Waiting for the sellers, the men pissed in the river, smoked cigarettes, and watched a coal barge motoring north toward the Ben Franklin Bridge. Both used the quiet to daydream about their respective legacies and what the future held. Neither had any reason to doubt a healthy stream of back slaps, bank accounts, and the spoils of success.
Five minutes passed before the top of a U-Haul truck appeared above the river grass, followed by a trailing dust plume. Entering the gravel lot faster than expected, the truck jerked to an angled stop thirty feet from Rea and Martin’s front bumper. A dented sedan missing hubcaps and gas-cap cover stopped alongside. Both drivers cut their engines and exited without hesitation or pause. Looking like wild-eyed cousins, the men wore their hair without a part and their jacket sleeves pushed to their elbows.
“So far, so good,” said Rea. “Two guys, like they said. Those bastards do look half crazy, no?”
“Yeah, was thinking the same thing. You packing?”
“One on my ankle, another in the glove box if they start blinking too fast. But don’t go looking for trouble. Money for cold medicine is as simple as they come—pretty tough to screw this up.”
Martin nodded while making sure the keys were still in the ignition.
“Again, I’ll check inside their truck. If everything looks good with the pallets, I’ll wave.” Rea stepped out of the car, paused, and looked back with a prankster’s grin. “Some day, hey pal? Un-fucking-believable what we’ve done. Let’s remember the details, okay? Going to make a good story.”
One eye on the Armenians, Martin slid into the driver’s seat. Through the open door, he said, “When it’s time for the money, come back or send one of them. No sense giving these guys an opportunity to have us both on open ground.”
“Relax. This is the easy part. We have to remember, things are different. Not like with Anticcio and Monte. We can’t just trade with our own kind. These days, business is international. We’ve got to learn new ways of earning, be a little open-minded.” Nodding to close his soliloquy, Rea climbed the steep flood plain in ten long strides.
Rea stuck his hand out between the two men, a favorite move for determining who was in charge. As the first Armenian shook, he looked in Martin’s direction, mouthing a few words. Rea shrugged but didn’t wave his partner forward. Seemingly satisfied, the lead Armenian tossed a thumb in the truck’s direction, and all three men nodded in agreement. The larger of the two escorted Rea to the U-Haul’s rear door. The other sat on the front bumper, staring at Martin and cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.
Martin had heard the phrase in the blink of an eye his whole life but didn’t understand until that moment. As a kid, he wondered what could happen in a tenth of a second, even experimenting with the television, blinking to see what he missed. Not a thing, was the conclusion. But now, on the banks of the Delaware River, he got to see a much more convincing experiment. Rea was standing at the truck’s back corner. His hands were on his hips and his chin up as the Armenian opened the door. Martin blinked and Rea was gone, replaced by a cloud of red mist. In the blink of an eye. Now he knew what could happen in a millisecond. Death.
The first man jumping down was Chuck Trella. Holding a smoking shotgun across his chest, he took half a dozen steps toward the grass line, aimed at the patch compressed by Rea’s fall, and fired two more shells. He followed the fireworks with four hard kicks and a mouth full of spit. Done mourning, he turned in Martin’s direction as the seven other bikers jumped down to join him. A quick shout from Trella and the bikers were marching across the gravel patch toward Rea’s Lincoln, shotguns belly high, all aimed at their mark.
Martin let go of the moneybag, tossing it into the passenger seat so he could reach for his wallet. He didn’t have much time and wanted to see his little boy’s picture. Thoughts of his son had saved him before, like with Bielakowski in the warehouse. That situation hadn’t looked too rosy either, and he’d survived. Maybe, with a peek at the picture, he could figure out a crease, talk his way out. Then he blinked and it was all gone.
33.
THE BIKERS DIDN’T EXPECT another car. With their line of sight blocked by the overgrown grass, they tracked its approach by listening to the grinding gravel and watching the rising dust cloud.
Trella made a list of three possibilities. The bikers were included in the setup, a patrol car was investigating, or the unluckiest bastard in the world was driving down for a scenic look at the Delaware River. Racking his shotgun, he checked on the Armenians. Arms crossed, they gave nothing away. Just two blank faces looking back at him, still as statues, not talking but also not drawing down. Like the bikers, they were in a wait-and-see mode. Trella told his men to spread out, find cover around the truck and Martin’s car. After what they’d used on the two dead bodies, they still had enough ammunition for thirty seconds of hell.
Slow and steady, a late-model sedan emerged from the river grass, stopping short to block the entrance. No one in, no one out. A single man was in the front seat. Through the windshield, Trella had a hard time getting a positive identification other than the man was larger than any of the bikers. “Back up and drive off,” he muttered. “Your clock is ticking.”
The driver wasn’t listening. After pointing at each of the bikers—as if tallying numbers—he stepped from the vehicle and walked a straight line to Chuck Trella.
Hands to his sides, the man said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m Big Bern Jaracz of Port Richmond, and I’ve come for my guns.”
His calmness and confidence rattled the bikers. One asked Trella if he should kill him; another took two steps forward for a better angle. Trella held his hand up and shouted for his men to calm down.
“Bielakowski send you?” asked Trella, shotgun in his right hand, barrel pointing at the ground.
“He doesn’t need to send me,” answered Big Bern. “My job is guns, giving them and getting them back. I was on the warehouse rooftop when Bielakowski allowed you the ones you’re holding.” Looking around, first at Rea’s feet poking out from the grass and then at the pockmarked Lincoln with the shattered windshield, the one-eyed Pole asked, “Is your business done here?”
“I was promised the truck,” said Trella, tapping the metal side with his knuckle. “And the cargo.”
“I’m not here about the truck. I’m here for the guns.” Big Bern extended his hand. “You have eight of them. Give them back and I leave. I have no other business. Shotguns, that’s it.”
Trella took a quick assessment of his men. He knew some were thinking they should blast away and go home. Take the truck, its pallets, and the bag of money brought by the Italians. Fuck everyone. But there was a reason he was the chief and they were the Indians. He tossed his shotgun in the air, catching the barrel on its decent. Handing the wooden stock to Big Bern, he said, “You can take them one by one, but probably easier opening your trunk and we’ll put them in.”
Keys in hand, Big Bern walked back to his Cadillac, followed by the footsteps of seven bikers. Collecting the eight shotguns balanced his sheet. Fifty shotguns ordered, fifty shotguns delivered, fifty shotguns returned. All that remained was picking Little Bernie up at McDonald’s and driving to the storage facility. A few miles before reaching the river, he’d dropped off his grandson and told him he’d be back in thirty minutes. Eat some burgers, don’t leave, and don’t talk to anybody. Grandpa will be back, don’t worry. Maybe, while picking up the boy, he’d have some fries and a Coke. Big Bern Jaracz was feeling like he deserved a special treat.
34.
THE MONEY WENT FAST. A million bucks is a fortune except when you spend dough like Sonny Bonhardt. After receiving the Viagra payout, he evened up with the casinos, got current on the boat and marina slip, sent a check to his building manager, funded a college account for his grandson, and bought Tatiana a big-bodied BMW with gold wheels and a twenty-grand stereo system. His unshared logic was that if the relationship didn’t pan out—or anything happened to him—she’d at least
have something of value to remember him by.
Taking care of Michael’s legal woes cost Sonny less than he’d figured. For thirty-five grand he retained a decent bayou mouthpiece that negotiated a drug treatment plan and plea deal. Jail time was unavoidable, but at least Michael wouldn’t die an old man behind steel bars. The attorney got him ten years, which could have been cut in half if Michael shared information on Cassir and his employer. He didn’t and wouldn’t. All things considered, Sonny considered the punishment a square outcome and even started sending his boy postcards and care packages. It was a start. Deep wounds, slow healers.
Sonny’s last decision was the mausoleum. What’d started off as a must-do had faded to a may-do. Four hundred grand was a lot of scratch for an after-dinner party he’d be too tired to attend. Sipping bourbon on his balcony, he reread the investigator’s report, paying special attention to the part about his brother’s grave. He could tell his feelings had softened, getting philosophical as he watched seagulls flying low over the horizon. Nobody buried birds when they died—did that make their lives any less significant? Birds flew until they couldn’t and then disappeared. Wasn’t that enough?
A couple of drinks into the one-man debate and he still didn’t have an answer.
Needing a second opinion, Sonny reached for his phone, set it down, picked it up, and dialed the number he’d memorized. Same as every time, a woman’s voice answered.
“Bielakowski’s,” she said, rushed as though she’d just put another call on hold.
“Anton in?”
The awkward pause spoke more than her words. “Is this a friend?”
Sonny sat up in his chair. “Yes. We’re friends.”
“Mr. Bielakowski hasn’t been feeling well. Perhaps you’d better call his home. Do you know the family?”
Sonny’s mind raced. Anton didn’t miss work. Shoot the old man in the leg and he’d be back running the bone saw in three days. Must be pretty damn sick, he figured, like the dying kind of sick. He called information for Bielakowski’s home number and was told it was unlisted, sending him to find his little black book. Number in hand, he refilled his bourbon and took a seat. He hated getting old.
“Hello?” answered a frail voice, with more accent than word.
“Anton, it’s Sonny.”
A long quiet hung on the line. “I’m glad you called. Are you here in Philly?”
“No, I’m on my balcony in Florida. You don’t sound so good.”
“I’ve been better.”
Sonny took a drink, his ice rattling into the phone. His friend must have recognized the sound, because he said to have one for him. Sonny answered he’d have two, followed by “Sick or dying?”
Anton’s chuckle started fine and ended with a wheeze. When he was able to catch a breath, it was soft and shallow. “That’s a question only an old friend like you can ask. But I’m sorry I don’t have an answer. A little of both, I’m afraid.”
“How’s your wife holding up?”
“Smiles on this side of the wall. Cries on the other.”
Sonny swore, unsure what else he could offer.
Anton spoke next, the energy in his voice suddenly rising. “He married that girl.”
Sonny asked who, and Anton explained that Marcek had run off to Vegas with Angie—he called her the South Philly girl. “You think my wife is crying with me in this bed? You should have heard her handle that news. Her baby boy abducted to Vegas. Only thing that got her to stop was Marcek promising they’d been married Catholic. I think he was lying.”
Sonny said they were a good match and meant it. She’d proven her smarts on the Viagra heist and made Marcek happy. What else was there? “I’ll send the kids a card. Tell your wife they’ll do fine. Remind her not everyone was convinced you two would last.”
Anton grew quiet again, the banter giving way to heavier thoughts. “You must look out for him. My boy will need you.”
“Yes,” said Sonny. “Loyal to the end, whatever Marcek’s path. Nothing held back.”
“Like with us.”
“Yes, like with us.”
Sonny could hear Anton tiring. He thought of asking for the diagnosis but knew it didn’t matter. Either Anton got well and lived or he didn’t. Hashing out the details wasn’t a factor.
“Sonny?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Our lives—the way we’ve lived—I’m not sure we’re guaranteed to see each other again.”
Sonny understood they weren’t talking about this world. “No one knows,” he said. “Your wife has lit a lot of candles for us. Got to count for something. Let’s promise each other, first one at the gates argues with Saint Peter for the other’s admission.”
Anton managed his second chuckle. “With you making the case, I’d stand a decent chance. Unfortunately, I believe we’ll die out of order.”
“You can be pretty convincing.”
Anton coughed twice and wiped his lips clean. “One more thing, then I must go.”
Sonny closed his eyes and dropped his face, preparing for what might be the last words shared with his longest-living friend. “Okay.”
“Time comes, I want you buried in the Bielakowski family plot. Dad bought a spot for you along with the rest of us.”
“I never knew that.”
“It’s not a conversation for young men.”
“No,” agreed Sonny. “I suppose not.”
“Will you be buried with my family?”
Sonny wiped his nose. “Yes.”
“That would make the old man happy. Me, too.”
Before speaking again, Sonny made a point of spotting a seagull in flight. The bird soared alone toward open water. “Glad there is a place for me.”
About the Author
ROBERT GLINSKI is a former Philadelphia criminal defense attorney who now writes strategy papers for hedge funds and asset management firms. The Friendship of Criminals is his first novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE FRIENDSHIP OF CRIMINALS. Copyright © 2015 by Robert Glinski. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Flamur Tonuzi Design
Cover photograph © Volkan Kurt / Getty Images
eBooks may be purchased for business or
promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Glinski, Robert.
The friendship of criminals / Robert Glinski.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-250-04996-4 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5102-3 (e-book)
1. Organized crime—Fiction. 2. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Fiction. 3. Philadelphia—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.L63G45 2015
813'.6—dc23
2014040119
e-ISBN 9781250049964
First Edition: March 2015
The Friendship of Criminals Page 25
