Gangster

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  Spider nodded as Angelo and Pudge followed him down the basement steps.

  “Our trucks should be here in a few minutes to start moving out the whiskey,” Pudge said. “From the size of the haul, it’s gonna take them a good two hours to clear the place out.”

  “I want the whole floor emptied,” Angelo said. “Have them break open any cases that can’t fit inside the trucks.”

  “All except for one bottle,” Pudge said. “That one we gift wrap and mail to Wells. He’s gonna need a drink when he hears about this.”

  Angelo walked into the small office next to the warm furnace. He looked around at the file cases and long stacks of ledgers wedged against the corners of the room. “This is where Wells keeps all his distribution records,” Pudge said. “The folders in those cabinets have all the names and dates, how much each haul costs and how much it brings in.”

  Angelo picked up a ledger and leafed through the pages. “Who tipped you about all this?”

  “A balls-on-his-ass gambler who owns Sam’s Deli, about three blocks down. Wells has been eating brisket sandwiches in there since he first had money in his pocket. But he won’t handle any of Sam’s action because he knows the guy’s nothing but a deadbeat. So for the last year or so, Sam’s been betting with a runner from our crew. Last week, I found out Sam was into us for about nine hundred dollars. I cut the difference and in return got him to spill what he knew about this place.”

  “There’s at least thirty thousand worth of whiskey in those crates,” Angelo said. “Maybe more. It’s not nice to keep those kind of secrets from your partners.”

  “Wells started working out of this building when he first got into the rackets,” Pudge said. “That was back in the early years, probably before he ever even heard about Angus. He’s got his big distribution warehouse over on Gun Hill Road. That’s the one we’re supposed to know about. This one, he tries to keep a lid on. Likes to think of it as his good-luck spot.”

  “His luck just changed,” Angelo said, tossing one of the ledgers onto the small desk in the center of the office. “And not for the better.”

  • • •

  THE FURNACE DOOR was open and the room was filled with clouds of white smoke. Angelo sat on a wooden chair, his back to the stairs and to Spider, casually throwing ledgers and crammed folders into the mouth of the fire. One floor above, he heard the muted voices and the heavy footsteps of Pudge and his men loading whiskey crates onto the backs of flatbed trucks. His face and shirt were dripping wet from the stifling heat, but Angelo went about his task of destroying the carefully maintained records and receipts of Jack Wells’s beer and whiskey business.

  “You better think about what you’re doing, Angelo,” Spider said, his voice tired and hoarse. “When Jack hears about all this, it’ll be sure to start another war.”

  “We never finished the last one,” Angelo said. He threw another packed folder into the center of the flames and walked over to where Spider was laying with his head against the final step. “We’ll start doing that today.”

  “By doing what, burning his records and stealing his whiskey?” Spider asked. “That’s not the smart way to hurt Wells.”

  “You’re his number-one man now, Spider,” Angelo said, bending down and staring into his former friend’s eyes. “He listens to you. Comes to you for advice. That kind of clout carries a lot of muscle, the kind a top gang boss doesn’t like to lose. So killing you, that would hurt Jack Wells, wouldn’t it? Hurt him a lot?”

  MacKenzie looked up at Angelo, his face filled with regret and relief. “You’d be doing me a favor,” he said. “I should never have walked away from what I had with Angus. It was where I belonged.”

  Angelo stood and stared down at Spider MacKenzie, the fire from the furnace warming both of them and casting the room in an eerie glow of dancing shadows. He tightened his grip on the gun and held it away from his side. He took a long and silent breath and calmly fired three bullets into Spider’s upper body. Then Angelo shoved the gun into its holster, turned and walked back toward the furnace to burn the last of the records.

  • • •

  A GANGSTER MUST always be prepared to kill a friend. It is one of the many open secrets of the business, since it is the truest test of his ability to rule and command the respect of his crew. To eliminate a sworn enemy requires little more than opportunity, luck and the willingness to pull a trigger. But to end the life of someone once considered close, regardless of any previous betrayal, requires a determination that few men possess. “We never talked about that end of it, me and Ang,” Pudge once explained to me. “I guess we didn’t want to have to ever think about it. We loved each other more than brothers. But if business called for it, I don’t doubt for a second that he would have pulled the trigger on me, just as I’m sure I would have pulled it on him. I’m not saying we would have been happy about it or that we wouldn’t have cried about it after it was over, but we would have seen it through. I don’t see as how we had any other choice. No gangster does.”

  I knew they were killers, but I never felt in any danger when I was in their company. As a child, I would listen to the stories and appreciate their sense of mystery and adventure. As an adult, I would never allow myself the luxury of judging them, but would sometimes question my own lack of concern over their willingness to bring a life to an end. It is not easy to love those so quick and eager to kill. Angelo’s children, for example, having learned the truth about their father, were too frightened to ever want to be allowed close. It was a door they refused to open. But for me it was different. I was raised in the life and was well aware of its murderous rules. To do otherwise, meant to turn my back on the two men I loved more than any other.

  • • •

  MARY HAD SAT silently for many minutes, her eyes on Angelo, her mind swayed by the memories she had conjured up during our long night together. Behind me, the early-morning sun was bringing the city to life, while outside the room the nurses were in the midst of a shift change. “He was so afraid to get close to anyone,” she finally said, looking back up at me. “Anyone he ever got close to had ended up dead.”

  “He was close to you,” I said. “At least I think he was, from the way you talk about him. And you’re still alive.”

  “There are many different ways to die,” Mary said. “Sometimes words can inflict more pain than any bullet. Angelo understood that.”

  “Is that what he did with you?”

  “And with you,” she said.

  “Then why are we here?” I asked. “Why are we the ones who still care?”

  “Maybe he didn’t take all the love we felt for him away from us,” Mary said, her beautiful face suddenly twisted and sad.

  “Why not?” A rush of anger added an edge to my words. “If he was so tough, so ruthless, why couldn’t he make us hate him enough to wish him dead?”

  Mary pulled back her chair and walked toward the large door in the corner of the room. Her head was down and her hands were at her side, her walk still poised and dignified. “Maybe he didn’t want to,” she said with her back to me. “It could be as simple as that.”

  Then she walked out into the hall, the thick door closing slowly behind her, leaving me alone with Angelo in the stillness of the dying man’s room.

  • • •

  THE ALBINO WOLFHOUND locked its thick jaw around the pit bull’s muscular neck. The crowd of men surrounding the dirt pit cheered and tossed more money into the huge box next to Jack Wells.

  “Double my action, Big Jack,” a large bearded man in bib overalls and a hunter’s coat shouted. “And gear yourself to watch your favorite pit bull die.”

  “Be a pleasure to take your money,” Wells shouted back. “And if he loses out to an albino dog, then my old Grover deserves nothing short of death.”

  The small barn was smoke-filled and crowded. Sixty men stood in a tight circle around a split-rail fence, watching and wagering on the blood sport of dog fighting. Once a month, regardless of the ti
me of year or what else was going on in his life, Jack Wells ventured up to an empty Yonkers farmhouse to rule over a series of matches featuring the fiercest dogs in the tristate area. Kegs of beer and empty steins lined the walls and full bottles of whiskey were available at discount prices, as the screaming wagers often reached as high as five thousand dollars a battle.

  A dog needed to die in order to lose. It was going on two years now, but Jack Wells’s pit bull, Grover, named after his favorite American president, Grover Cleveland, had yet to lose a match, tasting only—and literally—the warm blood of victory. Between bouts, the dog was fed the finest cuts of raw beef. He was given a daily bath in a mixture of pure bleach, hand soap and dry ice to keep his skin rough to the touch and hard to cut. He also had his front incisors filed and sharpened daily. Grover was allowed no displays of affection, his mean streak kept fresh for his monthly battles in the dirt ring. He was locked in a large mesh cage in the back of the barn on the days he wasn’t scheduled to fight, prodded regularly with long sharp sticks by the attendants paid to care for him. Each night, before his supper, a long leather leash was strapped around Grover’s neck and he would be taken to the fields outside where he would chase down ten live rabbits let loose for him to kill. The inhumane treatment served its intended purpose. Grover was the meanest dog in the ring and every owner feared putting his best up against him. “If the guys on my crew were half as tough as that dog,” Wells would often brag, “I’d own more than a chunk of the city. I’d own half the damn country.”

  • • •

  WELLS HELD A lit match against the end of a cigar as he watched Grover spin from the wolfhound’s grip and clamp his strong jaw muscles on one of his hind legs. Grover ground his teeth down hard and the sound of a bone snapping could be heard even above the loud noise of the crowd. Wells blew out the match with a thick white line of smoke and smiled, sensing yet another in an unrivaled string of victories. He turned to his right and caught the eye of the wolfhound’s owner. “Do your dog a favor,” he shouted across the room, “shoot him dead now, before my Grover starts tearing him apart. A couple of minutes more and you won’t be able to sell his carcass to the dog food buyers.”

  The man, in a three-piece suit and bowler hat, dropped a handful of money to the floor, turned and walked out of the barn. The crowd edged in closer, standing in silence, staring down at the bloody slaughter taking place just beneath their feet. The wolfhound was lying flat on the ground now, his white coat drenched in blood, half his torso torn away. Grover was in a foam-induced frenzy, biting and chewing frantically, ripping at exposed bone and flesh. “This match is over, Wells,” a man from across the fence shouted out. “Call it and let the poor beast die in peace.”

  “It’s over when I say it’s over,” an angry Wells shouted back. “And that’s not gonna happen until I see my dog standing over a dead one.”

  Angelo Vestieri waited in the rear of the crowd, his back against a stack of fresh-cut hay, watching as Wells held court over an odd mix of farmers, hunters and hoodlums. He had been there for the bulk of the evening, safely hidden by the thick backs and raised arms of men eager for a closer look and a larger wager, his lungs burning from the smoke fumes he inhaled. He knew that this fight would be the last one for the night and that soon the crowd would begin to disperse, walking away with what was left of their money and their dogs. He also knew, as Ida the Goose had told him years earlier, that Jack Wells would be the very last to leave the barn.

  It was close to dawn when Jack Wells stood in the bloodstained pit of the barn and counted his winnings. Grover, tired and bitten-up, stood by his side, drinking from a large bowl of cold water, white foam as dense as lard still running down the sides of his mouth. Wells folded the bills and nodded a final good-bye to the last straggler, a middle-aged farmhand carrying a bandaged rottweiler out a side door. He leaned down and ran a hand slowly across Grover’s back, checking the severity of his wounds.

  “It’s gonna take more than a couple of bites to put you down, tough guy,” he said to the dog, his soft voice swelled with a parent’s pride. “I’ll get you fixed up and then we’ll come back here for one last go-around. After that, you can call it quits and have your way with as many bitches as you can handle.”

  Grover growled and continued to lap at his water with a casual indifference. The dog’s eyes had a vacant look, his nose was stuffed with mucus and blood, and his breath was still hot and moist. Small pools of blood had formed around his four paws.

  “It took me awhile, but I finally figured you out,” Angelo said, stepping out from the back of the barn, standing now under the overhead lights, facing Wells and the dog. “You’re the kind of guy who orders the kill but never gets his hands bloody. Likes to let others lead his fights. Even his own dog.”

  Wells looked up at Angelo’s words. Grover showed off a mouthful of teeth and gave out a low bark, more routine than menacing. “I didn’t know you were a fan of the dog fights,” Wells said. “I hope you didn’t lose too much betting heavy against my boy here.”

  “I’m not,” Angelo said. “And I didn’t.”

  “It would be nice if I could offer you a little something to drink,” Wells said with a shrug. “But my booze supply is on the low side this month. I don’t know if you heard about it or not, but one of my Bronx warehouses just took a big hit.”

  “I don’t drink,” Angelo said. “And I don’t make a move on my partner, unless he gives me a reason.”

  Jack Wells kicked aside a rock and stepped closer to Angelo, his bleeding dog now resting his head next to the water bowl, his watery eyes giving way to sleep. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’m gonna give you a chance to walk away from all of this. You’re young still, probably saved a good chunk of the cash you made. Here’s your shot to quit the rackets, leave with what you got and leave alive. Best deal I’m ever gonna put on a table for anybody.”

  “I love my work,” Angelo said. He spoke in a calm and steady voice, both hands in his pants pockets, his eyes staring over at Wells. “And I’m too young to retire.”

  “You’re too young to die, too,” Wells said. “But as sure as there’s buffalos on nickels, I’m gonna see you dead.”

  Angelo took a slow look around the barn, gazing at the bales of hay stacked three deep and at the horse stalls, shuttered and clean. He turned to his left and peeked through the fence, droplets of blood still dripping off its rails, the brown dirt mixing in with the spillage of bone and fluids. “What better time than right now?” he said.

  Wells bent to his waist and rushed into Angelo, who braced himself for the hit, arms out to his side, his feet spread wide apart, the heels of his black shoes digging into the thick dirt. Angelo grunted as he wrapped his arms around Wells, raising a knee into the smaller man’s stomach. The two fell together, crashing through the loose bolt of a horse stall. Wells flailed away at Angelo’s head and chest, full-force blows raining down on his rib cage and cheeks, causing him to gulp for breaths of air. Angelo squeezed a handful of dirt between his fingers and tossed it into Wells’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, then he tossed Wells off his stomach and jumped to his feet, his chest burning with pain, blood flowing out one side of his mouth.

  “You’re not good enough to take me down,” Wells said, his breath coming in short puffs. “And you never were. If you wanna know the truth, your wife would have put up a better fight.”

  Angelo flew off his feet, the weight of his body crashing down hard against Jack Wells, ramming his back up along the side of a wooden pole. He then began to throw punches in a blind fury, attacking Wells from every possible angle, landing flush rights and lefts to his head, swinging his right knee repeatedly and viciously into his groin and stomach. It didn’t take long. Wells crumbled in a slow heap to the ground, his legs folded over one another, his head falling forward and to one side. Angelo continued hitting and stomping him, his shoes moving in a slow rhythm from the dirt floor to Wells’s face, their tips tinged with lines of blood. Sweat
blanketed Angelo’s angular frame. The knuckles of his hands were shed of all their skin and coated with rich, thick red streaks.

  A long, muscular arm reached up from behind Angelo and brought an end to the assault.

  “He’s had it,” Pudge said, whispering into Angelo’s right ear, a firm grip on his chest and arms.

  Angelo was breathing heavily, the air wheezing its way out of his mouth, his hair matted down, his face bright crimson. He glanced over his shoulder at Pudge and nodded. “Help me toss him into the pit,” he said.

  Angelo grabbed Wells under the shoulders, Pudge lifted his legs and they walked his prone body out of the horse stall. They stopped in front of the split-rail fence and Pudge kicked open the spring latch with his foot. They tossed Jack Wells down into the center of the dog fight ring and watched him land on his back, his head bouncing off the hard dirt. He lay there spread-eagled and dazed, at rest in the ooze of bone, blood puddles and the split-open carcasses of dead animals.

  Pudge pulled two guns from his waistband and handed one to Angelo. They did not wait for Wells to speak. Nor did they say a word. Neither Angelo nor Pudge had any interest in pleas or sentiment or declarations of revenge. They were interested in one thing only, so they stood above the dog pit and emptied their revolvers into Jack Wells, twelve bullets in all. As soon as they were done, they tossed their guns into the pit and turned away.

  The war was over.

  • • •

  “THERE’RE SOME HORSE blankets over in that corner,” Pudge said to Angelo as he stood above Grover, the dog still bleeding and moaning in pain.

  “What do we need with a dog?” Angelo asked, walking past the stacks of hay and reaching into the darkness for a thick brown blanket. “Especially one that’ll probably bite us first chance he gets.”

  “We could always use another friend,” Pudge explained. He took the blanket from Angelo, kneeled down and gently wrapped it around the dog. He stood, holding Grover close to his chest. “And if we’re ever in a pinch, we know he can fight.”