“Okay where?”
“We’ll meet tomorrow morning at Junior's on 44th at ten o’clock,” I demanded.
“One thing Bill, I want my gun back. I like that gun.”
I ended the call and wondered about this meeting. It couldn’t possibly go as planned.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The next morning I woke up and went into the kitchen looking for coffee. To my dismay all I found was instant Maxwell House coffee and Earl Grey Green tea. I opted for a double scoop of instant coffee with sugar and lit a cig. Not exactly how I liked my mornings, but at least I wasn’t behind bars.
At seven o’clock I called Jimmy. “Can you help me?” I asked.
I told him about my conversation with Kenny.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding, Bill. He’s tricked you on every deal. How can you trust him?”
“All I can say is that it’s my turn. I need you to be there this morning at nine o’clock. Check out both 44th and 45th Street. We’re going to meet at Junior’s on 44th at ten. I need to know if you see any FBI suits or suspicious vans before I get over there.”
“Okay.”
“Try not to be spotted, just keep circling.
“I’ll call you once I do a few laps. Good luck and be careful.”
“Thanks Jimmy,” I said, and ended the call.
Next I called Patrick Sullivan. I explained what I was up to, that this could be a set-up, and that I needed his help. “Can you meet me with the payment for my recent project?”
“This is good news. Our people will handle things after you meet with Kenny. I’ll be in a black limo double parked on York and 69th at eight thirty,” Patrick said.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll see you then.”
I got dressed and headed over to meet Patrick Sullivan. I stopped at a Starbucks on Third Avenue and 66th Street. I needed a good cup of coffee. I headed over York and stood on the corner to wait for Sullivan, smoking like a chimney and sipping coffee in between drags.
After about five cigs, the black limo came around the corner, double parked, and turned on its flashing hazard lights. I walked over to the passenger side waiting to be acknowledged. I couldn’t see past the black tinted windows, only my own reflection. After a while the back window rolled down, and Patrick Sullivan’s face replaced my own reflection.
“You look different,” he said. “I’m not sure I would have recognized you if I didn’t know I was meeting you. Get in.”
Patrick Sullivan studied me for a few seconds and I gave him a thin smile. “You continue to amaze me, Bill. I didn’t think you’d stick around with the FBI hot on your ass. You remind me of a bulldog, with its jaws clamped down and locked on its prey. I admire your tenacity. Please take this as a goodwill gesture and a token of my appreciation,” he said, and handed over manila envelope thick with what I assumed was money.
I placed the envelope on the seat to my right.
Patrick squinted, brows furrowed. His eyes darted from me to the envelope.
“Are you even gonna look?” he asked, appearing insulted.
“Oh sorry, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“I hope it helps you settle the loose ends you’ve mentioned. You’ll still have a job waiting for you in our organization when you are finished,” Patrick said, with a slight nod.
I opened the envelope and found six bundles of hundred dollar bills wrapped with rubber bands. Surprised by the large amount, I smiled. “Thank you, sir. This is a very generous.”
Patrick tilted his head to the side and cracked his neck. “I want you to know that because of your quick thinking Morgan is going to recover from his injuries.”
“It was my cousin Jimmy that got us both to the hospital. Jimmy stepped up to save us.”
“I had heard he was a drug addict. That’s very surprising,” Patrick said.
“Jimmy’s been clean for almost a year. He recently got married. He’s come a long way and can be counted on. If it wasn't for him, Morgan might be dead.” "I didn't realize he’d played such a big part."
"Can I ask you a favor? Can you let Jimmy continue working with your crew?"
“I'll see what I can do,” said Patrick. “You go ahead, have your meeting, and we’ll catch up with Kenny at some point. I expect that the FBI will keep us at bay for a while. Either way we will track him. It may be difficult, but we’ll take care of that rat. I wish you good luck. Contact me again when you’re ready to work.”
I left Patrick Sullivan and on my way to meet Kenny my phone went off. It was Jimmy. “How’s it looking?”
“There’s definitely some activity,” he said. “I saw a couple of vans with dark tinted windows and groups of wise guys standing around in blazers. It looks like everyone’s waiting for a special guest to get here,” Jimmy said.
“This may be harder than I thought,” I said, letting out a big sigh.
“What… Whatcha gonna do?” Jimmy asked, with a nervous stammer.
“Wait, I have an idea. You’re going to meet with Kenny…”
Jimmy cut me off. “Hold it. I’m already in too deep,” Jimmy said.
“Just hear me out, and I’ll handle the whole thing. I need you to just go into the restaurant, sit at his table, and order raspberry cheesecake. Don’t sit down until you see him at a table waiting. I’ll be right behind you, ready to do the rest,” I said.
“Okay, let’s do this,” he said, trying to be brave.
“Alright brother.”
At nine fifty-five Kenny entered Junior's carrying a gym bag and was seated. I arrived in time to see Jimmy enter and sit at Kenny’s table. I asked to be seated on the other side of the restaurant and left my black leather jacket hanging over the chair. I knew my white shirt and black pants made me look like a waiter, and I quickly grabbed a pad, pen, and towel from the waiter’s station and went over to take their order. They had already started talking when I stepped over to their table.
“Would you like some coffee to start?” I asked.
Jimmy right on queue said, “I’ll have a slice of raspberry cheesecake and a regular coffee.”
“I’ll just have coffee,” Kenny said, trailing off as he recognized me.
I had Kenny’s gun in my hand under the towel. “Make any abrupt moves and you’ll regret it. Now give Jimmy the gym bag so he can see the two hundred thousand.” Kenny slowly handed the bag to Jimmy. He unzipped it only enough to see some of the money and feel around for the rest. He looked up and nodded. A wide grin crossed his face.
“Here you go, brother,” Jimmy said. He zipped up the bag and handed it to me.
“As promised, here’s your favorite gun,” I said, and placed it on the table under the towel.
“You’re not gonna make it outta here,” Kenny said, feeling confident and putting his hand under the towel.
“You said no more tricks.”
“I lied,” he said, pulling out the gun.
“HE’S GOT A GUN!” I yelled.
Before Kenny had a chance to react, I swung the bag full force. It hit him straight in the face, knocking him and the chair over. The last thing I saw as I grabbed my black leather jacket and pushed Jimmy out of the restaurant was Kenny’s feet in the air. On the way out, I heard crashing tables and people yelling.
Kenny struggled to get up, waving the gun around in front of him. People in the restaurant screamed and dove away from the man with the gun. He pointed the gun at me and squeezed the trigger several times, but it was empty. An off-duty police officer tackled Kenny and started pounding him with his fists. A second later Kenny was in handcuffs as a stampede of customers followed us out of the restaurant and into the street. To add to the confusion, black-suited FBI agents came running into the restaurant.
We rushed over to Eighth Avenue and caught a taxi uptown to 57th Street, then walked over to Ninth Avenue and took another taxi to Tracy’s apartment. Once inside, Jimmy pulled out the bourbon and poured a nice amount in each glass. He held up his glass for a toast. “Here’
s to a job well done. Now go get that fucking asshole, Viktor,” he said.
We brought our glasses together, with a clink. “And here’s to you, brother. I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said, letting out a slight cough and clinking Jimmy’s glass again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Jimmy called Tracy that night to let her know that everything was fine. He told her that I needed his help and was staying over at the apartment. We drank the rest of the Knob Creek, and filled up a large ashtray with cigarette butts. I went to bed completely exhausted. Jimmy stayed up to watch TV. I heard him laughing at something before I passed out in the bedroom.
The next morning I got up early. I made a couple of mugs of coffee and sat down on the couch next to Jimmy, who was snoring loudly. I turned on the TV, lit up a cig, sipped the coffee and watched the news. Not a word about a gunman being arrested at Junior's.
I grabbed my black leather jacket, which hung over the kitchen chair and took out Patrick's money from the inside pocket. I placed six stacks of hundred dollar bills on the coffee table. Each stack was ten thousand dollars. Then I picked up the gym bag and emptied it out next to the stacks. Two hundred sixty thousand dollars. I slapped Jimmy on the leg. “Do you believe all this shit is real?”
Jimmy jumped up and held up his hands. “I didn't fucking do anything,” he blurted out, trying to get an idea where he was.
He squinted his eyes and looked at the pile of cash. “Whoa! That's a shit load of cash, brother.”
“And some of it’s yours,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
I counted out ten stacks. “Here's the wedding present I couldn't give while I was in a coma,” I said.
Jimmy just sat there, blinking at the money. I patted his back. “Kenny owes me a lot more for ruining my life, but I wanna share some of his money with you and Tracy.”
“Wow, Bill. I don't know what to say. I've never had that much money before.” Tears filled his eyes.
“Why are you crying?” I asked.
“Cause it’s so fucking beautiful,” he said, wiping his face with a shirtsleeve.
“I owe you and Tracy for sticking out your necks. Once I'm back from my vacation maybe things will get better for me too,” I said, feeling a little unsure.
“Let me go check on the identity stuff and the ship arrangements. I'll give you a buzz later. Everything should be done today and we can get you on your way,” Jimmy said, trying to give me some hope.
“Be careful. I'm not sure how safe it is for you,” I said.
“I doubt he's interested in me. I didn't do anything to him and the FBI isn't after me,” Jimmy said.
“Don't be stupid. How do you know? They might try to follow you to get to me. Just make sure you're not being followed. Stay away from your place until I'm on my way.”
“Tracy will never go for that. One night is okay, but a few and I'll be in the doghouse. I'll move things along and be back in a few hours,” Jimmy said.
Then he bolted up, went into the kitchen, and came out with a small shopping bag. He scooped up the money, put it in the bag, and rushed out, slamming the door behind him.
I opened the gym bag, placed it on the floor at the edge of the table, and slowly dragged my forearm across the table. The stacks of hundred cascaded over the edge, tumbling like a waterfall into the waiting fissure. There had to be a way for me to put the money someplace safe and still withdraw cash as needed overseas.
Later that afternoon Jimmy called.
“I picked up your papers, but there's a change with the ship,” he told me. “It was supposed to come into New York but is now going to dock in Newark, New Jersey. We can head over there tomorrow, pay off the captain, and get you on board.”
“I need to set up a bank account to access my money from Europe or Russia.”
“I'll be over in an hour or so. Just hang tight.”
“Remember to make sure you aren't followed.”
“I will. Things look cool so far. Don't be so paranoid,” he said, and ended the call.
Jimmy ran late, and I started pacing in the apartment. The day was slipping away. My cigarettes were running low so I did sets of pushups and crunches to reduce my anxiety. At around four o'clock Jimmy showed up with a carton of Marlboro Reds and another bottle of Knob Creek, plus some food.
“Sorry I'm late Bill, I was trying to make sure everything is clear. I grabbed a few things at the deli a few blocks away, but they didn't have much,” Jimmy said, a little nervous. He handed me a large envelope. “Here, look this over and make sure you're happy with everything. I glanced at it and it looked pretty fucking professional.”
I opened the envelope and dumped the contents onto the coffee table. A passport, two credit cards, social security card, and driver’s license. I opened the passport. John Wilfred O'Brien. “It feels a little funny to have a new name. Maybe I'll get used to it after a while.”
“Maybe.”
“It all looks official to me, but I’m no expert."
“I guess if it passes at the bank tomorrow, then you’ll know it’s good enough,” Jimmy said.
“I'll give it a shot.”
“I'll know more tomorrow about the ship’s port and departure. We're close, so just hang in there and be careful walking around town.”
“You gonna stay a while and have a couple of drinks?”
“Nah, I gotta go. I'm having dinner with Tracy.”
“Okay, enjoy, and tell her thanks for everything.”
“I will. See ya tomorrow. I'll call you as soon as I hear something,” he said as he left.
The next morning I awoke ready to get to the bank and test out my new identity. If there were any problems I'd need to know it now. I took a scalding shower, shaved, brushed my teeth and skipped the instant coffee.
I left the apartment and headed to the bank. I sat for a while in a chair next to an old woman who needed help cashing in her coins. Once she was attended to, a blond librarian type in a business suit came over.
“Can I help you, sir? I'm assistant manager Jenna Johnson.” She gave me a big smile with the whitest teeth I'd ever seen.
“Yes, I would like to open a new account,” I said.
“Absolutely, please come right this way. Have a seat Mister...?" She said, and straightened her skirt before taking a seat behind a polished wood desk.
“Bill... I mean John Wilfred O'Brien. I use my middle name. Bill is fine,” I said, putting the gym bag on my lap. When I handed over the hundred thousand dollars in cash, her hands shook, and she seemed a little nervous as she filled out the last of the paperwork.
I wondered what she looked like once her glasses and clothes were off, her hair hanging down, without the frumpy corporate look. I explained that I was traveling overseas for a few months and needed access. I suddenly felt very sad and lonely.
My license and passport worked great without a hitch. After a few signatures we shook hands, and I was on my way.
Jimmy called on my way back to Tracy's. “Hey Jimmy.”
“Good news,” he said. “The ship's name is Eibek and is docked at Port Newark in New Jersey. We meet the captain, Igor Kozlov, tomorrow at four in the morning. You can give him your donation and join his crew for the trip,” Jimmy explained. “I'll get a taxi and pick you up at around three.” I hung up the phone and thought about the trip over the Atlantic to a country I didn’t know. I had no way of anticipating what I would face on my journey or how I was going to get Viktor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jimmy arrived at about three fifteen. On the way through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey, Jimmy enlightened me about the captain. “Just try to hang back and say as little as possible to him. My friend told me he has a reputation for being very gruff. Hopefully he'll be happy with your donation.”
After thirty-five minutes we arrived at the Marine Terminal. The taxi driver drove down E. Port Street, which ended at a security checkpoint.
We got out and Jimmy
paid him. “There’ll be a few extra twenties if you wait to take me back,” Jimmy told him. Keep the meter running.”
We walked over to the security booth and spoke to the guards. “We’re meeting with Captain Kozlov of the Eilbek,” Jimmy told them.
The guard checked for our names on his clipboard. He flipped through a few pages and nodded letting us through.
As we passed security I noticed the first ship docked at the pier. The ship's size was impressive, longer than a football field, and it made me feel small in comparison. Bright floodlights lit up the activities on the docks as workers rushed around, loading supplies and preparing for departure. It was hard to believe that it was only four in the morning.
We walked down to the second ship. Eilbek was painted in white text on the side of a giant black ship with a red bottom. A large crane loaded a blue forty-foot long metal container onto the ship's deck. The sound of the containers being stacked was deafening. I watched in awe as the crane picked up a blue container that weighed tons and placed it on the deck with a loud boom, before it went back for another container.
We found the captain further down on the dock yelling in Russian at the dockworkers. He seemed oblivious to our presence. A clean-shaven, short man with a stone face and a wide stocky frame, he wore a navy cap with a navy wool coat and black rubber boots.
He turned to greet us, and sneered in a heavy Russian accent, “What in the fuck do you want?”
“I'm Jimmy Campbell and this is John O'Brien,” Jimmy said.
“Yeah, so who cares? I have no time for dis bullshit,” he blurted, turned and walked away.
“We were told to be here at four this morning, and that for the right donation, you might let my friend come aboard and travel to your next port. Is that still the case?” Jimmy inquired.
“Oh yeah, now I remember. He wants to leave America? Da?” the Captain said, slightly changing his disposition.
Bourbon & Blood: A Crime Fiction Novel (Bill Conlin Thriller) Page 17
