The men purchased their chips, drew cards to determine who would be the first to deal—Joe won the honor—and the first game began. Joe called for Anaconda, and the game preceded apace. I’ll just bide my time, thought Martelli, and begin by helping Tiny build a nice nest egg. Then, as the evening wears on, I’ll clean out Joe, Frank, and Halstead, and finally, I’ll wipe out Tiny. O’Keeffe will figure it out pretty fast, and drop out at the appropriate time.
The evening unfolded pretty much as Martelli planned. He was amused at the way Tiny attempted to cheat, watching him fat-finger the cards as he occasionally attempted to deal from the bottom of the deck. But by playing prudently, and manipulating the deck when he had the deal, Martelli saw to it that within 90 minutes, Joe and Halstead were busted and O’Keeffe folded, saying, “This just isn’t my night.” This left Tiny, Frank, and Martelli playing, and Martelli had the deal. He called for five-card stud. Frank folded after the third card, leaving Tiny and Martelli.
Martelli had dealt Tiny the Q♠ face down while giving himself the 10♥. As the game progressed, Martelli dealt Tiny the 8♣, 8♠, and A♣ while giving himself the J♥, Q♥, and K♥. Betting was brisk. In fact, both players were just about all in.
On the fifth ‘street’, Martelli dealt Tiny the A♠ and himself the A♥.
Tiny became angry. “Are you fucking kidding me? You dealt me the dead man’s hand!”
Indeed, Martelli had dealt him the poker hand comprising aces and eights, the hand named for the legendary five-card-draw hand held by Wild Bill Hickok when he was murdered by ‘Broken Nose Jack’ McCall on August 2, 1876, in Saloon Number 10 at Deadwood, SD.
The Gorilla was beside himself. “You fucking cheated me,” he said, spitting the words in Martelli’s direction as the detective hauled in the night’s total winnings, which, while uncounted, amounted to a little more than $1,500.
Suddenly, Tiny turned, sprung from his chair, and reaching under Martelli’s left arm, lifted him out of his chair and held him in a hammerlock. Even though he struggled with all his might, Martelli was unable to touch his feet to the floor. As O’Keeffe rose to help his partner, Joe and Frank grabbed him and pulled him back from the table. Meanwhile, while Tiny pulled Martelli backwards, Halstead came around the table and took out and opened a switchblade knife.
This is not good, thought Martelli. He watched Halstead carefully as the man slowly, methodically approached him, flipping the knife back and forth from hand to hand.
And then, when Halstead was within two feet of Martelli, the detective, using his massive calf and thigh muscles, brought his left foot—the one to which his prosthesis device was fitted—up into Halstead’s groin. For a split second Halstead appeared to recognize what had just happened, and then, the light in his eyes went out and he crumpled to the floor.
Tiny, surprised by the abrupt change in his partner’s fortunes, momentarily released his grip, making it possible for Martelli, with his feet now firmly on the floor, first to bend forward and then to thrust his head back into Tiny’s face with such force that it shattered the man’s thin nasal bones. Crying out in pain, blood streaming from his nose, Tiny brought his hands to his face, releasing Martelli, who turned, grabbed the Gorilla’s ‘family jewels’, and squeezed so hard he thought the man’s testicles were going to come off in his hand.
The rush of air into Tiny’s lungs made a loud sucking sound. If there ever were anything that could be said to characterize extreme pain, this was it. Tiny’s eyes bulged and the fingers of his hands, which he held in the air, were fluttering.
“Now, Tiny, would you be so kind and ask Joe and Frank to release my friend?”
Martelli gave another squeeze. Tiny gasped and wiggled his fingers.
“Joe, Frank, I think that’s a signal to release my friend,” said Martelli, without the least hint of emotion in his voice. “If I squeeze any harder, we’ll be having Tiny’s nuts for appetizers in a minute.”
Joe and Frank released their hold on O’Keeffe, who went to the poker table and collected the cash. Martelli released his hold on Tiny, who fell to the floor and threw up.
After counting the cash, O’Keeffe left $450 on the table, pocketed the remainder, and headed for the door with Martelli. “By the way, guys,” said Martelli as they were leaving, “here’re our business cards. Give us a call if you ever want to play again.”
“Do you think someone will say something about this, Lou?” O’Keeffe whispered.
“Are you kidding, Sean? What happens in Horsefeathers stays in Horsefeathers.”
Forty-five
Geno Barone, manager of Tommie Lupinacci’s trash company in Lancaster, looked quizzically at his two employees, Matt ‘Tiny’ Farmer and Larry Halstead, as the pair made their way into his office Tuesday morning. Both were moving very slowly on bowed legs. Farmer had a large bandage on his nose where doctors had worked to restore its structure and stem the bleeding after Martelli had smashed the back of his head into the Gorilla’s face. “Jesus, you look like a piece of shit, Tiny. I only hope the other guy looks worse than you. What the fuck happened?”
Barone had all he could do to muffle his laughter as Tiny, sounding like he had a bad cold, explained the pair’s unfortunate encounter with two US Trash and Recycling employees. “I’ve never seen them before, boss. That bitch must have just hired them. We know they just purchased a second truck, so it makes sense they’d need two more people. But these guys are . . . I don’t know. They sure know how to handle themselves.”
“Yeah,” continued Barone, “well, they must be the same two who were also out stealing our customers last Friday. I had voicemails waiting for me when I came in this morning with four cancellations effective the end of this month. In every case the people said they were switching to US Trash because the rate offered was half of ours. Those assholes are starting to eat our lunch, and if word gets out, we’re going to have trouble, bigtime.
“What the hell am I supposed to tell Lupinacci on our 10 o’clock call? That we’re not only losing customers in this bumfuck town but we’re getting our asses kicked by the very same people we’re trying to put out of business?
“Get the fuck outta my sight before I punch you both in the mouth!”
Forty-six
‘They fucking did what?” yelled Tommie Lupinacci. Barone had just told his boss about the recent loss of four small business accounts and the beatings his men had received at the hands of the two new US Trash employees, a beating which he described to Lupinacci as ‘vicious.’ Lupinacci picked up a paperweight from his desk and hurled it across the room where the lead-weighted object embedded itself in the drywall.
Lupinacci began pacing back and forth in front of his desk before he started to scream into his cell phone. “Listen, Barone, we don’t put up with that kind of shit, not in New York, not in Lancaster, not anywhere. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No one—NO ONE—fucks with us. Figure out a way to respond. Do what has to be done. Capisci?”
“Capisco!”
“Good, because if you don’t, I’ll bring some people down there who will!”
Forty-seven
‘So,how did it go last night? Were you able to get over to Horsefeathers and get into the private little poker game?” Whitman was just coming out from behind the rear divider with her morning mug of coffee as Martelli and O’Keeffe walked through the front door. The other employees were already there, with Easton’s head buried in one of many of US Trash’s ledgers.
“Oh, yes,” laughed Martelli, “you might say we found a little action.” He winked at O’Keeffe.
“You weren’t bad boys, were you?” asked their boss, sensing there was more to the story . . . much more.
“Oh, we just had a little fun with Tiny and his idiot sidekick Larry Halstead. And just to make sure they never forget us, we relieved them of all their money. Here’s $100 for each of you. It’s from the profits from last night’s game.” He handed each an envelope con
taining five $20 bills.
“Thanks, Lou,” said Knots, who had suffered mightily at the hands of Tiny. “You made my day.”
“Well let me tell you, Al, you look a helluva lot better than Tiny right now, believe me,” said O’Keeffe. “The doctors in the ER must have spent half the night putting his face back together.”
Whitman shook her head and smiled. “You guys. This will, of course, cause Lupinacci to retaliate, which isn’t a bad thing, when you think about it. We want them to overreact and give us the evidence we need to take their entire operation down. The question is, what will they do next? Whatever it is, it won’t be pretty. Be on guard.
“Al, Burt, I want you two collecting trash again today. Lou, Sean, try and pick up some more of Lupinacci’s customers. As soon as we have enough for another route, we’ll activate the second truck.”
Forty-eight
Itdid not take long for Barone to unleash his response to the beating Martelli and O’Keeffe had administered to Matt ‘Tiny’ Farmer and Larry Halstead. His plan was the very definition of simplicity.
“Tiny, Joe and Frank’ll drive you and Larry around town tonight after midnight. Steal a pickup truck, something dark gray or black. Then, get out to US Trash’s office. Drive behind their building, you know, where the trucks are parked. Hurl a few Molotov cocktails over the two fences into the yard. Joe’ll have them made up for you. See if you can get them to land on top of their trucks. And don’t stick around to watch! Once those babies explode, they’ll light up the place something terrible.”
“And what should we do with the pickup when we’re done?”
“Joe and Frank’ll be waiting for you. Follow them down Route 999 towards Washington Boro, find a deserted area, and torch it. The guys will take you home. Got it?”
“Piece o’ cake, Mr. Barone.”
On its face, the plan seemed to be a good one. It took the foursome less than 20 minutes to locate, break into, and hot-wire a dark gray Dodge RAM 1500 they found on a side street shortly around 12:30 AM. With Halstead in the passenger seat, Tiny drove the stolen truck toward US Trash’s building with Joe and Frank following.
When they reached US Trash’s office, Tiny pulled the truck off the road into the tall grass on the right side of the building. Halstead climbed into the truck bed. Once he was settled, Frank handed him two Molotov cocktails and a butane cigarette lighter.
“Light up the first bottle as soon as I start moving,” Tiny called to Halstead. “Throw it when I stop. Then light the second and get rid of it. After that, I’m only going to wait a few seconds for you to get into the cab, so don’t screw around.”
“We’ll wait for you across the street,” said Joe. With Frank in the passenger seat, he made a U-turn and pulled into the parking lot of a small strip mall. There, he turned out his car’s lights but kept the engine running.
As Tiny gunned the truck’s engine and began moving into the tall grass adjacent to US Trash’s building, Halstead, crouching on one knee, lit the cloth wick sticking out of the first bottle. Then, at a point even with the back of the fenced-in area where the trash trucks were parked, Tiny began his turn to the left. Picking up speed, he barreled through a low wire fence that marked US Trash’s property line. Rapidly coming parallel with the back of the fenced-in area in which the trash trucks were parked, Tiny was about to stop when he and Halstead heard the unmistakable sounds of the two front tires blowing and felt the truck nose-dive into the dirt.
The impact threw Halstead off-balance, causing him to drop the bottle he was holding. It fell onto the second, unlit bottle at his knee, shattering both and drenching Halstead with their high-octane contents. Instantly the gasoline ignited with a ghastly roar, setting Halstead’s pants on fire. The unfortunate man barely had time to dive over the side of the truck bed, where, upon landing in the tall grass, he rolled over and over again until the flames were extinguished.
The truck, meanwhile, continued forward despite Tiny’s frantic attempts to stop it. A second later the rear tires blew. The vehicle now was riding on its rims, which dug into the ground and brought the truck to an abrupt halt with its bed and rear tires ablaze. Panicked, Tiny jumped from the cab, ran around the front to where Halstead was lying on the ground, picked the man up, threw him over his right shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and moving as fast as his legs would carry him, waddled to the front of the building where Joe and Frank were waiting.
“What happened to the truck, Tiny?” yelled Joe as the Gorilla stuffed Halstead into the back seat before jumping in next to him.
“What the fuck do you think happened?” yelled Tiny. “It’s fucking going up in flames! Asshole Halstead dropped the goddamned bottle when I went over a bump. It’s a fucking disaster! Get to a hospital as fast as you can before the fucker croaks!”
Joe turned around, took one look at Halstead’s burns, then put the car in Drive, and laid 50 feet of rubber on the highway’s concrete pavement as he sped toward the ER at the nearest hospital.
Forty-nine
Martelli and O’Keeffe seemed puzzled by what they saw as they neared US Trash’s office on Wednesday morning. It was not just the Jerr-Dan carrier pulling away with the burned-out shell of a Dodge RAM pickup truck, but also, the blackened patch of land they could see to the rear of the building, just outside the fenced area where the trucks were parked. The acrid smell of burned rubber, captured by the damp early morning air, added to their bewilderment.
“This must have been some night, Sean,” said Martelli as they walked through the front door to the office. To their surprise they were greeted with the sounds of laughter and Yakety Sax, the theme music on television’s The Benny Hill Show. The other employees were already at work, if you could call it that. The place was rocking!
Whitman turned around and called to the detectives. “Guys, come on over here. You won’t believe this.” She was laughing so hard she almost snorted coffee up her nose.
Martelli and O’Keeffe rushed to a computer display over which everyone was hunched. There they saw images recorded the night before by a security camera overlooking the back parking lot and the grassy area beyond it. “Start it again from the beginning, Stan,” Whitman said, shaking her head. “This is better than having the circus come to town.”
Easton restarted the video while the Benny Hill music kept playing in the background. Martelli and O’Keeffe immediately recognized what they were seeing. “Now speed it up again, Stan,” said Whitman, “like you did the last time. You know, make it look like one of those herky-jerky old time movies.”
The agent increased the speed of the playback. Now it was as if they were watching something from the late 1800s, except unlike the movies shown in a nickelodeon, this one was rendered in full color. On the computer’s display the group saw the pickup truck driven by Matt ‘Tiny’ Farmer enter the camera’s field of view from the right. His partner, Larry Halstead, appears ready to throw a Molotov cocktail when the truck’s front tires blow, sending the front of the vehicle into the ground. Halstead, surprised, drops the bottle to the truck’s bed, whereupon a huge explosion ensues followed by Halstead diving out of the truck on the side away from the camera at the same time the back of the truck sinks to the ground. The truck now stops abruptly, whereupon Tiny jumps out of the cab and screaming, runs around the front to pick up Halstead, who by now has extinguished the flames that left him without pants. Tiny throws Halstead, half naked, over his shoulder and waddles off toward the highway, leaving the truck in flames.
Martelli and O’Keeffe have tears in their eyes. “Imagine Tiny trying to explain that to his boss this morning,” said Martelli, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing his eyes.
“I’m sure he’s figured out a way to blame Halstead for what happened,” said O’Keeffe, laughing. “That’s what I would do. It’s always your partner’s fault.”
“And you guys still haven’t tried to kill each other after working together for how many years?” asked Knots, looking at Martelli and O
’Keeffe.
“I have a question, Amanda. What stopped the truck?” asked Martelli.
“Remember I told you guys not to walk around the grassy area behind where the trucks are parked, Lou? Well, we installed two 20-foot long strips of traffic spikes back there, you know, the kind the cops set up to disable a vehicle that is being pursued for one reason or another but won’t stop. We also installed a wire fence on the property line to keep the general public out. But you saw what happened.” She laughed. “Tiny wouldn’t stop, so he and his sidekick paid the price.”
“So,” asked O’Keeffe, “aren’t the cops gonna want that video for evidence? Waddaya gonna do about that?”
“The way I figure it,” replied Amanda, “the truck Tiny and Halstead used was stolen. And I don’t want the cops arresting them at this point. When the Lancaster or state police ask, I’m going to tell them the security system was down for the last several days, and we haven’t been able to get parts for it. For now we’ll keep the CD on ice and use it in court at a later date.”
“Got it. So, what would you like Sean and me to do today?”
“Let’s continue to chisel away at their client base and see if we can’t goad Lupinacci into coming out here and doing something really stupid and incriminating.”
“Do you think we’re making progress?”
“Oh yes, Lou. The ten accounts you and Sean took away from Lupinacci yesterday were important ones because we’re nearing critical mass in the area you were working. Another week like this and we’ll be able to activate the second truck at least one or two days a week.”
Wheel of Fortune (Detective Louis Martelli, NYPD, Mystery/Thriller Series Book 6) Page 14
