Rackets, p.41
Rackets, page 41
“There something wrong inside your head?” Magic glared up at him.
Keefe stretched his arms back, playing it off. Just a little tic.
“C’mere.” Magic motioned him over.
Keefe sat on the ottoman at Magic’s feet. He felt ridiculous, like a kid. Magic grabbed him by the back of the head as if he was pulling a whore’s head down for a blow job. He leaned in close and caught a strong whiff of garlic and bad medicine. Magic’s skin was clammy. Magic whispered in his ear like a lover. “How much can your fat friend really hurt us?”
“Enough.”
“I don’t like that answer.”
“Tommy, what can I say?”
“Somebody tried to shoot him the other night. You got any idea where he might be? This fat rat fuck.”
“Can’t say I do.”
“I got some more guys you need to take into the union for me.”
“Guys?”
“Yeah, more of them Russians.”
“Russians? Tommy, this is a bad time. The election and all.”
“Fuck cares? You get them in there. I got two in particular I want as shop stewards.”
“Shop stewards? Tommy, the books are closed. I open them up now, it’s gonna look awful bad.”
Magic pulled back and slapped him, heavy-handed, across the face. Keefe’s head turned halfway around and his ear rang from the blow. He was stunned.
“That’s enough outta you. That union is mine! You do what the fuck I tell you to, or so help me, I’ll hurt you like nobody’s ever been hurt. And this fucking kid, you take care of that too. You hear me?” Magic stood. “Tell my sister to call.”
Keefe rubbed his face and watched Magic go, the humiliation washing over him like a blast from a fire hose. He wished he had the balls to kill the old greaseball. Tell him about his sister first. Rub it in. He knew now he had to kill him. Russians. What the hell was this with the goddamn Russians? And what the hell was he going to do about Jimmy Dolan?
Tara dreamt that she and Jimmy were on a honeymoon cruise. They were on the deck of a grand ocean liner at night making good speed, when it began to dawn on them that they were alone. The decks were abandoned, and as they searched anxiously through the decks, it became obvious that they were on a ghost ship, a doomed vessel. She awoke frightened, her breath quick and shallow, the air charged with menace. Then it came to her where she was. She thought she heard something, or was it an echo from her fading dream? She listened hard in the dark, tight air of the hold. She made out Punchy’s snoring, that was all. She relaxed, but then heard it again. A footstep? She felt the boat shift. Somebody was up there.
She rolled off the bunk and picked up the pistol Liam had left for her. She crawled through the hold to the next berth. The smell of Punchy, seeping booze, halitosis, was asphyxiating. She gagged as her bile began to rise. She nudged him. He did not respond, so she jabbed him hard in the neck with the pistol. Finally he came to. She clamped a hand across his mouth and whispered in his ear. “They’re here. Come with me. Be quiet.” She felt his body quiver, the fear surging through him like electricity.
She considered her options. She saw the deck above her splintering and realized somebody was walking along and shooting through the deck, heavy-caliber fat balls of lead from a silenced weapon. She could feel the rounds, thwack, thwack, thwack, hitting with impact, sending tremors through the frame of the boat. There was a precision to the barrage, a calculation. The shooter was methodical and practiced. She- considered firing back through the ceiling, but no, that would give up their position and she had to believe they were outgunned. She wanted to get Punchy off the boat first.
She led the way to the rear hatch, hugging close to the wall. She snapped open the latch and pulled the door wide. The air was chilled by the water. “Stay right here.”
She ran back and retrieved two life jackets from the locker. She forced one down over Punchy’s head and ears, pulled it tight, then nudged him toward the hatch. “Just slide out into the water.”
“It’s cold. Too cold.”
He spoke with a girlish whine, and she fought the urge to slap him. Tara wished he could see the look on her face. “You rather be cold or dead?”
“I can’t swim.”
“You don’t have to. Just float, you’re fat enough. Now go!” She shoved his head down to the hatch.
“Oh, for the love of God.”
As Punchy started for the water, she scuttled along the hold, firing randomly through the deck above her head. She heard and felt movement and, in response to her shots, the bullets coming down hard and fast, rock and roll, somebody on full automatic. She scurried with her hand over her head as if it might make a difference. When she reached the stern she hit the toggle switches to illuminate the deck. She heard cursing, a staccato language rough and thick in the throat. Russian? She ran back, zigzagging, praying the bullets would not find her. As she neared the stern, she heard someone pull open the deck door and drop something down. She considered a dive into the water but instead flipped a table over and knelt behind it, dropping her forehead to the floor. A terrible light and noise filled the cabin and she felt the force of the concussion grenade against her ad hoc barricade. Her head rang from the blast and she felt disoriented. For a moment she forgot where she was. Her head cleared, and she slapped a new clip into her pistol and trained her fire on the ladder leading down. She emptied the clip and tossed the weapon aside. She took the boat’s flare gun and slipped out of the hatch.
The water hit her with a shock, icy. The pain clamped like a vise on her bones. Her clothes weighed her down. Her chest tightened from the frigid river. She caught her breath, calmed herself. There were shooters running along the dock. She leaned her head back and pointed the gun straight up into the Manhattan night and squeezed the trigger. The flare shot up over the river and bathed them in a pink hot light.
She found Punchy clinging to a cleat on the side of the boat. She moved behind him and slid her arm around him, then leaned back, thankful for her summers of lifeguarding in Rockaway. She stayed close to the boat, determined not to get out of the water until she saw the NYPD. The wind whistled through her head and she wondered if the grenade had ruptured an eardrum. Punchy shivered in her arms, a huge, sobbing baby. “Maybe you should listen to Jimmy,” she said.
He choked out a response. “I will, I will, I will.”
She heard the sirens, but waited until she saw the strobe of the cherry tops before hauling her charge toward shore.
Jimmy sat on the stage beside Lou Condo as Rosen worked his retirees into a lather. He was a surprisingly effective speaker, and his indignation rose as he attacked Keefe’s mishandling of the pension funds. He punched the air with his forefinger and thundered, “Biggest bull market in history and this—this—this horse’s ass! is losing our—your money. You might ask why. You might ask how. I’ll tell you how. This creep is in bed with the sewer rats, the gangster element, the racket boys. He’s a bum!”
The retiree committee had rented the Theatre at Madison Square Garden for their annual convention. Up and down the aisles Jimmy saw banners proclaiming him the leader. Some of the attendees were in their nineties, others had recently stopped working and were still full of vigor. He watched a man in a wheelchair he had met earlier wave a small American flag. He was the last man alive who had worked on the Empire State Building.
Jimmy tried to keep focused, but the shooting at the boat the previous night had him spooked. In the aftermath, Punchy had become more determined not to inform, more scared. For now, that did not matter. He would worry about Punchy and everything else after the election.
Now Rosen was pillorying the executive board. Jimmy’s fear of physical harm had morphed into an edgy numbness. He had no choice. He was not going to be intimidated. He was going ahead with the election no matter what, so he tried to keep everything in perspective. He would stay on his toes, but he refused to hide. He was surprised he had not heard back from Roth. But that was another thing he could not control; so he decided to put it aside. If he won, Roth, Punchy, Keefe, they would all be less important to his life. He listened as Rosen hit a fever pitch, and twisted to indicate Jimmy with his gnarled right hand. “And now, brothers and sisters, I bring to you the next president of Local 383, Jimmy Dolan.”
Condo nudged him and Jimmy rose from his seat as the room exploded into cheers. He took the podium with the applause persisting. He felt it down through his body, in his chest, to his toes. He stared up into the reaches of the room, flags waved, men hooted and hollered for him. He had never felt anything like this before. He waited until the noise subsided and started by saying, “I want to dedicate this campaign to my father, who, like all of you here, was a great Teamster. This one’s for Mike Dolan.” And once again, the applause rose until it was thunderous.
The vote was held at a Teamster hall on Fourteenth Street, and the turnout astounded everyone. Jimmy stood with Liam and Lou Condo and Sol Rosen beside a truck that was providing coffee and doughnuts for the men. Jimmy had the vehicle draped in American flags and “Vote Dolan” posters. He had arrived at 7 a.m. and now, just past 10, Frankie Keefe was finally showing up. Jimmy noticed that Cronin was nowhere to be seen and wondered what had happened to him. Keefe hurried past them without as a nod, but he lacked his usual strut. His eyes were glued to the back of the bodyguard he followed into the hall.
Rosen watched and said, “The man reeks of defeat.”
Jimmy passed out his campaign literature and greeted Teamsters as they pulled up in their trucks to vote. The men climbed down from their rigs and most met Jimmy with enthusiasm. As the day wore on, Jimmy’s nerves calmed a bit and he began to feel he had things in hand. It was just after three o’clock when Keefe came out with a half dozen of his men and, after giving Jimmy the finger, roared off in his Cadillac. Soon after that, word came out that Keefe had conceded the election. A cheer went up, and men came over, slapping Jimmy on the back. An impromptu celebration broke out on the sidewalk, with Lou Condo producing a case of champagne. After a while they moved the party across the street to O’Hanlon’s Bar.
“You believe it?”
Liam was by his side, a bottle of Bud in each hand. “Yeah, Jimbo. I knew it all along. I gotta say thanks for saving me from a murder rap. Because, not for nothing, I would’ve put that piece of shit in the ground, you lost. Least I could do.”
“All right then.”
Jimmy stayed till late in the evening, surrounded by Teamsters, accepting backslaps and congratulations, But as the party wore on, a sadness was welling up inside of him. This was the one thing his father had fought for his whole adult life. He began to feel detached from the celebration around him. Since getting wrapped up in the election, he hardly had time to deal with his father’s death. Condo was beside him, but Jimmy ignored him. He tipped his beer in a silent toast to his father. This one’s for you, Dad.
Then he turned back to Lou Condo and to all the others who were toasting his success and smiled, letting a look of triumph wash over his face. Condo held up a ring of keys. “Here you go, kid. Keys to the union office.” And everyone cheered.
Roth took the call from the Teamster hall, nodded, and hung up. Pacing, he stopped in front of the windows overlooking Broadway. Traffic was at a standstill and the braying of car horns rose from the street, shattering the solitude of his office.
It was time to pull Frankie Keefe off the street. He would place a call to the U.S. Attorney’s office and execute as many arrests as possible. As long as Keefe went along he might wrap things up nicely. Then he would meet again with Jimmy Dolan. He sat at his desk and picked up his phone.
Liam was getting a little sick of all the backslapping. He figured there was still a lot to worry about with or without Keefe. There was still that Mafia guy. Jimmy brushed off his suggestion to leave, so he slipped out of the bar for some fresh air. He walked around the corner to a deli for a soda and a Post. He paid and walked back toward his truck, which was parked just down the street from the bar. He sat on the hood and read the Post, cursing at the Rangers’ poor performance, then dropped it through the window onto the driver’s seat. He glanced at his watch. He wanted to get home. He idly surveyed the traffic, mostly yellow cabs and delivery trucks. He watched a dark sedan pull to a stop. There were two men in the front seat. When the passenger turned to him, Liam said, “Holy fuck.” That was a face he would never forget. He reached into the pickup and grabbed his pistol from his gym bag.
Gregov’s cousin never tired of complaining about American women. Gregov nodded, but he had to disagree. He loved everything about America. Where else was there so much to steal and such weak policing? He looked in his rearview mirror and saw a cop on a scooter advancing slowly toward them. He was glancing at registration stickers, looking for an easy ticket. Gregov cursed. He did not want anyone to remember seeing them. He had hoped the son of the man they killed would have come out by now, so they could get the job done. His boss was becoming impatient with all the botched killings. They looked bad, unprofessional, like amateurs. All this shooting. He would prefer to use some of the tricks he had learned in the mountain villages of Afghanistan. They would kidnap rebel leaders, peel the skin off the bodies, flay them alive. Then leave them to die slowly. Here it is all bang-bang. A woman could do it.
He watched the cop stop at a Mercedes half a block away and flip open his ticket book, then dismount. Gregov checked the bar door. Nothing happening. His cousin lit another cigarette, his hands shaking. The boy had been in Grozny for the big defeat. They say it was worse there. Doing the bad things to your own people. The cop finished writing, tore the ticket from the book, then climbed back on his scooter and moved toward them again. Gregov dropped the transmission into drive and took his foot off the brake. He would have to chance going around the block again. It was then that his cousin started shouting.
Liam stuck the gun in his waistband and moved for the car. He looked around quickly and saw the cop at the end of the block. He contemplated yelling for him, but with the noise and the crowd and the traffic, he might not be heard. He saw the car with the shooter start to pull away from the curb and he sprinted toward it, trying to stay in the blind spot. He caught the car and while jogging alongside it swung a hard punch into the face of the shooter. The man screamed in surprise, and Liam threw two more hard shots, both glancing off the man’s face. He reached for the door handle, but it was locked. He was about to go for his pistol when the shooter grabbed his arm and yanked it into the car just as it accelerated up the street. Liam grunted as the man bit down hard on his wrist. He tried to swing his other arm into the car, but the vehicle picked up speed and it was all he could do to run fast enough to keep from being dragged. The driver jumped the curb and they sped down the sidewalk toward Eighth Avenue, scattering spectators, who dove for cover.
Liam ran along as fast as he could in the awkward position. When he could no longer keep up the pace, they started to drag him along, his feet scraping the sidewalk, his knees banging on the car door. He ducked his head and made a desperate dive, following his arm into the car. He came face to face with the Russian who had killed Mike Dolan, could feel the man’s hot breath in his face. For a moment, shocked, they looked into each other’s eyes. Liam could smell him, a thick bad stench. Then the driver started hitting him in the face, and Liam lunged and bit hard into the shooter’s cheek. The car bounced off the wall of a bar, and the two men were screaming and trying to beat Liam. The front fender clipped a hot-dog cart and sent it spinning into a trio of tourists, knocking them to the ground. The driver managed to turn onto the avenue, cutting wildly into uptown traffic. Liam’s body sideswiped a UPS truck and a bone in his thigh snapped. The pain was dizzying. He bit harder, tried to throw some punches. The driver pulled a pistol from beneath his seat. Liam saw the gun and let go of the passenger’s cheek. Now Liam watched as the gun was raised to his face. He bucked his body up and away, trying to throw himself out of the careening vehicle. His head hit the roof of the car, and when he was coming back down the driver drove the pistol into his face, cackled, said, “Goodbye, asshole,” and pulled the trigger.
The car sped up the avenue and the Russians yanked Liam through the window and dumped him on the back seat. They drove on, blood-drenched and determined, new Americans.
Jimmy rolled out of bed to the insistent ringing of the telephone. He glanced at the clock and saw it was just after 8 a.m. His head was heavy from the previous night’s drinking. The triumph of the election was a vague memory.
“Jimmy, God. I’m glad you’re home. It’s Punchy. I’m down at MCC. I’ve been arrested. You have to help me. I’m not gonna make it down here.”
Jimmy was not sure how he could help. “What’s your bail?”
“Bail? A million dollars, these bastards. I didn’t hurt anyone, I’m not a killer. A million goddamn dollars. The creeps dragged me out of my bed at dawn. They had guns, lots of guns.”
“You have that kind of money?”
“Money? No. Property, some things, my houses. Money, no. I can’t buy a ham sandwich at this point.” Jimmy heard a commotion, and the phone dropping, banging off the wall, then Punchy yelling, “I’m on the fucking phone!” Then Punchy was saying, “You would not believe the degenerates down here.”
Jimmy said, “Punchy, what do you want from me? You want me to try and put your bail together? You have a lawyer?”
“No. Jimmy, I can’t be on the street. I’ll be dead in six seconds. I’m going for protective custody. You have to help me here, kid, please. Talk to that twisted fuck Roth. Please. Do something, cut a deal. Make the guy happy enough to get me probation. You’re in the driver’s seat now.”
