The Friendship of Criminals

by Robert Glinski

  Sonny was ready for the negotiation. “Toss out a number.”

  “It’s a six-figure deal.”

  “What’s the first digit?”

  “One.”

  “I was thinking three,” said Sonny. “It’s damn near a legitimate business as long as you’re smart injecting your own cash and keeping two layers between you and the corporate entity. Recruit the best young boxing promoter, stake him in Japan for a couple weeks to learn the game, and get him back here lining up events and signing the fighters to U.S. contracts.”

  “Two.”

  “Two and a half.”

  “Two and a quarter.”

  “Deal.”

  No handshake was necessary. Within twenty-four hours, the price would begin its journey through a series of wire transfers under a multitude of account numbers until it landed within the friendly banking structure of Grand Cayman. The first half of the transfer formula was all Bielakowski, designed to protect the origination point and the sender. The second half was Sonny’s criteria for sheltering his identity, the source of the money, and its eventual destination. They reviewed the process annually and altered at least two steps to avoid recurring patterns.

  Bielakowski retrieved the notebook and antacids from his front pocket. Sonny asked how his ulcer was doing, and Bielakowski mumbled that something other than a bleeding stomach would kill him first. He opened the notebook and scribbled on the thin, moisture-sensitive onionskin paper. The writing was an undecipherable mix of symbols and Polish/Russian hybrids that didn’t include any real dates or numbers.

  When he finished, Bielakowski set his notebook aside. “Anything else?”

  “One more,” answered Sonny, who had retrieved another coffee while his friend worked. He wondered about Bielakowski’s stamina and capacity for processing additional information. Their negotiations depended upon the shared experience of dozens of other projects. If Bielakowski couldn’t make those swift recollections, the next proposal would be difficult to conceptualize. “This one’s a little unique,” he warned.

  Bielakowski knew what Sonny was implying. Not like there wasn’t some truth to it. A minute hadn’t passed in the last five years when he’d been pain free. Distractions like that took a toll. His wife with the little notes in his pocket was seeing it, too. But Bielakowski knew something they didn’t—the experience with Martin had energized him. Since cutting the ropes off the FBI agent’s wrists, Bielakowski felt like he’d sipped from the fountain of youth. At home that night, Bielakowski switched through the television stations until he found the broadcast of a local evangelist. He watched the preacher walk among the believers, laying hands on the sick and crippled until they shouted in relief. Bielakowski felt a bond with the recipients, a knowledge that in that singular moment, nothing in their ill bodies had changed, no metamorphosis had occurred, yet everything was different. It wasn’t molecular or cellular, though Bielakowski was somehow feeling more alive. “Don’t worry about using the brake with me,” he said. “I’ll keep up.”

  “Hey,” said Sonny, “all I meant was I’ve been researching for months and it took me a while to wrap my head around this one.”

  Bielakowski held up his hand to show no offense. “If we flipped spots I’m not sure I’d be so accommodating.”

  Sonny stirred two sugars into his coffee and set the spoon on the adjacent table. “That’s why I’m in the lab and you’re on the street.” When Bielakowski nodded, Sonny said, “Idea two is telecommunications.”

  “Jesus, more of this phone business? I miss the days of stealing cargo at the port.” The sausage maker wasn’t shy about playing the grumpy old man card, though he’d learned not to exclude modern business ideas. Their first couple of years at Mollie’s resulted in one or two deals for every five pitches. Sonny would leave pissed and sell the rejects to New York or Miami Cubans. Bielakowski caught rumors of how much they’d made on the ideas and got smart quick. The last five years he’d bought almost all of Sonny’s proposals, if just to keep them from the competition.

  “You remember those times?” Bielakowski asked. “One night we’d get dresses. Another it’d be cantaloupes and Chilean grapes. All while dodging the cops and Italians.”

  “You ever pinch a truck loaded with five million?” asked Sonny, reeling in his partner. Dredging up the good old days was for after the presentation, during drinks at the Palm or Striped Bass. “I liked this one last year, but was waiting on the government to clarify some of the regulations and oversight.”

  Bielakowski signaled to proceed.

  “It’s all about the Universal Service Fund.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Of course you haven’t,” agreed Sonny, sliding into a steady, if not slow, tempo. “But you pay into it. We all do. On every phone bill there is a fee charged and dumped into the Universal Service Fund. This pool is hundreds of millions of dollars. Congress approved a law saying the fund has to pass the money to struggling little phone companies in the middle of nowhere so all Americans can afford a phone line.”

  “Subsidies for monopolies?”

  “Wealth distribution,” said Sonny, pausing to let the waters swirl. “Phone service in New York and Philadelphia is cheap because of all the users. Not the case in Kansas or New Mexico or Alaska. These rural phone companies get fat annual checks to offset maintenance and infrastructure costs.”

  Sonny hesitated, giving Bielakowski time to make a point or ask a question. When he grunted his displeasure at the coddling, Sonny pressed on, explaining that the first step was creating corporate shells in target states and fronting them with state-level telecom lobbyists and consultants. The suits were akin to the casino shills that protected the mob’s identity in the early days of Vegas. They’d give Bielakowski operational legitimacy and a grace period from serious inquiry. Once the figureheads were in place, these patsies would buy hinterland phone companies for the purpose of peeling off the USF payments via invoices from other Bielakowski-controlled fronts. When the telecoms got audited, the trail would be a paper maze, and the only living, breathing people to take the rap would be the local management team.

  Bielakowski said it reminded him of his dad busting out restaurants that couldn’t repay their loans. He’d assign a guy to take over, double all the food and liquor orders, sell everything out the back door, and let the creditors fight over the ashes. Anton asked Sonny if he remembered a Greek place they busted together on Fairmount Avenue. When Sonny shook his head, Bielakowski asked how much the Universal Service Fund sent to the telecoms.

  Sonny spent a few minutes describing his research, how he acquired the numbers, and why he could vouch for their accuracy. “I’ve whittled the buyout candidates to ten and tagged patsies for each market. On an individual basis, the telecoms take in between four and six million from the fund. Skimming half is realistic.”

  “Best guess on how long it can run?”

  “Two years. I think in year three the roof timbers start buckling and your patsy finds himself alone and trying to figure out where everyone has gone.”

  Bielakowski shouted the bartender back for a second go with the vodka. He’d been craving a follow-up since the first one stopped burning. Booze for him was a good-time accelerant, not something for drowning sorrows or blanketing a depression.

  As they waited for their drinks, Sonny said, “It’s one of the best proposals I’ve ever come up with. No one else has even brushed against it yet.”

  “Better than the 1–900 stuff?”

  The porn con was a sore spot for Sonny, probably more sensitive than Bielakowski realized, making him question the man’s point. Maybe it was nothing or maybe it was Bielakowski’s way of acknowledging he’d screwed up. Two years earlier, Sonny devised a brilliant scam for manipulating the billing of online porn. Assured no charges would accrue until they proceeded beyond a certain point, porn-seeking computer users provided their credit card numbers for access to a free, complimentary website tour. Sonny’s bit of programming
magic was disabling their ability to backtrack or disconnect. To leave the website, they had to go forward, thereby activating the charge. Sonny knew the con was solid gold when he pitched it to Bielakowski for three hundred grand.

  “You never should have resold that,” Sonny said. “It was your right, but you got my hometown discount. If I had known you were hand-delivering it to the Mulberry mutts, shit, I could have done that myself and earned double.”

  Bielakowski had already admitted to himself he’d messed up selling to the Gambino crew. Not because he’d hurt Sonny’s feelings or strained their relationship. He was kicking himself because the Gambinos pulled in four hundred million before they got greedy, stuck around too long, and were indicted. He would have bagged half and bailed before Visa sniffed out the billing practices and started an investigation.

  Back to the order of the day, Bielakowski held up a peaceful hand. “The 1–900 thing is water under the bridge. A mistake? Sure, I’ll concede the point so let’s stick to what’s in front of us. This Universal Service Fund is good. Seven figures good? No, not that sweet.”

  Flying up from Florida, Sonny’s goal for the sit-down was anywhere between six and seven hundred grand. A little less might be okay if he trimmed incidentals and his luck turned at the track. The light side of five hundred was a cherry-bomb-in-the-pants-type problem. Much of his yearly nut was month-to-month expenses like the high-rise condo and marina slip. But those obligations, while important, weren’t mission critical to his long-term health. The same wasn’t true for his bookie and Vegas marker. The only reason Sonny had been allowed to float as much as he had, as long as he had, was because he was savvy enough to buy time without creating a panic. That said, everyone in the gambling business had a breaking point, and the bookie and casino had reached theirs. No more extensions. No more silver-tongued brush-offs.

  The two and a quarter from the MMA deal covered most of Sonny’s gambling, minus some of the accrued interest, so the tally from the USF scheme would dictate his next year’s standard of living. “Maybe not a million-dollar idea,” he said, sacrificing little by coming off the unrealistically high mark. “It’s damn good, though. I just handed you the movie script for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with the title roles cast. Follow the script, stay out of Newman and Redford’s way, and the rest will be easier than shooting crows off a carcass.”

  There was little mystery to Bielakowski’s next step. Whenever he liked an idea and fretted the upfront, he tried offsetting the initial premium by dangling back-end action. Other business partners accepted the deferred payoffs to curry favor or because they believed it was the better deal. Sonny ranked them all as suckers. Trash can dining educated him on the importance of upgrading his immediate future, even at the expense of future earnings.

  So Sonny declined Bielakowski’s profit-sharing offer, saying he was still too greedy for patience. Besides, sweating the back-end meant vesting himself in operations, a work category he’d sworn off. He was the idea guy, a cost always paid up front. Bielakowski pushed, offering an extra ten points. Sonny’s headshake was the final shovel of dirt.

  There was a light knock on the doorframe as the bartender returned with the vodka. Bielakowski made an eager reach, held it high, and insisted Sonny do the same. Sonny said a toast was premature. A firm price was required before celebrating.

  “To my friend, Sonny Bonhardt,” said Bielakowski, vodka dripping down his outstretched arm. “The first man—the only man—to sell me a half-million-dollar idea.”

  With the toast hanging in the air, Sonny understood the message. It was a half million or nothing. He raised his own glass in acceptance of the terms.

  Pleased with the outcome and the company, both clinked glasses and downed the alcohol. After a moment to savor the distilled vapors, Bielakowski asked, “Are we done? Anything more to consider?”

  Sonny moved his hands across the table like a roulette dealer closing his wheel. “Done for now, although I’m already working on our next one. Probably won’t wait until next year. More of a short-notice move.”

  “Sounds like a traditional operation.”

  Sonny smiled. His friend hadn’t faded as much as he’d feared. “You’ll love it. An old-fashioned truck jacking. Not ready yet. When it is, we’ll have a couple weeks’ notice.”

  “Please call. Perhaps it’s one you’ll consider for a back-end arrangement.”

  Sonny nodded in understanding, not agreement. “You want to grab dinner later? Or maybe we just eat now?”

  “The vodka here is cold, and no one is bothering us, although it’s missing your white tablecloths,” said Bielakowski, a thumb tilted toward the mustard and horseradish. “And you may have to dry your own hands in the restroom.”

  Since Sonny had relocated to South Florida, Bielakowski teased him about becoming a hotshot high roller. Clothes, women, gambling, sailing the islands—the whole package was included in the jab. Bielakowski—in the same house, with the same woman, working the same job over the same butcher’s block—was the other side of the mountain, the dark half. He was the dutiful immigrant who rejected the trappings of success in favor of an austere existence.

  As though he needed to demonstrate a willingness to go all in, Sonny stripped off his suit jacket, tossed it on the nearby coat rack, unfastened his cuff links, and rolled up his sleeves.

  “Stop. Enough,” said Anton. “There’s only one working man at this table, so let’s not pretend. Done with the clothes? Good, then I have a favor to ask.”

  Retaking his seat, Sonny assumed the sentence was a mistake, an unintended jumble. Bielakowski wasn’t the type who professed need or vulnerability. “The great man with hat in hand? This is turning out to be a historic day. First a fair deal, and now requesting a favor. The stars are aligned over Philadelphia.”

  “Don’t,” said Bielakowski, his word infused with more determination than desperation. “You may not like what I’m asking. But that’s why they call it a favor. I’m an old man, Sonny. My body and mind are—”

  “Come on, let’s—”

  Bielakowski dropped his clenched hands on the tabletop. “We’ve known each other too long to behave like insecure young brides. I’m not offering my condition so you can disagree and we can hen over why I’m not as bad as I think. I’m fucking old. End of story. Not picking-out-burial-hymns old, but the music is fading. Hell, if I was a dog, I’d sleep with one eye open.”

  Sonny laughed, in part because Bielakowski resembled an aging hound. And in part because ironic laughter was the best he could offer.

  Waiting for the chuckle to fade, Bielakowski said, “I need Marcek out of Philly. I want him in Florida with you.”

  Sonny couldn’t recall a Bielakowski fleeing the city. Their move was to retract, pull into the safety of Port Richmond until whatever storm passed. He highlighted the point while also making clear he wasn’t in the safe-house business.

  “It’s true that the local conditions are in transition,” said Bielakowski.

  “Usual bullshit?”

  “I thought so at first.”

  “And now?”

  “Unpredictable. Like any ruler who ascends with violence, Rea’s vulnerable to insurrection. To strengthen his allegiances he must rally his family against a common enemy.”

  Sonny raised his eyebrows and pointed a finger across the table. Bielakowski answered with a nod.

  Since his move south, Sonny wasn’t privy to Philly’s criminal nuances. He had cocktails with a few of the retired Italians every couple of months, though didn’t know the intricacies of their business, or of any changes with the Poles. “So get Marcek back to the neighborhood. That’s always been enough. They don’t have the muscle to overrun Port Richmond.”

  “True,” said Bielakowski, “our boundaries are secure. But this goes back to my age more than anything, and your particular skill set. Marcek has learned everything he can from me, and I’m convinced that’s no longer enough. He needs you now.”

  Sonny wo
ndered whether his friend intended the flattery. “I’m no example. Most days I gamble away or spend on the boat.”

  “I’m not talking about your vices. It’s the ideas. I want him watching how you do it.” Seeing Sonny’s face, Bielakowski added, “And don’t worry about getting cut out or training your replacement. Marcek could be your shadow for five years and still not offer your magic. But I need him appreciating men like you, what you deliver.”

  Sonny leaned back to distance himself from the idea. “Jesus, Anton, I don’t know. How can I win with that? It’s not about Marcek. I like him enough, but not everything in life can be taught.” The request wasn’t like explaining the tax code or charting the best route to Bimini. Sonny wasn’t sure himself how he came up with the ideas. Sure, there was a process, a routine that included a dozen daily newspapers, tracking law enforcement press releases, and skimming every magazine in the bookstore. The hard truth was he never knew what he was looking for until he found it. Sometimes he went six months and got nothing except ink-stained fingers. Then one afternoon he might sketch out a year’s worth of ideas while killing a six-pack.

  Bielakowski didn’t view his request as a negotiation with options and outs. “If you were a sculptor, I’d understand the limits of making my son an artist. Some skills are not transferable.”

  Sonny nodded in agreement.

  “But this is not that,” said the old man. “An artist can certainly describe why he’s drawn to a particular style. Or explain the task of chisel and hammer. Or why he chose one stone over another to express his vision.”

  Sonny remembered back to when he was fourteen and working his way into Bielakowski’s organization. Numbers were his thing. Didn’t matter if they were on a balance sheet or in a dice game, digits spoke to Sonny, telling him how they liked to be stacked and organized. Letters and words were a different hassle—they jumped the page like spooked tadpoles on a pond’s edge. Despite Sonny’s effort to camouflage the disability, Anton detected the ruse and took the problem to his mother, a woman who taught herself and half of Port Richmond how to speak and read English. She brought the street boy under her wing, recognized he was bright though learned differently, and had him comprehending Twain and Zane Grey within twelve months.