing in pain, cursing and muttering.
The broomstick was shattered and Porter held up the shard still in his hand. “Good thing I don’t put stuff in people’s asses.” He laughed and dropped the broomstick. The cast on Osito’s leg was crushed in like an eggshell—not fully broken, but no longer the protective casing it had once been.
Harsh stood, stoic, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“I don’t like to do this,” Porter said truthfully. “This is not the best way to get information out of somebody. If you hurt them, they might just tell you anything to get you to stop. That’s the problem. You can never tell if they’re being honest or not. Plus, it’s kind of an ugly thing to do. I’m not saying I’m above it, but I try to stay away. I’d rather force you into a corner, and make you decide for yourself. Better results every time.”
Porter grabbed Osito by his blazer and turned him around, forcing the hanging man to face him. “But if you think there is any way on God’s green earth that you leave this without telling me the truth, you’re out of your mind. I never liked your greasy ass, not from the moment I saw you. Then you knock me out, make me fight Frankenstein over there, and try to kill me and my friend? Locating the kid is just a bonus. I’m happy to kill you on principle. So believe me when I tell you, I’ll find a way to enjoy what comes next.”
Osito studied Porter’s eyes for a moment, then looked over at Harsh. “La lealtad es rara, eh?” Loyalty is rare, huh?
“Para ti? Sí.” For you? Yes.
Osito nodded and looked down for a moment. Porter didn’t say anything. He recognized this tipping point well. When people were faced with impossible decisions, it was best to stop pushing them at a certain point, and let them jump off the edge on their own.
A few moments later, Osito looked up again. “You’ll make it quick?”
“As fast as I can,” Porter said.
“You need to go find Nico Spirelli.”
Forty-Three
“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“It is if you’re from around here,” Osito said.
Porter pushed Osito and the man twisted on the twine, turned slowly away from him. Porter shot a glance at Harsh, as if to ask, Do you know this guy?
Harsh’s face said it all. A look of surprise washed over the normally stoic man.
“I’m not from around here, dickhead,” Porter said as he turned back toward the slowly rotating Osito. “Humor me.”
“Damn, man, doesn’t the name give it away? Mi madre used to say, ‘Don’t ask me a question you already know the answer to.’”
Porter ignored the urge to hit Osito, either with his fist or a retort. Instead he was lost in his thoughts. “The mob.”
“Ding ding. And not whatever bullshit mob you think you know about. He’s part of the Fanucci family.”
Porter ran through his mental Rolodex of the gangsters he was aware of. In the five years since he’d worked the gang task force as a Fed, he was sure the game had passed him by. Five years was an eternity in gang life. People were always moving in and out. Some were killed, some were overthrown. Some went to prison. If he were to look at a chart of all the major players in all the major gangs, Porter wasn’t sure he’d recognize any of them anymore.
Except the Fanucci family. One of the most powerful of the New York mob families, the Fanuccis were led by a man named Tommy “Blue Eyes” Fanucci. He was a war veteran who had come back to find a power vacuum in his city. So he filled the void.
Over the next sixty years, he had successfully guided his family to prominence in New York. Ultimately, Fanucci had become one of the most revered mob bosses of the last century. Famed for his ruthlessness toward his enemies, as well as the adoration of his own men, Fanucci was the last of a dying breed. Porter couldn’t have picked the man out of a lineup, but he knew the name well.
“I think I heard of them. What’s Nico Spirelli do for them?”
“Plenty. He’s already a capo, but he’s trying to make a big play to move higher up the ranks. Thing is, he needs money to do that.”
Porter thought for a moment. “And he traffics kids to get his money?”
“Not just kids; women and drugs, too. He’ll sell anything he can make some money on.”
“Why does he have you do his dirty work?”
“I have more soldiers than he does. Plus, if Tommy Blue Eyes ever found out he was selling kids and women, he’d kill Nico himself. The Don is old-school; he doesn’t play that shit. He’s a real ‘no women and children’ kind of guy. But guys like Nico know that’s the way the world is going, and they want to get theirs. Nobody wants to live in the past, following those old-school rules.”
“Sometimes the old-school way is the best. There’s a reason he’s been in charge for so long,” Porter said. “Dangerous business, doing this type of work behind the Don’s back.”
“That’s Nico’s problem. The Don ain’t my boss. All I do is grab the people Nico needs and give them to him. He gives me a fat stack and I’m gone. Beyond that, I’m not involved.”
Porter nodded. “You snatch a lot of people for Nico?”
Osito shrugged. “We have an arrangement. He needs something done, off the books so his mooley bosses don’t know about it, he calls me.”
Porter was quiet for a few moments. The pieces were starting to fit together in his head. Nico Spirelli sold and pimped people to the wealthy elites of the city, but there was only so much he could do without attracting attention. Which was where Candy Man came into play.
Through his vast network, Candy Man would act as an intermediary, finding people to sell to Nico Spirelli for further use. Once Spirelli knew Candy Man had a body ready for him, Spirelli would sub-contract Osito and his guys for transportation. Now that Spirelli knew Candy Man was in prison, he was worrying about his own ass. If Candy Man spilled his guts, not only would Nico be facing prison time, but that apparently paled in comparison to what Don Fanucci would do to him if he caught him selling women or children. This only left one question in Porter’s head. “Where?”
“Qué?”
“Where do you take the kids?” Porter said. “When you give them to Spirelli, where do you take them?”
“Jersey. He owns a car lot over there. Always brought them to one of his garages, left them in a car, and walked.”
“I believe you,” Porter said as he smacked Osito’s cheek. “I believe you.”
“You should. I swear on mi madre’s soul that’s the truth.”
“Don’t do that. She wouldn’t want her soul wrapped up in this dirty business,” Porter said.
“Maybe you’re right,” Osito said. “She was better than this.”
“Most moms are,” Porter said. “Anything else you need to tell me?”
Osito shook his head.
“Good. I’ll make it quick,” Porter said. He pulled Osito’s revolver from his waistband and pointed it at the man.
A large hand reached out and pushed the barrel down. Porter looked at Harsh and said, “What? You getting cold feet now?”
“Too loud,” Harsh said.
Porter considered for a moment, then slid the gun into his waistband. “You’re right. Look, let me go check that camera setup again, just to be sure I didn’t miss a tape. I’ll think of something.”
Porter stepped back through the big double doors, into the main room of the bodega. The light of the morning was just starting to filter its way through the frosted glass and cast the poker tables in a soft haze.
He walked behind the counter toward the security display again. Porter figured he’d better be safe than sorry and give it a more thorough check. The screen was split into four sections; Porter wasn’t sure whether there were only three cameras or the fourth was offline, but only three of the four feeds showed anything.
The one by the front door showed a steady trickle of cars on the road and people walking down the sidewalk. The camera that was trained above the back door showed Rivera’s rental, sitting perfectly still, with nothing else around it. The last feed was apparently of a camera Porter hadn’t noticed in the storeroom, where he’d tied Osito up.
Porter watched as Harsh laid into Osito, over and over again, his fist like pistons hammering the man’s face and neck. Porter had never seen punches that fast, not even the ones Harsh had thrown at him the night before.
There was no sound on the monitor. The violent movements seemed strange as they occurred in the near absence of sound, a muffled thudding the only thing reaching Porter’s ears in the next room. Porter pushed the power button off, then patted his pocket, assuring himself that the tape was still there and he hadn’t done something foolish with it.
Like accidentally mail it to the NYPD.
He looked around for any other surveillance devices and found none. The extent of Big Brother in the bodega amounted to several cheap security cameras and an old VCR. He grabbed a lighter from the display on the counter, then waited several moments before pushing his way back through the double doors that led into the storeroom.
Osito hung limply from his bonds, his head and face a bloody mess. The man’s chin was to his chest and he wasn’t moving. As Porter moved closer, he saw white specks of bone sticking through Osito’s cheek and forehead. The left side of the man’s face was caved in, and bloody drool hung from his lips.
Porter wasn’t sure of much in his life, but the top of that list was the fact that Osito was never moving again.
Harsh was back against the wall, arms crossed, barely breathing hard.
“You good?”
“Estoy bien.”
Porter took a deep breath and looked around for a moment. He went to the shelf where the cleaning chemicals were kept. He then moved to the deep, galvanized metal sink with a rubber hose attached to the spigot. He broke the VCR tape in half, pulling the spool until it was all out, and stuffed it into the sink.
He picked up a bottle of floor cleaner, splashed some on the tangle of evidence, then touched the lighter to it. Porter stood and watched any evidence that he’d been involved with Osito melt away.
Harsh stood next to him, watching the pyre burn.
“Shame we didn’t get to put Osito into one of his own barrels. That would have been nice,” Porter said, almost wistfully, as the fire crackled.
After a few moments, he tore his eyes away from the flames and looked toward Harsh. “Is this guy Nico as bad as Osito said?”
Harsh nodded.
“Great.”
The men stood in silence. Once everything in the sink had been melted to slag, Porter cranked the handle and turned the hose toward the small blaze, extinguishing it almost instantly. The last thing he wanted to do was set a whole city block on fire.
“We better get going. I think it’s going to be a long day. You ready?”
“Estoy listo.” I’m ready.
With that, the two men left the bodega, not bothering to lock it behind them. Porter backed out of the alley, turned, and put the rising sun at his back.
New Jersey was west. And Nico Spirelli was waiting.
Forty-Four
The sun reflected off the sea of cars in front of him. Windshields and hoods, mirrors and shiny chrome. Its ricochet bounced off the cars and into his face, until Porter had to pull the visor down.
The windows of Rivera’s sedan were down, and there was a cool cross breeze blowing through the car. Harsh didn’t seem to mind one way or the other, looking at the building thirty yards away with his cold eyes. Porter, on the other hand, closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. It felt like years since he’d slept, and the breeze was nice.
Soon enough, it would be sweltering at his home in Tampa—the kind of heat where taking a shower was almost a futile effort. It didn’t matter how clean one got, ten seconds after walking into the blast furnace that was the Florida sun, everything was damp and sweaty again.
Porter liked the cool weather better. A big guy sweated less. It was more comfortable to move around in. He’d often told himself he was going to move. Away from his friends and family. Away from Trish. He was thinking hard about it this time, and had almost convinced himself to do it. Not to New York, of course; the gun laws were stifling. Porter would never live there.
But there were plenty of stops between New York and Florida, with plenty of places to relax and take it easy. Porter nodded his head, like he’d decided. He’d definitely look for somewhere else to move.
If he made it through the next hour alive.
“Seems like he’s a busy guy,” Porter said, eyes still closed.
Harsh didn’t answer.
Porter had watched long enough to see that the car lot was really more of a dealership, with a dozen salesmen running back and forth, talking to potential clients. There was a small service bay to the right of the building, the three roll top doors up as mechanics worked on misbehaving vehicles.
“You want to know something crazy? I’m usually the quiet one. But you? You take it to a whole ’nother level.”
Porter looked down at his phone and thumbed it open. He dialed the number to the hospital and let it ring twice before he hung up.
“No hay tiempo para eso.” No time for that.
“You’re right. Either she’s good or she’s not good.” He checked his rearview mirror. The grocery store parking lot they sat in was large, and since no one liked to park this far from the store, they were alone. Over the small road in front of him, Porter focused on the business.
