“The check’s good. You can call Citibank.”
“We ain’t callin’ nobody. If it’s good, then you go cash it and bring us the green,” Shaka shot back and leaned closer. As he did, his jacket fell open, revealing a large, chrome-plated .44-magnum Smith and Wesson Model 29 revolver, the famous “Dirty Harry” cannon, hanging in a shoulder holster under his arm. As if the size of a well-aimed bullet mattered, Bob laughed to himself. Another goddamn amateur.
“Shaka may be blunt, Major, but he has a point,” Van Gries said as he glanced at his watch. “There is a Citibank branch on Atlantic Avenue, and they are open for another hour. You can’t miss it. We shall be sitting right here until you get back… and so will they, he nodded at Vinnie and Patsy.
“If the branch will cooperate that quickly, I have no problem with that. You know how banks are, however, and I want to get this thing done today.”
“Point taken,” Van Gries conceded. “So, to show you what ‘nice’ people we really are, I’ll call the branch manager personally, and tell him to expect you.”
“ ’Cause we want our money, boy; else we start cutting off body parts, startin’ with him,” Shaka added as he gave Vinnie a tap to the side of the head. “Then, I’ll be moving on to that cute squeeze of his, and then on to you.”
Bob saw Vinnie grimace. Obviously, he was in pain, probably a lot of it.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Burke turned and made several subtle adjustments to his stance and weight distribution, which only another martial arts expert might notice, and focused all of his attention on the stocky black man.
Corliss smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand. “You know, fo’ such a little dude, you sho got a big mouth.”
“Yeah, I do, and I usually back it up,” Bob answered nonchalantly. “I should be back here in an hour with the rest of the money, if your branch manager cooperates. Meanwhile, I’m taking Vinnie to the hospital. He needs a doctor.”
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere, least wise not until we see the rest of the green, and his tab be going up ‘ten large’ a day.” Corliss was rippling with “gym” muscles, but during his fifteen years in the Army, Bob had become highly proficient in many fighting disciplines, from Judo to Karate, Aikido, and Tae Kwon Do. His current favorite, however, was the specialized and highly lethal techniques called Krav Maga or “contact combat,” which the Israelis developed. While the other disciplines were primarily for self-defense, Krav Maga was a brutal, attacking form of street fighting intended to “neutralize threats,” as the Israelis so delicately put it. For a small man like Bob Burke, it was particularly useful to end fights before they began.
Corliss stepped forward and tried to intimidate Burke, strutting and puffing as he saw the heavyweight boxers do on TV before a big pay-per-view fight. He scowled and glared into Bob’s eyes, and then made the mistake of poking Bob in the chest with his index finger.
Bob took a step back and looked at Van Gries. “I only give one warning, Marty. Call him off, or he’s going to get seriously hurt.”
Enraged, Shaka poked him in the chest a second time, harder, which was when push did come to shove. Bob was never known for “playing well with others,” and only had one rule when it came to fighting — strike first, and end it before it began. His hands were a blur as they flashed out. One grabbed Shaka Corliss by the offending finger, twisted, and pulled him forward, off balance; as he did, he stepped in closer and his other hand reached inside Shaka’s jacket and pulled the big .44 hog leg from its holster. Unfortunately for Corliss, the two blond Hulks standing behind him on either side of the office door had more muscle and even less brains than he did. By the time they reacted, Bob had Shaka bent over and running around in a tight, painful circle. With a leg sweep to get him off his feet, Bob sent him flying into the two big security guards like a shaved-headed bowling ball going for a 7 – 10 split.
Shaka’s dark sunglasses went flying in one direction and the two bodybuilders in the other, as they landed in a heap of arms and legs in the doorway. Burke then spun around and pointed Corliss’s big, chrome-plated revolver at Martijn Van Gries’s head. Bob knew from first-hand experience that staring cross-eyed down the barrel of a large caliber gun could be a “religious experience” for the uninitiated. With a .44-magnum, it was more like falling off a horse on the road to Damascus.
“Marty,” Bob warned as he picked up the briefcase and dumped the stacks of money on Van Gries’s desk. “Before someone else gets stupid, the cash is yours, all of it, like I told you; and I’ll be back here with the rest of it in an hour. When I do, these three clowns had better not get in my way, or they’re going to the hospital. All of them. You got that? And those two are coming with me,” he motioned toward Vinnie and Patsy.
“No, I’m afraid they aren’t,” Bob heard a new, authoritative voice speak to him from the doorway. He turned his head, and from the photographs online, he immediately recognized Donatello Carbonari. Tall and muscular, with olive skin and dark, wavy hair and a well-tailored, three-piece suit, the big Mafioso more than filled the doorframe and the role. He paused to look down at his three goons lying in a disjointed heap at his feet as if they were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“Are they yours?” Bob asked as he backed up, so he could cover the entire room with the .44 Smith and Wesson.
“Unfortunately, they are,” Carbonari said disgustedly as he focused his dark brown eyes on the small man standing in the middle of the room with the big revolver.
“You know,” Bob warned, “incompetent help is worse than no help at all. Keep them on a short leash, or I’ll really hurt them next time.”
“You must be Mr. Burke. Is that the name I heard? Well done, but you might pay attention as to where you are. This is my business, my city, and your friend and the young woman are collateral on a very large debt they ran up, nothing more and nothing less. If you don’t like that, I suggest you start shooting; but you’re not going to do that, are you?”
“It’s okay, Major,” Vinnie said. “You take Patsy. I’ll stay here until you get back.”
Burke looked at Vinnie for a moment and then back at the big Italian. “The girl had nothing to do with this,” Burke told him.
Carbonari looked at him for a moment and then shrugged. “All right, she may go with you,” he said as he glanced at his expensive Phillipe Patek watch. “Consider it a peace offering, since you’re the one holding the gun at the moment; but you’re ‘on the clock,’ as they say. If you aren’t back here by 5:00 o’clock, sharp, I’ll let these three have some fun with your friend. Understood?”
Burke nodded as he lowered the chrome revolver, picked up the business card he had placed on Van Gries’ desk, and handed it to Carbonari. The mob boss studied it for a moment and said, “Chicago? Interesting, I had some friends back there.”
“Had? Probably the DiGrigorias,” Bob said, trying to sound nonchalant, but watching the big Italian’s eyes for a reaction. Carbonari did not disappoint. He quickly looked up from the business card, then focused on Bob Burke, surprised to hear that name spoken so indifferently. “Yeah,” Bob went on, sensing Carbonari was taking him more seriously now. “The Chicago Tribune was filled with stories about that big shoot-out in the suburbs. And that office building in Evanston that got bombed? The TV stuff went on for weeks.”
“So I understand,” Carbonari said as he looked at the business card again. “So what do I call you? Is it Mister Burke? President Burke? Or, did I hear Shaka call you Major?”
“That was a long time ago. I’m retired from all that Army stuff now,” he told him with a cold smile. “I’m just ‘the telephone guy’ now.”
Carbonari looked at him for a moment longer and then turned toward Van Gries. “Take the handcuffs off her,” he ordered. The Dutchman opened his desk drawer, pulled out a set of keys, and tossed them to Burke. “Time is getting short, and you should be going, Mister Burke. My men will escort your sergeant back to his room and help him pack, bu
t don’t take too long. As Shaka put it somewhat crudely, the vig on the remaining $185,000 is ten grand a day and the clock is running.”
“Ten grand? That sounds a bit steep, don’t you think?”
“Not when you consider the damage he caused and the injuries to my security people.” Carbonari then turned toward the twin Hulks and a thoroughly chagrined Shaka Corliss. “Got that? All three of you?” he asked, not too pleasantly.
Burke motioned toward Vinnie. “He needs a doctor.”
Carbonari eyed Vinnie for a moment “All right, I’ll have our house doctor check him out. Will that make you happy, Mr. Burke?”
“No, but it will do. And I expect him to be in no worse shape when I get back.”
“That’s fine, as long as he doesn’t prove disruptive again.”
“He won’t,” Burke said as he glared at Vinnie, and Van Gries opened Patsy’s handcuffs and helped her to her feet. Bob snapped the big Smith and Wesson open at the breech, tipped it up, and let a half dozen big .44-magnum slugs drop onto the carpet with heavy thumps. He then released the cylinder, and tossed the revolver and the cylinder into the far corner. Motioning for Patsy to follow, he headed for the office door.
“I’ll give you one thing,” Carbonari said with a thin smile on his lips as Bob walked by. “You’ve got balls.”
“Don’t worry, Donnie, I’ll be back,” Bob answered as he turned away and walked down the hallway. “And I’m always up for a rematch.”
“Ah’m counting on it, sucka’,” Corliss countered from behind his boss.
As Bob and Patsy reached the end of the hallway, rounded the corner, and entered the casino, Patsy slowed and looked nervously back toward the business office. “But what about Vinnie, Bob? And our things?” she asked.
“They won’t hurt him,” he told her. “They want their money. Now, let’s get you out of here before they change their minds.”
Carbonari followed them into the hallway and then stopped. He was seething inside as he watched Burke and the woman walk to the end of the corridor, turn to the left, and disappear. He watched, but he wouldn’t allow himself to show any emotion, not yet.
Shaka came up next to him, smacked his right fist into the palm of his left hand and said, “You ain’t gonna let that little bastard walk out of here like that, are you, Boss?”
Carbonari’s head snapped around and he glared down at the shorter black man, his thin plastic smile slowly fading. “Help me out here, Shaka. Why exactly did I hire you? I know there must have been a reason, but I’m drawing a complete blank at the moment.”
Shaka had been in trouble before, but he could see he was in big trouble this time. The two Hulks knew it too, and began to slowly back away. Shaka did not have that option. He had to stand there and take it, knowing never to argue back when Donatello Carbonari was in one of these “moods” of his. Finally, Shaka dared to speak up. “Look, you let me go after him, and I’ll…”
The corridor was only five feet wide. For a moment, Carbonari was content to merely glare down at the shorter, muscular black man. “You just don’t know when to shut up, do you?” he asked as his eyes flared and he slammed Shaka Corliss in the chest with both fists, lifting him off the floor and bouncing him off the office wall.
Corliss found himself on the floor, looking up into the harsh fluorescent lights and the figure of Donatello Carbonari looming over him. Corliss’s signature pair of black, wraparound Oakley sunglasses must have flown off his head and were now lying somewhere on the floor in Martijn Van Gries’s office. Without them, Carbonari and the entire world could look into his eyes, leaving Shaka Corliss feeling oddly mortal, like Sampson, the moment he discovered his hair was gone. The street thug wasn’t accustomed to being talked to or cuffed about like that by anyone. However, as he looked up at Carbonari and saw the crazy anger in his boss’s eyes, he knew to stay down.
“I… I don’t know what happened, Boss. I swear it. That little bastard was quicker than I thought, but he won’t…”
“That’s the first halfway intelligent thing you’ve said today, Shaka,” Carbonari turned and vented some of his anger on the two Hulks. Finally, he strode back into Martijn Van Gries’s office, pointed at Vinnie still cuffed to the chair, and looked back at Corliss. “Take this one back up to his room, and help him pack up their stuff. And by the way, Shaka, are you a good swimmer? How long can you hold your breath underwater?”
Shaka paused, confused by the question. “I don’t know, Boss. Maybe a minute or two. I ain’t real good at it. Why?”
“Why? If this one disappears, or you screw anything else up today, I’ve got a 55-gallon oil drum down on the pier, and we may just find out.” Shaka looked across at him and blinked as Carbonari’s words sunk in. “Burke will be back here in an hour and we’ll take care of him then. You can make book on it. Then, we’ll take care of all of them — maybe you, too. So, get the hell out of my sight!”
Shaka unlocked Vinnie’s handcuffs and he and the two goons grabbed the sergeant by his arms. Half dragging him, they were out the door as quickly as they could move. That left Carbonari and Van Gries alone in the office. That was when Carbonari discovered he still had Burke’s business card in his hand. He held it up and gave it a closer examination.
“Chicago…” Carbonari mused for a moment, and then flicked the card at the Dutchman. “Make some calls. Check this guy out before he gets back.”
Van Gries picked up the card and looked at it. “You think he’s trouble?”
“Oh, I think the ‘Major’ has already established that fact, don’t you agree, Martijn? One of the things that separates me from those cretins in New York is that I don’t sit around waiting for someone to get the jump on me. I squash them before they get the chance.”
Van Gries shrugged. “Some bugs are easier to squash than others, you know, and I’m not sure about this one.”
Carbonari glared at him. “Get your sweet little ass out from behind that desk, and follow me,” he said. “There’s some ‘maintenance’ work that needs our attention in the basement.” That said, he quickly turned, walked out of the office and headed for the rear service corridor.
CHAPTER SIX
As soon as Bob and Patsy disappeared around the corner, he took her lightly by the elbow. “Keep your head down,” he told her as he picked up speed, and headed for the casino’s Self Park exit, avoiding the overhead security cameras and blending into the crowd. From the moment his jet landed at the Philly airport, his old infantryman’s antennae had ratcheted up to a higher level. When he entered the casino, they went on high alert, his eyes sweeping the room and his ears listening for any sound. Patsy wasn’t aware of it, but after he met Corliss and Carbonari, his lethal hands and feet went into full combat mode, ready to make or counter any attack in a split second.
As they strode through the casino and neared the Self Park ramp, he saw three tall rows of slot machines near the exit doors, and Linda. She sat on a high-back stool at the end machine on the aisle, the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth, totally absorbed in Wheel of Fortune. It featured a large rotating multicolored wheel and perhaps the highest concentration of flashing lights on the casino floor. Linda was so engrossed in the game that she hadn’t seen them coming until Bob tapped on her shoulder.
“Jeez, you scared the hell out of me, Bob,” she said as she almost fell off the chair.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly as he continued to look around.
“Go? But I’m up eighty-seven bucks,” she pointed at the screen and pleaded. That was when she finally saw a badly frazzled Patsy Evans standing next to him. “Oh, God, what am I thinking?” She gave herself a dopey-slap on the forehead, stood, and threw her arms around the younger woman. “Are you all right, honey? Where’s Vinnie? Isn’t he coming?”
Bob let them have a three second hug before he broke the clinch with, “We need to go now, Linda. They’re keeping him until we get back.”
“Keeping him? Didn’t you g
ive them the money?”
“I’ll explain in the car,” he told her as he handed her the empty briefcase so he could keep his hands free, and herded the two women toward the exit.
Donatello Carbonari could not have been more different from his father, his grandfather, or the other members of the family. Smart, tall, sophisticated, and olive-skinned handsome, he graduated Summa Cum Laude from Yale with a degree in finance, followed by an MBA from the Stanford Graduate School of Business. However, underneath that three-piece suit, Phi Beta Kappa key, and good looks, he had inherited his “freakin’ old man’s” violent temper and flashes of irrationality. It made for a very lethal combination in a career criminal. With his education and intelligence, the rackets were not what his father had in mind for him. He intended for him to stay on the outside, squeaky clean, so he could run the legitimate businesses and money laundering for the big New York families.
From the moment the Feds locked up “Crazy Eddie” in the Supermax, ignoring his father's wishes, Donatello jumped into the family business with both feet, working hard to make himself invaluable to the New York City crime families. He squeezed his operations and immediately produced more profits. In ever-larger steps, he got them to increase their investments in his expanding casino, hotel, and real estate empire. As those projects spun off more and more cash, his reputation for making money, a lot of money, for his partners grew, and it became easier and easier to pull in still more partners and still more cash. He soon added labor unions and mob bosses in Boston, Chicago, Detroit, and New Orleans, helping to counterbalance the heavy New York interests. As his operations grew, however, the “low-hanging fruit” became harder and harder to find. Profits finally stagnated, but the appetites of his partners for still more profits never abated. That was when he met Martijn Van Gries, who taught him a few badly needed and very complicated tricks to shift money around and make it happen anyway.
Burke's Gamble Page 5
