by Jed Power
Chapter 20
Jorge had plenty of time to think on the drive back to Hampton Beach. The drill press was a nice touch, he had to give the old man credit for that, but Jorge would have handled it differently. He'd thought about giving the old man a suggestion or two, but the old man would have cut him off. The way Jorge had it figured, bringing McGee along would've made for a nice intimidating introduction, what with the hole in his hand and all. But the old man wouldn't have gone for it because he didn't think of it.
That's why Jorge was on his way back to Hampton Beach–to get his hands on this Shamrock Kelly McGee had fingered, find out where Kelly had stashed the stuff, and bring back the coke. McGee'd sworn Kelly hadn't told him where it was, just that he had a good place.
McGee had said that he and this Shamrock character, a neighbor and drinking buddy, were down at the state park on the evening of the harbor killings swigging beer. They'd spotted a car driving up Eaton Avenue with its lights out. The car went down the driveway of a cottage that butted up to the state park. They'd sat there quietly, sipping their beer, watching as two men skulked back and forth lugging duffel bags between the car's trunk and the cottage. McGee had said the only light they could see in the cottage was an occasional beam from a flashlight. Close to an hour passed, then the men drove away with the car lights off again.
McGee and Kelly had their suspicions about what went down, but it wasn't until the next day, after they heard about the killings, that Tommy McGee threw the deal his brother was involved in into the mix. He and Kelly put two and two together and came up with coke-loaded duffel bags. That night they got those bags out of that Eaton Avenue cottage faster than the mystery men had gotten them in.
Yeah, it did sound a little off the wall to Jorge. Yet, he'd heard of people occasionally hitting a jackpot in some weird way in this business. Hadn't it been just last year some dealer up in Lawrence had a connection who died after mixing an eight ball into beer and drinking it? The dealer'd owed the connection almost $250,000. No one ever came to collect. So maybe it was possible that these two sad sacks just got lucky. It could happen. But it still didn't reassure him any.
So what would he do if he came up empty-handed? Maybe Kelly would give him a hard time or maybe he already got rid of the coke and wouldn't want to say to who. The old man would say to beat the shit out of Kelly if he was a problem. If that didn't work, do the same to his family one at a time, until the guy decided not to be a problem anymore. But Christ, that wasn't Jorge's style–slapping around somebody's family just on the strength of what might turn out to be a fairy tale. How could anyone respect someone who'd slap around a woman and kids?
That was one of the big differences between him and the old man–respect. The other difference was class. He had them, or would soon. The old man didn't, not anymore.
Respect and class, Jorge knew instinctively, were two things you had to have to be a boss. The old man'd had them at one time; otherwise, he'd never have gotten to the top. But somewhere along the line he'd lost them. Jorge had been pretty sure of that for a while now. The old man no longer had what it took to be a boss. The way the old fool had handled this crazy boat scam right from the beginning proved it. The old guy was incompetent. And that made Jorge real nervous. Nervous because he had plans and the old man losing it now and blowing everything would screw up those plans good.
Jorge had picked up on the old man's intentions to retire to Florida. The old man hadn't come right out and told Jorge his plans; he wasn't stupid after all. But he'd let little things slip, things he thought no one'd pick up on. During Boston snow storms the old man would wonder out loud about what the temperature was in Miami. More than once Jorge had caught him listening a little more intently than usual to the people coming back from vacation saying how nice and warm it was down there. And what about those sales brochures from Florida boat dealers scattered about his place? Not to mention the phone call Jorge'd answered once when the old man wasn't there. Seemed some broker down in Lauderdale had heard Mr. Carpucci was looking for property.
Yes, it was pretty clear to Jorge that the old man was going to retire, just like that big tub Filthy Phil before him. And that would've been okay with Jorge, except for one thing–where would that leave him?
And the answer to that was easy–nowhere. The Italians in the old man's crew would never accept Jorge as boss, and the old man must've known that too. A Puerto Rican? Christ, they only put up with where he was in the organization now because the old man was making them all so much money with his coke thing that they didn't want to get on his shit list by bitching. No, it wouldn't be him the old man would choose to fill his shoes, that was for sure. Once the old man was gone, he'd be out in the cold. The old man would designate one of the goombah punks as his successor, and Jorge couldn't think of one of them who had much love for him. No, he'd be out, or at the bottom at best.
There was only one way to handle the problem–get rid of the old man and take over the crew. Anyone that didn't like his sudden advancement would have to go, quick like. He was the only one that knew the whole operation–the old man's connections and all his outs. He was the only one that could keep the money machine going and that might be enough to keep most of the Italians in line. And if not, then hell, he had enough Hispanic brothers up in Lowell and Lawrence who would give their mothers to move up in the coke trade. Those guys would think wiping out a few guineas was a cheap price to pay.
The key to his making a successful transition, besides eliminating the old man, was this large load of coke. The one they couldn't quite seem to get their hands on. With that he could go right to the customers, product in hand, and show them he could produce as a supplier. Cocaine, and the prospect of big money that could be made from it, had a way of cooling feelings of bigotry or revenge.
The old man had screwed up everything when he'd abandoned their old tried-and-true way of driving the product up from Florida. He'd gotten greedy and come up with this boat scheme to smuggle it into the country himself and look where that had gotten him. Chasing fools around New England, trying to get the coke back. Not Jorge's idea of a good deal. The old man was making a mess of the retrieval, too, and that's what frustrated Jorge the most.
He'd watched the old man fuck up before and it hadn't bothered him too much, but this time was different. Without the coke his plans to take over the old man's organization would never work. No one'd go along with him, not the Italians or even his people in Lawrence. So that was why he had to make sure the old man didn't blow it completely.
The other reason he wasn't going to let the old man screw everything up had to do with a woman. Helen was her name. She lived in affluent Andover, right beside Lawrence. And did Jorge dig her or what? Even now the thought of her had barely entered his mind and he could already feel a tent growing in his pants, right there driving along Route 95 somewhere near Newburyport, heading back to Hampton Beach. Suddenly he had an uncontrollable urge to hear her voice. Now.
Jorge pulled the car off at the next exit and headed for the first pay phone he saw. He parked and jumped out. He dropped some coins in the slot and automatically dialed the number. He couldn't wait to hear Helen's voice. On the third ring, a woman with a Yankee inflection answered the phone. Jorge's stomach sank, just like it did almost every time he dialed this number.
"May I please speak to Helen," he said.
Helen's mother answered with ice in her voice. A real snot. "Helen is not here right now. Whom may I say has called?" Like she didn't know.
"Tell her Jorge called."
"Certainly." The phone on the other end went down a bit harder than was normal.
He hung up the phone and sagged against the phone booth. Helen's mother and father had never had much use for him. But he loved Helen and she loved him, or at least she had. Lately, he'd gotten the impression that her parents were finally convincing Helen that he was no good for her. To them he
was nothing but a Puerto Rican, a spic. Period. People like Helen's parents thought most Hispanics were nothing but street-level drug dealers and those were the ones who were doing good. Maybe that's how Helen was beginning to think of him too. The way she'd changed toward him lately–avoiding him most of the time and cool as a cucumber when she couldn't make up an excuse not to see him.
Maybe they were right. Maybe he really wasn't much better off than somebody up on a Lawrence street corner moving crack. That was another big reason this plan to take over the old man's business had to work–to prove to himself as well as to Helen's parents that he was worthy of their daughter. Their attitudes about him, both Helen’s and her parents’, would change. They'd do a complete 180 when he was not just rich, but richer than any of them could ever imagine.
It only took Jorge another fifteen minutes to reach the Hampton Bridge. Traffic delays cost him another fifteen to get across the bridge and another fifteen to get up Ocean Boulevard to the High Tide Restaurant. Parking was tough, so he gave five bucks to some enterprising kid on a side street who was packing cars into an empty lot. Then he walked the short distance to the High Tide.
It was as crowded in the place as it was out on the street. Jorge worked his way through the crowd waiting for tables and grabbed the only vacant stool at the bar. On one side of him was a young chick talking to a just-as-young guy beside her; on his other side, an old-timer in worn clothes and a painter's cap who desperately needed a bath.
Jorge tried to catch the eye of one of the two bartenders who were busy as one-armed paper hangers. When he finally succeeded, he ordered a Corona with lime and a frosted glass. He glanced at the old man beside him. A cigarette dangled between the man's nicotine-yellowed fingers.
"Always this crowded in here?" Jorge asked nonchalantly.
The old-timer turned his grizzled puss to look at him.
"Every goddamn summer, every goddamn day," he answered bitterly. His lips stretched in a tight scowl over rotten teeth. "Winter time you don't have to put up with any of this shit. No crowds and I'm treated like a king. Summer they push you around like cattle. Half the time I come here in the summer I can't even get a goddamn seat. And the noise, aaah."
Jorge lifted his glass of Corona to his lips and almost spilled it as he got jostled from behind by someone trying to squeeze between him and the crowd of standing patrons.
"I see what you mean." If it had been somewhere else, a club in Boston maybe, he would have made an issue of it. Maybe give the jostler more than a little jostle right back. But not now, not in this place. He was here for something more important and had to keep focused.
Jorge signaled the bartender to bring a drink for the old-timer. When what appeared to be a cola was placed in front of him, the old man reached over with a pencil-thin arm, ripped the straw out of the glass, and threw it down on the bar. "How many times I gotta tell ya–no damn straw." He turned toward Jorge. "Haven't been able to drink for twelve years now, and I've hated every goddamn minute of it." He raised the glass to his thin lips and drank the soda as if it were medicine.
Enough chitchat. Time to get down to business. He talked to the old-timer's reflection staring back at him through the back bar mirror. "You wouldn't know a guy named Shamrock who works here, would you?"
He caught the old-timer in the middle of taking a drink. He spewed cola into his glass, splashing the bar with his backwash. He looked at Jorge. "I hope he ain't a good friend of yours?"
Jorge didn't like the look in the old-timer's eyes, so he answered cautiously. "No, not a good friend. I met him once, long time ago. That's all."
"Well, that's goddamn good," the old-timer said around the bartender wiping up the spill. "They found him beat to shit in the ice machine here yesterday morning. He was frozen like a mackerel. You ever see a frozen mackerel? That's what he looked like. Except someone beat his head in, so naturally, he looked worse, I guess. Least that's what I heard. I didn't see him. He's in Intensive Care. Don't know if he'll make it. It's hard to thaw out a man."
Crap. His one good lead looked like it was going down the toilet. He took another sip of beer as the bartender slid a fresh cola in front of the old geezer. Jorge waved at the bartender, intending to have the drink put on his check, but the bartender signaled back that there was no charge. When the bartender moved on to help the next customer, Jorge tried one more time. "They know who did it?"
The old-timer crooked his index finger. He wanted Jorge to come closer. Jorge bent over until he was almost head to head with the old geezer. "See that bartender," he said, breathing into Jorge's face.
Jorge swallowed hard to keep from gagging. He glanced down the bar at the bartender working the other end. He was a tall, thin guy with salt and pepper hair and a mustache. Jorge nodded.
"They think he's mixed up in it somehow," the old man whispered. He beckoned Jorge closer. "You hear about those fellers on the boat they found down at the harbor, both shot in the squash?"
Jorge nodded and refused to breathe.
"The word is that guy," the old man nodded in the direction of the bartender again, "and Shamrock Kelly had something to do with that. Supposedly a lot of dope involved too."
Jorge straightened up and breathed deep. Maybe he still had a lead after all. "Do the cops know this guy had something to do with it?"
The old-timer cocked his head in disbelief. "Of course they know. He's the one found Kelly stuffed in the ice machine. They probably don't think he did it and I don't either. Them being good friends and all."
"Good friends?"
"Damn right. He used to own this place and Shamrock worked for him. Course, that was before he got hisself all screwed up on drugs and lost the place."
"What's his name?"
"Shamrock . . ."
"No, not him," Jorge said, anxious now to wrap up this conversation. "The bartender."
"Dan. Dan Marlowe."
"You know where he lives?"
The old-timer pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. "Down there somewhere. One of them streets by River Street. I ain't sure which."
Jorge got up from his stool, threw some bills on the bar, and told the old man to have another cola on him. Within a couple of minutes he was headed back home.
Christ, he'd known all along that this thing wasn't going to be easy. Now he had to go back and tell the old man that Kelly was incommunicado. The old man'd probably really go over the edge this time, maybe do something really crazy, something that'd queer the whole thing for good. Then they'd never get the product back and that'd be it for Jorge and his plans. Without that coke he was up Shit Creek, or worse–up the Merrimack River and back in Lawrence. With no money, no being boss, and worst of all, no Helen.
He'd really have to sit tight on the old man now. Make sure he didn't blow up. If it looked like the old man was starting to slip, Jorge would have to act a little earlier, that was all. No way he was going to let anyone, including the old man, stop him from reaching his big dream. Not when he was this close. No way.
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