Martin had been wrong. The drive had nothing to do with the Poles. It was one hundred times bigger than the Italians’ ongoing friction with Anton Bielakowski. Rea was opening him up to the most significant undercover accomplishment in FBI history. Ten years infiltrating the Philadelphia mob and now he was being invited north. New York City.
“Yo, Martin, I’m asking about Bidanno. You know him or what?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said, with an exaggerated nod. “Sure, I know Bidanno from card games in Atlantic City. Smart. Not as smooth with the ladies as he thinks. Probably eight years I’ve known him. No bad blood. No good either.”
“I figured you could handle him. What do you think? I send Costa up and he’d come home wearing a New York Giants jersey from Chinatown. But if you’re in, this can’t be no half-ass thing.”
“Of course. I’ll do good.”
Rea broke off eye contact and turned forward. A light rain was falling, and headlights were splitting drops on the windshield. Pointing a finger toward the next parked car, he said, “Look there, what do you think that car is worth? Give a guess.”
When he was moving the cones, Martin hadn’t paid any attention to the run-down four-door Ford Taurus parked off their front bumper. Nothing stood out except two Marine Corps stickers and a Harley-Davidson emblem in the window. “Maybe a couple grand. Three tops.”
“Wrong. Way more. Couple million, probably.”
With the number, Martin knew, Rea was giving him another puzzle piece. Each movement and line was by design—being asked onto the team, the practice, the arranged pickup, the drive home, the parking space, the promotion, and now this car. To what end, Martin had no idea.
“Tommy Paschol.”
“What?”
“Tommy Paschol. I’m asking if Tommy Paschol means anything to you.”
A name wasn’t what Martin had predicted. His mind raced to make the connection. “Never heard of the guy. He saying he knows me? That I did something?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What’s up with him?”
“Paschol is a War Boy,” said Rea. “Turns out, he’s more involved with our side of the business than I ever knew. I can’t say he’s the brains of the operation because that’s too much credit, but he knows to the ounce how much meth is sent our way.”
“What, like a bookkeeper?”
“Yeah, that’s probably a way of explaining it. No formal ledgers or anything, but yeah, he’s their bookkeeper.” What irked Rea was that other than him and Chuck Trella Jr. nobody on either side was supposed to have Paschol’s knowledge. They’d agreed on dealing directly so no intermediaries could cause too much harm or sabotage the relationship.
His voice low, Rea said, “Paschol got arrested about two months ago. I found out on my own, nobody from the War Boys clued me in. Typical of those assholes. When I reached out to Trella, all I got were assurances. No action.”
“You thought Paschol was going to talk?”
“Basically,” said Rea, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the armrest. “He hired an attorney known for dealing. When I tried a soft sell to get him to change, that crapped out, too. Smoke?”
“Sure.”
Thinking of the money he’d wasted on Billy O’Bannon, Rea lit his cigarette and pressed his head against the seat. “My hands were tied. Me and Trella have an arrangement. War Boys don’t mess with my men and vice versa. Difference is, none of you have been arrested on anything serious. And if you were, you wouldn’t know much about the bikers’ side of the business. That was supposed to be the deal. Experts call it operational deniability, but those fucking motorcyclists run their business like a monkey house.”
Martin paused, wanting to remember every detail. Looking up the sidewalk for anything he could use to slow the conversation, he saw a meter maid heading their way. Martin tapped Rea’s elbow, rolled his eyes toward the cones on the sidewalk, and mentioned maybe he should drop a quarter if they were sticking around.
“Yeah,” said Rea, pulling some change from a cup in the console, “and see if that Ford needs love. Hate to see a veteran get a fifteen-dollar ticket for nothing.”
Martin didn’t bother asking what he should say if questioned about the cones. Shit honored gravity, which meant it was his job to handle the situation. He took the change, opened his door, and exited into the drizzle.
Watching the meter maid ticket a red Honda, Martin dropped two quarters for the Ford and two more for Rea’s Lincoln. She caught the move, snapped the windshield wiper down on the ticket, and skipped the dividing cars. A half-sized women with a plus-sized backside, she closed the distance with fast little steps. Winded, she placed her right hand on the Ford’s trunk and looked ready to dip the hip for additional support. “You know I can still write him, don’t you? And give you one, too?”
If Martin had read those words on a page, he’d have figured she was boom-ready, but her body language defied the stereotype and suggested a milder interpretation. She looked tired and in no mood to fight.
“Just being a good neighbor,” he said, a little slower than his usual pace. “I wasn’t messing with you. Figured the owner of that car could use a break. No need to pile on. All about the karma.”
She looked him up and down in his baseball pants before turning her attention to the nearby cones. “Where’d those come from?”
Martin shrugged.
“Last lap I swear those were in the street. You moving them for a spot?”
Hands up and smiling, he said, “What do I look like? A car pulled out and we pulled in. Road crew probably left them after filling potholes. No wonder our taxes are so high.”
“Don’t look at me, baby.” Her head bobbled side to side, making her hoop earrings dance. “I’m a revenue generator. Look down your nose if you want, but I’m saving the city money. Can’t tell people nothing, though. All they have is hate.”
Eyes open wide, Martin agreed on each of her points, saying they couldn’t pay him enough to do her job. “Toughest shift in the city. Total respect. Me? I’d rather patrol for stray dogs or guard a judge.”
She rechecked both meters and made a point of mentioning another meter maid wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. If Martin wanted to skip a quarter, no sweat off her ass because her shift was almost over. Time to head home.
“Power to the people,” said Martin.
She answered with a peace sign over her shoulder and disappeared around the nearest street corner.
Back inside the car, Rea told Martin he should have called the meter maid a bitch, because who cared whose money fed the meters? “Put her in our line of work,” he said. “She’ll drop those distinctions real quick. Money doesn’t care who earns it or owns it.”
“She’s all right,” said Martin, noting Rea was halfway through another cigarette. “End of her shift and it’s starting to rain, so I think she just wanted a reason to hopscotch to the end of the block.”
Checking his side mirror, Rea said, “We’re good with the New York thing?”
“What, I’m going to change my mind in five minutes? It’s perfect.”
“Big bump, you know. Historic. People will know your name.”
Martin got the feeling Rea was unsatisfied with his gratitude, like a grandparent gifting a savings bond. Time to show some love. “I want New York,” he said. “I want it, okay? And I appreciate the opportunity. Whatever it takes, Ray, because nobody will do a better job. And I promise, Philly is done drawing short straws with those boys. I’ll handle the duty, no problem, man.”
Rea took a drag and flicked the butt out his window, bouncing it off the quarter-panel of a passing car. “We’ve got some housekeeping, too.”
Martin wished for another beer so he could steal a second to think. Rea had the benefit of a script. He was read-and-reacting. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, deciding to say as little as possible as the conversation rolled forward.
Using his chin like a pointer, Rea said, “Back to that Ford.
I mentioned it was worth something.”
“I remember.”
A double-length pause. “Its value is its cargo.”
Martin looked back and forth, waiting for the punch line.
Rea said, “Tommy Paschol is in the trunk.”
“Dead?”
“Shot six times.”
“Jesus” was all Martin could manage. If Rea was telling the truth, Philly’s mob boss had just identified the location and identity of a murder victim. “In that car? You’re telling me a War Boy is stuffed in that frickin’ trunk? Ray, what the fuck, man?”
The question marked Rea’s face with shaded black lines. “Don’t get all dramatic. Two minutes ago you’d never heard of the guy. All that matters is Mr. Tommy Paschol is out of the singing business.”
The picture had come into focus. While Rea was a street-savvy player, Martin never took him for fifteen moves of clairvoyance. At best, he was two moves out or—like with the New York offer—just one. Hey, Nick, you get one of the highest-profile spots in the family, the one you’ve been busting my stones about. Oh, by the way, see that car? Let’s talk about what’s doing with the dead body in its trunk. Typical meatball, right down to the parking job on Third Street.
“So what’s the assignment?” Martin said, his voice matching the boss’s intensity. “That’s why we’re here, right? ’Cause you’ve got something for me to do?” The task was more than just disposing of a body. There were ten guys on payroll better suited for burn-and-bury work. Whatever the job, it was important enough to have New York as its prologue.
“There are changes coming,” said Rea, going for his third cigarette.
“How so?”
“Until tonight, our enemy has been the Poles and our ally the War Boys.”
Second mention of the Poles struck a nerve for Martin; he figured he was being introduced to the ending. If Rea had a gun, it was probably under his seat. Martin’s was beneath a towel in his backpack. Either one getting the draw would be a tall order. “You going for peace with the Poles?”
“Screw that,” said Rea. “That’s a long day from being done, especially after what they did to Louis and Bill.”
“Then I’m not following.”
“We’re redefining the relationship.”
Martin didn’t know what to say. Without more clues, he was flailing at the possibilities.
Rea tossed his hands up at the silence. He’d been hoping Martin was smart enough to grasp the big picture and run with the details. “Christ sake, Nick, I gotta connect every dot? Take Paschol’s body and pin it on the Poles.”
“Set up Bielakowski?”
“Yeah, now you’re getting it.”
More silence from Martin, a strategy he’d stick with until it stopped working.
Rea tapped the steering wheel. Staring out the windshield at nothing in particular, he said, “This isn’t some regular everyday thing. We’re making a move. That’s why you’re involved. I trust you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
“I’m down for whatever. Just point me in the right direction.”
Rea looked at his passenger with thin eyes. “Trella has to think the Poles killed Paschol. He’s a frickin’ hothead about protecting his people. We can use that.”
Martin nodded, mentally summarizing the move for later recollection. Rea was manipulating the War Boys into joining his fight against the Poles. Okay, so far, he wasn’t overwhelmed with the material.
“Give Trella our blessing for revenge. In fact, tell him I want the Poles wiped off the map. Bielakowski, his son, the whole lot of them.”
Martin turned toward the passenger-side window, disgusted at how self-impressed Rea was with his clever little plot. All this drama and a dead body just to jazz up some bikers into making a charge through Port Richmond? Fucking amateur hour, he thought.
Rea lit his fourth cigarette and turned up the radio. He waited through an entire Bon Jovi song before turning it back down and leaning across the armrest. “And then let the Poles know the War Boys are coming.”
Martin flinched. Couldn’t help himself.
Rea leaned back into the driver’s seat, hands atop the steering wheel, cigarette ash dangling over the column. He was so damn close. If Martin could convince Trella to mount up—and the Poles did their part killing the bikers—he’d control the city’s meth market from A to Z. No more partners, no more testifying assholes like Tommy Paschol. He just needed a little luck, because once word was out about him buying cold medicine—and word always got out—the War Boys would rebel. That’s why Paschol had to die. He was the starter’s pistol.
“There’s an important sequence,” said Rea, his index finger up. “Do the thing with Trella, that’s got to be number one. So far, the Poles haven’t targeted the bikers.” He pointed to the Ford. “Paschol’s corpse will change that perception. My guess when Trella hears? Out of his head—almost wish I could be there to see it. Stand back, let him freak a bit, and then tell him to target Bielakowski. Here’s the thing, though—focus him on the old man’s shop. Last headache I need is the bikers terrorizing Port Richmond and drawing in the news crews. The point is getting Trella at a specific time and place trying to kill Bielakowski. Follow so far?”
Martin nodded and said yeah, he followed.
“Then call the Pole’s shop and tell anybody who answers the War Boys are coming. Bielakowski can handle it from there.”
Martin decided to change the conversation’s rhythm. He needed Rea explaining the why behind his maneuvers. Bold, yes. Smart? To be determined. “If Trella gets hammered, doesn’t that leave us scrambling to replace their capabilities? The cook has always been their deal.”
“One step ahead of you, brother.”
As an undercover agent, Martin loved Rea’s arrogance. Like the sausage maker said, it left him vulnerable. “I’m not following, Ray.”
The rain slowed enough for Rea to lower the driver’s-side window. A passing car stopped, and a mom with two wide-eyed screamers asked if they were leaving and could they have the spot? Rea gave a big wave like just another happy tourist looking to help a fellow traveler. He pulled out and again headed north. “If all goes right tomorrow with the bikers in Port Richmond, I’ll need you tomorrow night.”
“Where?”
Rea acted like he didn’t hear the question, instead tossing a set of keys into Martin’s lap. He was enjoying his role as director. “Entirely up to you how Trella gets launched into action, although I’m figuring these might be handy—they’re for Paschol’s Ford. When you’re done, make sure you dump them in a sewer or the river. Under no circumstance do you keep them as a souvenir. Scalps like that get us all convicted.”
“No shit.”
“Watch your mouth. That is important enough for me to repeat ten times if I want. Don’t be a wiseass thinking you know everything.”
Martin studied the set. There were four keys—one ignition, one for the trunk, and two generic cuts probably for Paschol’s house. While he wasn’t sure how he’d manage the biker’s body or finish the night’s ruse, he sure as hell wasn’t losing the keys down any hole. As evidence, maybe the four keys were tainted and inadmissible in court, but they were also a crucial component of his narrative and proof of his access.
They traveled another two blocks north before Martin realized Rea hadn’t answered his question. “After the bikers are handled, where do you want me to be?”
Finally swinging south toward Martin’s place in Queen Village, Rea said, “Can you drive a truck?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I bought some cold medicine. It’s being delivered tomorrow.”
Martin’s tumblers fell into order. “Holy hell, how much?”
“Enough to make me okay putting Tommy Paschol in that trunk and walking the War Boys into a shooting gallery.”
At last, Martin had acquired enough tile pieces and perspective to understand the mosaic. Raymond Rea’s ambition equaled his own. Under different circumstances, he didn’t doubt eac
h could have worn the other’s clothes. “Who’s selling that much pseudoephedrine?”
“The Armenians. That’s why I need you. They’re clowns.”
30.
FEELING LIKE ONE of those casualty notification officers visiting a fallen soldier’s parents, Martin arrived at the War Boys’ clubhouse bearing the same variety of bad news. He only hoped his version of Tommy Paschol’s death contained enough shavings of truth to conceal the lies. If he flinched, or the story failed to hold up, the audience’s notorious lack of impulse control meant his certain death.
Allowed inside, Martin didn’t waste time on small talk or formalities. He explained to Trella and the surrounding bikers how patrolmen found Paschol’s Ford in Pennypack Park. Following procedure, the cops checked its registration, opened the trunk, and discovered the dead War Boy’s body. The news circulated in the department until a badge on the payroll caught wind and called Rea.
All Chuck Trella Jr. needed to hear was Tommy Paschol was dead.
He grabbed a pry bar and attacked a waist-high toolbox, gouging its gauged steel and splashing wrenches across the oil-stained floor. Martin stood to the side, one eye on Trella, the other on the dozen bikers watching this unleashed force of nature. No one moved or said boo. While Trella’s intelligence was credited for the club’s rise, he didn’t lead the East Coast’s most violent motorcycle gang because he had an academic demeanor. His willingness to both lead and fight—with guns, knives, or fists—was the only technique he needed for absolute control.
Exhausted and palms bloodied, Trella dropped the pry bar, spit on the floor, and turned for his office. Halfway across the garage he shouted for Martin to follow. Behind a metal desk—bikini and motorcycle calendars decorating the walls—Trella leaned forward on his knuckles like a silverback in the jungle. “Who did this fucking thing to Tommy? I want to know.”
No hesitation. “The Poles.”
An emotion other than rage crossed the gorilla’s face. “How do you figure? We’ve got no beef with them.”
“It’s not in the papers yet, but the cops told us Tommy’s mouth was stuffed with blood sausage. That’s their move. Plus, finding him in Pennypack, it’s a dumping ground for Northeast Philly.”
The Friendship of Criminals Page 23
