Rampage

by Justin Scott

  “What is this?”

  “A boat.”

  He had taken her from people in the Long Island cocaine run, and she was uniquely fitted for the night shuttle between the Patchogue River and points two hundred miles seaward of Fire Island. Her numbers were readily changed, and each set was backed by forged documentation, but her real defenses against hijackers and the law were speed, stealth, and, if these failed, a unique capacity for suicide. She was built of fiberglass, and all metal fittings—rails, chocks, wheel, even the steering linkage—had been replaced with epoxy and graphite composites to offer the least radar target. The only metal aboard was in her engines, which were mostly below the waterline. If the boat were trapped, the hull was wired to blow a hole the length of the keel.

  “Mind your footing.”

  He showed the way with a penlight to the deep bucket seats set four abreast in the broad open cockpit, which was sheltered by a massive wraparound windshield, and started the engines. The bodyguard checked his signal analyzer, but again detected no transmitters. Reggie loosened the single line which held the bow to the current and flipped it off the dock cleat. When the river drew her off, he engaged the engines and she murmured quietly toward the dark.

  He let her go for a half-mile into mid-channel and turned upstream toward the George Washington Bridge. Blue garlands of catenary lights draped the orange line of the roadways; their reflections painted the water the breadth of the river. He opened the throttles. Now she thundered, her propellers cutting a luminous froth as she drove hard into a chilly wind.

  “You’re gonna drown us if you hit something.”

  Reggie ignored him. The deep-V hull drove debris down and away from her shielded propellers. He turned off his running lights as the boat passed beneath the bridge. He continued upstream a mile, veering toward New Jersey. An eighth of a mile from the black wall of the Palisades he stopped the engines, and the boat glided and slowed, then drifted. When current and momentum held her in limbo, Reggie released the anchor winch and let her fall back, setting the hook in the muddy bottom.

  “Gentlemen?”

  He unlocked the cabin door and lighted the step with his penlight. He closed the door when they were inside and turned on a single lamp, which lit the small compartment with a dim red light. The cabin was surprisingly large, with a gleaming galley. Mikey glimpsed a bidet in the mirrored bathroom. He saw that it had been a real pussy barge until the bunks had been replaced with deep leather swivel chairs bolted to the deck. Now it looked like a conference room on a corporate jet.

  Christopher Taggart had his back wedged in the U-shaped bow seat, his face deep in shadow, and Reggie noticed his hands were folded tightly.

  “Sit down.”

  A goddamned nigger, thought Mikey. But as he sank warily into the chair nearest the bow seat, he realized that Taggart was wearing a black ski mask and leather gloves; his skin could have been green for all he could see.

  “What’s with the mask?”

  “If I were you, Mikey, I’d expect the man who sells me a hundred keys a pop to be very careful. In fact, I’d demand it.”

  “You got a name?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  “We’ve made every effort to arrange a safe meeting. No one followed our car or our boat. Your own equipment guarantees no one is wired. No one can see us or hear us. What don’t you like?”

  Mikey looked around the cabin and repeated loudly for the benefit of a bug. “I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me outta here.”

  “Mikey.”

  “You’re fucking Feds. Fuck you. I ain’t done nothing but gone for a boat ride.”

  Taggart turned his slit-eyed mask to the bodyguard. “What’s your name, fella?”

  Surprised, he answered, “Buddy.”

  “Well, I’m awful sorry, Buddy.” He nodded at Reggie, who pulled the gun from his ankle.

  Mikey couldn’t believe his eyes. “What is this?”

  Reggie repeated Taggart’s “Sorry,” and shot the bodyguard.

  The Teflon bullet tore through Buddy’s bullet-proof vest and threw him out of the chair onto the deck. Mikey’s ears were ringing, and smoke burned his nostrils. He gaped at Buddy, whose face was dead white. He was moaning softly. Blood was spreading from his shoulder, soaking the front of his shirt. Reggie pounced on the wounded man and pulled Buddy’s gun from his shoulder holster.

  “What?” yelled Mikey unbelieving. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

  “Would the Feds shoot Buddy?” Taggart asked him calmly.

  “Why—?”

  “Now you know we’re not federal officers.”

  “You just shot a guy to show me you’re not a cop?”

  “You can trust us.”

  “But—”

  “We mean business, Mikey. We’re looking for good men we can trust. We do not give second chances.”

  Slowly Taggart’s purpose sank in on Mikey. He figured the guy for a Sicilian, though he was big for one and had no accent at all. One thing for damn sure, he wasn’t a cop. And people called him crazy! “But what about the stuff?”

  “Let’s step outside and talk. Take care of Buddy,” he said to Reggie. “Tell him again we’re real sorry.” Taggart knelt beside the wounded gangster, peeling bills off a roll. “Hey, Buddy? You hear me? Sorry, man. Mikey will get you to the hospital soon as we’re done talking. Here’s five grand.” Taggart stuffed the money in Buddy’s shirt. “You’ll be out in a couple of weeks. Take a vacation and recuperate—okay?” Taggart stood up and motioned for Mikey to follow him. “Let’s take a look at the stars.”

  They stepped up to the cockpit and closed the door. Mikey could hear the river sliding past the tethered hull. Overhead were pale stars. Upriver it was black, with sweet woodsmoke on the breeze; downriver were the lighted bridge, the glittering towers of Manhattan, and the scattered lights of the Jersey condos.

  “You guys are nuts.”

  “That’s how we stay alive. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Well, how much can you supply me?”

  “A hundred keys a week.”

  “What’s it gonna cost me on consignment?”

  “When I can deal on consignment, one hundred fifty thousand a kilo.”

  “I paid one ten last time.”

  “That was last time. Figure one fifteen for cash at the present rate.”

  “What do you mean, present rate?”

  “In my experience, prices fluctuate in every area, from source to freight.”

  “I don’t know about that. I have to talk to my people.”

  “Look, man. I don’t want to dick around with you. You are your people. Mikey Cirillo doesn’t have to ask anybody’s permission. Your guys are having problems getting stuff. I got plenty.”

  “One fifteen?”

  “For cash. Those bearer bonds are fine, but I guess you don’t get them that often. One fifty on consignment.”

  “Gold? Jewels?”

  “I’m not a fence.”

  “Steady supply?”

  “Guaranteed. That’s what you’re paying for.”

  “Don’t leave me hanging.”

  “You and me deal direct. Our people can handle the stuff and the cash, but you personally come to me when you want to buy. No chance of stings.”

  “I can go with that.”

  “And one more thing?”

  “What?”

  Taggart couched it as a threat, but it was really an invitation to Mikey to expand the Cirillo heroin operations. “If you want to bring in another guy, you sell to him. I don’t want to know from any third parties. No partners. I’m telling you right now, up front. If you come with a guy you know since you were in reform school and he’s the son of a don who runs the Bronx, and he’s made his bones and served ten years because he told the cops to fuck off, I’ll kill him. Then I’ll kill you. Clear? You deal with who you want to. I will only deal with you.”

&
nbsp; “I don’t like threats,” Mikey said quietly, thinking no Sicilian would ever be so blunt, and wondering exactly how much this guy could deliver.

  “Then don’t do anything to make me repeat them.... Hey,what are we arguing about? Your worries are over. I’m your man. You get your hundred keys a week you can count on. You get a fair price. We oughta shake on it... Then we can take poor Buddy to the hospital before he bleeds to death.”

  Mikey silently extended his hand and Taggart gripped it firmly. The guy talked like a mick, Mikey suddenly realized— a hearty Irishman.

  “And who knows? Some day soon you might even want more than a hundred keys.” Taggart had his back to the bridge and saw the light glitter in Mikey’s eyes.

  Crazy Mikey was hooked—just as hooked as if he were shooting the junk himself.

  Taggart and Reggie Rand cruised Mulberry Street in a ten-year-old Cadillac with rusted rocker panels and a tear in the vinyl roof. Reggie slouched behind the wheel in sneakers, greasy jeans, and a Moosehead T-shirt; Taggart wore jeans and a leather vest, flashing bare muscle through the open window. If they looked like anything, he thought, it was a couple of out-of-town dopers too dumb to know it was almost impossible to score in Little Italy. Twice they passed Paletti’s, the steakhouse where Crazy Mikey’s rival heroin distributor, Joe Reina, ate lunch, but they were early. Reggie turned onto Kenmare and parked with the engine running.

  Taggart cocked his ear to the potently burbling dual exhaust. “Rhapsody of a misspent childhood. We used to sneak my old man’s Lincoln to the drag races. Two cars off the line.”

  “Straight track?”

  “Queens Boulevard. Tony and me would pull the mufflers and resonators to reduce back pressure. You should have heard it—six hundred cubes cooking. That car hauled freight.”

  “I presume you tuned the carburetors to compensate.”

  “Carbs, timing. Tony had a beautiful touch. Then we’d stash the mufflers in the trunk and find some turkey with a hopped-up muscle car. Cameros were big that year. Also Chevel SS’s, even Vets; Chevy was turning them into pigs those years. I’d bet twenty bucks and blow them away. We’d make two hundred bucks a night, then put the whole muffler system back together before we got home. I’ll bet you had a souped-up Jag when you were a kid.”

  “A Lancaster.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Four-engined heavy bomber.”

  “In the Second World War? What, you lied about your age?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Okay, head up Mulberry again... My father used to take us down here on Sundays. It was jammed with families like ours coming in from Queens and Long Island and Jersey to look at Grandma’s old neighborhood. See the clam house? Cars would cruise by all day, people saying, ‘Hey, where was Joey Gallo shot?’ They still do, I guess.” He laughed. “What a fucking heritage.”

  As they crossed Grand Street, Taggart glanced east. “There’s our boys.”

  “Jews everywhere!” The Palestinian laughed. “Why are we killing Italians?”

  His friend driving the truck returned an indulgent smile. Perhaps his own eye was less obsessed, or perhaps it was just that he had lived once in New York. Surely Grand Street on the Lower East Side teemed with Jews, but among the shoppers and shopkeepers were as many Chinese, Spanish, and blacks, not to mention bargain-hunting East Side matrons, West Side actresses, and suburban housewives of many hues and persuasions. “I suppose,” he said, “to fry an egg, we milk a cow for butter.”

  They drove carefully west, obeying traffic lights and waiting patiently when cars parking and garbage trucks blocked the street. Ahead was Little Italy, Mulberry Street, and Paletti’s Steak House, where Joe Reina, the Conforti narcotics importer, was having his customary late lunch.

  Neither Palestinian knew Reggie Rand or Rand’s agent who had contracted their mission. Reggie had hammered out the bargain—four perfect, blank British passports—with their unit leader in Algiers. All they knew was that after years of exile in a dusty training camp two hundred miles from Algiers, they were suddenly back in action.

  They double-parked across the street from Joe Reina’s limousine, took the radio transmitter, and unloaded some fish crates for appearances’ sake.

  On their next pass Taggart directed Reggie to a parking space two blocks down Mulberry, from where he could see the sidewalk in front of Paletti’s Steak House. It seemed to him that the limousine driver was eyeing the truck suspiciously, and he checked them with binoculars. The Palestinians were three blocks farther up by a pay phone.

  Reggie dialed from his cellular phone. One of them answered in French and Reggie told him to sit tight.

  Taggart watched the sidewalk; next to the restaurant was an Italian social club with a blank window, and up from it a plumber’s shop, a funeral home, another restaurant, and a hardware store. Below Paletti’s, nearest their parking spot, was an empty storefront from the cellar of which, he had learned from an agent he trusted, the Strikeforce conducted electronic surveillance of the steak house. Below the storefront were a laundry and a bakery. Across the street a row of tenements was being renovated. Sometimes the sidewalks were empty, but suddenly they would fill with people.

  “You sure those clowns won’t jump the gun?”

  “Positive, Mr. Taggart.”

  “I don’t want to kill a bunch of innocent people.”

  “Not to worry, sir. The detonator requires two radio signals—theirs and mine. It won’t go off by accident if some child comes down the block with a remote-control Cabbage Patch Doll.” He opened his hand; in his palm lay a dull black box.

  Joe Reina’s lunch guests were a Sicilian importer and the capo who headed Reina’s network in the South Bronx. Everybody knew the Strikeforce had the restaurant bugged, but the steaks were tops and the fact that the Feds were listening made it off-limits for war.

  This was a good thing because the current dope shortage, which was becoming the longest one Reina could remember, was making people crazy. Hijackings were becoming routine, and get-rich-quick freelancers were screwing people all over the place, so erroneous revenge couldn’t be far behind. Conversation, of course, was casual, although personal contact was very helpful in understanding each other later on the telephone. Reina had observed that it helped to know a man’s voice and face when he was trying to talk a problem around a wiretap.

  After they finished the meal with coffee and anisette, Reina said casually to his capo, “You wanna order the check? I need a breath of air.”

  He got up and thanked the restaurateur for a good lunch. The Sicilian followed him out the door. Reina paused on the sidewalk for a moment. Too many people were walking by. His driver hopped out of the limousine, but Reina waved him off and led the Sicilian down Mulberry and around the comer.

  “So? Where’s the stuff?” Reina asked.

  “Already what I have is on the road,” the Sicilian said.

  “By now it was supposed to be God, already,” Reina replied testily, referring to a twenty-kilo shipment of heroin due weeks ago, which should have been long sold and turned into money.

  “This guy in Florida’s giving me a big headache.”

  “If this keeps up much longer I’m going to shrug my shoulders.”

  “No, no. It’s gonna work out. They just wanted that I should take this little walk.”

  “Delivery is not your affair. It’s their affair. You don’t have to take a walk. They have to.” He stopped at a pay phone. “Call them now. Tell ’em you want delivery, now!”

  The Sicilian dialed the number of a pay phone outside the Collins Avenue Pizzeria in Miami and pumped in quarters. When it was answered, he spoke in Sicilian and in code as well, because the FBI had Sicilian-speaking agents on their taps.

  “How’s the weather?”

  “The weather got bad. It started to rain hard. Everyone went to take cover.”

  The Sicilian covered the mouthpiece. “He says cops again.” And into the phone, “Is it
still raining?”

  “It is sleeting. Damned weather, it never ends.”

  “Can we expect our tomatoes soon?”

  “Soon. It would be better if you came down... to the... parking lot.”

  “I can’t do that this time. We have the documents.”

  When he heard “documents,” Reina nodded gloomily. Money was not the problem; he had bags of the stuff, but never enough dope.

  “We’re waiting on you.”

  “We will speak Sunday. Then I will know who is coming and when.”

  “Excellent. It’s my pleasure to have spoke with you. I wish you a world of good.... I embrace you.... Give my regards to everyone.... Goodbye. Many things. Good things.... ”

  The Sicilian hung up the phone, a thoughtful light in his eyes. “He’s lying. I don’t think the stuff is ever coming unless I pick it up myself.”

  Reina shrugged. “You two guys have to decide this thing— and soon!”

  They walked back to the restaurant and stopped on the sidewalk. Reina waved to his capo, who threw money on the table and hurried out. Reina heard the telephone ring as the door opened. The owner answered it, waving goodbye through the window.

  “Paletti’s.”

  “Listen,” said an electronically distorted voice. “I’m going to say this once. Get your waiters and busboys in the back. You got five seconds. Do you understand?”

  Paletti looked out his front window. Through the sheer curtains he saw Joe Reina and the Sicilian talking while Reina’s driver held the door. Beside the limo was a dark van. He said, “Jesus Ch—”

  “Five seconds.”

  Paletti snapped his fingers. The busboy and the waiters hurried to him.

  “Into the kitchen! Hurry!”

  Paletti followed them. Outside, Reina shook hands with his importer, who gave the capo a nod.

  “We’ll talk Sunday.”

  Fire blew across the street. Window glass disintegrated for a block on either side of the restaurant. A dust cloud filled Mulberry Street. When it cleared, the van and Reina’s limousine were smoldering wrecks.