Buffalo Jump

by Howard Shrier

  “And?”

  “He let something slip.”

  “What?”

  “I think the hit originated in Buffalo.”

  “Go on.”

  “Marco’s chewing me out about the call he got from the client. He’s doing his aggrieved thing, saying, ‘Do I need this? Do I need heat from over the river ’cause you have to scout your location?’ In our business, ‘over the river’ means one place and that’s Buffalo. Home of the Bills, the Sabres and what’s left of the Magaddinos.”

  “As in Stefano Magaddino?”

  “The late, great Don. Since he passed on, I tell you, things have gone downhill there.”

  “Why?”

  “A, none of your business, B, it’s too long a story, and C, it’s none of your business.” He tried to blow a smoke ring but it came apart in the currents created by the rushing stream of cars racing one another up the Parkway. “So what about you? Find anything on Silver?”

  “He’s definitely up to something, starting with the company he keeps,” I said, and told Ryan what happened on the loading dock.

  “This Claudio can only be one guy,” Ryan said. “Claudio Ricci. Not many guys look like him. They ever stop making track suits, he’d have to walk around naked. You bounced him around like you say you did, I tip my hat to you.”

  “He connected to anyone in particular?”

  “He’s in the life, but he’s not attached to any one crew.”

  “A Buffalo connection?”

  “Nah. Strictly local talent.”

  “And Frank?”

  “I know at least three Franks who match that description, right down to the cheap suit. There’s Frankie Tools, Frank the Tank ….” Ryan was about to rhyme off a third name when his expression changed. I had seen anger in his eyes the night before. I had seen contempt and humour and sadness. Now there was fear. Dante Ryan had just seen something behind me that scared the shit out of him.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw two men walking along the fence toward us, both wearing dark glasses. I knew one of them on sight: wiry, with long black hair in ring curls that reached past his shoulders. I was about to ask Ryan what the fuck Marco Di Pietra was doing in Riverdale Park when Ryan’s right fist crashed into my jaw and knocked me to the ground.

  The bastard had set me up after all. All the talk about saving a child, saving his soul, the line he couldn’t cross—all bullshit. Dante Ryan had gift-wrapped and delivered me straight into the hands of a man who wished me nothing but an untimely death.

  CHAPTER 18

  I lay on my back, trying to think. Could I take Ryan out and outrun them to the bike path? Or get over the barbed-wire fence separating us from the Parkway without tearing myself up or rolling down the slope into oncoming traffic?

  Then Ryan yelled, “You stay the fuck away from her, you got that?”

  Her? Her who?

  “Dipshit motherfucker!” He kicked me in the stomach, pulling it just enough that it looked more vicious than it felt. “You go near her again I’ll fucking kill you!” He squared up over me and delivered a kick to my groin that would have crushed my testicles had he hit them. Instead the impact came just to their left, bless him, on the inside of my thigh. It was painful enough, but didn’t extinguish the possibility of fatherhood. I curled into a fetal position and took one more kick in the midsection. His shoe hit my folded forearms, rather than my stomach; still, I was glad his choice in footwear ran to leather loafers, not steel-toed boots.

  He stood over me, panting, jabbing the finger down at me. “Get the message, motherfucker?”

  Was he selling me out to Marco, out of his mind or running another game entirely? I had no choice but to let it play out. I lay in a tight curl as Marco Di Pietra and the other man came up to Ryan. I tried to keep my face hidden, like when I was a kid, terrified of the witch in The Wizard of Oz, trying to fall asleep with a sheet over my head. If I can’t see her, she can’t see me.

  “What the fuck is this?” Marco said.

  “Hey, boss,” Ryan said. “Hey, Phil. What’s going on?”

  “Hey,” Phil said. His voice was low and raspy, a heavy smoker’s bass. I’d caught only a glimpse of him before Ryan knocked me down: bigger than Marco by a few inches and a good many pounds, with thick dark hair slicked back from a widow’s peak. Despite the heat, he wore a Detroit Tigers warm-up jacket, which likely meant he was concealing a weapon.

  “You ask me what’s going on?” Marco said. He spoke quickly like always, with a metallic edge to his voice. “That’s what I came to ask you.”

  “You followed me.”

  “I had to. You didn’t tell me where you were going.”

  “I thought we were done.”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re done,” Marco said.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “So what’s this here?”

  “What?”

  “The pube at your feet.”

  “Just something I had to take care of.”

  “Something you didn’t tell me about.”

  “It’s personal,” Ryan said. I hoped he looked more confident than he sounded. Or was he showing a little submission to Marco, the way a weaker dog shows its belly to an alpha male?

  “There is no personal, Ryan,” Marco said. “There’s only business. And anything that is business, you share. Otherwise, you’re holding back from me.”

  “Come on, boss. You think I hold back from you?”

  “I go by what I feel, not what I think,” Marco said. “And something didn’t feel right tonight. Right, Phil?”

  Phil said, “Right.”

  “I had this instinct, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” Phil said.

  “I said, What’s with Dante? It’s like he didn’t want to be around me. He couldn’t wait to leave. Isn’t that what I said?”

  “Word for word,” Phil said.

  “So I act on my instinct. We follow you down here and what do I find? You doing business you didn’t tell me about. What did I say, Phil? People turn on you, I said.”

  “Right,” Phil said. “I remember.”

  “I said, people turn on you for the least incentive. Wave anything at them—cash, pussy, a new gun, a ride—they’ll sell you out on the spot. Right, Phil?”

  “Verbatim,” Phil said.

  “So who do we have on the ground here?” Marco said.

  Oh fuck. I thought. Here it comes.

  “A little business on the side? Maybe something for my brother?”

  Ryan said, “No, boss, it’s got nothing to do with Vito. I haven’t even seen him since his daughter’s confirma—”

  “Did I ask when you saw him last? Did I?”

  “No.”

  “It would be strange if you haven’t seen him, even if it’s true, because I heard he’s been trolling around everywhere, flaunting cash at people, trying to buy them over to his side.”

  “He hasn’t tried it with me,” Ryan said.

  “Why? You’re not people?”

  “He knows better than to try.”

  “Oooh. He knows. How the fuck would you know what my brother knows? He’s so stupid even he doesn’t know what he knows.”

  “Well, he hasn’t tried.”

  “What if he did?”

  “I’d tell him to stick it.”

  “Sure you would, Dante. Sure you would. So if this douchebag on the ground here has nothing to do with Vito and nothing to do with me, then who the fuck you working for? Buffalo now?”

  “It’s strictly personal, boss.”

  “Is he fucking your wife?”

  “Come on.”

  “Is he eating your wife’s pussy?”

  “Hey!”

  “Hey what? If he isn’t fucking your wife or eating her pussy then it isn’t personal and don’t say that to me again.” Then Marco said to me, “Stand up.”

  I stayed where I was and groaned softly.

  “Stand him up,” Marco told Phil.

  Phil pulle
d me to my feet. I kept my head down, clutching my stomach as if in great pain. Marco walked over and grabbed my chin and lifted it. He was wearing black pants and a tight-fitting black shirt with orange-and-black flames reaching up as if consuming his upper body. If only.

  I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me; he’d only seen me the one time outside the District Court. But he said “Son of a bitch” softly, and raised his sunglasses up onto his forehead. The asshole had actually added a few blond highlights to his long black curls. “If it isn’t Mr. Undercover.”

  I’ve never seen the eyes of a shark six inches from my own, but they couldn’t have been more lifeless than the ones that stared at me now.

  “You know him?” Phil asked.

  “Fucking right I know him. Jonah fucking Geller. Sawed-off Jewish prick who played me for a fool, got me paraded around in court. Cost me over a million cash.”

  I could smell his breath, feel his spit against my face. I could feel my own anger surging through my limbs. I had never wanted to hit anyone as much as I wanted to hit Marco Di Pietra in that moment, lay him out for what he had ordered to be done to the Silver family. A lot of people probably felt that way about Marco, which is why he had men like Phil around him. Men like Dante Ryan.

  “What’d he do?” Phil asked.

  “A few months ago, we had a tobacco job that went bad. You were still in Millhaven.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Phil grinned. “We heard about that one.” He stopped grinning when Marco turned the shark eyes on him.

  “Ten million cigarettes up for grabs,” Marco said. “Half a million packs. I had guys lined up to buy them three bucks a pack, could sell them for five and still beat the retail price by a mile. Everyone makes money. I would’ve cleared a million-two, maybe more, till the undercover kike turned up.”

  Marco grabbed my ears and pulled my face even closer. “You know how bad I could use that money now?” he hissed. “You know how many friends a million bucks could buy?”

  Marco let go of me and turned on Ryan. “You said this was a personal matter? What the fuck personal matter could you have with this mangiacake?”

  “That means white bread,” Phil told me.

  “I know what it means,” I said.

  “I been seeing this broad,” Ryan said. “You know, since me and Cara split up. The broad calls today, says the same car’s been outside her place all the time, following her around. I have a guy run the plate and Geller’s name comes up. The husband hired him ’cause he thinks she’s fooling around on him.”

  “Which she is!” Phil said.

  “Yeah, thanks, Philly. So I call Geller, pretend I got information for him, sucker him to the park here to give him a message. A taste of what he’ll get if he don’t leave her alone.”

  “Yeah?” said Marco. “When we were walking over here, you were looking pretty chummy. Having this heart to heart.”

  “You know me,” Ryan said. “I don’t have to raise my voice. I was trying to keep it low-key with so many people around.”

  Just then a great shout went up from the southern diamond and a softball bounced into view. A game must have started there after we came down the path. An outfielder came loping after the ball with long strides, actually giving it a little effort. He stopped when he saw the four of us—one man with a bleeding mouth surrounded by three obvious thugs—and let the ball roll to the fence.

  “You okay?” he called.

  “Mind your own business, asshole,” Marco told him. The right fielder was tall, in shape, maybe thirty with a mane of blond hair and a thick red-blond beard. God bless this province’s Scottish roots. This guy wasn’t walking away. He waved at some of the other fielders to come join him.

  “This is no good, boss,” Ryan said. “There’s people everywhere. A guy up the hill with a camera, for Chrissakes.”

  “So why did you meet him here?” Marco asked.

  “Who knew they’d play ball in this heat?” Ryan said. “Now he’s got the message, let’s go.”

  “Yeah?” Marco turned to me. “The message get through?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “I wanted to send you a message, you cocksucking Jew.” He shaped his hand into a gun and snapped his thumb down against his index finger like a hammer. The extended finger jabbed the bridge of my nose, his nail breaking the skin. “Like that,” he said, jabbing me again. “But I got outvoted. The old goats from my father’s time, pussyfooting around like you were a real cop. Only they’re not here now, are they? It’s just me and you and I know you’re not a cop. What do you say, Undercover Guy? How about I send a message right between your eyes?”

  “Don’t do it,” Ryan said under his breath.

  Marco turned away to look at Ryan. His profile was like a hatchet ready to split wood. “What did you say to me?”

  “There’s too many—”

  “You said, ‘Don’t do it.’ Like you were giving me orders. You’re not even Italian, you Irish fuck, where do you get off?”

  “I’m trying to keep you out of jail,” Ryan said, nodding toward the softball players looking our way. More were walking toward us from the infield, carrying aluminum bats. Bench strength. You gotta love it in your team.

  “It’s a long slow climb back up to the street,” Ryan said. “Take us ten minutes going uphill.”

  “Take me fifteen,” Phil said.

  “We do anything here,” Ryan said, “someone’s on a cellphone to the cops. By the time we get to our cars, the tac squad is waiting and the geezer with the camera has it on film.”

  Marco looked up the hillside to where a group of sunset watchers had gathered. They were all staring at us, some of them pointing. Ed was at the centre, hunched over the camera. Stay there, I pleaded silently. Don’t show Marco your face. But he stood up, the damn fool. I hoped Marco had lousy eyesight to match his lifeless eyes.

  “Someone could be calling right now,” Ryan said. “We got unregistered weapons here.”

  “I got one, boss,” Phil said. “Don’t make me go back inside so soon.”

  “He’s not worth it,” Ryan said. “Like you said, he’s a douchebag, a pube. He’s nothing.”

  “A million he cost me.”

  “He’ll cost you more if we don’t go.”

  Marco sighed unhappily. “Okay, Dante, okay. You made your point.”

  “Just looking out for you, boss.”

  “I appreciate that,” Marco said, with all the warmth of a jackal. He squared up to face me. “You got lucky this time, Geller. Won’t happen again.” He turned as if to walk away, then spun back and threw a wild right hook at my jaw. The punk couldn’t help thinking he had a freebie coming, but his telegraphed punch was easy to slip. I backed away in a fighting stance. I had let Dante Ryan work me over, for both our sakes, but Marco would have to earn anything he got.

  I backed quickly toward the open field where more people would see what was happening. Marco charged toward me, leaving Ryan and Phil in the shelter of the picnic tables. He squared up and threw a short left. I blocked it hard with my forearm. He threw a right and I banged it aside harder.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You can only hit guys who are being held down?”

  “You want I should hold him?” Phil asked.

  “Stay right there! I don’t need help.” Marco rushed at me with his head down and tried to knock me over, dead easy to sidestep and trip. He went sprawling onto his knees and elbows.

  “Minchia!” Marco yelled.

  Phil translated again. “Prick or pussy, depends what part of Italy you’re from.”

  “Fight like a man,” Marco panted, his hands on his knees.

  “And put you at a disadvantage?”

  He rushed at me and tried to kick me in the balls. I swept his kicking leg up and away with my forearm and he fell hard to the ground, landing on his back.

  I wanted to go after him, beat him worse than I had Claudio. But if I went too far the guns might come out, and with these guys, who knew wher
e too far was?

  Marco got up slowly and gave me the dead eyes. “That’s it,” he said. “I don’t care how many people are around.” He reached into his back pocket and came out with a black object that looked like a pen until he moved his thumb and a six-inch blade shot out the end. Then it looked a lot like a stiletto. He came at me, feinting with the blade, trying to get me to plant my feet. I kept my eyes on his knife hand. Marco lunged forward and swept the knife toward my chest. I backed far enough away to dodge the blade easily, but stepped in a rut and stumbled. He swept the knife at me again, slashing the front of my shirt but breaking no skin.

  “Hey!” came a shout behind us.

  I regained my feet and darted right, risking a quick glance. The cavalry had arrived in the form of half a dozen ballplayers.

  “Come on,” Ryan urged Marco. “We’re drawing a fucking crowd here.”

  “All right, Jewboy,” Marco said to me. Sweat was dripping off the end of his nose. “You get a free pass for now. But I’m not through with you, got it? You’re dead meat, man. Dead kosher meat.” He laughed and Phil chimed in a moment later. Ryan forced a grin. I clenched my fists.

  “No one talks to me like you did,” Marco said.

  “More people should.”

  “Shut up, Geller!” Dante Ryan said. “Just shut it!” Was he still playing a part here or genuinely concerned that I was going too far? “And stay away from that woman’s house, understand? You go near her again, I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Get in line,” I said.

  “Come on,” Marco said. “It’s too fucking hot down here.”

  He retracted the blade and put the knife away.

  “You all right?” the big blond called.

  I told him I was and thanked him. He and a few others looked like they wanted to take the bats to Marco, but I waved them off. Who knew what Phil might do if someone took a swing at his boss?

  “Look out!” someone shouted. I turned just in time to see Marco rushing at me from the right, the knife blade back out, the knife hand driving toward my side. I tried to move out of the way but the blade tore my shirt and sliced through the skin between my right hip and my ribs. Warm blood started running down my side.