At the far end was a small, unpainted wood table. Atop the table was a knife. To the side was a metal-framed chair bolted to the floor. Tied to the chair with coarse rope was a man in his midthirties wearing a white sleeveless tee. His hair was jet black, and his stomach was flat. A bandana was tight across the man’s mouth. His eyes were open.
6.
CLUTCHING A PATIENT’S FILE, the nurse backed through the waiting room door to call the next appointment. Three years had passed since she’d retired to South Florida for what her husband emphasized was the goooood life. She would have preferred staying in Wisconsin near the grandbabies but acquiesced out of loyalty and the urge for one last adventure. Eight months into retirement she returned to work because everything in Florida was double what they’d expected. Just a few days a week, her husband had promised, and no longer than a year. Fast-forward three birthdays and she was still driving from their Delray Beach apartment to the medical practice in Boca. All Florida meant for her was forty-hour weeks, swollen ankles, and varicose veins.
The nurse double-checked the file and gulped extra air. She had to be loud or the patients bitched, like it was her fault they were deaf. “Mr. Bonhardt,” she yelled, tugging a hair off her lower lip. “Please follow me.”
An old man wearing sandals and socks muttered at his watch as Sonny Bonhardt rose and trailed the nurse down a hallway decorated with starving-artist watercolors. The appointment was his hustle’s last piece of due diligence. After poring over every available corporate report and medical journal, all that remained was tapping into the gossip doled out by pharmaceutical reps to their physician clients. If that meant faking an affliction, so be it.
The nurse stopped at the scale and grunted for Sonny to step up. Given her body language and lack of eye contact, Sonny could see she was struggling. Not chugging-booze-during-lunch kind of struggling, though not much better.
“Two hundred pounds,” she said, with a moody staccato. “You’re a lucky one with that high metabolism.”
Moving from the scale to the row of exam rooms, Sonny heard his doctor’s voice bleeding through a closed door. It was a low-frequency baritone that harmonized well with medical terminology. Inside his own room, the nurse wrapped a cuff around his upper arm, pumped the bulb, released the pressure, and asked what brought him in.
“Feeling blue,” he said.
The nurse tore the cuff free. “Your blood pressure is a little high. More than a little actually.”
“I’m a work in progress.”
“Anything adding stress to your life? Maybe a change in circumstance?”
“Like I said, blue.”
“Suit yourself, had to ask. I’ll let the doctor know we skipped the intro stuff.” The nurse blamed the short answer on his accent. After three years in Florida, her impression was that East Coasters like Mr. Sonny Bonhardt were a prickly lot. She preferred the more accommodating Midwest snowbirds.
Settling for what information the file offered, the nurse was surprised at his recorded height and age. Like a veteran carnival barker, she started each appointment with a guessing game of basic proportions. Seeing Sonny in the waiting room, she figured him for six foot two and fifty-five years old. The file had him two inches shorter and almost ten years older. She blamed the discrepancy on his broad shoulders and Robert Mitchum hair.
Sonny watched her study his medical file. Halfway down the second page, she paused and reversed course. “Korea,” he said.
“Oh, my…”
When their eyes met for the first time, Sonny realized she’d been hiding her prettiest feature. Their coloring was a shifty, almost magnetic, green and he wondered how bright they must have burned when she was a young woman, fresh and anxious.
“A Communist carved my name on a bullet,” he said. “Three actually. Two bullets nicked me and splashed into the mud. The third was either luckier or meaner, like a bee aiming for the tongue. It got inside and decided to make a home in my shoulder blade. I’ve been carrying that piece around probably longer than you’ve been alive.”
“I’m fifty-seven.”
Sonny knew the expectation of a woman offering her age, even one who ignored her appearance to the point of neglect. He smiled easily and spoke as though her affections were in play. “Fifty-seven?” he said. “Then I must compliment you on your skin. It’s beautiful.”
When she blushed, he tapped the knuckles of her right hand. They both chuckled, agreeing that while neither was fooling the other, the game was still fun.
Most of Sonny’s war story was true except for the bullet count and his suggestion that Korea was responsible for all the scars. There was a metal fragment in his shoulder. And it did come from a skirmish on a nameless hilltop on the other side of the world. All that happened just as he’d explained. But the other scars on his torso weren’t from any war, or even a gun. Sonny had learned that folding them together avoided the buzz created by an honest explanation. The rubbery-looking eight-inch scar running from his last rib was courtesy of an alley fight on the soft side of fifteen. The other, a much smaller scar below his heart, was courtesy of an ice pick that had him seeing white light and reaching for God’s hand.
“Carrying around that bullet must have changed your life, always reminding you of the war.”
“Probably not the way you think.”
Her tilted brow was his invitation to continue.
Sonny lowered his voice. “When I was in the field hospital, the doctors thought I needed my last rites. They called the chaplain over, who was this soft-spoken black guy from Alabama. I was so damn thirsty I could hardly whisper, but I managed to ask him if I was dying. Instead of saying yes or no, he told me a story.”
Most appointments, the nurse fled as soon as the weight, pulse, and pressure were recorded. Her own life wasn’t in a place where she could muster much sympathy for other people’s travails. That morning, she appreciated the chance.
“The chaplain,” Sonny said, encouraged by her interest, “told me about a tiger chasing a monk. The tiger had run this fellow to a cliff’s edge where his only choice was climbing down. The few roots on the rock face were weak and wouldn’t hold long, and another tiger was waiting at the bottom. As the monk clutched to the rock wall—pinched between two man-eaters—he noticed a small, perfectly formed strawberry growing from a nearby crevice. The monk reached out, plucked the strawberry, closed his eyes, and ate it in one bite. He’d never tasted anything so pure.”
The nurse slapped her thigh. “My God, what kind of story is that for a dying soldier?”
Sonny was accustomed to the reaction. People’s expectations for their last moments didn’t include an Alabama preacher talking about monks, tigers, and pieces of fruit. They wanted their sins washed away in preparation for the journey to heaven, where fine-looking people in togas were playing silver harps and awaiting their arrival.
“That story changed me,” he said, leaning back into the chair. “It took a few weeks of healing to understand. The point is, we’re all dying. Maybe it’s from some bastard’s bullet in your shoulder, or a tumor, or old age, or two tigers drooling over your bones, but that Angel of Death comes for us all. The chaplain was telling me how to live, regardless of whether I had fifteen seconds or fifty years.”
The nurse’s upper body swayed, gaining momentum with each new cycle. “Thank you, Mr. Bonhardt,” she said, tucking a handful of hair behind her ear. “Maybe I was meant to meet you today.”
A sucker for underdogs, Sonny took her hand. “You know the best way to find strawberries?”
She shrugged, though not enough to shake him loose.
“Stop acting like the tigers don’t exist. See them or not, they’re everywhere.”
7.
TEN FEET SHORT of the bound man, Bielakowski stopped to pull antacids from his shirt pocket. His bleeding ulcer had resurfaced, an affliction he treated with Rolaids, milk, and a doglike pain tolerance. After unwrapping and popping two, he tapped the packages beneath his left arm.
“A special delivery for you.”
The man fought like a snared animal hearing the trapper’s approach. While the rope and chair moaned, neither surrendered. Bielakowski shrugged as though all was according to plan. “Give up hope. It’s useless. You know by now my men can tie a good knot.”
The summation spurred another burst of energy, this one lasting half as long.
Bielakowski sucked on the antacids. “Stay still and I’ll get to it. You’ve waited long enough. Last night you and a twin named Toscano visited a strip club called Fancy Tina’s. You discussed weekly tributes with the owner before enjoying private dances. Toscano picked a brunette called Raven, but you’ve got a thing for blonds and went for Cheryl. As you know, she likes Canadian whisky and has a panther tattooed on her hip.”
When the man shook his head, Bielakowski raised a hand. “The tequila you drank was drugged. Raven took Toscano home. Cheryl invited you to her apartment. Your next memory is waking up here, roped to the chair, with that knife on the table.”
Bielakowski wiped chalky residue from the corners of his mouth, using the pause to appraise his captive, reading him for comprehension. “I want to remove the gag. We have matters to discuss, but I don’t want you screaming. Not because anyone will hear or care—Port Richmond isn’t concerned. Screaming only makes our time more difficult. Show you understand.”
The prisoner assented with a blink, and his gag was pulled down. “They’ll find me,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Toscano saw my girl. Other people know I was in Kensington. They’ll come looking.”
“Kensington is not the Italian Market. And the trail is already cold.”
“My car…”
Bielakowski spoke like a reassuring grandparent. “The car was taken to a junkyard. Your girlfriend Cheryl jumped a plane this morning. Visiting family in Florida, I think. Your people have begun making calls, but so what? Toscano last saw you on a couch in a strip club’s back room. I suppose they could strong-arm some of the bouncers, or slap the girls around. Then again, I know the Irishman who owns that dump. He doesn’t like being bullied.”
The man’s expression was reduced to rhythmic blinking.
A distant horn floated in on the breeze, adding a touch of civilization to the bleak surroundings. “You know who I am?”
“You’re Bielakowski.” Spit flew with the hard B.
The host stepped to the knife. As he’d instructed, it was a traditional Eastern European design—lead tape balancing the handle, a subtle curve to the blade. He flicked the back, spinning it like a soda bottle at a teenage kissing party. A subtle friction echoed off the concrete, the single sound filling the space.
“Kensington is no-man’s-land,” said the captive, breaking away from the knife’s hypnotic rotation. “Open territory.”
Bielakowski pressed a finger onto the knife’s center point, the tip aimed at the Italian’s face. “Rea is communicating his understanding of power. First in Fishtown with the men putting their boots on the bar. And again last night—mouths open and hands out.” Bielakowski felt his blood rising. “Was that you in Lou’s Tavern?”
“No, not my job or style.”
Studying the hostage’s face, Bielakowski was unable to parse any subtle nuances. His conclusion was that the man was well versed in deception. “Your whole generation—all barbarians. No measure or restraint. Machine guns on the highway and bombs in the neighborhoods—what is that? Who does these things? Even your attorneys—men paid to protect you—hold press conferences after you’ve been arrested, preening at the cameras and screaming your names. This is not style. It’s war and suicide.”
“Rea won and Anticcio is dead. Everything else is earning a living.”
“I guess you figure that sounds right.”
“I don’t know about right anymore. That’s just the way it is.”
Bielakowski paused while he tugged at his ear. “You know about nihilists?”
The man shook his head.
“Me neither, not really. But the other day, I was watching PBS and heard that word. Some professor was saying these people—nihilists—don’t believe in rules. Morals, either. They just do whatever the hell they want. I call them kind of people assholes. And I think I’m looking at one. Rea, too, now that I’m thinking about it.”
“We’re all greedy pricks. Okay? You, me, Rea—what else you going to say to change any of that?”
“Fair enough,” said Bielakowski, reinforcing his words with a long blink. “Let me explain so you have an answer for St. Peter.” He noted the man’s tattoo, a black cross on his shoulder. The simple design reminded him of Russian prison markings, a stark contrast to the cartoon characters and pet names preferred by Americans.
Bielakowski lowered his voice. “For years our businesses didn’t conflict. Many times—with my overage houses and your unions—we even profited together. But now Rea pokes me. Next, will I see him in my shop? You’re here paying for that arrogance. And if your life isn’t enough, others will suffer until we’re left alone.”
The hostage shook sweat off his nose. “If you were going to kill me, you’d have already done it. Getting me here was harder than blowing my head off in the strip joint.”
Something in the man’s assumptions made Bielakowski smile. His cheeks receded far enough for light to reach his silver-capped molars. “That’s how your kind handles these matters. There are better ways.” And then, like a match on a moonless night, Bielakowski’s grin flamed out and his teeth retreated to their darkness. “I’m told your name is Martin.”
“Yeah, Martin. Martin. It’s Martin.” He repeated the word as if it was a calming mantra.
“You run a high-stakes game in Jersey. Some time after this business with Monte, you allied with Rea and made a name as a good earner. When the dust settled, you survived with a niche on the numbers side.”
“Then you know I’m not muscle. I wasn’t in Kensington to collect.”
Bielakowski hated how the Italians parsed their words, like children arguing over tag technicalities. “I’m not interested in what you weren’t doing. It’s enough you were caught in Kensington. And now you’re here because I want information.”
“This is so fucked up. I’m not even who you think I am.”
Bielakowski grabbed the knife and checked its sharpness against his thumb. Theatrics weren’t his bailiwick, but some moments needed extra salt. “You were marked the moment you wandered into Fancy Tina’s. The only question is the length of your final verse.”
The host noticed a quickening in the Italian’s jugular. “If you cooperate—tell me what I want—I’ll cut your throat clean. You’ll die feeling like a warm blanket has been draped over your body.”
Martin swallowed hard, the dry part of his tongue catching on the roof of his mouth. Gagging, he said, “And if I tell you to fuck off?”
“You know my name and still speak to me like I’m covered in eggshell. Study my face. Is the answer that elusive?”
Martin fought to string out the conversation. “You told me best-case scenario was a neck smile. I’m asking how much worse can it get?”
Tapping the wrapped packages beneath his arm, Bielakowski said, “I’ll pry your mouth open, stuff it with blood sausage, and pinch your nose until you suffocate. Then I’ll cut your head off and toss it out the window into the Delaware River. Maybe it floats downstream to South Philly, or maybe the crabs get it, or maybe it gets sucked into the prop of a coal barge. The rest of your body will not be treated much better. We’ll leave it for the rats.”
Martin rolled his head forward, to the side, and all the way back. As he stared at the ceiling, the room was silent except for sounds from the river and watershed. It was singular to that moment in time and space, like him and the Pole.
“Of course,” said Bielakowski, his voice rising, “I could do none of that. It might be simpler to sell you to the Armenians.”
“No, please…”
“They’ll hold you hostage and send pieces of y
our flesh to Rea until he delivers a briefcase of money or drugs. I’ll let you predict his response.”
For Bielakowski, the pause that followed was not unexpected. He’d learned to be patient with men envisioning their end. Evolution had massaged human psychology into seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. While the selection was usually handled by quick-acting instinct, there were times—pressing moments with consequences—when a man needed an extra minute to sort through the mire.
“I’ve heard you own a butcher shop,” Martin said, breaking the silence with blooming panic in his voice. His eyes were still up at the ceiling. “That you work in the same place your dad built.”
Bielakowski tapped the knife. “I’m not a butcher. I’m a sausage maker. Same difference as a stonecutter and a stonemason. The rest of what you say is true. I have other lines of business—which I’m sure you’ve heard of—but I’m a sausage maker first. My own son shows little interest in wearing an apron. Says it doesn’t appeal to him.”
Tears welling, Martin closed both eyes. “I have a son.” The moment was proving too much, making a last look at the boy all that mattered. “I want to see a picture. It’s in my wallet. My boy’s school picture. I can lean over a little and you can slide it out.”
“With this boy, maybe you should have chosen a safer line of work. Or picked the Vietnamese or Puerto Ricans to shove. It’s a shame we only think of the ramifications after we’ve made our decisions.”
Martin paused a full minute before speaking again. “I’ve got something to trade,” he said, his voice steadier, more assured, as though he’d drawn the right card. “It’s worth more than my life.”
“If it is money you’re offering, I’ve got all I need.”
“I’m not talking about money. Or drugs. Or girls, either.”
How many desperate offers had Bielakowski heard in his lifetime? Every man choking on a gun pledged the world’s treasures, and almost none of the promises were worth the ten seconds of presentation. Indulging the moment of nostalgia, he said, “So tell me, here in this warehouse amongst the pigeons, what is more valuable to me than ending the life of Rea’s best earner?”
The Friendship of Criminals Page 4
