from Gypsy Shadow Publishing
Author: Steven P. Marini of West Yarmouth, MA, USA
Chapter
One.
Jack Contino always walked into a
bar like he owned the place. He sucked
in his gut as best he could before entering, keeping his six-foot four inch,
two-hundred and thirty pound frame as erect as a fifty-four year old veteran
cop could. Despite his size, Jack had a
lot of spring in his step. It was late
afternoon in Boston, the right time to catch one of the parking spots vacated
by the daily commuter students, who gobbled them up by seven in the morning. Jack worked his way onto an open stool at the
far end of the bar and casually surveyed the room.
The Bullpen entrance
was two steps down at the end of a short sidewalk on Commonwealth Avenue across
from Boston University. Its patrons were
both working class and B.U. students, mostly the older ones taking classes
through the Metropolitan College. Some
classes started as early as four-thirty. Winter was over but people still wore warm
clothing. Some liked to get ready for
class with a cold one. A long, L-shaped
oak bar took up the left side of the room. Tables with four chairs at each were scattered
along the right, leaving a small passage to the bar. The lighting was dim and got dimmer toward the
back.
The first two
tables were occupied by a small group of university employees, a young mix of
males and females. They were a bit loud
and seemed to be enjoying themselves. There
were five men at the bar. Two looked
like groundskeepers, with their heavy work boots and cuffed work pants and the
others might be faculty or grad students. The working men looked to be about forty plus
while the others were probably in their late twenties. There was casual conversation among the three
faculty/grad types. Jack couldn’t make
out what the working men were saying to each other. He noticed a lone figure sitting at a table in
the back corner, a man about his own age. The man was wearing a shiny Red Sox jacket and
a blue baseball cap with a big red “B” in the front above the visor. He had a hamburger plate with fries in front
of him but he was looking around more than eating. His beer bottle was half empty. He knew Jack had spotted him.
“Give me two
bottles of Miller,” said Jack as the bartender approached. She was a middle aged woman wearing a white
blouse buttoned up to the neck and black slacks. About five-foot six, she cut a nice figure,
her long brown hair in a ponytail.
“Coming right up.”
Jack put some
bills on the bar when the beers arrived. He stood up with one in each hand and walked
over to the guy in the corner. He placed
a bottle in front of the man seated with his back to the wall and slid into the
chair against the other wall. Both men
had a view of the whole room. Jack took
a swig from his bottle.
“So, you got
yourself into a tight little spot in Connecticut,” said Jack. That served as an introduction.
“Yeah, well, it
was supposed to be a good deal, but it didn’t go so good. That’s why I called your office. I need some help and I’ve heard some talk that
you’re the guy for that. The word is
you’re a straight up guy. You gotta help
me out, Jack. You work with the Feds. You can pull some strings.” He took a bite of his burger as if to cue
Jack.
“You think I’m the
Seventh Cavalry coming to your rescue? You
ran some guns to guys planning a bank job in Hartford. What the hell were you thinking? Now the Feds have your number.” Jack swigged his beer.
“Hey, I didn’t
know what they were planning. And those
pieces can’t be traced to me. I made sure of that. The Feds are setting me up. Whatever they claim to have is bogus.”
“Hey, keep calm,
will you. Regardless of what you think
is happening let me tell you what IS happening. The FBI has you targeted and they have a way
of making life miserable for people in their cross hairs. You ran the guns to a guy who moved them to
another party, the guys who wanted the bank. Lucky for you they never got to the gig,
because if they did, you’d already be in lock up and I couldn’t be of much help
to you. But your guy wants to go home at
night so he gave you up. They already
have enough to put you away, Charlie.”
“So why didn’t
they?”
Jack sat back and
smiled a big smile, the kind that says I’m
your Daddy. He helped himself to a
couple of fries and washed them down with beer.
“I’m already
helping you out, get it? But I’m not a
social worker. You have to make it worth
my while.”
“What can I do?”
“ It’s time for
you to reconsider this omerta crap, your code of silence. I know you’re in a good position to know a lot
about what the Boston
“Hey, Jack. I don’t want to go there. Are you nuts? I’d be asking for a bullet. Hell, a bullet would be merciful the way that
guy works.”
“He’s been pissing
me off for a long time, but I’ve got to be careful. Let’s just say he’s got good insulation.”
“There’s a lot of
stuff that goes on that’s got nothing to do with him. Let’s focus on some of that.”
“Well, it better
be good. Think it over, old boy. Time’s a wastin’.”
Jack took a long
drink from his beer. He pushed back from
the table, got up and walked away. The
other guy sat silently, watching Jack leave. He had some decisions to make. He couldn’t see
the broad smile on Jack’s face.
Chapter
Two.
Maria walked slowly into the
kitchen, tightened her robe and poured herself another Dewar’s after dropping
two ice cubes into her glass. “You want
one?” she called to Ben in the living room.
“No. I’m good.
Thanks,” he replied. “Besides, I’ve got
to go soon.” Yeah, he thought. I've got
some business to take care of.
Maria lost her
smile. She knew enough about his
professional activities to understand that they were sometimes beyond the law. She forced another smile.
“Well, that’s my
Ben alright. Good old Mr. Hit and Run. Only no hit? C’mon. What’s the rush?”
She took a sip
from her Scotch and slid down onto the sofa next to him, leaning her head on
his shoulder. “It’s after 1:00 a.m. That means its Sunday. I thought you took Sundays off. I’m kind of in
the mood for, you know, having you stay.” She put her glass down.
“I’ll be back
later,” he said. “I promise.”
He swallowed the
last drop of Scotch from his glass and pulled himself up from the sofa. Maria
let her head slide off Ben and she curled into a ball as he got up. She turned onto her back, pulling her legs up
onto the sofa. She placed one hand
against her forehead, her fingernails lightly touching her brow.
“Oh, Ben, you just
can’t leave me. Where shall I go? What shall I do?” she said, mocking the voice
of Scarlet O’Hara in “Gone With the Wind.”
Ben finished
putting on his dark overcoat and looked at Maria as he reached the door.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t -”
“Oh, don’t bother.
Hey, tell me, what other bad impressions
do you do?”
“All my impressions.”
He turned to open
the door. When he looked back at Maria,
now standing, she had dropped her robe, showing her perfect body. She looked at Ben with her head to one side,
as if making one last offer.
“Scarlet never did
that,” he said smiling.
She stepped
closer, pressing herself against him. “Well, if she had, it would have surely
changed the ending to that story.”
He leaned toward
her, his hand still on the door knob and kissed her. “Nice try but I still gotta go.”
“Oh, poo!”
At this hour it
was a quick drive to Commercial Street. He
headed east for a couple of blocks and then steered his 1956 Ford Thunderbird
two-seater down an alleyway that led to a small parking area. There were no open parking places, but Ben saw
the BMW owned by Charlie “The Senator” Senatori, who owned the building that
was his intended destination. He swung
his T-Bird around and backed it up to Charlie’s Beemer. He shut down the engine and turned to get his
tall frame out of the small vehicle. Ben
always liked these classic two-seaters so he bought one a couple of years ago
and kept it in good running condition. Ben
glanced around at the other cars parked in the area. Nothing that didn’t belong, he thought to
himself.
Still wearing his
thin driving gloves, Ben reached into his pants pocket and took out a set of
keys. He slipped one into the keyhole
and let himself in to the small hallway leading to the stairs. Ben was one of a
handful who had keys to this apartment. Nobody
actually lived here. Charlie had acquired the townhouse for business
transactions and as a hangout.
Ben climbed the
carpeted back stairs quietly and opened the door at the top. As he emerged into the first floor hallway, he
could hear several voices coming from the dining room. He stepped through the
open archway into the room where four familiar faces were seated at the round
game table. Charlie Senatori was
counting out chips and passing them to the players who gave him large amounts
of cash.
“I was afraid you
were going to crap out on us tonight,” said Charlie.
“Who, me? No way. Hey, it’s been a while between games. When I heard there was a game on tonight I
started to feel lucky.”
“That’s a good
thing, Ben,” said one of the players.
It was Fred Di
Nardi. Ben knew him from other game nights. Fred owned a small club in The Combat Zone. He was known as a guy who could provide you
with a private back room where you could conduct special business without being
disturbed, as business involving the sale and distribution of certain
substances was frowned upon by the DEA.
“We’d sure miss
the chance to separate you from your money….again!” Fred laughed.
“Cute! Real cute,”
Ben replied.
Without taking off
his coat, Ben went to the corner hutch that displayed several bottles of
liquor, glasses, a pitcher of water and an ice bucket. He poured himself a Scotch and took a sip. He
looked at the other bottles on the hutch. Besides the Dewar’s, there was a Glen
Fiddich single malt bottle along with a Stoli vodka, a Wild Turkey and a
Ruffino Chianti. That should keep
everyone happy for the night, everyone who was not losing his shirt.
Giani Bertoli came
up to the hutch. He grabbed the Glen
Fiddich and filled a shot glass. “When are you gonna graduate up to the good
stuff, Ben?”
Giani was the
elder statesman of this group. He had
lived in Boston since he was six when his parents moved to the United States to
get away from the tyranny of Mussolini. His
father made his own wine at home and the son eventually took a deep interest in
the liquor business himself. He started
working for a beer and wine distributor when he reached his twenties. He learned the business from the bottom up,
was good with figures and eventually got his A.A. in Accounting, which, of
course, made him the best candidate to take over the bookkeeping duties from
the owner, who trusted him completely. That,
along with his skill with what one might call “the over and under method” of
accounting, enabled Giani to fudge the books to his profit on a regular basis. Giani made a life of betraying trust.
“I’ll have to give
it a try sometime,” said Ben. “But
tonight, I’ll stick with my Dewar’s.”
Tom Jacobs looked
up from the table at Ben and Giani. He
didn’t say anything. Tom worked for a
Boston newspaper as a street reporter who often covered the Boston underworld.
His prime contacts were right in this room. He was particularly friendly with Giani
Bertoli, whose friendship he had cultivated over several years. The men saw Tom as a straight shooter who
never crossed over the line of their respect and trust when he covered a story.
They let him know just enough to get his
story printed and to serve their purposes but he had nothing the police would
be interested in, although sometimes they wondered about that. That’s how he served the guys, making a news
report that, although mostly factual, would send the police down a dark alley.
“Hey, Tom,” said
Ben. Tom looked at him and nodded. “You
know, for a reporter, Tom doesn’t talk very much,” he said to the whole room. They chuckled and Tom smiled.
“I gotta save it,”
said Tom.
Everyone but Ben
had taken a seat at the table. He put
his drink down on the hutch and Fred noticed that Ben was still wearing driving
gloves.
“Hey, Ben, what’s
with the gloves? Trying to not leave
finger prints?”
“Oh, yeah. Always keep the place clean, you know.”
Everybody laughed.
“Geeze, I just remembered I brought a
little surprise for Charlie," said Ben. "I left it in the car. I’ll go get it and
be right back.”
“She’d better be
about five foot-two and brunette,” said Charlie. Ben smiled at him and hurried out of the room
and down the back stairs.
Ben went out to
his car, a move designed to make his deception credible, and took a new, 1975
vintage 9mm Beretta from under the seat. With a ten shot clip, it was a honey of a gun.
There weren’t many of these manufactured yet. He attached a silencer to it and slid it into
his inside coat pocket and went back into the apartment. The men were all still seated at the table,
making Ben’s job a little easier. Ben
emerged into the room with his right hand inside his coat, making it bulge out
and his left arm around the bulge as if holding something. Charlie looked up first. “Hey, where’s that
…?” Before Charlie could finish the
sentence, Ben drew out the gun and put a round into Charlie’s forehead, then
fired rapidly at the others. Giani was
too slow to react and took his while still seated. Fred was halfway to a standing position when a
bullet put him down. Tom Jacobs was the
only one quick enough to make it out of his chair. His back was toward Ben so he tried to dodge
him to his right but there was nowhere to go. Ben sent a bullet into the back of Tom’s
skull.
Ben checked to see
that all were dead. Once satisfied, he
went into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic garbage bag from under the sink. He dropped his gun into the bag and left the
apartment. When he got to his car he put
his gloves and overcoat in the bag. Then
he reached under the driver’s seat and took out two bricks. They also went into the bag. He slid into the driver’s seat and put the bag
on the passenger side floor. He drove to
the highway and headed north over the Mystic River Bridge. When he was half way over the bridge and no
other cars were in sight, he stopped his car, quickly got out with the bag and
sent it over the rail into the river. Ben
took a deep breath as he got back into his car and drove home.
Author: Steven P. Marini
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