The day got off to a good start for Martelli and O’Keeffe. On their third stop, a small specialty tobacco shop, the owner, who had been a close friend and client of Ryan Belmont, was all too happy to sign up with US Trash and Recycling. It took only ten minutes to complete the paperwork but by that time, Lupinacci’s men had pulled quite far ahead and many of their customers had already put their trash bins away.
Still, Martelli and O’Keeffe continued knocking on doors, picking up three more of Belmont’s former customers before heading back to the office to report to Whitman and have lunch. They had successfully taken four customers away from Lupinacci without having a run-in with his people.
“Not a bad morning’s work, guys,” said Whitman. She was all smiles. “Of course, there’ll be a price to pay. We won’t know what it is, but you can be sure they will respond, and it won’t be nice. But that’s terrific work for your first day. Come on, I’ll buy you an eight-course meal . . . two burgers and a six-pack at the joint around the corner! Stan Easton will man the office while we’re gone. When we get back, you can spend the afternoon with me, learning how to run the truck out back. Then, we’ll take ‘er for a spin.”
Lunch took a little over an hour. Before they had finished, Whitman ordered takeout food and a drink for Easton, which arrived with their check. Once back at the office, and while Easton ate his lunch, Whitman led Martelli and O’Keeffe out the back door of the office into the lot where the trucks were parked in order to give them instructions on operating the vehicle they would be driving.
“Isn’t she a beauty? Built in 2004. Has 196,000 original miles on it. When people say something’s ‘Built like a Mack Truck,’ this is what they’re talking about. Tough as nails. Has a 350-horsepower diesel engine and an automatic transmission. Great camelback suspension. Nice soft ride. No hemorrhoids here. This truck, which is the one we leased from that guy in Bucks County, has steel wheels, which look great. Take good care of her.”
“Automatic transmission, huh?” asked Martelli.
“Oh, yeah,” responded Whitman. “No double-clutching and all that nonsense, no sir.
“Moving to the back of the truck, we have the 17-yard Leach . . . that’s 17 cubic yards of capacity. When you’re on the street, just roll the customer’s trash container to the hydraulic lift, pull this lever, and let the Leach do the work. Any loose trash bags and other objects suitable for pickup at the curb can simply be thrown into the hopper. When it’s full, use the other lever, this one over here, and the hopper sweep will shove the trash into the Leach.”
“Looks pretty straightforward,” said O’Keeffe.
“It is, but it’s not easy work. One man has to ride the back of the truck at all times when you’re working a street, and that can be dangerous. Believe me, shoving trash containers around can be backbreaking work, even though the Leach does the heavy lifting for the most part.”
Martelli and O’Keeffe looked at each other. It appeared they were thinking the same thing. This is not exactly what we signed up for.
“I know you guys are in your 40s, so what I’m gonna do is pair each of you with Al and Burt. They’re in their mid-20s and better able to wrestle the trash containers. You two will drive.”
“Thank you, Lord,” said Martelli, making the sign of the cross.
“Come on, let’s take her out. I’ll show you how to start her, given she’s a diesel and all. Then, we’ll open the gates and take her for a spin.”
Whitman went to the driver’s side of the truck, climbed up, opened the door, and swung into the driver’s seat. “Come on, guys, get in. This will be fun.” The detectives went to the passenger side and climbed in. “Cozy, huh?” she laughed.
“This is quite a view from up here, Amanda,” remarked O’Keeffe.
“Oh, yeah, king of the road, all the way. The one thing you have to be careful of is getting too close to the vehicle in front of you. It’s difficult to judge exactly where your front bumper is, so always leave plenty of room between you and the other guy.”
She inserted the key in the ignition and turned it halfway. “See that lamp? It’s the ‘Wait to Start’ lamp. Don’t do anything until it goes out.”
They waited for the lamp to go out. It took about 15 seconds. “There it goes, Amanda,” said Martelli.
“Right you are.” She turned the key fully clockwise and allowed the engine to crank. “Don’t let this baby crank for more than 30 seconds. If it won’t start, come back into the office and get me. If you’re in town, give me a call. We’ll get a mechanic out.”
Just as she finished talking, the engine caught. After an initial burst of smoke from the twin exhausts, the huge engine’s crankshaft RPMs came up to idle. “We’ll sit here for a few minutes and let ‘er warm up. These modern diesels are nothing like the old ones from decades ago. They’re easier to start, even in the coldest weather, and have lower exhaust emissions. And you wanna talk durability? These last forever.”
They waited five minutes while the engine warmed up. “Sean, would you mind asking Stan to shut off the electric fences and give you the keys to the locks for the inner and outer gates? Just push them open, if you would, and shut them after I pull out.”
O’Keeffe disappeared into the office, only to reappear a minute later with the keys. He quickly opened the lock on the inner gate, pushed it open, and then did the same for the outer gate. Whitman put the Mack in gear, pulled outside the outer fence, and waited for O’Keeffe to close and lock the gates behind him. With that done, he climbed up into the cab. “I’ll stop at the curb, Sean, so you can run in and return the keys.” That done, Amanda turned right and they drove south on one of the county’s secondary highways.
“This is great,” said Martelli above the roar of the big diesel.
“Well, she won’t make this racket when you’re driving at lower speeds in town. But she is capable of moving along, that’s for sure. I’ll go about ten miles south of town, and then, you can take the wheel. Sean can take it then, retracing this route, and I’ll bring ‘er back to town, where we can practice driving on some of the lesser-used residential streets. I know some in areas where there are quite a few abandoned homes, so traffic won’t be a problem.”
And so the three spent the next two hours, alternating drivers, first on the highway that passed in front of the office, and then, on the residential streets Whitman had mentioned. When she was satisfied both Martelli and O’Keeffe were comfortable driving the Mack, she again took the wheel.
“Come on, we’ll fill ‘er up before heading back to the office. We use an independent gas station not far to the north of our shop—you probably saw it earlier. Family owned and operated. Good people. We have an account with them, so just fill the truck up when she needs it, go in and sign for the fuel, and get a receipt for Stan. They bill him once a month. That way they don’t have to pay the credit card company a fee.”
“This is quite an operation, Amanda. I’m very impressed.”
She laughed. “Who would have ‘thunk’ it. After all that college training, I’m running a trash company. Only in America!”
“By the way, would you care to join us for dinner tonight?” asked Martelli.
“You guys are so sweet, but frankly, from the standpoint of appearances, I suggest we keep to ourselves after work. It’s fine for you and Sean to be seen together, just as it’s okay for Al and Burt to hang out. Nothing unusual about that. Transients do it all the time. People come and go, and they have to socialize with someone in a strange town. But we don’t want to give the impression that there might be something else going on among us.
“As for me, I’ve made a few women friends in the community whose company I enjoy, young professionals with their own shops. Being seen with them only enhances the image I’m trying to achieve. But for the most part, I pretty well stick to myself, stay in after dinner, watch a little TV, read a good mystery.”
“What about Stan?” asked O’Keeffe.
“It’s pretty well kno
wn he’s an accountant, that he works late, and when he’s on his own, that he loves to sit in the library and read. So from the outside in, we look no different than millions of other workers, which is just what we want.”
“Well, who knows?” said O’Keeffe, “maybe we could throw an office Christmas party, just to get everyone together at least once.”
Whitman looked at him and shook her head side-to-side. “God forbid we’re still here then.
“So, guys, what are your plans for the evening?”
“I’d love to find a good poker game,” said Martelli.
The fact is, other than his family and the NYPD, poker was Louis Martelli’s life. Those trips he and his family took to Las Vegas every spring were taken in part so Martelli could spend several evenings playing five-card stud with some of the men with whom he had served in Kosovo, Kuwait, and Iraq. What was unusual about their sessions, however, was they all cheated, all the time. And they all knew it. The fun was in catching the other guys cheating. But Martelli was the master when it came to dealing from the bottom of the deck, card culling, card segregation, card assembly, and forcing errors of judgment by badgering his opponents. This is what made their Army reunions so much fun. Cheat, catch the other guys cheating, reminisce over old times, raise a bottle of beer to toast all who gave some in the war, and raise another bottle to toast those who gave all.7
“Well, I’ve heard the people who own a roadhouse called Horsefeathers just south of Wrightsville on Route 624—that’s on the other side of the Susquehanna River from Columbia—run an illegal poker game every night but Sunday in their back room.”
Martelli was all ears. “What do you mean ‘illegal poker game’?”
“Pennsylvania gaming laws as they apply to poker don’t have any charges on the books for players, only for someone who is operating a game for profit. So, the law will look the other way in cases where everyone in the game can be considered a player.”
“Okay,” said Martelli. “So, what’s the deal with the people at Horsefeathers?”
“They charge $50 to get into the back room and then, when they close the game down at 11 PM, they take 30 percent of the money on table. If the state were to find out about this, the establishment not only could be charged under the Pennsylvania gambling laws but also, lose its liquor license.”
“Sounds like Martelli’s kind of place,” quipped O’Keeffe.
“Just be careful, guys. That place is frequented by an unusually rough crowd that doesn’t play nice with strangers.”
Forty-three
Itwas a little after 8 PM when Martelli pulled his and O’Keeffe’s rental car into the gravel parking lot of Horsefeathers off Route 624 near Wrightstown. Being Monday, parking was not a problem, and he easily found a place near the front door among the few pickup trucks parked in front of the one-story building. Except for the neon beer signs, there was little to distinguish the building from many others they saw along the highway, housing companies that provided plumbing or electrical services, appliances, and the like.
The detectives, dressed in faded jeans, open shirts, old blazers, and loafers made their way into the roadhouse. Several patrons could be seen nursing beers along the length of the old wooden bar. The bartender, a gruff-looking man with a toothpick in his mouth, was busy rinsing glasses at the far end. Everyone looked toward the door when Martelli and O’Keeffe entered, but they quickly returned to their beers and conversations as the newcomers selected stools and sat.
The bartender dried his hands on the towel tucked in his belt, walked to them, and setting coasters in front of them, asked, “What’ll it be, gents?”
“Couple of Buds in the bottle,” responded Martelli, throwing down a $20 bill.
The bartender reached into a cooler, withdrew two bottles of Bud, popped the caps, and set the frosty bottles on the counter. Then, he rang up the sale and gave Martelli his change. Martelli gave him a $5 bill as a tip. “Much obliged, sir,” said the bartender, obviously pleased.
Martelli took a swig of his beer and holding the bottle in his right hand, swung around backwards and with both elbows resting on the bar, surveyed the room. “Well, I guess this is as good as it gets in these parts, Sean,” he said softly, lest anyone hear them using their real names.
O’Keeffe looked over his shoulder. “If this is going to be our life for the next few weeks, just shoot me now. I had my fill of small towns when I was a kid.”
That’s Sean’s anger talking, Martelli thought. He didn’t have the easiest childhood. They had worked together three years before Martelli learned his partner grew up in the Midwest, Wisconsin to be exact. He was the son of a traveling salesman—farm machinery was his line—and a stay-at-home mom. His father was on the road three weeks out of four, and in his absence, O’Keeffe’s mother took up with a steady stream of ‘visitors’.
When O’Keeffe’s father came home early one Friday afternoon and caught his wife in bed with another man, he threw her out of the house. Tragically, O’Keeffe’s mother and her lover died a week later in a collision on a rain-slicked highway near Sun Prairie, WI. By that time, however, O’Keeffe had already been sent to live with his father’s sister in Appleton, WI, where he stayed until he finished high school.
With money being tight, college was not an option, so O’Keeffe enlisted in the Army and fortuitously, found a ‘home’ in the MPs. Following graduation from the US Army Military Police School at Fort Leonard Wood, MO, he did two tours in Iraq before returning Stateside. After returning to civilian life, he put his military training to good use as a police officer in a small New England town. And thanks to the GI Bill, he earned a bachelor’s degree in Law Enforcement from the nearby state university. Following graduation, and upon meeting the NYPD’s requirements for Detective-Specialist, O’Keeffe joined the New York Police Department.
“This is the America I never saw, Sean . . . the heartland. Maybe someday I’ll drive the family through here to Gettysburg and beyond, maybe all the way to Yellowstone. Amazing what there is to see,” said Martelli as he turned around and faced the bar.
He no sooner had finished saying that when the roadhouse door opened and two men walked in. One was tall—at least six foot and then some—and appeared to weigh 300 pounds or more. His head was clean shaven and he walked with a distinct waddle, his arms swinging at his sides as he moved toward a door to the rear of the bar. Following him at a distance of some five feet was a thinner, shorter man with a blank look on his face.
Martelli and O’Keeffe glanced up briefly to look at them over their shoulders as they entered.
“Recognize anyone, Sean?” whispered Martelli, using his partner’s real name.
“I do believe that’s Tiny and his friend Larry Halstead.”
“You have a good memory. I think we have a score to settle with Tiny on Al’s behalf, don’t you?”
“Oh shit, Lou, our first day on the job and you’re already going to beat the crap out of somebody?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought about actually getting physical, especially with that gorilla. I thought more in the way of beating him at poker.”
Martelli and O’Keeffe watched as Tiny opened the door to the back room and both men marched in. Although their view was partially obscured by the pair, the detectives could see a poker table, chips, and two men already playing cards.
Let the games begin, thought Martelli. “Sean, give me all the cash you have.”
Sean opened his wallet and gave Martelli $300 in $20 bills. Martelli took a similar number of $20 bills from his own wallet. Leaving a $20 bill on the bar, he rolled Sean’s and his money into a bundle and bound it with the rubber band that had been securing his business cards. “Now, doesn’t that make a pretty picture?” he said, setting the roll on the counter. Then he motioned to the bartender.
When the bartender was in front of them, Martelli picked up the $20 bill he had set aside and offered it to him. “My friend and I enjoy a good game of poker. We understand the house runs a
great game.”
The bartender looked first at the large roll of $20 bills sitting on the counter and then at the $20 bill being offered to him. He took the one from Martelli’s hand, turned, and started for the door to the back room. “I’ll be right back.”
The bartender returned in a few minutes. “You’re invited to join the game in the back. It’s private, and we want to keep it that way. It’ll cost you $50 each to get in, and when I close it down at 11 PM, the house takes 30 percent of whatever cash is on the table.”
Martelli peeled off five $20 bills and handed them to the bartender, who, in turn, pointed the men to the door at the rear of the bar. “Good luck, my friends. I’ll check in from time to time to see if you need refills.”
Forty-four
Martelli and O’Keeffe walked to the door, knocked, and waited. In a few seconds, Halstead opened the door a crack, peered out, looked them up and down, then opened the door for them to enter.
“Hi,” said Martelli. “I’m Tony Mateo. This here’s Shane O’Brien. We drifted into town over the weekend. Not sure how long we’ll be staying but heard this was the place to find a good game of poker.”
The three men sitting at the table appeared to have heard it all before and showed no emotion. “I’m called Tiny,” said the Gorilla. “Burt’s the one who let you in. These other two are Joe and Frank. We don’t spend a lot of time on formalities, so have a seat and play.”
Martelli sat to Tiny’s right, with O’Keeffe to the right of Martelli. Halstead was on Tiny’s left. Tiny’s even bigger up close, thought Martelli as he shifted his chair slightly to the right, a consequence of Tiny’s huge arm taking up more than its fair share of the space between them. God, imagine having to sit next to him on an airplane.
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 13
