“You want to wait for the report?”
“Baseline it.”
“Records are thin, lost, or locked up. Doesn’t help the orphanage burned before microfiche and computers. You think you left around 1940, so access is needed from ’25 through ’42. For those years, your name has no real file. We know you were there, can’t tell why.”
“Christ sake.”
“Not saying it’s not boxed up in City Hall, just couldn’t shake it loose. Sure, you popped up on public registries and a census, but those are simple lists. Nothing attached to explain where you came from, parents, ethnic background, any of that. No names, dates, or details.”
“A dead end.”
Junior wasn’t surprised by the lack of a question mark. Sonny’s style never entailed getting dragged into the know, even after hearing he was all trunk, no roots. “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Not uncommon, with the wars and the way they viewed young girls getting knocked up. A family with a little money, they’d stash a sixteen-year-old until the baby arrived, then do a drop-and-dash at a crosstown orphanage. Plenty of babies weren’t even born in hospitals.”
Sonny stayed silent. There was no percentage in old news. Looking back for a payoff was a fool’s errand.
“As I said, the full report will arrive in a couple days.” Junior had a protocol for handling these conversations. Give the information. Pause. Give a little more. Pause. Remind them about the report, suggesting it might provide some measure of closure. Never did, though. Old demons weren’t spooked like park pigeons. “Some other stuff in there, too, kind of interesting.”
Sonny had also asked Junior to follow up on his memory of an older orphanage boy. No pictures or specifics, just a lingering, hopeful sense of brotherhood. Maybe this older boy cared for him. Maybe he didn’t. Sonny couldn’t quite pin it down, futile as netting cigarette smoke. Either way, Sonny’s only basis was his biased recollection and the drunk, passive-aggressive ramblings of the orphanage’s custodian. I ain’t supposed to say nothin’ but I heard a boy that used to be here—your brother, they say—got himself killed last week. You know anything about that? No? Oh, that’s sad all the way around—him dying and leaving you alone. First night the custodian teased him with the story, Sonny ran away, lasting a week before a beat cop scooped him up. He’d go on to set the orphanage record, freeing himself fourteen times before they gave up looking.
“Nothing certain there either,” said Junior Davis, “except I did find another kid with the same last name at the same orphanage. Pretty strong coincidence.” He was careful what he allowed to seep into his voice. Before flunking out of the police academy, his instructor had schooled him on being clinical. “First name was Benjamin. Ring a bell?”
Sonny repeated the name, first out loud and then to himself. He had to admit, nothing.
“Long time ago,” said Junior. “Anyway, for two years he was included on the same lists and registries. Twelve years older—as you thought. And passed away like the custodian said. Found the death certificate. Pulmonary failure was the official cause. Truth, the boy got shot.”
Sonny grunted, his mind rotating the possibility of an actual brother at the orphanage.
Junior didn’t want his client drifting too far. “Listen, I wasn’t going to tell you. Didn’t include it on the invoice, but I found his cemetery. This Benjamin fellow, I mean. Went out there thinking you’d like a picture of the headstone.”
“There’s a marker?”
“No. That’s what I’m saying. No grave site. Whole thing resited for a commercial development. They said the original spot was like a pauper’s cemetery. The new location—after they moved everybody—didn’t have any individual markings. More like general signage.”
“Shit.”
“I know, man.”
“So I might have had a brother but they planted and replanted him like a bush?”
“Sums it up. How much all that matters is your choice.”
And that was the point, thought Sonny. He’d hired the investigator to confirm the gaps, not rewrite two-thirds of his biography. “All questions don’t have an answer. Want has nothing to do with it.”
Even when appropriate, Junior Davis didn’t apologize for disappointing results. He’d learned his lesson. In a day or two—as clients replayed their conversation—they’d twist his compassion into incompetence. Blame the messenger. All the more reason to keep it clinical. “You reaching out to Bielakowski on this Anticcio deal? Rea’s going to be a handful.”
Sonny didn’t resist the heavy-handed change of subject. He was ready to march. “Anymore he knows better. Would just be ego to suggest a strategy.”
Old-timers like Junior couldn’t accept that Sonny and Anton Bielakowski were no longer lockstep partners. A half century of anything was hard to shake, but Sonny moving south pared their business dealings to a once-a-year sit-down. No bad blood, just time, distance, and age playing their parts.
Sonny’s cell phone buzzed with a second call. “You got anything else?”
“It’s all in the report. Ring me with questions. Oh, and I’ve got a fighter you should check out. Kid’s got a chance. Throws a liver punch like you’ve never seen.”
“Anton bankrolling him?”
“No. Wanted to ask you first.”
“Next time I’m up, I’ll take a look. Always had a soft spot for body punchers. Gotta run. I’ll wire the payment. Say hello to the wife.”
Clicking over, Sonny heard an unfamiliar voice. “Mr. Bonhardt? This is Debbie Shenkman from Shenkman’s Funeral Home in Fort Lauderdale. Do you have a moment?”
Funding three cremations in six months had moved Sonny up the local parlor call sheet. As his South Florida circle aged, he’d become the go-to financier for any pals dying without money and prepaid arrangements. While people wondered about the reasons, Sonny saw it as simple decency—he hated anyone going out on a losing streak. “Ironic timing, Ms. Shenkman.”
Like airline pilots during in-flight updates, the funeral director spoke with a slow, syrupy drawl and a touch of hush. “I’m calling on behalf of the estate of Mr. Charles Duebel.”
“Who?”
“Perhaps that name is unfamiliar. I believe his friends—and I apologize if this sounds insensitive—called him Duebber.”
Sonny loved the move. The fat bastard—already owing him three grand—was getting the last laugh. “Natural causes?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m asking what killed him. Bullet or cancer?”
“I’m sure you understand, I’m uncomfortable disclosing those types of details.”
“You will if you expect me to foot the bill.”
“A stroke is what took Mr. Duebel’s last breath. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Smoked unfiltered cigarettes and ate at gas stations for as long as I knew him. He’s probably taking up half your back room.”
The funeral director paused a moment, unsure what was expected. “It’s true that Mr. Duebel is a large man. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to speak with you. We have lovely alternatives for the heavyset.”
“Listen,” said Sonny, “this is Duebber’s idea of a joke, so let’s not get carried away. Bill me for the cremation, and I’ll get his kids’ addresses for the urn. Even if they don’t want to pony up, maybe they can spread his ashes somewhere nice.”
“Yes, a cremation,” said Shenkman, with an angel’s kiss of condescension. “Certainly it’s an option. But many individuals believe a casket and headstone are necessary to memorialize a loved one.”
“Tap the brakes.”
She steadied herself for the upsell. A slow month had Dad pounding the table for more revenue, to hell with limited supply. “A headstone provides a sense of permanence, eroding just one inch every ten thousand years. Each person—no matter their status—deserves a respectable physical testament to their earthly existence.”
Sonny’s mind flipped back to what Junior Davis had said about his dream brother. Dead,
buried, moved, and gone. Family pets deposited in the backyard got more pomp and circumstance. “Ms. Shenkman, let me ask you a question. What do they call those large tombs with steps and columns?”
“The industry term is private family mausoleum,” she said, her tone betraying a sliver of enthusiasm. “Yes, very distinguished. A noble and lasting way to be remembered. We’d, of course, have to coordinate with the cemetery. Lauderdale Memorial Park has plots with wonderful views.”
“Those are granite, like the headstones?”
“Yes. Sometimes we do see marble, though it doesn’t wear like granite. And while bronze has its admirers, the green patina can be a turnoff.”
Sun splicing through the overhead palm fronds heated Sonny’s legs in thin strips. He shifted over a few inches to keep pace with the shade. The lizard poked its head out, anxious to reclaim the prime real estate. “Once the vault’s in place, can it be moved somewhere I don’t want? Taken somewhere else?”
“Oh, no,” she said, straightening her back. Chasing money was Debbie Shenkman’s least favorite part of the job. Fancying herself the new generation of parlor management, she preferred collaborating. The keynote speaker at last year’s industry conference called it Partnering with the Bereaved. “I assume we’re talking about you, rather than Mr. Deubel?”
“Yeah,” answered Sonny. “Duebber gets the cremation-and-urn special. The mausoleum is for me.”
“Then to answer your question, we at Shenkman’s Funeral Home believe a mausoleum is a moral and contractual obligation. For purposes of this conversation, a private family mausoleum is permanent.”
“What happens if I don’t die first?” Sonny was thinking of his son. Personalities like Michael’s didn’t have the usual life expectancy. The boy would be lucky to see fifty candles on a cake.
“It’s for the family, so yes, others can be interred first. The name—your last name—is above the door, and appropriate markers are mounted to recognize others.”
“And cost—a premium lot plus the best granite mausoleum to fit six. What’s that run?”
“Instead of talking numbers, let’s set an appointment and—”
“I don’t want a date. Give me the number.”
“Four hundred thousand.”
Sonny didn’t know if the number was high or low. Didn’t really care. “Four hundred thousand for a place that can’t be bulldozed for a strip mall?”
“Yes, Mr. Bonhardt. I guarantee it.”
That was enough for Sonny. “Send the invoice for Duebber. For the four hundred thousand, is a ten percent cash discount a problem?”
“No. Certainly not.”
Sonny’s mind was already pressing forward on acquiring the proceeds, an addiction of pursuit that defined his life. “Pull together a couple designs, and I’ll call you back in six months to sign the paperwork and drop off payment.”
Sonny had a gift for earning. Over a lifetime, he’d made millions—maybe a hundred or more. He also had a counterbalancing gift for blowing it, never saving a damn dime. Every year, to keep the wolves at bay, he needed a minimum of six hundred grand. This year, the bar was even higher. He’d sell his ideas for the majority, plus an extra side con. Hell, maybe just swing for the fences. Get motivated and go big. Time to get working, he thought. Permanence isn’t for the poor.
3.
A Few Months Later
ANTON BIELAKOWSKI POSITIONED the pork shoulder along the table’s edge and whispered, “Spojrzeć,” to get his apprentice’s attention. Even though the cold of the cutting room had antagonized the sausage maker’s arthritis, he wanted to demonstrate a final trimming technique before retreating. The rest of the recipe—boiling the shoulder with a liver and grinding the meats together with barley, vinegar, and pig’s blood—could be taught later, outside the refrigerated room.
With a practiced hand, Bielakowski inserted the blade and made quick work of the inch-thick fat cap. At his age, cuts were a reflexive routine, a mechanical procedure that brushed little against conscious thought. He slid the trimmings into a catch barrel, positioned a second shoulder, and lingered through a lull in the pain as though a stay had been granted. A jolt from his right wrist closed the conjecture, forcing him to yield the knife before dropping it to the floor.
In the locker room, Bielakowski washed with diluted bleach and exchanged his sausage-making apron for brown polyester pants and a button-down shirt frayed from his short neck and coarse whiskers. Tucked within the shirt’s front pocket were two pens, a small notebook, and a roll of antacids. The notebook was customized with onionskin paper designed to melt inside a closed hand. Each month started with a fresh notebook, the previous one burned in the back alley.
Passing through double doors, the sausage maker wiggled his fingers at a familiar customer before inspecting the display cases of pierogis, kabanosa, kielbasa, and a dozen other varieties of handmade sausage and prepared foods. Pleased at the deli’s cleanliness, he dropped a twenty in the tip jar and asked one of the part-time girls to wrap four packages of meat. One was for his wife and son, two were for widows in the neighborhood, and the fourth was a surprise for a man who preferred capicola and prosciutto.
Bielakowski’s wife had made her request that morning over the breakfast table and called the shop at lunch to make sure he didn’t forget. Since his hip replacement, she’d noticed slips in his mental acuity. The lapses weren’t monumental, just enough that the love notes she put in his shirt now came with cues about upcoming errands or appointments. Bielakowski bristled at the implications, though it was a prideful show. He needed the help and appreciated her and Marcek’s strategies for keeping him current. Their assistance allowed him to focus on Tom Monte’s family.
* * *
A year had passed since U.S. Attorney Richard Codd’s historic press conference outside the Federal Courthouse at Sixth and Market Street. Assured all major media outlets had arrived, the highest-ranking law enforcement official in the Eastern District of Pennsylvania tapped the microphone, cleared his throat, and announced he’d negotiated a deal with Tom Monte, leader of Philadelphia’s largest crime family. In return for a twenty-year sentence, the mobster would plead guilty to multiple charges of conspiracy, racketeering, and extortion. When the buzz subsided, U.S. Attorney Codd thanked his staff, tossed a complimentary bone to the FBI, and issued a warning to what remained of Philadelphia’s crime community—Fiat justitia ruat coelum. Let justice be done, though the heavens fall. Cue the band, thank you, and God Bless America.
That same afternoon, four miles south of the courthouse, two of Tom Monte’s ranking protégés went all in for the family’s top spot. Joe Anticcio—Monte’s number two—was the old guard and presumptive heir. He was challenged by an ambitious young cock-of-the-walk named Raymond Rea who cared more about the spotlight than protocol or paying dues.
Given his age and accomplishments, Anticcio had certain advantages for carrying on his predecessor’s legacy. His influence included most of the town’s bookmakers, some of the unions, and a relationship with New Jersey and New York. At the same time, young Rea’s cupboard wasn’t bare. His power came from a personal boldness that caught his adversaries off guard, a cadre of aggressive young soldiers who didn’t respect the old ways, and a connection with a South Philly motorcycle club that specialized in methamphetamines and storm-trooper waves of violence.
After months of fighting and three attempted murders, Rea killed the veteran Anticcio by going broad with a bomb. Forget an open casket. There was hardly enough to make the identification. Style points and oddsmakers’ predictions aside, Rea understood he’d won a crown of thorns—a bomb would be under his stoop if he couldn’t rev up the family’s production. As his old boss Tom Monte was fond of repeating, No one revolts with a full belly. Everyone is thinking it when they’re hungry. Pressed to perform, Rea put his strategy into action the Saturday after Anticcio’s funeral when he sent his soldiers en masse to Spring Garden Street. The soldiers’ assignment was simple—reintrodu
ce Philadelphia’s legendary street tax to every business with a cash register.
During the height of Tom Monte’s reign, Spring Garden Street was the northern edge of his taxing territory. He owned everything south to the Navy Yards, which meant he collected without worrying about permission or forgiveness. For other earning opportunities, he allowed his men to stray beyond these boundaries with one exception. Tom Monte didn’t care if his guys hassled the Jamaicans in West Philly, the Puerto Ricans in the Badlands, the Irish in the Northeast, the Chinatown contingency, or the drug gangs surrounding Fairmount Park. Every one of them was fair game, every one except the Poles of Port Richmond. The Polish mob was not to be antagonized. Any money or advantage taken from the Poles—however small—came soaked in too much blood to make the numbers work.
A month after taking control and reorganizing Spring Garden Street, Rea’s soldiers pushed the tax into unclaimed Northern Liberties. A week later and another ten blocks north in Fishtown, they popped into Lou’s Grill & Draft, a bar that catered to unemployed roofers and dice hawks. After downing an hour’s worth of liquid courage, Rea’s soldiers unplugged the jukebox, hopped atop Lou’s bar, and announced the new boss was no longer honoring rules negotiated by dead men. Going forward, everyone—including Lou and those high-hat Port Richmond Polacks twenty blocks north—would be paying Rea’s tax. No exceptions.
Never one to overreact—especially regarding youthful mistakes—Anton Bielakowski also believed in consequences for ignorant maneuvering. Before pressing north, Rea should have sent an emissary. Not for purposes of negotiation—Bielakowski would never compromise Port Richmond—rather so they could communicate like men instead of the rooster show at Lou’s Grill & Draft. Truth was, he didn’t care about Spring Garden, Northern Liberties, or Fishtown. They weren’t his, and the Italians were free to work those neighborhoods. But Rea’s shout-out regarding the Poles was a mistake.
Bielakowski settled on a three-pronged response. Prong one was a handwritten note. Like its author, the message was modest and straightforward. If you believe Port Richmond owes you a tax, come get it.
The Friendship of Criminals Page 2
