Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “One guy wants to buy two kilos by himself?” said Nichols. “Wow! Business is good. You’ll have to get someone to go to Romania right away.”

  “That Nichols is good,” murmured Supervisor Becker to no one in particular inside the van, “covering all the bases.”

  “The girls are getting out of the car,” said Geraghty as he continued to look through the back window.

  Becker’s eyes moved toward the Lexus. The two female passengers were walking toward the Flash. “Damn!”

  “Mmmhmmm,” Castoro sounded approval.

  “Lou, get your mind on the job, not those two sluts,” Becker reprimanded sternly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sound of the women entering and talking to the bartender could be heard in the background over the loudspeaker in the front of the van.

  “Here are the girls,” said Sascha.

  “Close the bag,” said Nichols sharply. A zipper could be heard meshing teeth.

  “How long I got to wait for a Long Guy-land Ice Tea?” complained Anna.

  “Take her to the bar. Buy them both whatever they want,” said Uri’s voice.

  “Da, da,” said Sascha. “Come, come.”

  “On me. All the drinks are on me,” called Nichols. The sounds of the two women diminished in the background.

  “Fucking Anna. She is a pain in the ass,” said Uri. “But tough like nails, more than many men.”

  “Let’s whack this money up before the girls come back,” said Nichols. The zipper was re-opened. “Sixty-five, sixty-five, right?”

  “Da. And then you pay for making a new trip.”

  “How much did we say for that?” said Nichols.

  “Fifteen,” said Uri.

  “Hmm. That’s eighty for you, fifty for me,” the sounds of packets of money being placed on the table was heard on the recorder.

  “You can count very fast in your head,” said Uri.

  “Counting numbers is my business,” said Nichols. “You agree, sixty five for the deal, and fifteen to buy more, makes eighty?”

  “I think so.”

  “Which one of your people is going to go on this new trip?”

  “Marat,” said Uri.

  “Who’s Marat? Do I know him?”

  “Little bastard doesn’t miss a trick,” said Supervisor Becker inside the van.

  “He’s a natural snake,” said Geraghty. Loud women’s laughter was heard in the background.

  “He somebody new, from Russia?” asked Nichols.

  “No, he lives in Brighton,” said Uri.

  “What’s he look like? Maybe I’ve seen him,” said Nichols.

  “I don’t think so; tall as me, skinny, dark, slick hair.”

  “No. Doesn’t sound familiar,” said Nichols.

  “No, I don’t think you met him.”

  “Good kid?” asked Nichols. “You trust him to fly with our money and pick up the stuff?”

  “Very good kid,” said Uri. “Fifteen for the trip, makes eighty, da” Uri calculated finally.

  “Da,” said Nichols. “You count pretty good yourself.”

  “And you start to talk Russian very good,” said Uri, laughing. “What about the money for the last trip?”

  “I’ll give you that the next time. Or you can take this fifteen for the last trip, and you’ll get fifteen for the next trip when we whack up the next money.”

  “This fifteen is for the last trip?” asked Uri.

  “Da.”

  “Okay,” said Uri, “for the last trip. Next trip, you pay the next time, da?”

  “Exactly,” said Nichols. “You know what I’m going to do? You did such a good job, I personally am going to throw in an extra five for you, on the side. Don’t say anything to your partners. How’s that?”

  “How’s that? That’s fantastic, my friend.” Uri stood and hugged Nichols, sending grating, rustling sounds over the transmitter. “It is pleasure doing business with you, my friend.”

  “It surely is,” murmured Supervisor Becker. “Now cut this thing short, so we can rush this stuff down to Dineen. The Indictment is probably already typed up, just waiting for the formalities. Call downtown,” Becker called over his shoulder to Castoro. “Make sure they’re assembling the arrest teams for tomorrow morning. First thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Affirmative,” said Castoro.

  “Eighty for the bag, five for you,” said Nichols. “Forty-five for me. You’re doing a lot better than me.” Uri laughed. “Put yours in the bag. Make sure you’re all zipped up,” Nichols said to Uri.

  “Da, da,” said Uri happily.

  “Listen, I don’t want to hustle you all,” said Nichols, “but I have to get downtown and bring this to my Boss, you dig? I’m just the messenger.”

  “Dig, dig, da, da,” said Uri.

  At precisely 5:59 A.M. the next morning, Becker’s voice came over the radio, advising the arrest teams that in one minute, arrests should begin.

  Bill Santiago and another Agent from the Task Force exited their vehicle in front of Sally Cantalupo’s house. They started up the walk that led to the cement steps of the one family house in Bensonhurst. They had been sitting at the curb in the car since five-thirty, waiting for Becker’s directions. In his hand, Bill Santiago held an Arrest Warrant.

  Sally Cantalupo, sleepy-eyed, in shorts and a tee-shirt, opened the door a crack and peered out in confusion.

  “Salvatore Cantalupo,” said Bill Santiago. “I’m Special Agent William Santiago. This is Special Agent Tim Tracy. We’re from the D.E.A.”

  Sally Cantalupo’s eyes opened wide as saucers; his mouth dropped open.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest on charges of violating the Narcotics Laws.” Tracy stepped forward, positioning his foot so Cantalupo could not slam the door shut.

  Cantalupo’s knees sagged.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will …” Sally didn’t even hear the rest of what Santiago said. His mind was on fire. “Jesus Christ!” he said aloud. “Jesus Christ!”

  Supervisor Becker had been chortling to himself in the backseat of the Government vehicle with Pete Mulvehill, as it sped from Manhattan toward Tony Balls’ house in Sunnyside, Queens. He had a team of Agents watching Tony Balls throughout the night, keeping tabs on where he was, where he slept, and, most importantly, where he could be found at 6 A.M. this morning. As Becker, Mulvehill, Castoro, and Geraghty entered a Government vehicle in the garage under 26 Federal Plaza at 4:45 A.M.—Becker wasn’t taking any chance of being late to arrest Tony Balls—a radio transmission announced that Tony Balls was still in his house, and that his car was parked in the driveway.

  “Yes!” Supervisor Becker exclaimed, pumping his fist. Geraghty, driving, and Castoro in the front passenger seat, were surprised, actually amused, at the display of emotion by their Supervisor in the backseat. Becker told Geraghty to step on it, rotating cherry light on the roof and all, as fast as possible. This was the moment he had been waiting for, working for, throughout the week, assembling the necessary elements to arrest Tony Balls. Tony Balls was the piece de resistance, the cherry on top, the spur that urged on all of Becker’s recent activities. When they had cleared the Midtown Tunnel, Supervisor Becker’s foot began to shake anxiously behind Geraghty. As the car reached Sunnyside, he leaned forward onto the back rest of the front seat, announcing aloud the name of each street they passed.

  “Cut the light,” Supervisor Becker said curtly as they were a few blocks west of the street where Tony Balls lived.

  “Ask if he’s still there,” Supervisor Becker instructed Castoro.

  “Bird Dog Three, this is Mother Hen. Is the subject still at the location?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby,” Supervisor Becker began to chirp from the backseat. Geraghty glanced at Castoro from the side of his eyes. They tried to contain their smirks.

  Two blocks before the vehicle reached Tony Balls’ house, Su
pervisor Becker had Geraghty stop the vehicle so that everyone could don dark blue slickers with the letters “D.E.A.” emblazoned in yellow. Before they began to move again, Geraghty called ahead to the two Agents in the surveillance car, advising them that Supervisor Becker wanted them to wear their slickers too.

  Four D.E.A. Agents now stood in front of Tony Balls’ house. Becker directed the surveillance team that had been sitting in front of the house all night, to the next block, to be sure Tony Balls didn’t hop the back fence in an effort to escape retribution. Castoro was carrying a shotgun. Only one person was out on the street, an old man, walking a dog. The man stopped across the street and gawked at the proceedings.

  Supervisor Becker’s face was red. A wide, Cheshire cat smile played on his lips as he walked behind Castoro and Geraghty toward the front entrance.

  After several loud knocks on the front door, Tony Balls, his hair awry, hanging down one side of his head, stood in the doorway. His eyes were sleepy as he pushed his hair over the top of his head.

  “Anthony Spacavento,” Supervisor Becker intoned sternly, standing between Geraghty and Castoro on the crowded top step leading to Tony Balls’ door.

  “Good morning, Supervisor Becker,” said Tony Balls, gathering his wits. “What gets you out of bed so early in the morning?”

  “Anthony Spacavento,” Supervisor Becker repeated, “I am delighted to inform you that I have a warrant for your arrest on charges that you violated the Narcotics Laws of the United States.”

  “You didn’t have to bring Wyatt and Virgil with you for protection, did you?” Tony Balls said snidely.

  “I advise you that you need not say anything—”

  “You don’t want me to inform no more, Mr. Becker?”

  “Anything you say can and will—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know the routine. You know, there ain’t a fucking thing I’m going to tell you, right? So let’s get it over with, if it’s all the same to you. You want me to put on pants, or you want to take me in my underwears?”

  “Put on some clothes. Go with him,” Becker said to Geraghty and Castoro. “Soon as he’s dressed, back cuff him—be used against you in a court of law.” Becker continued reading from a Miranda Warnings card.

  “What’s a matter, you think I’ll grab that card out of your hand, and then you won’t know what to say, Mr. Becker?”

  “I have you, Mr. Spacavento, right where I’ve wanted you since the day you were last in my office,” said Supervisor Becker. “I have you now.”

  “This is what you got, Mr. Becker.” Tony Balls pumped his groin in Supervisor Becker’s direction. “Get me outta this guy’s sight, before I go—” Tony Balls leaned directly toward Supervisor Becker—“Boo!” he shouted and laughed.

  Sea Girt, New Jersey : August 28, 1932 : 2:30 P.M.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt, handsome, hatless, pince nez clamped onto the bridge of his nose, sat in the first row of the flag bunted platform, almost immediately behind the speaker’s lectern. He always arrived early at functions, his wheelchair being purposely placed in a position which not only made it easy for him to rise to the lectern, but would hide the fact that the man the audience had come to see was incapable of walking. Next to Roosevelt sat Louis McHenry Howe, a balding, moustachioed newspaperman from Albany who had admired Roosevelt right from his days as an upstate Senator in the New York State legislature. A hundred thousand enthusiastic people stretched around and out from the platform in order to enjoy the true entertainment of the era: politics.

  Roosevelt was on the stump, the Democratic nominee, campaigning for President against the incumbent Herbert Hoover, the Depression, and Prohibition.

  “I see Shouse’s right there in the front row,” Roosevelt whispered to Howe, as he continuously flashed his insignia smile toward the audience.

  “He’s a pushy little tinker,” said Howe. “He’s here to make sure you say the right things about repeal. He wants to make a good impression with his new organization.”

  The National Committee had recently fired Shouse. Immediately, the Association Against the Prohibition Amendment made him their new president, thinking he had some clout with the Democrats and could ensure the Democratic candidate would be strong on their issue. Now that the AAPA had, albeit reluctantly, chosen to ride with the Democratic presidential nominee, they wanted to make sure Roosevelt didn’t pull any of the teeth out of the Democrat’s repeal plank.

  “Where are the pages we put together on repeal?” Roosevelt said to Howe.

  “You have everything, right in your hand. Pages fifteen and sixteen, I think, is where we cover repeal.”

  Throughout his career, in the State Senate, then as Governor of New York, depending on the circumstances and the audience, Roosevelt had straddled the issue of prohibition repeal. The AAPA was equal to Roosevelt in straddling. It put its support only behind candidates, regardless of party, so long as those candidates favored repeal. They might have nominally backed the Democratic ticket for President, but they were equally willing to support any Republicans they could find who voted for repeal. Roosevelt wanted to hold onto the AAPA as desperately as it wanted him to stay on the repeal band wagon.

  “Yes, here they are, “Roosevelt said as he leafed through the pages of his speech. He read what Howe had written for him. “Mmmm, mmm. Right to the point, Louie, right to the point. A little strong, perhaps. You figure this is the right audience to get it said and over with?” Roosevelt looked at Howe.

  “It’s a New Jersey audience—not a bible-belter—they’re okay with repeal. And with Shouse in the audience, we kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Louie, you’re a wonder. Let me read this through,” he said, glancing back to the pages in front of him.

  “.… and it is with great pleasure,” intoned the Chairman of the New Jersey Democratic Committee—

  “This is it,” said Roosevelt.

  “I’ve got you,” Louis Howe said, taking hold of Roosevelt’s left arm. Roosevelt stiffened, ready to receive Louis’s lift. When it came time to be introduced, Roosevelt had to have a push from Howe or his son Franklin, Jr., to rise to a standing position. He would then push down the levers on his metal leg braces, locking himself upright.

  “… the man, the candidate, the next President of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt!”

  The brass band, seated just to the left of the podium struck up “Happy Days are Here Again” in lively Dixie Land rhythm. The audience jumped to its feet, cheering wildly.

  Louie Howe pushed Roosevelt to an upright position. With his free hand, Roosevelt locked his right leg brace, then, with Louis still holding him upright from behind, grabbed the edge of the lectern. Louie let go, and locked the left leg brace. The crowd cheered for many minutes, as the band blared Roosevelt’s theme song. In the midst of the cacophony, for all to see, a wide smile on his handsome, confident, patrician face, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, stood firmly.

  When the cheering subsided, Roosevelt started in his familiar way. “My friends …,” and again, everybody clapped and stamped, and the band began “Happy Days” again. Roosevelt smiled, waving, first with his left arm, then switching grips on the lectern, with his right arm. Another several minutes, silence rippled across the huge audience, and Roosevelt began to address himself to the problems that plagued the United States as a result of Herbert Hoover and the Republicans.

  Louie Howe, behind Roosevelt, was silently reading from a copy of the speech he wrote, as the candidate spoke to the audience. Roosevelt was on the top of page fifteen now, having been on his feet for twenty minutes already. When he arrived at the repeal issues, Roosevelt glanced at Shouse, who was sitting a few rows back, in his shirt sleeves, his arms across his chest, holding his jacket.

  “I want now to turn to the repeal of Prohibition,” said Roosevelt. Many in the audience cheered and whistled. Shouse’s jacket fell to the floor as he applauded. “Intemperance in a modern, mechanized society, imperils everyone. However, we have
depended too largely upon the power of the government action …”. This is exactly what the AAPA and Shouse had been beating the drum about, thought Roosevelt. He glanced at Shouse again, who was now sitting up straight, smiling appreciatively.

  Roosevelt continued: “… the experience of nearly one hundred and fifty years under the Constitution has shown us that the proper means of regulation is through the States, with control by the Federal Government limited to that which is necessary to protect the States in the exercise of their legitimate powers.” Huge sections of the audience were applauding and shouting approval of Roosevelt’s words as he spoke.

  “We threw on the table as spoils to be gambled for by the enemies of society, the revenue that our government had theretofore received, and the underworld acquired unparalleled resources thereby …” Cheers and applause.

  “… the only business of the country that was not helping to support the government was, in a real sense, being supported by the government.” Loud cheering and shouting. Some of the things Roosevelt said were lost in a roar of approval.

  “… unquestionably, our tax burden would not be so heavy nor the forms that it takes so objectionable if some reasonable proportion of the unaccounted millions now paid to those whose business had been reared upon this stupendous blunder could be made available for the expense of the government.”

  Wild cheering now. Shouse was on his feet, his hands above his head, applauding and shouting.

  In the November elections, out of roughly thirty nine million votes, Roosevelt received twenty-two, carrying forty two of the forty-eight states. Surely, the Depression had something to do with the vote against Hoover, but the Democrats also swept into majorities in both the Senate and House. Eleven states had had referendums on Prohibition on the ballots; the voters voted to abolish Prohibition in nine of those states, including New Jersey which voted more than four to one for repeal.