by Jed Power
Chapter 32
Dominic had wanted Sal to walk to the rocks with them, but Jorge had suggested that someone stay with the car, in case this joker they were meeting had a trick up his sleeve. That wasn't Jorge's real reason for wanting Sal to stay behind, but Dominic'd bought it and had told Sal to stay put.
Now the old man wouldn't shut up, just kept yelling and screaming and threatening the guy with their coke. Jorge shuffled his shoes back and forth in the sand, listening to it squeak. How the hell could the old man have been such a big wheel in Boston for so long and never have heard of this beach and its singing sand? Yeah, the old man wasn't an old-money Yankee like most of the local snobbery. But neither was he. Still, the old man could probably buy and sell a lot of these snobs. And if things went like Jorge planned, he'd be able to do the same someday.
The ocean was the color of black ice today and probably just as cold. Small waves slapped gently against the white sand. Rock formations at both ends of the beach enclosed it like parentheses. Some expensive homes, set back from the sand, ran the length of the beach. Other residences, situated high above on the rocks, faced out over the ocean. No wonder the old Yankee families had claimed this place for their own one hundred years ago.
He'd read somewhere that some of those original Boston Brahmins had made their dough in opium, and that was real encouraging. He could almost visualize one hundred years from now all the old-moneyed Yankees gone from this beautiful beach, replaced by rich Hispanic families. And one hundred years after that it would be said some of them had made their money in cocaine.
Jorge glanced again at the man up in the rocks. He had to hand it to the guy–no way they'd get up there before he made good with his escape. No dummy this one. Jorge lowered his gaze. Too bad he couldn't say the same thing about the old man in front of him. If he didn't watch carefully, the old guinea's stupid Italian temper would screw up everything.
All the old man cared about now was making enough dough so he could retire to Florida and either let a lucrative cocaine distributorship network die or hand it over to one of his young Italian punks. The punks that had done next to nothing for the organization while he, Jorge, had worked and sweated for years helping the old man run the business. And now to be cut out and left with nothing? No way. Not if he could help it.
The way Jorge had it figured whoever controlled the coke would be the man. The dealers–in fact, the whole organization Dominic had built up over the years–weren't particularly loyal. They'd buy from whoever had the coke. And they'd buy again and again and again. For years. Forever maybe.
And the suppliers? They'd sell to any reliable and trustworthy man they saw was able to move so much product. It was just business, just economics, nothing more. And whoever that man was would be the new boss.
Yep, the key to taking over the whole operation was that hundred kilos of coke.
Good thing this guy was smart. The old man would put a bullet in the guy's head as soon as he got a chance whether he had the coke with him or not. The old fool would fly into a rage and pull the trigger without thinking. They wouldn't get anywhere if the guy was dead and the coke wasn't with him.
Only one problem–the old man'd never give up two hundred dollars let alone two hundred grand. Stubborn fool. He'd hem and haw, charm and threaten, lie and exaggerate, anything, but there was no way he'd hand over the money. He wanted every stinking penny he could get his hands on. Well, that was all right if it was your own life you were going to fuck up, but this old man was about to take Jorge down with him.
Jorge glanced around. This end of the beach was empty except for their little party.
"Give the fucker one more peek." Dominic waved at Jorge to open the gym bag. As if the guy hadn't seen it the first time. Ridiculous.
"You see–I kept my word. Now you're gonna keep yours." Dominic moved forward for the umpteenth time.
"I told you before," said the guy on the rocks. "One more step and I'm gone."
The old man went completely bananas and started screaming every dirty epithet he could squeeze out of his mouth. Jorge wasn't surprised, just vaguely disappointed. Here was a man he'd looked up to at one time. A man he had truly admired and considered his boss. A man who had been very good at what he did. Who had been ruthless but smart–very smart–with business. A man Jorge had respected.
Those days were all over, and what was happening now proved it. If he waited any longer to make his move, there'd be nothing left to move.
The back of Dominic's neck flushed red, and his body stiffened with rage. He turned to Jorge. "We're gonna go up there and kill the cocksucker."
Dominic pulled a handgun out from under his suit jacket and turned back toward the guy up in the rocks. At the same time Jorge opened the gym bag and removed a .22 hidden below a couple of layers of bills. He glanced up at the guy sitting on the rocks and saw what he was pretty sure was a shotgun nestled in his arms. That'd be fun, Jorge mused. Trying to take a guy with a shotgun sitting in the crow's nest.
Jorge removed a silencer from his pocket. He quickly attached it to the barrel of the .22. He glanced around; no one was near. The old man was moving, one foot up on a large rock getting ready to climb. No doubt now–the crazy old bastard had definitely lost it.
Jorge took two quick steps, right arm outstretched, gun in his hand, and when the barrel was just inches away from the back of Dominic's head, Jorge pulled the trigger quick three times. The shots sounded like loud farts, and Dominic Carpucci's skull had bullets bouncing around inside it as he went down, crumpling on the sand.
Jorge stared at Dominic's body for a long second. It had to be done; he'd had no choice. He glanced up at the man on the rocks. Making Swiss cheese out of a man's brains was easy. Getting back the coke might be a little more difficult.
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