Bad Boy Boogie_A Jay Desmarteaux Crime Thriller

by Thomas Pluck

  Inside, a haggard man with red eyes and a yellowed white mustache sat at a steel desk by the window, sliding the wheels of his office chair back and forth on cracked linoleum tiles. He stabbed at a smoke-stained keyboard while peering at a smudged computer monitor. A steel box next to it whirred and spat a ticket, which he tore off and handed to a driver out the window.

  Across from him, two men sat on an ass-worn leather couch in front of a flat screen television. One was a dirty blond stork, the other puffy and red-faced, receding hair swept back in a fuzz, as if he’d braved a sandstorm to reach this oasis.

  “Whoa,” Red said.

  Stork pointed to the window. “Get your jobs out there, pal.”

  “Dante says you boys got a job for me,” Jay said. “Didn’t say nothing about waiting in line.”

  The two men exchanged glances before they introduced themselves. The stork’s name was Oscar, and the red-faced man was Paul.

  “Have a seat, buddy,” Paul said. “We got satellite teevee.”

  “There’s beer in the icebox.”

  “Dante said I’d be working a truck.”

  “He sends a lot of people here, none of them work a truck,” Oscar said. “You gotta have a Waterfront Card to work a truck.”

  The television showed two jag-offs dragging a body around a beach house. The trailer smelled of old smoke and men in close confinement. He’d rather put in a day’s work than smell these guys’ farts.

  “This came from Frankie Dell,” Jay said. “He says I’m supposed to haul trash.”

  Oscar called to the man working the window. “Mustache, we got a short crew? Find a truck for this hard-ass. See how long he lasts.”

  Mustache hammered at the grungy keyboard. “What’s his Waterfront number?”

  “Just find a three-man truck and put him on it. Weekend at Bernie’s ain’t good enough for him.”

  Mustache tip-tapped and the printer spat a ticket. “Chris got an empty seat.”

  Oscar called the truck on the radio.

  “You’ll work a half shift,” Paul said. “Come back after lunch. We fish for striper.”

  “Can’t eat it, cause of the dioxin,” Oscar said. “You see these guys with coolers full. Try and tell ’em it’s loaded with Agent Orange, but they don’t speak no English.”

  “Ain’t gone fishing in a dog’s age,” Jay said. “A whole pack of dogs.”

  “You can use his gear,” Paul said. “He never catches shit anyway.”

  “He scares ’em away with his damn aftershave.” Oscar turned to watch the television screen, rolling a bottle between his hands.

  A truck horn blared.

  “That’s your ride, garbage man.”

  The rear loader was once white but now caked with soot. A sunburned bald driver in front and two beefy workers in do-rags hanging on the back. Jay climbed in the passenger’s side.

  The driver’s name was Chris. His head was shaped like a pink bean, and his lips never seemed to fully close. “Hope you got gloves. Your hands are gonna get destroyed.”

  “I’ll manage,” Jay said.

  “When there’s junk outside the can, you go toss it in.”

  “Okay then.”

  They switchbacked the streets along the piers, seeking out Dumpsters overflowing with trash. Jay hopped out to help toss in a stack of busted pallets and old computer monitors, then watched the truck crush it with its massive claw.

  An older man with a ready smile worked the crusher. His partner was a silent hulk, wide as a door frame, who flung pallets like playing cards.

  “Everybody likes to see stuff get chomped,” the old one said, and offered Jay a stained glove. “I’m Abdullah.”

  “Jay,” he said. “As-Salamu Alaykum.”

  “Wa-Alaikum Salaam,” Abdullah said, laughing in surprise. He gave Jay a spare set of gloves and helped him get on the riding deck. “Hang on real tight.”

  “Who’s the big fella?”

  “Don’t mind Denny,” Abdullah said. “He don’t talk much.”

  Abdullah showed Jay how to hitch a Dumpster and dump it. Let him chomp a rusted steel desk into twisted sculpture. They dumped the load on a barge pier, and Chris said it was break time.

  “I could go for a cheeseburger,” Jay said. “How ’bout y’all? On me.”

  “You sure about that?” Chris said. “Denny can eat the whole cow.”

  “Don’t gotta pay for me,” Denny mumbled.

  “If you’re buying, we’re going to Krug’s.” Chris drove them to Ferry Street and parked the truck on the sidewalk of a back street.

  Krug’s Tavern was an old brick house with a neon shamrock outside and a long mahogany bar infused with the scent of seared beef within. A poster of Jake LaMotta, the Raging Bull, graced the wall above the grill. The cook served thick slabs of cheeseburger on Kaiser rolls, and the four men ate them on a picnic table out back, grease running down their arms.

  Jay tilted his head with a nod. “This here’s a damn good burger.”

  Denny got three. They looked like White Castle sliders in his hands.

  Chris got a radio call and finished his meal in the truck.

  “What you doing hauling trash anyway?” Abdullah asked between bites.

  “I plan on making a big mess,” Jay said, “Reckon I better know how to clean it up.”

  Abdullah held the burger in front of his mouth. “You watch out for those boys in the trailer,” he said. “Seen them take wrenches to a driver for the dock boss. Never saw that boy again.”

  They lumbered back to the truck with heavy bellies.

  “Thanks,” Denny whispered.

  Chris dropped the men off at the union office. Denny waved to Jay as the truck moved on, and Abdullah looked away. Chris turned the radio up and beelined across the asphalt.

  “My car’s over by the trailer,” Jay said.

  “Paulie said to drop you on the pier,” Chris said, eyes flicking away. “He, uh, said the stripers are running.”

  Ahead, the concrete horizon broke to the water’s gray chop. The Benz was parked by a row of moorings. Paul sat on one of the iron toadstools, smoking a cigar and holding a brown paper lunch bag. Oscar the Stork leaned on the hood of the car, surf rod in hand.

  Sweat gleamed on Chris’s upper lip.

  “They fixin’ to kill me, Chrissie?”

  The tremble in his eyes said enough. Jay threw his body into a liver punch, followed it with two more. Chris dry-heaved, face bent to the steering wheel. Jay stomped the accelerator and jerked the wheel toward the Benz.

  Oscar and Paul snapped their heads up as the truck veered their way. Paul waddled like Costello, holding the lunch bag. The paper burst and the windshield starred twice before he disappeared beneath the truck’s nose with thump and a scream.

  Oscar did a funny little dance, stuck in place until the truck crumpled the Benz like tinfoil and punched it and him into the waves.

  The air brakes hissed and the truck slammed into a mooring with a shudder.

  Jay hit the dash with his shoulder and his right arm went numb. He clawed for the knife in his boot, but his fingers didn’t work. He needn’t have worried. The truck’s rear wheels had flattened Paul’s middle. Blood pooled on the concrete as his life twitched out through his limbs. Jay found the pistol not too far away.

  He poked the muzzle into the truck’s cab, where Chris wiped vomit from his chin with a wad of fast-food napkins.

  “Don’t go anywhere now,” Jay said, and stepped to the edge of the pier. The Benz slowly bobbed into the gray-wash of the bay. Oscar tread water and clutched the bumper for purchase.

  “Are they biting?” Jay called.

  Oscar swore over the slap of the waves. Seagulls cried and circled overhead.

  Jay aimed and blew out the passenger window. The pistol packed more wallop than Mama’s old Colt. The kick drove the pins and needles from his hand.

  Oscar fish-mouthed and dived under. Jay fired until the window shattered and the bay sucked the ca
r in. When Oscar didn’t surface, he winged the pistol into the chop.

  Jay dragged Chris out of the truck by his collar. Slapped him around until he helped him heave Paul into the crusher. Jay pulled the lever and the body disappeared into the truck’s maw.

  Chris wobbled and gripped the side of the truck.

  “Cheer up.” Jay patted Chris on the cheek. “Teach me to drive this thing, and you won’t have to crawl in after him.”

  Across the channel, cranes lifted their booms like giant steel fingers clawing from the sea.

  Dante’s Cadillac sat parked by a trailer tucked in his own private corner of the container yard.

  One foot on the brake and one on the gas, Jay butted the hauler’s bashed nose against the trailer until Dante burst out of the door raging, his belt and fly undone, hands upturned into claws. “Guess which asshole will never drive a truck on the east coast again!”

  Jay drowned out his words with the air horn, then yanked the dump lever. The rear of the hauler rose and disgorged Paulie’s wrecked body onto the hood of the Cadillac and buried both in a waterfall of crushed refuse.

  Dante dropped his jaw and stumbled back.

  Jay hopped out of the truck. “Your boys missed, Hound Dog.” He raised a wrecking bar over his head.

  Dante ran back into the trailer. Jay splintered the door jamb with two thrusts and chased him through the tumbled furniture. Dante collided with a bottom-heavy truck bunny gathering her clothes, glossy braids flailing.

  Dante fell to his ass and kicked with his loafers, bare skin squeaking across the tiles.

  Jay straddled him, iron bar across his throat. Stared glassy-eyed while the Hound Dog’s face ballooned purple. A lock of hair fell in his eyes, and Jay blinked it away. Dante bucked and gurgled.

  “Frankie’s next,” Jay said. “Then that dumb shit Randal, for starting it all.” Jay put his weight on the bar.

  “Hey, mister,” came a woman’s voice from behind.

  “Just walk away, honey.”

  “He ain’t paid me.”

  Jay ripped Dante’s wallet from his pants, scooped the cash, and held it over his shoulder. “Take it all. He won’t be needing it.”

  She snatched the bills and ducked out the door.

  Dante wheezed and held out a finger.

  Jay let up a notch. “Better make it good.”

  “Not me,” Dante gasped. “Frankie.”

  “He didn’t give you the job?” Jay prodded the crowbar point against Dante’s throat. “Guess you only cut his steak.”

  Dante coughed. “If I wanted you dead, asshole, you’d be landfill.”

  Jay dug the point under his Adam’s apple. “Take care now.”

  “Easy, you crazy fuck.”

  “You’re the negotiator,” Jay said. “Let’s see you lawyer your way out of this one.”

  “I know better than to threaten you, you psychotic prick.” Dante licked his lips. “Why you think I palled up with you inside? You’re an animal. A hate machine. Killing’s all you’re good at. Aim you at something and you tear it apart, don’t find nothing but shreds in your teeth. We’ll go back and forth until there’s nothing left.”

  “Reckon so.” The corner of Jay’s mouth curled. “Get to the chorus, Hound Dog.”

  “You got a thick skull. I won’t kill you ’cause I can use you.”

  Jay dragged the crowbar point to Dante’s eye. “Tell me again who’s killing who.”

  Dante grimaced and screwed his eye shut. “Ice Frankie, and all is forgiven.”

  “So you’re gonna let this slide? Don’t sound like you.” Jay wiped his forehead. “I know how you goombahs like it. I do your shit work, then you whack me to settle the books.” He raised the bar with both hands.

  “Whoa, think a minute,” Dante said, showing his palms. “You took a gigantic shit around here, you gotta split town anyway. I’d pay an out-of-towner ten gees. If that’s not enough for you, take the drop money from the club. Then disappear, because we will come looking.”

  Jay crinkled his eyes. “Keep your money. Hand the club over to Cheetah.”

  “You crazy? That property alone’s worth four mil, easy.”

  Jay wagged the crowbar. “And your life ain’t?”

  “Cazzone! It’s not my decision to make. I’ll see what I can do, that’s the best I can give you.”

  “You just figured out what your life’s worth.” Jay dropped the crowbar to the floor.

  “Mind getting off my chest? If I wanted a peckerwood sitting on my face, I’d work the trucks like that twat you gave my wallet.”

  Jay stood. “Your Italian hot dog’s showing.”

  Dante smirked and clambered to his feet. “Tomorrow night, we’ll work out the details. Or as Frankie would say, we’ll take care of the low-hanging fruit.”

  “Where can I find the foxy sumbitch?”

  “Frankie? He’s beached like a whale by his pool.” Dante belted his slacks. “What, you’re going now?”

  “Call and tell him you punched my ticket.” Jay slipped the combat knife from his boot. Dante had hound dog eyes, but a wolf soul you didn’t turn your back on. “You and Cheetah better work things out,” Jay said, wagging the blade. “Or I’ll take care of your low-hanging fruit.”

  Frankie Dell’s castle lay nestled in the hilly woods of Livingston at the end of a one lane road. Jay pulled Chris’s trucker cap low as he approached the gates. Dante had yammered out the code for the keypad, warned him about the security cameras. The pack of black Neapolitan mastiffs, the incinerator in the woods.

  The sprawling white villa peeked through the trees at the end of a meandering drive, protected by barred gates. Jay shifted the garbage truck into low gear and roared ahead. The truck’s battered grill plowed on through and twisted the iron bars to sculpture.

  Statues of the Dellamorte family lined the path in white marble. A cherubic grandmother with a double chin. An equestrian of young Frankie looking dour and Napoleonic. Jay turned the truck around and knocked the horse off its pedestal. The legs shattered and the beast rolled into the grass over its rider.

  Jay reversed up the drive, gears whining.

  Flat Top opened the front door to investigate the truck’s loud beeping. Jay grinned from the driver’s seat and gave a little wave. Flat Top ducked inside and slammed the door.

  The truck jounced over the steps and crashed through the columns and the broad door. The rear demolished a wide staircase and the entire front of the house shuddered as the truck rocked to a stop. The front end stuck out through the splintered doorway. Terra cotta tiles rained from the roof and clattered off the hood like dinner plates.

  Jay kicked the truck door open. The floor creaked and the truck jolted as the joists gave. He jumped out and ran around the side of the house as the truck boomed through to the wine cellar with a crash and plume of dust.

  A tiled pool gleamed aquamarine, surrounded by palms and cabanas. Frankie sprawled in a chaise lounge, flabby crepe paper arms hanging off the sides, silver mane shining over the top. A young blonde girl sat in his lap wearing a satin red bikini top and nothing else. They both stared back at the house.

  Jay ran for them with the tomahawk held low. The girl shrieked and ran bare-assed across the patio.

  Frankie gawped and flopped like a mottled albino walrus. Jay’s reflection loomed in the silver fox’s tortoiseshell shades.

  “Va fa Napoli,” Jay said, and slammed his elbow under Frankie’s nose. The chair snapped flat under the weight. Frankie moaned through a jumbled mouthful of shards.

  Jay dragged him by the pompadour to the pool’s edge.

  Frankie spat chunks of shattered bridgework. Jay held him under and clusters of denture sank to the bottom flashing pink and white. He yanked him by the hair and chopped Andre’s hatchet into the back of his neck. The steel crunched through bone and the Mediterranean blue water flushed crimson.

  PART THREE

  LIVE WIRE

  Chapter 21

  Jay met Rene
his first year in Rahway. The queen was a fine observer for Okie’s plays, her doe-eyed flutter perfect for cozying up to the hacks. A skill she required to keep the steady flow of what Okie called her “titty medicine.”

  “I got you moved to a new cell,” Okie said. “You’re bunking with a sister named Rene.”

  No big loss. Jay’s celly’s snore resembled a top fuel dragster, and his feet smelled like Frito’s corn chips.

  “He needs protection. I want you to pretend this queen’s your punk, to keep the jockers off her. You do that, the Kings will lean on the Hitler Bitches, take the heat off you for a while.”

  Jay scratched at his Tyr rune tattoo. “How much I gotta pretend?”

  “You don’t gotta suck dick,” Okie said. “Just let it be known he’s your property. His brother’s Verdad Hernandez. Latin King royalty, but he’s stuck in the SHU for good.”

  Verdad was a three-foot-wide slab of flat-eyed meanness, who earned his name when a crew threatened to knock Rene’s teeth out and make her their suck-dog. He told them, “You look at my brother again, I’ll feed you each other’s balls. And that is verdad.”

  They hadn’t taken him as a man of his word.

  Verdad’s word was bond, and he earned a triple life sentence to prove it.

  A wiry little Latino awaited Jay in his new cell with full lips and soft skin. Sprawled in the orange plastic chair, chatting about Madonna with another queen two cells down. Wore a red bandanna and lipstick, a tied-off shirt, and jeans cut so short the white pockets showed. When Jay stepped in, Rene winked and pointed her perkies his way.

  Jay set his box of things on the table and eyed the top bunk, where a Snickers bar sat on the pillow.

  “This yours?”

  “Welcome home, papi.”

  “Thanks. Name’s Jay.”

  “Rene.”

  Jay reached to shake. Rene offered a hand knuckles up. Jay obliged with a gentle squeeze. “I hear you need a friend.”

  “I need a papi, that’s what I need.” Rene licked her lips, showing small, chipped teeth.