The Boss of Hampton Beach
Page 35
Chapter 35
"We're here," Sal said. He made a quick right at the Safe & Sound Storage sign and drove through the open gate in the chain link fence. "Which one do we want?"
"Just drive. I'll tell you when to stop." Jorge peered at the unit numbers as the Lincoln cruised between the corrugated steel buildings. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, pulled the storage unit key out of his suit pocket, and turned the key over in his hand. If those sweet little footballs weren't hiding behind Door #1 . . .
Jorge glanced again at the unit numbers. No use contemplating what he'd do to the guy if the coke wasn't in the unit like he'd promised. He'd take care of that if and when that time came.
"There it is," Jorge said. He jabbed his finger in the direction of one of the units. "That's the one we want. Pull right up in front of it and stay in the car."
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath before opening the car door. His entire future was riding on this gamble. He walked up to the door, fumbled with the key and padlock. After what seemed an eternity, the padlock clicked open. Jorge rolled up the overhead garage door, and stepped inside.
At first, it appeared the unit was empty. He clenched his teeth, refusing to accept what his eyes were trying to tell him. He found a string dangling close at hand and yanked hard. Overhead a single light bulb flared to life. His initial impression had been right–the storage unit was empty. Except for a pile of duffel bags stacked against the far wall.
His heart skipped a beat. This was it. His future.
For the first time since leaving the beach, Jorge allowed himself to really think about the street value of what he was about to unleash on his little corner of the world. Fifty of the keys out the door as is for $25,000 each, cash up front; twenty fronted to fast pays at $30,000 per; and the last thirty he'd whack up into forty and piece out for $35,000 each to the small potatoes people who took their sweet time to pay and bled the product dry to boot. Three and a quarter million–rock bottom. Made the two hundred grand he'd just given up seem like peanuts.
He walked over to the bags and opened one, half expecting to find someone's old gym socks. Instead, he found himself looking at neatly wrapped white bundles.
His cocaine. Still in their original Colombian wrappings.
Jorge smiled. This was just the beginning. With the kind of money he'd be raking in now everything would be wide open to him–both legitimate and illegitimate. First he'd plow the profits into lucrative real estate deals, nightclubs, and any cash business he could get his hands on. Maybe even bankroll other coke smugglers, so he was even farther away from the stuff. He could help out some fledgling Hispanic politicians he'd had an eye on, too. The same way the Italian, Irish, and Jewish gangsters had done it years ago. He'd help get some of his own kind elected, and in turn, they'd help him out. Soon he'd be so well connected and insulated that no one–not even the feds–would be able to touch him.
He walked out of the storage room like he was worth a million bucks. Outside the world looked brighter in spite of the drizzle. Sal was still sitting in the Lincoln, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. The big man wasn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but he'd been around long enough to realize what Jorge returning alone from the beach meant–and what might happen to him if he asked too many questions. He'd accepted the new change without saying a word. Jorge would make sure Sal was well rewarded. In fact, Jorge'd let a lot of money trickle down through the ranks. He wasn't stupid–that money would bring him respect and loyalty, two qualities he needed to realize his dreams.
Nice to stand here and realize he was now the one giving the orders. Never again would he have to take orders from guineas whose every other word was, "dem, dese, dose." And the Eyetalians that worked for him would have to work harder than others to prove themselves, like he'd had to do all these years. The ones that proved themselves he'd use; the others would be history.
If he played his cards right, he could become the biggest coke dealer in Boston. New England, too. Maybe even the whole country. There'd never been a Hispanic godfather, at least not in the United States. But why not? If someone had the talent, the means, and the balls, the sky was the limit.
And when Helen's snotty parents got a glimpse at the magnitude of his new wealth, they'd change their tune. They'd welcome him as a son-in-law and with open arms too, just as if he were some kind of Spanish aristocrat. At least the old bag wouldn't be slamming the phone down on him anymore when he called, that was for sure.
Jorge went over to the Lincoln and waved at Sal to roll down the window. He gave a quick smile, feeling a sense of power flooding through his veins. "This is it, Sal. Come on and give me a hand."
"Sure." Sal climbed out of the car and together they headed into the storage unit, neither man aware of the four pairs of eyes watching them closely.