“If only I was so noble. What is gained by my participation? What’s achieved now that can’t wait until you two soften each other up? And if it goes fifteen rounds, I’ll be able to push over the winner with a feather.”
“You or him, Port Richmond stays the same. We’ll fight.”
Drobyshev paired a raised hand with a long blink. “No need. Like with a cornered badger, I know what Port Richmond offers. Between friends, I’d much rather expend my energies acquiring certain parts of the Italian’s operations. The exact ones we needn’t discuss.”
Bielakowski leaned forward and pulled the towel over his head. He didn’t know where Rea was, or what he might be doing, but the Italian leader surely wasn’t achieving such a victory. Keeping the Russians on the sidelines was significant, the type of move that transformed battles into winning campaigns. Reemerging from his private thoughts, the sausage maker said, “I am ready to talk about my financial proposals.”
“Before you do, there’s one more thing.”
Bielakowski waved him on, wanting to finish before the steam returned.
“The biker alliance may not be as strong as believed,” said the Russian. “While they are from the same neighborhood and share some overlap, the tie that binds is meth. They have no allegiance outside the drugs. As you know, the Italians are pushing what the bikers are producing. That’s a good deal for the War Boys and about thirty bucks an hour for the poor shits on the street. My people tell me Rea isn’t happy and is looking to go end to end.”
“What does he need?”
“Pseudoephedrine. It’s an ingredient in cold-medicine pills. They have ways of extracting it to make meth. If Rea gets enough, he won’t need his partners anymore.”
Bielakowski paused. “If it’s on the shelves, what’s the problem? Go buy all the medicine, no?”
“You need a lot of those little pills. The War Boys have a connection. Rea is looking for his own. Not easy, though. He needs to do it without the bikers catching wind. They find out, he’s tied to a tiger.”
“Distract the bikers and undercut their business. Not new, but effective.”
With so little respect for his Mediterranean rivals, Drobyshev scoffed at the compliment. “Rea makes moves like a child. He partners with idiots so they can’t foresee the betrayal. If you and I can’t outmaneuver him, we don’t deserve our positions.” Taking a moment to settle himself, he said, “Enough. Let’s move on.”
Since his meeting with Sonny Bonhardt, Bielakowski had been struggling with the telecom scam. The mixed martial arts proposal was a go, but siphoning from the Universal Service Fund was a heavier lift. While Bielakowski wasn’t sure he wanted to drive such a far-reaching venture, he now had an alternative with a competent partner he needed to keep happy.
Weighing the benefits against his aversion to alliances, Bielakowski didn’t see a real choice. He paused to organize his thoughts, then provided Drobyshev with a high-level sketch of the USF hustle. Once finished, he said, “I have a file that provides all the details including which phone companies to target, rate of return, the lobbyists in the respective states, the flow of payments from the Universal Service Fund to those companies, and the legal protocol for buying the targets. My plan, your people. We split down the middle. Should be between three and six million a year for two or three years. Then we roll down the blinds and count our take. My one condition is that only you know my name. I will extend the same courtesy. Unless your men bumble, blame won’t find its way around the patsy management.”
“Of course I’m interested,” said the Russian. Opportunities in America never ceased to amaze him. Who’d ever heard of a government paying millions of dollars to tiny companies anyone could buy? For a man who had survived years on watery soup and maggoty bread, such a notion was decadent and absurd and deserving of abuse. “I agree to your conditions. I’d also like to buy an option on your idea man. Understand, Anton, I’d never wish you ill health, but you’re not going to live forever. If your idea man is willing to work for another organization, I’d like the opportunity.”
Bielakowski often wondered what Sonny would do upon his passing, whether he’d align with one primary partner or go the free-agent route. While he hoped his old friend would continue with his son, it was difficult predicting either man’s priorities. “He goes his own way, same as ever. When I die, if he sells to you, that’s his call.”
Drobyshev blinked and shrugged his shoulders, as if the answer didn’t matter because he’d handle the situation his own way.
For Bielakowski, the Russian’s reaction confirmed why he’d sent Marcek to Florida. Sonny and his son would be targeted before his fingers grew cold and stiff. The stronger their relationship, the safer they’d be. “There’s something else, not for today, but it could happen fast. As you know, drugs hold no interest for me.”
“Yes, I have neither forgotten nor come around to your way of thinking.”
Why others held so fast to the necessity of drugs was a mystery to Bielakowski. Without them, he’d avoided prison and run a successful, profitable family for forty years. Those who trafficked in narcotics either died or were traded in for plea deals. “The opportunity is not a street drug. It’s called Viagra.”
Before the Pole could finish his pronunciation, the Russian interrupted. “I’ll take them all. Ten bucks a pill. When will you know?”
The steam started again, filling the room with a cloud. Without a word, Drobyshev rose, stepped down, and turned to assist his guest. As they shuffled together across the slick tile floor, Bielakowski had to raise his voice above the steam. “Fifteen. You’ll be the only buyer, and I don’t know the count, so you’ll need a piggy bank. We deliver, you pay.”
Stepping through the doorway, Bielakowski received the one-word answer he’d been seeking and turned for his locker. Drobyshev waved a hand, grunted a good-bye in Russian, and moved in the opposite direction with a subtle limp from a long-ago broken leg that had never been properly set.
21.
A Few Weeks Later
WATCHING THE WOMAN FLOAT in his rooftop pool, her French-manicured nails dapping the water, Sonny was feeling unimpressed with the inaugural meeting. What if she didn’t have an extra bikini in the car, or had been unwilling to sunbathe? Then what? Would she be listening to Sonny’s Day One lecture and offering her two cents? Bielakowski would have a stroke if he heard that Marcek started his internship with a girl in tow. Back in the day, the sausage maker didn’t talk to women, let alone pal around with one during business hours. Sonny wasn’t a torchbearer for the old ways, but even he struggled with the curvy broad’s presence. Jesus Christ, he thought, what’s with these young guys getting led around by their peckers?
“Nice girl. Pretty,” said Sonny, seated at a poolside table beneath an umbrella. After he’d opened his condo’s front door and realized the party size had doubled, he suggested they head for the rooftop. If the couple had scoffed or Marcek countered, Sonny would have rescheduled or called Port Richmond to quash the whole deal. “Her name’s Angie? Always liked that name. She’s a real sweetheart.”
Catching the sarcasm, Marcek knew there was work to be done. “Her old man’s been in and out of prison since she was born, so the life is second nature.” He smiled in Angie’s direction. “And she’s already proven herself with me.” Marcek didn’t need his mentor’s indifference to tell him he’d tripped up. Bringing a stranger wasn’t part of the protocol, which was why he’d brought the gift. Clearing his duffel from beneath the table, he opened the zipper, retrieved an envelope, and pushed it in Sonny’s direction. “This will make everything smell better.”
“What have you got there?”
“Check it out.”
Sonny peeled back the fold and spread the sides with a puff of air. Inside was a decent collection of hundreds.
“I remember you having a gift for numbers,” said Marcek, removing his sunglasses. “What’s your guess?”
“You don’t have to be Amarillo Slim to
eyeball twenty grand.” Sonny slapped the envelope back onto the table and did a quick check on the girl. Satisfied her raft wasn’t too close, he said, “The question is for what?”
“My character defect is that I’m a romantic. I should have known better than to come as a pair.”
Sonny noticed the genetic influence of Marcek’s mother in his facial features and credited her for his impulsiveness. Marcek’s parents were that oddball coupling that made everyone believe in the attraction of opposites. If Anton Bielakowski was the branch, she was the butterfly. Sonny imagined all the aggravation this mother/son synchronization must have caused his friend over the years. “For the future, keep these business sessions to you and me. At my age, I don’t need the headache.”
“Fair enough. Won’t happen again.”
“Now tell me the story behind this envelope, because I know it’s not out of pocket. And make it entertaining. Florida has enough mouth breathers reciting their daily routines.”
“The envelope comes from a job we pulled. Your taste is Dad’s share plus something for me bringing Angie along.”
“How’s he doing?”
Marcek struggled reconciling his current role and responsibilities within the context of an accurate answer. His father was at war, men had died, and here he was in the Sunshine State with a beautiful girl learning how to think big. He’d initially refused to go south, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. “Unresolved,” Marcek offered, wiping sweat off his brow. “The Italians press and we strike back. They didn’t like losing the bookie, which stung pretty good. We didn’t like losing any of ours either.”
“How many so far?”
“Three Italians. No War Boys. Three Poles.”
“That’s not like your father. He likes playing with a lead.”
Marcek paused before answering. The issue wasn’t trust, more Sonny’s own safety. “The Russians are staying out. Dad won’t say, but I think that was his doing. A week or two goes by with nothing. Guys relax, go out for a drink, maybe hit a club and it’s on again. Seems like we’re pacing ourselves. The men are ready, Dad just hasn’t unleashed them yet.”
“You think you have the numbers?”
“Same as always. Man on man, we’re light. Neighborhood-wise, still plenty to protect our streets. Some of our guys—the ones you know—are getting gray, but they’ve been tested. Plenty of the Italians haven’t done much more than talk tough.”
Sonny leaned back and took a deep breath. He was glad those days of territorial warfare were behind him. While neither Polish nor a resident of Port Richmond, he’d still participated and suffered plenty protecting Bielakowski’s operations. “Down here, your job is to forget all that. Don’t be distracted, or what’s the point? Concentrate on what I teach you. Here’s the way your dad is seeing this—he doesn’t need another soldier. You think one more gun makes a difference? What he needs is you ready down the line to lead Port Richmond.”
The two debated the scenario—Marcek struggling with his desertion, Sonny countering he needed to trust his father. When they’d exhausted all their points and rebuttals, Marcek asked about Michael and whether Sonny would do the same with him.
“Impossible to answer. I’m not Anton, and you know Michael—there are special rules for him.”
“Can I see him while I’m down?”
Sonny hadn’t spoken to his son since he’d given him the two hundred grand. The morning of the exchange, they’d met for breakfast at Denny’s, and Michael surprised his father with a set of house keys. Keep an eye on things, Dad. I’m taking the cat, so just make sure nothing blows up. Eating breakfast, Michael laid out his schedule for the next couple of months. Go see Cassir, give him the money, and drive to Sarasota for ninety days at an inpatient treatment center. Tears or smiles weren’t served with the eggs, bacon, and coffee. That was for three months down the line. In the parking lot, father and son hugged, exchanged the money, wished each other good luck, and agreed to speak once Michael was in sober living.
“Michael’s taking a break in California,” said Sonny, figuring the lie would save him a sympathetic look. “He’s got wife problems and needs distance. Let’s get back to the envelope. Twenty grand seems generous, but that’s your call. Must have been a pretty good racket with that kind of carve-out.”
When he divvied up the haul, Marcek gave Sonny more than he was entitled to. He knew from his father how much the Depression generation appreciated long pours and generous cuts. “It’s all thanks to Angie.”
“You’re just dealing heat. Don’t try and make me like her. Make me like you and she’ll be the beneficiary.”
Marcek pulled his chair beneath the shade of the umbrella. Smoothing his slacks, he was glad he’d skipped the black-on-black outfit for linen and loafers. Acclimating to Florida heat was going to take some time. “Walking around Jewelry Row, I spied her working a counter. Few weeks later, when I started courting her as a connection, she was two steps ahead. I told her I needed help, and she asked what took me so long.”
“Okay, I’m hooked. Reel me in.”
“You know a lawyer named Billy O’Bannon?”
When Sonny acted committed to remembering the name, Marcek said it didn’t matter and pressed on. “Angie’s working the front counter at Roth’s when her boss tells her to schedule a pickup appointment for O’Bannon. Apparently he’d ordered eighteen grand in custom jewelry and was paying in cash.”
“You gave me twenty,” said Sonny, eyeing the envelope. “Either you shorted yourself or she got confused with the numbers.”
Marcek opened his hands as though there were no secrets left to hide. “Little of both, but let’s not get hung up on the details. O’Bannon was supposed to be at the jewelry store around 1:00 P.M., so I took a position across from his office at 10:30 A.M.”
“Where’s his building?”
“123 South Broad. The Duke and Duke Building from that Eddie Murphy movie.”
“Across from the Union League?”
Marcek didn’t mind the interruptions. Meant Sonny was vested. “You got it. So I’m playing it casual, working my way up and down the block, keeping my eyes open for O’Bannon. I figured he’d have a couple morning cases at the Criminal Justice Center. Ten minutes to noon I look over and there’s Raymond Rea. He’s getting dropped in front of O’Bannon’s building and heads in alone.”
“No kidding?”
Marcek shook his head. “Rea’s attorney is still Daniel Moss, and anybody watching his press conferences knows his office is on Rittenhouse Square. So now I’m wondering if Rea is there to see O’Bannon.”
Sonny lifted his index finger off the table. “That’s a stretch. You hear anything about him getting pinched?”
“Nothing on Rea, but you know those guys. They always have a family goon in trouble.”
“Maybe it’s unrelated,” said Sonny. “Big building, lots of lawyers. Hell, there’s a bank on the first floor. Rea was probably checking on his safety deposit box.”
“That building has two towers and two sets of doors. He walked past the bank entrance.”
“That narrows it to thirty other floors.”
Marcek shifted in his chair, wondering how people managed such heat. Every part of him felt moist. “Fast-forward a couple minutes. I’m still across Broad Street, and here comes Billy O’Bannon skipping down the sidewalk, moving like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He goes in the building, and twenty minutes later out comes Rea. He gets back in his car, but they don’t drive away. Another guy, not the driver, gets out and goes into the building carrying a leather satchel. Five minutes later, he’s back and they’re gone.”
“But you’re still across the street, waiting for O’Bannon to shove off for his appointment.”
“Right,” said Marcek. “Nothing about Rea’s appearance changed my plans. O’Bannon’s office is eight blocks from the jewelry store, which means he could walk, drive his own car, or grab a cab. I scouted him the day before and had a plan for each conti
ngency.”
Instead of a quick response, Sonny took a second look toward the pool. Just because the kid bought into Angie didn’t mean he was a blind believer. The only truth Sonny knew was that she’d worked her way from a Philadelphia jewelry counter all the way to his rooftop pool. There were a thousand off-ramps between Roth’s Fine Diamonds and Boca Raton, and she hadn’t taken a one. Either the stars were holding the young lovers together or the woman had an agenda. Tilting his head in the pool’s direction, he asked, “Was she assisting or were you solo?”
“She couldn’t do much because O’Bannon knows her face. I put her in a ball cap and mirrored sunglasses and had her close enough to catch a hand signal. When O’Bannon came out, he turned south and crossed over Broad Street, which meant he was headed for his parking spot at the Bellevue Hotel. All she had to do was shout Watch out for pickpockets.”
“What did O’Bannon do?”
“Flexed his grip around the briefcase handle.”
“So now you know where the money is and that he’s driving himself to the jewelry store.”
“And, at this point, I’ve already done the dirty work.”
“Slashed his tires?”
“One front, one rear.”
Sonny had a pretty good idea how the story finished. Marcek, dressed in a suit to allay suspicions, trailed O’Bannon into the parking garage, where he played the Good Samaritan once the lawyer discovered the vandalism. What he couldn’t figure was how Marcek managed such a well-matched briefcase to pull the switcheroo.
Marcek said, “I thought I got a good look the day before but realized trailing him mine wasn’t even close. I don’t know—maybe he had two—but a convincing switch wasn’t going to work.”
“So it’s on to Plan B.”
Marcek nodded.
“That would have been your dad’s choice from the beginning.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got knockout power. I’m not in that category. My blows have to be perfect to avoid a drag-out. And even when I have a clean angle, dropping the hammer is not my preference.”
The Friendship of Criminals Page 17
