"Hi, Ralph," said Jimmy, forcing a casual smile. "I'm supposed to meet Freddie at nine o'clock. Is he home?"
Ralph looked past Jimmy. Then, "He's in the cellar."
As Jimmy walked into the foyer, a loud, chaotic guitar solo assaulted him from below. So that was it. Freddie was playing pseudo rock star again. He thought he was another Carlos Santana. Jimmy winced. Freddie had about as much chance of becoming a rock star as Jimmy had of becoming a cloistered nun. His only musical talent lay in the drum solos he beat on people's heads.
Jimmy was led to a homemade recording studio in the cellar. The walls at either end of the room were mirrored, and the other two had been carpeted with thick shag as sound insulation. A throwback to the sixties, colored lights flashed from a dozen sources, and a pair of globes coated with chipped glass revolved near the ceiling. A bank of amplifiers stood along one wall behind a full complement of drums and cymbals. Large PA columns were at either end of the room, and an antiquated Hammond B-3 organ with a Leslie tone cabinet stood opposite several microphone stands. Bare-chested in the midst of all this, wearing a leather vest and skintight leather pants, stood three-hundred-pound Freddie Corrales with his 1959 Gibson Les Paul guitar.
"Hey," said Freddie, greeting him with a broad smile. "What's happening? You look down, man. But I got just the thing for that. I laid out some lines on top of the organ. Do a couple, that'll cure you. Hey, check me out. I just made this up. Tell me I ain't some kind of guitar god."
Freddie cut loose with a burst of tormented, disconnected notes. Most of them were out of key, but Freddie didn't seem to notice. Mercifully, one of his strings snapped and he had to stop.
Meanwhile, Jimmy hadn't moved. "Hey, you gonna just stand there, or you gonna do up some of that blow?"
Jimmy's nerves were strung tighter than Freddie's guitar strings. He didn't know what to do. The last thing he needed was a stimulant. Two hits of coke would push him over the edge. But Freddie was too unstable to antagonize. Finally, he walked to the organ and drew a couple of lines for himself. After snorting them up, he went over to Freddie, remembering Russo's instructions about staying close to him so they could get him on tape.
As he restrung his guitar, Freddie played right into Jimmy's hands without looking up from his instrument.
"I appreciate you calling me about that snake Lapienza," he said. "You did the right thing. Bet you didn't think I was gonna bust a cap in him, huh? That surprise you?"
Jimmy leaned a little closer. They were less than three feet apart.
"You kidding? It surprised the shit out of me. I thought you'd give him a beating, but I never figured you'd kill him. Why come down so heavy on him?"
"Hey, he was a rat. Ever notice how everyone around him got busted, but never him? Kinda like Whitey Bulger. Everyone knew what he was about, but he never took a fall.
"And you know what else? Sometimes it's a small world. That's how I found out Paulie was a snitch. You know where he spent the last month? In New York, testifying against a guy who happened to be married to a cousin of mine. She called last week and said her old man was doing business with a guy from up here who introduced him to a federal agent. We talked about it, and it turns out the guy was Paulie. He sat right there while her old man sold the guy a pound of coke, all the time telling the guy the Fed was an old high school friend. Paulie even testified against him in front of the grand jury, and then in court. The guy was convicted on Paulie's testimony. He's waiting for sentencing right now, looking at a minimum of fifteen years. All because of Paulie. At least now there's one less rat in the world. Hey, whadda ya think of that coke? Rocket fuel, or what?"
Freddie's account nearly caused Jimmy to come unglued. He spoke about Paulie's death as if he’d gone out to empty the trash. To Freddie, human life was a cheap commodity.
"The coke's great, Freddie. But I heard you always sell a good product. Matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about that. I know you said you’d pay five grand to anyone who found Paulie, but I was hoping I could take it out in trade. I wanted to turn it over, and make a little extra on the deal. What do you think?"
Freddie finished restringing his guitar and set it down.
"Hey, you want to make it up in nose candy, that's fine with me. Let's do some. C'mon, Ralph, you, too."
Jimmy was already feeling the two hits he’d done earlier. He felt like he could run the hundred-yard dash in two seconds, which would have suited him just fine. Then another, and another, all the way to Canada. Dwarfed between the two three-hundred-pound gorillas - both of whom he was about to betray - he wanted out. Anywhere would do, as long as the Feds and the Corrales brothers couldn't get at him.
Freddie drew up six fat lines on top of the organ. Jimmy looked at them and panicked. They looked like miniature white pythons. Freddie and Ralph might be able to handle doses like that, but that much cocaine at one time would take the top of his head off.
Jimmy tried to bow out gracefully.
"Damn, Freddie. I can't do all that at once. Let me do half now, and half later."
"Half, shit!" said Freddie. "You'll do it all, just like me an' Ralph. As a matter of fact, you go first. Here, do 'em up."
There was no way out. Doing that much at once could cause an overdose, but the chances of dying were a lot greater if Freddie got pissed.
"Yeah, sure," he said in resignation. He took the straw and bent over the monstrous lines, and snorted one up. The hit exploded in his head like a grenade. He choked, coughed, and wretched all at once. His eyes watered, and tears ran down his cheeks as he doubled over. Freddie and Ralph burst into hysterics, slapping each other a high-five. This was great!
As Jimmy finally managed to stand, Freddie thought he noticed something odd, but was careful not to show it. Instead, he casually took the matchbook and reduced Jimmy's remaining line by two-thirds.
Nodding toward the coke, he said, "Okay, I won't make you do it all. Just this little one."
Jimmy bent forward and snorted again. As he did, Freddie watched him closely, wanting to be sure. Almost instantly, his suspicions were confirmed.
Turning to his brother, Freddie said, "Hey, Ralph, do me a favor. Pick up my guitar and strum it real hard. That'll stretch out that new string I just put on it. Then I'll play something else for you guys."
Ralph frowned, but Freddie nodded toward the instrument, the look on his face telling Ralph not to ask questions. Ralph shrugged and did as he was told.
Ralph picked up the instrument, sat on a stool, and began a cacophony of musical anguish. To Jimmy, it sounded like the Voice of Chaos blaring from the amplifier.
Freddie seemed oblivious to the noise. He slowly bent over the coke, did a hit then dropped the straw on the top of the organ. Standing erect, he tossed his head back and shook it, then motioned Jimmy toward the screaming amplifiers. Within a few feet of them, Freddie suddenly spun Jimmy around, yanked an exposed wire that had worked its way up between the folds of Jimmy's shirt, severing the microphone from the transmitter. Then, as part of the same motion, he snatched Jimmy's throat and lifted him from the floor.
Confused, Ralph silenced the guitar and looked at Freddie. "What are you doing? What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong! The guy's wired! We been set up!"
Then, turning to Jimmy, he added, "Guess what that means for you..."
***********
Outside in the van, Russo was disgusted. And worried. He had picked up everything Jimmy and Ralph had said until they went down to the cellar. Once they were below ground level, the signal grew much weaker and reception was hindered even further by the deafening outbursts from Freddie's guitar.
"How's he doing?" asked Fernandez.
"Okay, I think, but I can't tell for sure," answered Russo. "The signal keeps breaking up. Sounds like Corrales is raping his guitar. I can't hear anything else. This keeps up, we'll end up with nothing."
After a moment's pause he said, "Wait a minute.Everything just went dead. T
he transmitter quit."
"Think Corrales made him?" asked Fernandez.
Russo thought for a moment. "Maybe. Let's stay put. If Hennessey isn't back in ten minutes, we'll go in after him. There's nothing else we can do."
***********
After turning off all the lights on the first floor Ralph walked to the foyer, where Freddie was waiting with a large suitcase in each hand. Ralph cracked the front door and peeked out at the street. No signs of life. But he knew that didn't mean anything. Freddie said they'd be out there, so they must be. Still, he couldn't see them.
"I can't see anything, they must be hiding."
"Of course they're hiding," snarled Freddie. "Someone had to be listening to that wire. All we can do now is run for it. If anyone gets in the way, kill 'em. You ready?"
Ralph pulled a Mach 10 from his waistband. "You know me, I'm always ready."
"Good. Let's go."
***********
Fernandez nudged Russo when the house lights went out. "Something's up, look."
Russo removed his headset and moved up front beside Fernandez.
"Look," Fernandez said, pointing. "Someone's checking out the neighborhood. You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Sure am," answered Russo, reaching for the walkie-talkie. He pressed the transmit button and whispered into the mouthpiece,
"This is Russo. Something's gone wrong. Looks like our friends are going to break for it. Split up and move to the front of the house. We'll cover you from here."
Just as Russo put the walkie-talkie down, the front door burst open and the Corrales brothers made their attempt. Intent on reaching Ralph's pickup truck, neither of them saw the agents until they were halfway down the walk.
Russo and Fernandez jumped out of the van and moved toward the house, then quickly separated and dropped to the classic police stance, their weapons leveled at the Corrales brothers.
"Federal agents!" yelled Russo. "Drop you weapons!"
The Corrales’ reacted simultaneously. Freddie dropped the suitcases, ignoring the money that spilled out of one of them, and leveled his pistol at Russo just as Ralph peeled off three quick shots at Fernandez. One round hammered Fernandez's rib cage, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground.
Russo took no chances. He dove sideways, firing in rapid succession. The first two slugs hit Ralph in the chest, stopping him in his tracks. A third bullet hit him in the abdomen and doubled him over. He stood frozen, momentarily clutching his midsection, before toppling to the sidewalk.
Freddie went berserk when he saw Ralph slump to the ground.
"You fucking lowlifes! You shot my brother!" As he was about to fire, he heard a voice behind him.
"Don't move!"
Freddie dove to the ground and spun toward the voice, firing twice in blind rage. With a loud moan, one of the agents beside the house pitched forward onto the lawn with a bullet lodged in his thigh.
Freddie rolled over again and drew a bead on Russo, but Russo got off first. His initial shot entered Freddie's neck; the second left a hole in his forehead. Freddie lurched backward, then rolled onto his side, a look of disbelief permanently etched on his now lifeless face.
Russo lay still for a moment, making sure the Corrales brothers were finished. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Crouching low with his weapon poised, he advanced cautiously.
Reaching Ralph, he pointed his gun at the dead man's head, then carefully kicked the 9mm away from him. Next he went to Freddie, kicked his gun away from him, and rolled him onto his back. Certain they posed no further threat, he quickly went to check on Fernandez.
Fernandez lay doubled up on the grass, clutching his side. Russo holstered his weapon and bent over him. "Lenny, can you hear me? How bad is it? How bad did he get you?"
Fernandez moaned and looked at Russo through eyes that were glazed with pain.
"Got me just below my vest, but I'll make it," he said weakly. "We got ‘em?"
"Yeah, we got ‘em. Lie still, I’ll send for help."
"Any more of our guys get hit? I heard a lot of shots."
"Yeah, Sandy caught one. I'm going to check on him now."
"I'll help," said Fernandez, trying to raise himself up on one elbow. He grunted, and slumped back down again.
"You lay still,” said Russo. “I'll look after the others."
Russo left Fernandez, and hurried over to the other wounded agent sprawled beside the house.
By now, every light in the neighborhood was on, and people were leaning out of windows. Nosy bastards, thought Russo. Where were you when two of my guys were getting shot? Probably getting high in front of your televisions. But tonight the show's coming to you live from your own front yards.
Billy, the fourth agent, was already at Sandy's side when Russo reached him. One look, and Russo knew it was serious. The area between Sandy's thigh and ankle and shoulder, unprotected by his flak jacket, was soaked with blood, and he had gone into shock.
Billy looked at Russo, and shook his head. "He's in tough shape, Bobby. He's lost a lot of blood. We need an ambulance fast."
Just then two police cruisers raced toward them from opposite ends of the street. Russo trotted across the lawn, his badge and ID already in his hand. He reached a black-and-white patrol unit as it screeched to a halt at the curb.
Before the uniformed officer could get out of the cruiser Russo flashed his ID and started barking orders at him. "Federal agent, DEA. Get a couple of ambulances out here in a hurry. I have two downed agents, one of them real bad. Make sure they send a couple of pints of O Positive along."
"Anything else?" asked the officer as he reached for his microphone.
"No, it's all over," said Russo. "We'll just need a pair of ambulances to haul off the two cretins on the sidewalk. And get a few guys down here for crowd control."
"Got it."
As Russo rose, and turned to leave, he nearly collided with a very unhappy man -- Patterson.
"You’ve been at it again, huh? And this time the collateral damage is two more dead bodies."
"Yeah, and two wounded agents. Hennessey went in wired. All of a sudden the bug went dead, and the Corrales brothers came out firing. They didn't leave us any choice."
"Looks like you did a thorough job," said Patterson sarcastically. "What kind of shape is Hennessey in?"
"I don't know,” answered Russo. “He's still in the house. I was just going in after him."
"I'll get a couple of guys and come with you. Lawrence is still my territory. Or at least it was the last time I checked. I realize you have your own opinion, but honest, Lawrence is mine, and I like to keep up with everything that happens here."
Russo remained silent. He knew Patterson had a legitimate beef. He had infiltrated the detective's hometown with all the subtlety and grace of a defective homemade bomb. He couldn't blame Patterson for getting bent out of shape. The guy had to be taking a lot of heat, and this would make it even worse.
They walked into the house, entering cautiously with drawn weapons. Russo snapped on the light. Finding nothing on the first floor, they went down to the cellar.
As Russo entered the studio, his heart sank. Jimmy lay half naked on the floor, staring blankly into space.
Patterson shook his head and exhaled softly. "They didn't make it easy on him, did they? Had to be sick bastards, doing a thing like this."
Jimmy's microphone wire had been used to strangle him. The transmitter itself had been jammed in his mouth, ripping it at the corners, giving him the appearance of a grotesque cartoon character. But the worst was Jimmy's trousers had been pulled down around his ankles and he had been stretched out on the floor. Freddie's demented sense of justice had dictated that the small microphone used to record their conversation be hammered into Jimmy's rectum. According to Freddie, Jimmy's role as an informer had ended commensurate with his betrayal, and he’d been penalized according to the rules of the game.
“That’s just great,” said Patterson. “Two snitches, Lapie
nza and Hennessey, both dead. Kind of leaves you all dressed up with nowhere to go doesn’t it.”
“Not really,” Russo answered, nodding at Jimmy. “He gave us Adrian Cabraal before they clipped him.”
Chapter Five
Although it was as much a front as it was a legitimate business, Adrian loved his karate school because it gave him the opportunity to maintain his own martial arts skills while teaching it to others. Twelve years earlier, he had traveled to Asia and studied under the people who had devised and perfected it. He’d done it their way, in their halls, on their terms and conditions, and under their direction. And when he’d tested for his first and second degree black belts, he’d measured up to their standards. It was something that added to his self-confidence and self-esteem.
Never one for playing the bully or tough guy, he was content to let the bad asses of the world take his bruises for him. Invariably, there was always someone better, if only for a given moment. It was rumored that even the great Bruce Lee, considered by many to be the greatest martial artist of the modern era, had been allegedly dispatched by an assassin hired by Chinese masters he had insulted. Adrian reasoned that if it could happen to Lee, it could happen to anyone.
Dressed in a white karate gi and black belt, he was demonstrating kicking and punching techniques on a heavy bag before a class of spellbound adolescents. Andy sat watching in rapt fascination. Adrian loved being Andy’s hero; he considered Andy the safest person in his life. There was never any judgment or criticism between them, and more than once Andy had been the motivating force in Adrian’s life that kept him going. It had been especially prominent when he contemplated his life in ‘the business’. Thoughts of Andy and his future always tugged at his conscience when he contemplated his lifestyle. If he and Andy and Jennifer were to have a decent, fulfilling life together, it could happen only by way of his quitting the business. And he wanted that to be soon.
Rules of the Game Page 4
