by Jed Power
Chapter 17
"You didn't really think you were gonna just waltz away with all that stuff, did ya?" Dominic Carpucci asked. In front of him, seated in a straight-back chair in the middle of Dominic's basement, was Tommy McGee, brother of Bill McGee, the murdered boat captain. They'd picked him up in Hampton Beach and let him do a bit of thinking on the way to Lynnfield. Dominic had found that a little thinking time often did a better job of loosening a man's tongue than starting in on him with both fists.
McGee's arms were handcuffed behind the chair so the only way he could run was if he took the chair with him. Jorge and Sal stood on either side of Dominic.
Dominic was proud of his basement and took a moment to look around, giving the guy in the chair a little more "thinking" time.
As far as basements went Dominic's was pretty nice. Of course, the guy in the chair could have cared less about the decor, but the room was finished and divided into two areas. The entertainment section had a big-screen TV, a well-stocked bar with captain's stools scattered along its length, and a wall lined with shelves crammed with books of all types, fiction and non-fiction alike. Facing the huge TV, with their backs to the bookshelves, were two expensive brown leather chairs and a matching sofa.
The other half of the basement was equipped for a woodworking hobbyist. Dominic had played around with woodworking for a while after Esther, his wife, had died. He'd been desperate then for anything to keep him busy, to help him forget. The hobby had worked, but not for long. Finally he'd lost interest in all the sanding and sawing and hammering, and had thrown himself right back into the one thing that kept his mind off everything else–the good old cocaine business.
Cocaine was a lot more profitable than making little end tables and the work definitely kept him busy. He hadn't used the woodworking area for so long that all the hammers, saws, and screwdrivers hanging from the wall above the workbench were covered with a thin layer of dust. The cleaning lady was never allowed to tend to this level of the house. This was Dominic's private refuge, a place where he could get away to read his books or watch TV and escape from the craziness of his business if only for an evening. Besides, having a little dust around was a small price to pay for the assurance that everything–book, clicker, corkscrew–would be right where he'd last left it.
It was in this woodworking area that Captain Bill McGee's brother was seated. He was fortyish–thin hair, plain features, dressed in restaurant whites. And scared. Real scared. His blood-shot eyes looked from man to man.
"So, you don't wanna talk," Dominic said. He whipped the back of his right hand hard across McGee's mouth. McGee's head snapped back as if released from a spring and blood spurted from an ugly ring gash just above his chin.
"Maybe ya like that instead?" Dominic savored the sting in his hand. Sal, big and dumb looking, let out a laugh. Dominic gave him a look that usually shut up anyone he used it on, even big guys like Sal. It worked again–Sal shut right up.
Dominic turned his attention back to McGee, staring at the blood running down onto the man’s white top. What was the best way to play this guy? How the fuck did he think?
He'd asked himself similar questions in the past, but never with so much at stake as today. Back in the day, it'd been a lot easier. Most of the time he'd usually known the man he was grilling–either it'd been a business associate of his who hadn't been associating in a way Dominic'd liked, one of his own boys who'd been caught holding out a little more than was reasonable, or some competition that'd been getting a bit too competitive. Whatever the reason, he'd been familiar with the scumbags, so he'd known their weak points beforehand. That was the key to getting information–you had to figure out what your opponent's weak point was. Everyone had their weaknesses–muscle, bribery, threats on their family. All men held things in different value and would react differently to each tactic. He just had to figure out who was who.
Some guys all you had to do was say "boo" and they'd give up their mother. Other guys, a few promises (later broken, of course) would get their mouths moving. With some, a threat against their family was the way to go. Still others had to be beaten and broken–to one degree or another. At least until they had enough marks on their bodies to convince themselves that they'd stood up as well as anyone could be expected to. Although Dominic had heard of men who'd taken secrets to their graves, he'd never had one seated in front of him. All the ones he'd worked on in the past had told him what he'd wanted to know or agreed to what he'd demanded. Some had just required a little more time and effort.
But this time it was different. The man seated in front of him was an unknown. He'd have to go through his options quick. Dominic couldn't afford to have his product floating around much longer. Coke tended to disappear real fast when it was out there loose like his was.
Might as well start with the fatherly approach. "Look, McGee. It was your brother brought the load in. You gotta know something. Besides, restaurant people hear everything. I know anyone farts the wrong way on Hampton Beach you know it, so I bet you got a pretty good idea who pulled that rip-off, don't you? Don't you want to get back at whoever killed your brother? You tell me who it was. I'll send someone to pick 'em up. If you told me straight, then no hard feelings. You'll be free to go. We'll even give you a ride back to the beach. How does that sound?"
Tommy McGee looked like he didn't have a clue what Dominic was saying. Stupid bastard. He was either playing games or he really didn't know. Maybe he didn't understand that he was playing in the big leagues, but he was about to learn fast. Real fast. Dominic didn't have the time to play footsie with this guy. He had to find out who had his product and now.
"Where's he work, Jorge?"
"The Crooked Shillelagh. Irish place around the corner from his dump."
"So he lives and works right at the harbor. Convenient. And his brother brought in my load. Too coincidental. If he don't know something, I'll eat sand."
Dominic looked over at big Sal. "Bring him over here."
Sal picked up McGee, chair and all, and followed Dominic across the large room to the workbench. Dominic gave a quick nod and Sal set McGee down. Jorge moved into position behind and a bit to the left of McGee. Dominic reached over and flicked on the switch of a drill press mounted on the workbench. The drill bit whirred and McGee's eyes popped open like a shutter on a camera.
Now that was more like it.
Dominic didn't have to say anything to anyone–everyone knew their roles. McGee snapped back in his chair as if he were trying to jettison himself across the room.
Jorge bent over and unlocked McGee's handcuffs. He grabbed McGee's left arm and held it tight while Sal yanked the man's right arm straight out. McGee struggled, but he still hadn't said a word. Sal stretched the man's hand, palm down, on the drill press pad.
One look at the punk's face told Dominic this wasn't going to take long. He let out a chuckle and grabbed the wheel that brought the drill bit down. He turned the wheel slowly, dropping the bit closer and closer to the back of McGee's hand.
McGee's eyes bulged and his body heaved as he struggled to break his hand loose. Sal held tight, keeping the palm pressed to the pad. When the bit was only a couple of inches away from the pounding pulse on the back of his hand McGee finally cracked.
"All right. All right. I'll tell you what you want to know." His voice shook so much Dominic could hardly understand him. But the game wasn't over. Not yet. Dominic played the game his own way, and it wasn't the way Tommy McGee probably hoped.
The bit dropped lower. "Sweet mother of God, please stop," McGee shouted. He was frantic now. "I'll tell you everything I know. Sure, I knew my brother was up to somethin' but I didn't know what. Me and my buddy, we just happened to be down in the state park drinking that night. We saw someone hiding it. We didn't know what it was. Not till the next day when we heard about my brother and then figured it out. We went in that night and got it
. Figured my brother was owed something. But we didn't know there'd be that much. We don't know what the hell to do with it anyhow. You can have it all." His gaze darted from man to man, eyes pleading.
Dominic was really liking this. Time to teach this asshole a lesson he'd never forget–nobody steals from Dominic Carpucci. The spinning bit was almost touching McGee's hand.
McGee thrashed wildly but he couldn't move his hand an inch. "Please, I'll tell you anything. Please don't."
The sound of the spinning drill brought back memories that suddenly had Dominic feeling nostalgic. "Jeez, you know something, Sal? This kinda reminds me of shop class." He laughed like a maniac and drove the drill bit home.
Dominic felt the skin on McGee's hand give beneath the boring bit. Smoke rose from the tearing flesh as the bit burrowed a large jagged hole through the hand. McGee's screams hurt Dominic's ears and the smell stunk up his nostrils.
It felt good to pay someone back for what they stole, even if the guy wasn't one of the original thieves. He was from Hampton Beach. Close enough.
It only took seconds for the drill bit to get through McGee's hand, but reversing the wheel and getting the bit out took a little longer. The bit refused to reverse itself properly and stuck fast. It took a few hard, ragged tugs to tear the bit loose from the hand. McGee passed out on the second try. Probably a good thing–Dominic wasn't inclined to be gentle.
The metal was coated with blood when he finally worked the bit free. A small strip of flesh dangled from the tip.
"Gee, that was something, Boss," Sal said with admiration.
Good. Another story added to his reputation. Stories like this were good for business. They helped keep other punks–punks who might think Dominic was getting too soft or too old–in line.
"Sal, toss some water on him," Dominic ordered. "Find out where my product is. Jorge, you go get it. We'll keep him here until we hear from you."
"It's late."
"I give a shit? Get up there in the morning then."
It was going to be a long night for all of them.
~*~*~
