Code 13

by Don Brown

  “Before they nail me. I know.”

  “Right,” Mark said.

  “I’m ready to go,” Caroline said.

  “Now?” Paul asked.

  “Now. If I’m going to become rat bait, let’s get the show on the road.”

  Mark spoke up. “Let me at least make a call to get an NCIS tail on you.”

  “Tell you what. The captain here is going to take me to his home for one more night, and that’s all the time I’m giving you. You can have your tail start following me there. And then I’ll be back at my townhouse tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ve got a legal opinion to write once this all gets set up and I get P.J.’s research.” She stood up. “Shall we, Captain?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  They stepped out of the restaurant into the parking lot, and as they walked toward Paul’s Suburban, the red Mercedes parked beside it pulled out and screeched its tires, speeding out of the lot, making a left on King Street.

  “That was weird,” Paul said.

  “Everything about this is weird,” she said. “Let’s go, Captain.”

  “As you wish.”

  CHAPTER 24

  HEADQUARTERS

  NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY

  EAST 161ST STREET

  THE BRONX

  SUNDAY MORNING

  Phillip D’Agostino sucked on another cigarette and glanced at the headlines of the sports section of the New York Times.

  Another loss for the Yankees. This time to the Sox again. Great. Big Sal would take it out on everybody around him.

  He yelled at his secretary as he snuffed out his cigarette. “Hey, Viv! I’m headed down to the dockyard.”

  “Got it, boss. Good luck. Be careful!”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Phil walked out the back of the offices, got into his black Porsche 918 Spyder, and started the engine. He pulled out his 9-millimeter pistol, racked the slide, and laid it on the seat.

  The Porsche, which he had purchased for a cool $940,000 just last year, purred like a cat and jumped like a leopard when Phil hit the accelerator, peeling out onto East 161st Street.

  A minute later, he took the ramp up onto I-278 West and pushed down on the accelerator again.

  The drive down to the Brooklyn dockyards would take half an hour or so, depending on traffic. As he blew past a slow-moving U-Haul in the right lane, Phil’s mind raced through his pre-docking procedures to make sure there would be no problems in landing and distributing the stuff.

  Let’s see . . .

  Bribes to Port Authority police.

  Check.

  Bribes to the right NYPD officers patrolling the area.

  Check.

  Hush money to the three federal DEA supervisors working the area.

  Check again.

  Coordination with company seafood trucks to pick up the stuff and run it to various rendezvous points up and down the East Coast.

  Check.

  Keeping Big Sal happy?

  Only a perfectly executed operation would keep the big guy happy. The family needed to do everything within its power to make sure those drones never took to the skies. And while some progress had been made when the wise-guy JAG officer got waxed, Phil remained unconvinced that the bill was dead.

  His cell phone rang.

  Phil checked the caller ID.

  “Vinnie, what’s up? I’m getting ready to see Big Sal. Tell me I got nothin’ to worry about with this drone contract.”

  “I wish I could tell you. But we got another problem.”

  “What are you talkin’ about, Vinnie?”

  “What I mean is we got this JAG—”

  Silence.

  “Vinnie?”

  Nothing.

  “Vinnie!”

  Phil cursed and hit Redial.

  “Hey. You’ve reached Vinnie. I can’t answer now, so leave me a message and I’ll get back with ya.”

  Phil cursed. The idiot had let his phone die again.

  Just when he started to think there was hope for Vinnie, the bonehead inevitably did something stupid.

  Approaching Exit 31, he wheeled the Porsche onto the off-ramp, merging onto Williamsburg Street, and then, under sunny morning skies, entered the old Navy Yard through the Clymer Street gate.

  The old Navy Yard had once been used for many years by the United States Navy. But now, having been turned into an industrial park with the help of money from the city, the old Navy Yard was no longer a hub of activity as it was in World War II. Now it had become a mishmash of light industrial use and warehouses, and took investment money from just about any business enterprise willing to chip in a few bucks.

  It was also a perfect transit point for the New York Concrete & Seafood Company, which had leased two piers, Pier J and Pier K. They jutted out into Wallabout Bay and the East River.

  The company also owned several warehouses, fishing boats, and vessels carrying various other types of goods and merchandise crucial to the profitability of the family business.

  The fishing business was, indeed, a legitimate family enterprise and was the face of the enterprise to the public, and the ostensible reason for the need of a presence down at the old Navy Yard.

  Phil turned right onto Railroad Avenue, heading out toward the warehouses situated between the two piers.

  He slowed the Porsche to a crawl, approaching two armed, black-clothed, and big-bicepped private security guards standing at the end of the pier.

  The guards, with their forearms, biceps, and necks covered with tattoos, stood straight, almost coming to military attention. When they saw the Porsche, they enthusiastically waved it through.

  They knew who paid their salaries.

  Phil rolled down his window as he slowed past the guards.

  “Heya, boss!” the guard on the left said.

  “S’up, Joey?” Phil said. “The big guy here?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s in da warehouse. Right over there.”

  “He in a good mood?”

  “Don’t know, boss. They’ve had a little commotion.”

  “What commotion?”

  “Oh, you know,” the guard said. “Some dockworker with his hands caught in the cookie jar.”

  “That’s just great,” Phil said. He looked in front of the Porsche. Seven big rigs, company trucks with the New York Concrete & Seafood Company logo, with a big red crab painted on the side, were lined up over on the right side of the pier, one behind the other. “Hey, Joey. Go park my car. I’m gonna step in and talk to Big Sal.”

  “You bet, boss.” A sparkle lit the goon’s eyes.

  “Hey. Don’t scratch it. Got it?”

  “I ain’t gonna scratch it, boss.”

  Joey opened the door of the Porsche, and Phil stepped out and pulled out a cigarette. He had a feeling he was going to need it. He struck his lighter, but the wind whipping from across the East River flattened the flame.

  “Here. Let me help ya, boss.” The guard stepped in and cupped his hand over the flame as Phil sucked the satisfying nicotine into his lungs.

  “Appreciate it, Joey.”

  “You bet, boss.”

  “Take care of my baby.”

  “Will do, boss. Like she was my own.”

  “Ya better.”

  Joey got into the Porsche and drove down toward the end of Pier K, heading to a parking spot almost right across from the freighter Occidental, where dockworkers were unloading cargo, some of it fish, some of it other stuff, as Phil took a second satisfying drag from the cigarette.

  Phil hated having Big Sal around because of blurred lines of authority. Sure, Sal was the big-daddy godfather of the business. But Sal himself had made the decision to retire to Palm Beach and leave Phil in charge of the day-to-day operations.

  That meant with Sal in Florida for the last five years, Phil had been the man in the company, and especially in New York. But every six months or so, sometimes every nine months, Big Sal would
trek his way back up to New York and stay just long enough to get into the middle of things, muddying the lines of authority.

  The men were used to taking their orders from Phil, and all of a sudden the big cat’s on the scene, barking orders of his own. Every time it happened, you could see the confusion on the men’s faces.

  Then, after a few days, Sal and his entourage, which usually included a harem of hot-looking models young enough to be Sal’s granddaughters, would disappear back down to Florida, leaving Phil to clean up the mess.

  Frankly, Phil just wished the ole guy would stay in Florida and stay the heck out of the way.

  But that hadn’t happened yet.

  And now, this latest thing with the drone contract had gotten the old guy stirred up, precipitating his latest trip.

  Not that Phil could blame Big Sal for worrying about the drone contract. Phil himself had lost a night or two of sleep over the whole thing.

  Oh well. May as well get it over with. Sal would be ornery enough without the commotion, but now? What the heck.

  The refrigerated warehouse stood only a few paces in front of him, maybe twenty feet across a short alleyway. He stuck the cigarette back into his mouth, walked across the alleyway, opened the side door, and stepped inside, where the cool, refrigerated air immediately embraced him.

  NYC&S employees, in jeans and sweatshirts, lifted boxes and loaded them onto forklifts. Others were driving the forklifts over to an assembly line, dropping crated boxes onto conveyor belts that ran the boxes outside to company trucks.

  Out in the middle of the concrete floor, the body lay sprawled facedown, blood gushing from the head.

  Phil walked over and stood over the man, nonchalantly blowing cigarette smoke as he looked down at the body. The exit wound had made a bloody mess of the back of his head. Phil didn’t recognize him, but what a waste.

  “Got his hand caught in the cookie jar.”

  Phil recognized the gruff voice that he’d dreaded hearing and looked up at the big-bellied, six-foot-four-inch balding hunk of an aging man. He wore khaki pants and a light-blue, short-sleeved shirt, shirttail out, and held a long-barreled revolver in his hand.

  “Big Sal!” Phil forced a smile and feigned a voice of excitement. “How’s my favorite uncle?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “You look nice and tanned.”

  “Yeah, and I bet you everybody else around here wishes I’d stayed in Florida. Especially him.”

  “Your handiwork, Sal?”

  “The foreman offered to take care of it, but the ole man needed some target practice.” He held the barrel of the revolver to his lips and kissed it. “She’s my baby. Obliterates the back of the skull every time.”

  “Looks like you ain’t lost your touch, Uncle. How much did he have on him?”

  “He stashed five kilos in his pocket. Close to a hundred fifty thousand bucks’ worth street value,” Big Sal said. “Caught him on camera.”

  “These idiots never learn.” Phil took a draw from the cigarette. “They see us wax three or four of ’em in here a year, pay ’em a great salary, and they still are stupid enough to think they can get away with it.”

  “A new hire,” the godfather said. “He found out what we do to thieves around here. Got one of those?”

  “A cigarette?”

  “What else do you think I’m talkin’ about? Sheesh. Sometimes I think you’re as dumb as that idiot son-in-law of yours.”

  “That hurts, Uncle.” He handed Sal a cigarette.

  “Thanks. Gotta light?”

  “Yes, sir. Here ya go.”

  “Thanks.” A second later, Sal blew smoke in Phil’s face. “Hey, Marco!” His voice thundered across the concrete floor.

  One of the workers about twenty yards away, standing over by the conveyor line, turned and looked in their direction. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Who do you think I’m talking to?” Big Sal thundered. “Get your butt over here!”

  The man started a quick pace toward them. “Sorry, boss.” He directed the comment to Sal, not Phil, and Phil bit his lip.

  “I thought you said Mario. I misunderstood you, boss.”

  “If I had wanted to say Mario, I would have said Mario!”

  “Sorry, my bad.” Marco looked apologetic.

  “Hey.” Sal pointed down at the bleeding body. “I want you to get a couple of guys and get this scum off my floor. Cut the body up and use it for crab bait, and throw the bones to the dogs. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss,” the sycophant said. “Hey, Stefano! Fredrico! Get over here and help me get this goon off the floor!”

  “Hey, nephew. What do you say we take a walk while these boys clean this mess up?”

  “Sure, Uncle Sal.”

  “Why don’t we step outside? You know, it’s a little chilly in here. I’ve gotten used to the warm sunshine in Florida. And you know, your uncle gets queasy at the sight of blood and dead bodies.”

  “I see you’ve kept your sense of humor, Uncle Sal.”

  “Well, ya know”—the godfather sucked on his cigarette—“it’s just this blood thing. Sometimes it takes a little blood to get the juices flowing.”

  They stepped out of the warehouse into the sunlit alleyway, out where the two armed guards were standing. Sal tossed his cigarette and pointed down at the company trucks being loaded by dockworkers. “You know, this is gonna be a pretty big haul for us, Phil.”

  “I can see that, Uncle.”

  “Hey! Mr. D.!”

  Phil and Sal turned around.

  Marco, the dockworker Big Sal had just assigned cleanup duty, had stepped out of the warehouse and was walking in their direction.

  “What are you doin’ out here?” Sal said. “I thought I told you to clean up the mess.”

  “We’re workin’ on it. But there’s something I needed to tell you.”

  “What is it?” Big Sal contorted his face. His voice sounded irritated.

  “We caught another one with his hand in the cookie jar.”

  Sal cursed. “How much this time?”

  “Three kilos, boss.”

  Sal cursed again.

  “What do you want to do, boss?”

  Big Sal looked at Phil, then at Marco. “Hey, I gotta talk to Phil. You take care of it, Marco. But call everybody around and make sure everybody sees what you’re doing. We need to reinforce the message. You steal from your employer, and you get waxed.”

  “Yes, sir.” A grin of satisfaction crossed Marco’s face. He turned and headed back to the warehouse.

  “Anyway,” Big Sal said as they turned and started walking again toward the end of the pier, “this looks to be a pretty big haul.”

  “Looks that way,” Phil said. “What are you thinking? Maybe twenty million?”

  “At least,” Big Sal said. “Maybe thirty.”

  “Did you say thirty million?”

  “Possible. The foreman on the ship tells me they got some high-quality stuff. And lots of it.”

  “That’s one of our biggest hauls to date.”

  Sal stopped walking as they approached the ship’s bow, just short of the transoms where company dockworkers were moving crated boxes down the catwalk, loading some onto the NYC&S trucks and carting others into the warehouses. He turned and looked Phil in the eye.

  “That’s right. And the next one due in here two weeks from now could be even bigger than that. So things are looking quite rosy . . . except for one little problem.”

  Phil knew where this was going, but he also knew Sal, and he had to play along to keep the big guy from going ballistic. “What would that be?”

  “The problem is the possibility of drones swarming up in the air”—he pointed into the blue skies—“and busting up all the fun we’ve been having. Now, don’t you see that as a problem, Phil?”

  “Yes. Of course, Uncle Sal. It’s a potential problem.”

  “Well, I thought that by now you would assure me we got nothin’ to worry about!”

&n
bsp; “Well, we’ve been working on it, Uncle Sal. We sent Vinnie down to Washington—”

  “That, in and of itself, worries me,” the godfather said.

  “I know, Uncle Sal. Vinnie ain’t winnin’ no Einstein awards. But he’s loyal and he does what you tell him.”

  “You got a point. But we gotta have more than just the absence of screwups here.” Sal pulled out a big cigar. “Give me your lighter!”

  “Here, I’ll get it for you.”

  More smoke.

  “So what’s Vinnie been doing down there, and what’s going on with our boy, the distinguished Senator Chuckie Rodino?”

  “Well, Vinnie already paid ole Chuckie a visit. Made him visit him in a bar down there and laid down the line that we expect them to kill this thing.”

  The sharp clap of a single gunshot rang out, echoing inside the warehouse.

  “Another one bites the dust,” Sal said.

  “We need to start making these boys use silencers,” Phil said.

  “What’s the big deal?” Sal said. “It ain’t like the cops don’t know what’s going on.” He puffed on his cigar. “They’re getting paid a ton of money to keep their mouths shut.”

  “That’s a fact.”

  “So back to the point. I need to know this genie with the drones ain’t comin’ out of the bottle.”

  “Well, we’re watching it, boss. The Navy had this JAG officer who was about to write a legal opinion against us. Put it this way. That JAG officer ain’t a problem anymore.”

  They stopped at the end of the pier. Sal looked out over the East River, appearing to gaze across the way at Lower Manhattan.

  Phil kept his mouth shut and decided to enjoy the view. The views of Manhattan from across the East River never got old. As much as he wished Big Sal would stay in Florida, Phil couldn’t blame the old man for wanting to come back as much as possible. Once you got New York in your blood, there was no place like it on earth. Not Palm Beach. Not LA. Not Vegas. Not Chicago.

  Hopefully Sal would get his fix of the Big Apple and then get the heck out of town.

  Big Sal spoke again but didn’t look at Phil. “Okay, so the JAG officer ain’t a problem. But these officers are a dime a dozen. Ya wax one of ’em, they just replace him with another.”