Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  Without much trouble, I found the box Marty wanted. It was still labeled and from the London Diamond Exchange. I pulled it out and sat it on the table. Opened, I looked at the stones inside. They weren’t pretty diamonds you see in rings. They were large uncut stones in the ten-carat range. There were a lot of them, I didn’t count. I gathered them up and placed them in a black cloth bag, one of many, I had in the backpack. There done, the rest was a treasure hunt. I checked my watch, it was 4:22 am, and I had all the time I needed.

  I found a box of one-carat stones and put it aside without a thought. They weren’t worth much and would take up valuable space in my bag. I rummaged through the boxes like an old woman at a church sale. I found a box of pear-shaped rubies, and they went in the bag. Commercial Jewellers were always fun to rob. They didn’t have all their diamonds divided up into boxes with AGL certificates. This was like a bulk store, I was enjoying myself.

  I hit the motherlode. I opened a box and saw, even in the dim light, the fire of a bunch of 2 to 2.5-carat diamonds. With my jeweler’s loupe I examined them. Like everyone with a passion, I had learned as much as I could about diamonds. I could write a Diamonds for Dummies book.

  The stones were the ideal grade, nearly colorless and flawless. They were brilliant cut. I could see dollar signs. Retail these stones would go for more than 60Gs. And there were a lot of them. If nothing else Demter’s kept a lot of high-quality inventory. I gathered up the stones and placed them in a bag. I smiled.

  I found Marty some emeralds, some nice two-carat stones. There were nearly two dozen of them. They too went into a bag. I was almost done. I had gone through the entire contents of the vault and picked out what was worth the most, a good night’s work. I pulled the goggles from my bag and zipped it shut. Pushing the vault door shut and resetting the combination I was ready to go. I didn’t bother resetting the alarm, that was like closing the door after the horse has already gotten out. After slipping the goggles back on, I snapped off the light and remounted the stairs. I locked the door at the top and turned to the back door.

  It was wired to immediately set off the alarm if opened. But, with the alarm off I had little worries. I pulled out the burglar bar and unlocked the two deadbolts. I pushed it open. There was a small grassy area with a café table and chairs. An empty coffee can served as an ashtray. I took off the goggles and dropped them into my backpack. I re-shouldered it, now much heavier than it had been earlier in the evening. Dawn had just arrived. I walked into the alley and crouched again behind the dumpster. The cops went by 20 minutes later. I gave them five minutes to get away and headed for the sidewalk.

  I shook out a cigarette and lit up. From my hip flask, I took a hit for a job well done and walked nonchalantly ten blocks back to the subway. Once on the train, I let all the pent-up energy fade away. I felt drained. I was as limp as a noodle. Letting the sounds of the train soothe me I dozed off. I woke up in time for my stop and left the train and station.

  Back at home, I dumped the backpack in my vault. I had a long hot shower and called Marty despite the early hour. He sounded half-asleep when he answered.

  “I saw your uncle,” I told him.

  “How was he?”

  “In excellent shape. He looked like $2 million bucks.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Meet me for lunch at my place. Noonish.”

  “You got it.”

  We hung up, and I went to bed. It was just past 6 a.m. I slept until 11 am and got up, still slightly groggy at my lack of sleep. I made coffee and smoked. There was an appointment with Lenny Apple to keep later in the day. I put that out of my mind for the time being. I wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it. Did I press him or try to cajole him? I’d wait and see.

  I showered again and was satisfied to see my hair was a shade lighter brown this time. I decided against shaving, it seemed like too much work. I slapped on some cologne and dressed casually, it was a Saturday after all. At the Liar’s Breath, I ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon before Marty would get a chance to. I savored the bubbly as I sat on my stool, the backpack close to my leg. I ordered scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, and hash browns. The meal was half done when Marty arrived. As usual, he was dressed in a garish manner. His maroon bellbottoms and scuffed brown shoes didn’t match his green open-necked shirt or tweed overcoat. I shook my head. How could a man with so much money dress like this?

  He sat on the stool next to me, and I called to Biscuit for another glass. He poured Marty's drink.

  “You did all right then?”

  “No troubles.”

  “Did you get some emeralds?’

  “Some very nice two-carat stones. That should keep your California customer happy.”

  Marty smiled. If nothing else he took good care of his teeth. They shone white from a recent cleaning.

  I picked up the backpack and handed it over. Marty hefted it and smiled again.

  “A wire transfer to your Cayman account?” he asked.

  “Please and thank you,” I said.

  “We’ll make out like bandits on this one,” he said.

  “I hope so, this is my last job for a while.”

  “Come on, Poet,” he said.

  “No, I’m serious. I’m spending the winter in the sun. There’s nothing to keep me in the city much longer.”

  “You’re going to lose out on some big money,” he said.

  “Probably,” I answered. Marty didn’t know about the hundred grand in bearer bonds I had snagged from Rainbow’s safety deposit box. I had no worries, not for a long while.

  He finished his champagne and said good-bye. I had no idea where Marty would get rid of all that hot ice. Monday morning after Demter’s found out what had happened the heat would be on. I didn’t worry. I had worn latex gloves and didn’t leave a calling card. I was relatively safe. And I wouldn’t be around much longer; another week maybe, then it was off to the sunny south. Aruba was calling. I wondered if there was an extradition treaty between Aruba and the US? I couldn’t think of a reason I would be arrested, but one never knew. Things might get out of hand with this Rainbow thing, but I didn’t see myself killing anyone else. That would be counterproductive.

  My business concluded and the champagne finished I couldn’t see any reason to stick around. The Saturday lunch crowd was small, and the staff was handling things fine. I once knew a restaurant owner that went around to the tables and introduced himself and made sure everything was okay with his customers. It was the personal touch. I thought it was a pain in the ass. Did someone eating really want to stop in the middle of his or her meal and chat? That and the fact I was primarily anti-social kept me from this practice. I came here to drink, to meet people and do business, not to play the friendly host.

  I went back home where I grabbed a quick nap before my meeting with Lenny Apple. Awake at 3:30 I went to the vault. From my handguns, I selected a large .45 and made sure it was loaded. I slipped it into my pants and returned to my suite. I watched CNN until 4:30 pm and left. I caught a cab to Ear Candy Studios.

  It was a low-rent building in a seedy part of the Bowery. I walked down an alley and found a hand-lettered sign for the studio. There was a steel security door with a bell. I rang it and waited. A barefoot man in jeans and a white T-shirt answered the door. He had receding blond hair and a face covered with acne blemishes. His eyes were a dirty blue, and his nose was long and hooked.

  “Lenny?” I asked.

  “You must be Mr. Brooke?”

  “Yes, may I come in?” I could feel the November chill on my cheeks.

  “Where are my manners,” he laughed and opened the door. He led me through a short hall and through a door into the studio. There was a giant mixing board with all the bells and whistles and a glass partition through which I could see microphones and instruments set up.

  “Who are you working with?” I asked.

  “A thrash band is laying down a demo,” he told me. “So you have a feature?”

  “Yes
,” I said, “An adult feature.”

  “My favorite genre.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Alice in Bonerland,” I said.

  “Very nice. What kind of music are you looking for?”

  “Something original, something different. I like your work for Rainbow.” I said.

  “They give me carte blanche with the music. Their movies are exotic and call for something different.”

  “Exactly what I’m looking for,” I said.

  There were a TV and DVD player in one corner of the room on a stand. “Do you have a disc?” he asked, “I’d love to take a look at what you have.”

  “Sure,” I told him. My left hand went to the empty inside pocket of my leather jacket while my right reached around my back and grabbed the .45. I jerked it out and pressed it against his face.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed.

  I pushed his nose to one side with the pistol and backed him up against the wall. I thumbed back the hammer. I wanted to show him I meant business.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked with a shaky voice.

  I didn’t say a thing, I pushed harder at his face with the gun.

  “What do you want? Money? Drugs? I’ll set you up,” he said. He had gone pale, his pimples stood out in bas-relief.

  “I want you to tell me a story,” I told him.

  “What kind of story?”

  “About a hit on a woman named Amber by two jokers from Atlanta. You know this story?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a far away voice.

  “I think you do, Lenny. And we have all night if that is what it takes.”

  He was quiet for a moment before saying, “You might as well shoot me now, if I talk to you I’m as good as dead.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I told him.

  I pulled the gun away from his face and waved it at a chair. “Sit down,” I told him.

  He sat. From his body language I could tell he was broken. He would talk, and I would be happy. I had wondered before I arrived how to play him, how to make this work. The large pistol had worked wonders as I thought it would. I was secretly pleased. I pulled a microcassette recorded from my pocket, set it to record and placed it on the mixing board.

  “Amber and the guys from Atlanta,” I prompted.

  “The guys at Rainbow knew I was connected,” he said, “I brokered the hit.”

  “Why talent from Atlanta?”

  “They were cheap. Rainbow didn’t want to pay a lot, a rotten five Gs.”

  “How did you know about Gimble in Atlanta?”

  “You meet people, you know.”

  “You met him through Carmine,” I said.

  He went the color of Brie cheese.

  “Carmine?” I asked again.

  “Don’t ask me about Carmine,” he said.

  “I don’t want to splatter your head all over the wall, but I will,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know Carmine. I do jobs for him from time to time.”

  “What’s his connection with Rainbow?”

  “They owe him money,” he said.

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. Just money. Like 70 large or something. Chump change.”

  “Was he in on the hit?”

  “No, he didn’t have anything to do with it. I didn’t even talk to him about it.”

  “What did you get out of the deal?”

  “A grand. Big deal. All I did was make the phone calls and give the green light.”

  “Who gave you the green light?”

  “The owner at Rainbow, John Smith.”

  “Why Amber, what did she do?”

  “She was talking to some PI about another hit.”

  “What hit was that?”

  “Some porno starlet named Sindee.”

  “Was that your work too?”

  He took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I was just the broker. There was a bigger budget for that one, it had to look like her husband did it.”

  “Who pulled the trigger?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You’re forgetting, I’m the one with the gun.”

  He looked at his bare feet for a full minute and spoke without looking up, “Simon.”

  “Simon the hammer?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  So they had gone all out for Cindy’s murder. Simon the hammer was a contract killer, and he didn’t work cheap. The law had never laid a hand on him even though he was a suspect in 30 killings, mostly gangland executions. He occasionally drank at my place but had a reputation as a hermit. He ventured out of his penthouse only to work and buy the latest Stephen King hardcover best sellers. I knew of him, but not him personally. We were at different ends of the criminal spectrum.

  “Who called in the hit on Cindy?” I asked.

  “Smith,” Lenny said.

  “Why?”

  “Why? I don’t know that. Smith knows I’m connected, that’s why he keeps me around, as a favor to Carmine. He told me he needed someone erased and I set it up after learned what he had to spend.”

  “What did it cost?”

  “25Gs.”

  I whistled between my teeth.

  “Simon doesn’t work cheap,” he explained.

  “Why didn’t you do it yourself?”

  “I don’t do that,” he said, “I’m a middleman.”

  “Why the high-priced talent?”

  “Smith told me what he wanted to spend and he wanted a super clean job, no traces of anything. I thought of Simon.”

  “What did you get out of it?”

  “Ten percent, same as always.”

  “And Carmine didn’t know about this?”

  He explained Carmine knew nothing of his little deals. He had the street smarts and the contacts to set up a hit. Carmine was simply Rainbow’s illegal banker, financing films.

  Lenny regained enough of his senses to start to get angry, “Who the hell are you anyway?”

  “I’m Poet,” I told him.

  “I’ve heard of you. You’re a jewel thief or something.”

  “Something,” I said.

  “Why are you involved in this?”

  “Because those two monkeys from Atlanta left a load of buckshot rolling around in my left arm when they hit Amber. I tend to take things like that personally.”

  “This isn’t your concern.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Walk away,” he offered.

  “No,” I told him.

  “Come on? Nothing good is going to come of this. Once Simon learns I talked to you we’re both dead.”

  “Simon won’t find out until I’m ready to tell him.”

  “You think I’m not going straight to Carmine with this little problem? You’re going to be nothing but grease on Broadway.”

  “You’re not going to say a word to anyone about our little chat.”

  “The fuck you say.”

  “Anyone finds out, and you’re the first one to die,” I told him, my voice very low. “That’s a promise. There’s nowhere I can’t find a pissant want-to-be like you.”

  “You talk tough.”

  “I am tough.”

  He met my eyes for a moment and learned just how dangerous I was. Lenny turned away and looked at the mixing board.

  “You’re going to testify,” I told him.

  “Not likely.”

  “Murder for hire, criminal conspiracy, you have quite a little sum to answer for,” I said.

  “This will be settled on the street,” he said, “This will never make it to court.”

  “You are going to turn state’s evidence,” I told him.

  “Again, not likely. I’m not a rat.”

  “Just think about it, a brand new life, new name, new identity. You’ll have a chance to start over.”

  “My life is just fine.”

  “Give
it some thought. This is all going to hit the fan, and you can be on the right side or the wrong. It’s all the same to me.”

  “So you’re a stoolie.”

  “Two women are dead, someone’s got to pay.”

  “It was business.”

  “It was business until I got shot. Now it’s personal.”

  I walked back across the room and stuck the massive .45 back against his nose. Lenny cringed. “Remember Lenny,” I said, “Open your mouth, and I put a bullet in it.”

  He had no reply. I picked up the cassette recorder, turned it off and slipped it back into my pocket. I kept the gun trained on him in case he tried to do anything foolish and backed out of the room. I let myself out and found a cab. In my office at the Liar’s Breath, I listened to the tape twice.

  I knew more, the players, but not enough. Where were the drugs coming from? What was Rainbow’s involvement? Why was Cindy killed? What did she know? With Simon the hammer being involved I was more than just a little concerned. He was a big-time hitter. He wouldn’t take me messing around in this lightly if he found out. As Lenny had so aptly put, I would be nothing but grease on Broadway if Simon found out.

  Lenny was a wildcard. Would he talk about our little chat or had I scared him enough to keep him quiet. I wasn’t sure. If he went straight to Carmine my life might not be worth much. Although I wouldn’t be able to touch Carmine or his crew with any of this, I would be a liability. I had to talk to Carmine, that was the only way out of this. Explain myself and hope for the best. If my explanation didn’t work then money would. Carmine had expensive habits.

  I sat at my stool and held court that Saturday night. The underworld paid its respects to me. I went into my office twice with people who had pitches they wanted me to listen to. One was for the strong-armed robbery of another diamond merchant. It was easy, I was told. But it was without finesse. I rarely go in for that strong-arm stuff, especially in my own backyard. It was too easy to get caught. The other was for the robbery of a Brinks truck, something else I declined. Something like a Brinks truck I might tackle out of town but not in NYC. Again, I didn’t want to see the inside of Rikers. There would be too much heat. And anyhow, I was leaving the city soon, I was flush, I could afford to discriminate.