by Norman Green
“I don’t know if I would have ever gone past that, I don’t know if I would have taken the next step, but I had Noonie with me in the car one afternoon, I forget where we were going, but on the way up Atlantic, Noonie sees this guy he knows out in front of that grocery store up the block. He’s waving to the guy, wants me to honk the horn. ‘Who’s that,’ I ask him, ‘That’s the Dutchman,’ he tells me. ‘Who’s the Dutchman?’ I ask him, and he starts telling me how the Dutchman is the bagman for whoever owns that store, they got some way to cycle their money through the store so that it comes out looking legitimate. ‘See,’ I tell him, ‘everybody’s stealing but me.’ ‘Oh, you could do it,’ he tells me. ‘Just walk out the door with it.’ ‘I can’t,’ I tell him. ‘The FBI would put me in jail the next time they counted it.’ He shrugs. ‘I bet Ivan could tell you when they’re coming,’ he says. ‘Besides, if you take what you want, first, then you could tell Ivan to come steal the rest, and then there wouldn’t be anything left to count.’ I should have just left it alone, but I didn’t. ‘Who’s Ivan?’ I ask him. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘Ivan is my friend from the old neighborhood, where I grew up. Ivan is the guy the Dutchman works for.’” He glanced up at Silvano again. “I guess you’re starting to see the shape of this.”
“Yeah. Noonie put you together with Ivan?”
O’Brian sat at the table, breathing heavily. “Yes,” he said, after a minute. “I thought about it for a couple of months, feeling resentful about how the courts and my ex had treated me, and then one day I just decided. I told your brother that I’d like to meet Ivan. He knew what I was up to right away, your brother, got all excited. I had to yell at him to quiet him down, get him to keep his mouth shut. Anyhow, he passed word along to the Dutchman, and word came back, and we did have a meeting. I met Bonifacio out at the monastery, out in Rockaway. I was amazed to find him a religious man.”
“I’ll bet. How soon after you two set this deal up did it start going bad?”
O’Brian was shaking his head. “Almost right away. First thing that happened, Ivan killed the Dutchman. He said he had to do it, claimed the guy knew too much about what we were going to do. I’m not sure I believed him, maybe the guy just put two and two together and invited himself in, I don’t know.”
“That’s him, down in the tunnel.”
“Yeah. It was horrible, at first, going back down in there, that poor man falling apart, the rats chewing on him and all. You never get used to that smell.”
“No kidding. Why’d you leave the money there?”
“That was my agreement with Ivan. His people own that bar. They used to use that tunnel during Prohibition. We’re supposed to split the money up, later. He keeps whatever he gets out of the robbery, and we go fifty-fifty on what I manage to get out ahead of time.”
Silvano shook his head. What an idiot. “Why didn’t you just take the money and run? Head for the Cayman Islands or something?”
“I was daydreaming of Costa Rica.” O’Brian ventured a rueful smile. “Funny,” he said. “If I had really wanted to, I probably could have done it. You know, before all this. Before I started up with the financial masturbation. I could have sold out, dropped out, gone and lived the rest of my life on a quiet beach somewhere. Stiff my ex out of her alimony, she’d have to go get a job. What could be closer to paradise?” He shook his head. “Looks so attractive now, I don’t know why I didn’t do it then.”
“Go now. What’s keeping you?”
O’Brian shook his head. “I’m caught between Bonifacio and the government. Your brother was right, Bonifacio got to someone in the FBI district office, but something must have leaked. They audited us twice, Bonifacio got word to me both times, I was able to juggle the books and paper over the shortfall, but I don’t think it was good enough. They’re watching my bank accounts, they’re tracking my credit cards, they’ve been through my apartment a couple times when I was out. I suspect my phones are tapped, home and work, both. Ivan says he’s waiting for them to back off enough for us to pull the trigger. If I run now, I’ll have the whole bunch of them chasing me, Bonifacio and Uncle Sam, both. I’m stuck.”
“Sounds like it.” The son of a bitch, Silvano thought, all he’s thinking about is his own trouble, not the two lives that ended because of his greed.
“I’ve really done it to myself. I even thought about turning myself in, you know, just going to the feds and telling them what I’m telling you.” He shook his head again. “You believe in God, Iurata?”
“That depends on how much trouble I’m in.”
O’Brian laughed, but there was no humor in it. His face was pale and waxy, he looked like he was ready to throw up. “You know,” he said, “there’s a scripture that says, in so many words, you got business at the temple, get it done and then get out. Don’t hang around. ‘It’s a fearful thing, falling into the hands of the living God.’ Bonifacio made me watch, back when he killed the Dutchman, down there in that hole.” He shuddered. “He told me he wanted me to be an accessory, that way we were both committed. He didn’t make it easy on the poor bugger, either. Kept sticking him with that ice pick, listening to him scream. I suppose it was for my benefit, but the man really enjoys his work. He wanted me to understand who I was dealing with, what he was capable of.” He looked up, stared at Silvano. “I have to answer for that, Mr. Iurata. Not only the man’s life, but the manner of his death, as well.”
“What about Nunzio?”
“That’s on me, too. Noonie spent a lot of time looking for the Dutchman. I thought he’d forget about it after a week or so, but he didn’t. What happened, finally, I think he followed me out here one day, went down there after I left. Found the Dutchman, found the money, too. Started telling people he’d found the Dutchman. I didn’t hear about it right off, by then he wasn’t hanging around with us as much. Plus, I was preoccupied with my work down in Rockaway. By the time it got to me, it was too late. Bonifacio had already killed your brother.” He looked at Silvano, his fear showing in his face. “I know it sounds pathetic, but I’m sorry. It’s all I can say.”
“Yeah.” Silvano was surprised that he felt nothing like what he’d expected, no rage, no grief, just something cold and implacable. “You weren’t there, you didn’t see it.”
“No.”
“He down in the tunnel, too?”
“No. I don’t know where he is, Bonifacio didn’t tell me.”
“Fuck.” Silvano stared into O’Brian’s watery blue eyes until the man looked down at the table again.
“What now? Are you going to go to the police?”
“No.” Silvano stood up to go.
“What do I do now?” There was a note of panic in O’Brian’s voice.
“I don’t give a fuck what you do now.”
“You asked me if I wanted it back, that’s why I talked to you. Are you going to tell me what you did with it? If Bonifacio goes down in there and it’s gone . . . I’ve gotta have that money back.”
“Behind the Dutchman’s chair. Go look over next to the wall, you’ll find a spot where the concrete is all broken up. I buried it under there.”
“Oh God,” he said, relieved. “What if I hear from Bonifacio? What if he wants to pull the trigger?”
Silvano ground his teeth. “You won’t hear from him,” he said. “He only has a couple of days left.” He looked down at O’Brian. “He’d have never let you keep it, you know. You would have died in the robbery, and he’d have taken your share, too.”
O’Brian shook his head. “I guess it’s true, then, what they say. You don’t get punished for your sins, but by them.”
“Listen to me. Sit tight for the next two days. No more bike rides, and stay out of that cellar. After that, you can do whatever you want. Take your money and run.” Or choke on it, he added silently. “Meantime, if I find out you lied to me, you won’t have to worry about Bonifacio getting you. Understand?”
“Yes.” It was that Catholic schoolboy voice, subdued, ashamed, peniten
t. Silvano turned and walked out into the bright sunshine on Atlantic.
“GOOD AFTERNOON, SAHR.” The Indian guy in the newsstand made change for Silvano’s paper from the pile of coins on his counter. He leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Dere vere some men here de udder day. Looking for you, perhaps.”
Silvano looked around. “When was this?”
“Day before yesterday. Dey vent into de bar for a time, den dey came back out and vent avay. Dat is all dat I know.”
“You seen them since?”
“No, sahr, but vun cannot be sure. Dey looked like disagreeable men, sahr.”
“Thanks.” He stuck the News under his arm and went into the lobby of the Hotel Montague and looked around. The usual cast lent their earthy ambience to the soiled elegance of the place, but none of them seemed to be looking for him. He walked through the thick glass doors of the hotel bar. Might not be a thing of beauty, he thought, but it beats the hell out of the last one. The potato-nosed old guy, sitting at a table in the far corner, recognized him right away.
“Hey,” the guy said. “You decided to visit us after all.”
Silvano went over and sat down. “Nice joint,” he said.
“Ain’t so bad,” the guy said, looking around. He looked at Silvano. “Guy in your business, though, you gotta watch where you walk. Gotta watch for land mines. This is a good table for it, you can see out the windows to the street and through the glass doors, into the lobby.”
“What are you drinking?”
“Dewar’s,” he said happily, “with a beer chaser.” He raised his hand to the bartender. “Thomas!” he said. “The gentleman is buying.” He lowered his voice, kept his eyes on the bartender. “Several lifetimes ago, I was a combat photographer in the Pacific Theater. Pretty cherry assignment, all things considered, for an ignorant young fool such as myself. The Japanese didn’t have any good land mines, nothing with remote detonators or anything like that, so their solution was the soul of simplicity. They would dig a big pit in the road, and they’d put a bomb in the pit, the kind they normally used for air drops, and they’d put a soldier down in the pit with a ball-peen hammer. Cover over the pit with boards and dirt. What the poor boy was supposed to do, of course, was wait until he heard a truck over his head, and then whack the primer with his hammer. Sometimes he didn’t even have a hammer, just a rock. Why, thank you, Thomas, you’re a scholar and a gentleman.”
Thomas, who had heard it all before, accepted a twenty from Silvano, nodded at Silvano’s hand signal to keep them coming. “Club soda for me.”
“Sometimes they would actually do it.” The old guy watched Thomas go back behind the bar. He sipped at the Dewar’s. “Sometimes they’d bang on the boards instead, and we would have to dig the poor bastard out. Self-preservation triumphing over ideology. Better that way, I suppose, ideology is a bitch.”
“I’ve heard that. Any land mines in this hotel?”
“Well, sir, three Mediterranean gents went in, but only two came out. That was Sunday, two days ago. Course, I can’t watch the back door, the guy might have gotten bored and gone home, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
“I should just watch out for a guy with a ball-peen hammer?”
The guy downed the rest of his scotch with a gulp, looked at his watch. “Might be more useful,” he said, “to wait here for another forty-five minutes or so. I would bet you a delivery boy from the deli up the street will show up with lunch for one in a brown paper bag. Man’s gotta eat.”
“You are an observant son of a bitch, aren’t you.”
“A useful trait, and strictly in my own self-interest. You can sit here and buy me drinks while we wait. We’ll tell each other sad stories.”
Silvano sat back and watched the old boy put away double shots and beers at an alarming rate. No wonder he was broke the other day, he thought. Guy can’t drink enough to get drunk.
“Here he comes,” the guy said, interrupting a long story about Leyte, a touch of sadness in his voice. “You got just enough time to buy me one more before you catch him in the lobby. Black kid, white apron, just coming up the block. Yeah, that’s him, he’s turning in.”
SILVANO TRADED TWENTY BUCKS to the kid for the paper bag. “Okay,” the kid said, pocketing the bill. “Fifth floor, number’s on the bag. Guy don’t tip for shit.”
“That’s all right,” Silvano said. “I owe him one.”
Sure enough, the number on the bag matched the room across the hall from Silvano’s, the one where Mrs. Clark had camped on the floor. He didn’t see her anywhere, she hadn’t been in the lobby, either. He stood off to one side of the door and knocked. Hope she’s all right, he thought. Hope she had enough sense not to mess with these guys. He heard creaking noises coming from inside the room. Lazy bastard, he thought. Guy was probably asleep. “Deli,” he called out, trying to sound like a kid. He heard the lock on the door snap back, and he flattened himself against the wall, gritting his teeth.
The door swung open and the guy inside stuck his head out. It was the guy who had been driving the car the first time. “Took you long enough,” the guy said. “I musta called—” He stopped when he saw the bag on the floor. “Fuck!” he yelled, going for the gun he was carrying in a new shoulder rig, but it was too late. Silvano swarmed him, knocking him back into the room. It didn’t take much, somebody had already worked him over pretty well, when his sunglasses went flying Silvano could see the swelling in the guy’s face, and there were stitches in his upper and lower lips.
Silvano took the guy’s gun away and held it on him while he retrieved the lunch bag and kicked the door closed. The guy struggled to his feet, stood there uncertainly. “You look like shit,” he told the guy. “Boner face do this to you?”
“What do you think?” The guy was trying to sound tough but he couldn’t manage it. Plus, he could smell his lunch in the bag and it was compromising his attention. Silvano handed it to him.
“Sit down,” he said. “Eat.”
“My last meal?”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
ANTONIO HAD NEVER BEEN the kind of a guy who liked to travel like a head of state, bodyguards and all that. Sometimes he had a driver, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he drove and made his driver ride in the backseat. He might be a little nervous lately, though, Silvano thought, and it might not be the smartest thing to pull up to his front door in a car service limo or a cab.
Improvisation is the soul of all good plans, he thought. He tossed the gun he’d taken away from the meatball in his room into the Dumpster behind the hotel; then he stopped and bought a screwdriver at the hardware store on Montague Street, used it to boost a delivery truck. It was an International, had small vent windows you could open in two seconds, open the door, pop the thing in neutral, open the hood about six inches and short out the starter solenoid with the same screwdriver and you’re in business. He’d watched the driver and his helper go into a bar for a belated liquid lunch. With luck, they’d be in there at least an hour, plenty of time.
The truck was gutless, the diesel choked and gagged, and the suspension was shot, the thing crashed over every bump in the road, but it was fun to drive anyhow, the cars on the BQE yielded to superior bulk, if not speed. He caught the off-ramp to the Long Island Expressway, took it out to one of the last exits in Queens and turned into the tree-shaded streets of Jamaica Estates, a neighborhood of oversized brick Tudor-style homes behind tall fences, long driveways, and green lawns. He found the right street, parked the truck. He broke the cheap padlock on the rear door with his screwdriver and looked in the back. Frozen beef, he thought, reading the boxes. I’m in luck. He grabbed the deliveryman’s hand truck and loaded it up. Antonio might be rich enough to buy half the cows in the country, but everybody likes getting over. Free always tastes better.
He pushed the hand truck down the block to the house he remembered from his childhood. His father and Antonio had played cards here when he was much younger, and Antonio had always seemed happy to see h
im coming with his old man. There was no lock on the gate at the end of the driveway, nobody outside watching the house, no dog, even. Things must have been quiet for a long time.
He went up the driveway, left the hand truck and its load of boxes just around the rear corner of the house, out of sight from the street. He crouched under a window. There were voices in the house, and he stood quiet, listening. Maid, Spanish accent, moving around on the first floor. Male voice, crude, coming from the front of the house, probably a guard, it wasn’t going to be the guy’s best day. One more voice, female, older, upstairs, had to be Antonio’s wife. Antonio’s study had been on the first floor in the back when Silvano had last been in the house. He heard a vacuum start up, and he crouched low and ran across the back until he was under what had been the study window. Just an ordinary catch on the window, no locks. There was an alarm, but he was betting that it would be turned off during the day, with people in the house. He pried the window up with the screwdriver, breaking the latch, and eased inside. The vacuum continued, covering the noise.
It was still a study, and he went through the darkened room quickly, trying not to disturb anything. There was a pistol in the middle drawer of Antonio’s desk, a big Colt .45. He left it where it was and went and sat down in a chair in the darkest corner of the room. He didn’t look at his watch again, instead he settled in to wait, resigning himself that this would take whatever time was necessary. If he made some noise he would no doubt get Antonio home quicker, but the old man would be agitated, then, which would not be a good thing.
