Hit #29, page 10
One thing I do remember about this particular evening in Chinatown was the fortune I got in my cookie. In fact, I saved it and carry it in my wallet because it was so unusual, so silly and so accurate at the same time. “Do not make any decisions until you are quite certain.”
Now I was quite certain. And I had made my decision.
Monday I decided to go through the whole morning thing with him one more time just to make sure he hadn’t made any changes, and to make sure I hadn’t overlooked any potential spots. I packed my pen, notepad, maps, portable radio, army blanket and wrist-watch in my car and waited for him to get started. He came out a few minutes late and gunned the Buick trying to make up for lost time.
Nothing changed at all. He went from the restaurant at the end of Westchester Avenue to the coffee shop without missing a beat. He made all his stops, met all his runners, collected his due, and made up for the lost few minutes.
Once again I wasted a half hour sitting outside the coffee shop watching him warm up. I began to wonder strange things about Squillante. Like, how come he drinks so much coffee and never seems to go to the bathroom? I sniff the stuff and I’m pissing for half an hour. Or, with all the money he had, how come he was living in a small apartment? Or would his Puerto Rican broad know what happened when he stopped showing up? Or how pissed are his bookies going to be when they read about his untimely end in the Daily News? With such wonderful thoughts I passed the waiting time.
He left the restaurant and hit the funeral-home bank for awhile. From there back up to the cab garages on Jackson Avenue and then on to the Grand Concourse. Zoom—back to the bank and right on time. Finished for the day.
While I was waiting for him I made myself a list of places he might head for. But he fooled me again, he went to a beauty parlor.
It was just another strange twist I couldn’t figure out. He drove directly from the bank down into Lower Manhattan and he stopped in front of a beauty parlor on Eighth Avenue in the 20s. He walked right in. I’ve had guys go to all sorts of places on me. Real rank whorehouses, baseball games, deserted warehouses, bus depots, VFW meetings. I even had a guy go to a queer bar once, which really threw me, especially when he came out with another guy, but I have never had a guy go to a beauty parlor on me before.
At first I figured this must be one of the places that were just opening up around that time that catered to men and women. In fact, two guys went into the place a little after Squillante arrived, but no more. And there was no sign outside to indicate that men were welcome. I was curious, but I didn’t really try to guess. There was no reason to. I knew the fact: He went there. He was in there almost an hour and he came out looking no prettier than he did when he went in.
Something that doesn’t happen that often was starting to happen: I was picking up more than Squillante’s movements; I was picking up his rhythm. There is really no way to explain exactly what I mean by that. It was just that I was beginning to feel in tune with his movements. We were together. I knew his physical movements, but somehow I was feeling his mental movements. This is an intangible that I never get on most hits. Usually it’s just trace, track and shoot. This wasn’t true with Squillante. We were operating on the same tracks, but going in opposite directions. Of course, only one of us knew there was going to be a collision. At least, that’s what I believed.
From the beauty parlor he went back up to the Bronx and right to the social club on Arthur Avenue. He usually locked his car only when he was going to be parked for awhile. When he stopped at the social club he locked the Buick. He was here to stay. I settled back and turned on the portable radio.
Squillante must have been playing cards in the club because he did not come out until later in the afternoon. And he did not come out alone, which in itself did not surprise me. I didn’t know the guy he was with but it’s not unusual for one individual to give a lift home to another individual so I didn’t give it a thought. They were in a deep discussion and Squillante’s friend was waving his arms and gabbing away a mile a minute. For a few seconds he looked so angry I thought he might pull a piece and do my job for me. But eventually they both were laughing and got into Squillante’s car. I started following.
We headed uptown, toward the Bronx. I hadn’t been checking to see if I was being followed, as I promised myself I would. Now, with nothing else to do except listen to the “number seven hit in New York land!” I started paying attention to what was behind me.
And I got very itchy. A 1965 Chevy sedan with two men in it was about four car lengths behind me. Nothing unusual about that. But when I speeded up they speeded up, they stayed four car lengths behind me. Nothing particularly unusual about that. And when I moved from the left lane into the center lane, they too moved over one lane. Nothing particularly unusual about that. Finally I put my blinker on, like I was getting off at the next exit, and moved over to the right lane. Their blinker went on. Nothing particularly unusual about that. But when the exit came I sailed right past it.
They did too! Now I’ve found something unusual. I’m beginning to believe I got myself some partners.
I dropped Squillante at the next exit and got off. The Chevy sedan followed. I drove a few blocks straight ahead and started making turns. The car followed for the first four, then dropped off. If they were trailing me, and I was sure they were, they must have realized I picked them up. In a way I was sorry about that. I would have liked to get close enough to see who these people were. I might have recognized one of them.
I pulled over to the side and waited. I watched the rear-view mirror and looked straight ahead, seeing if they were trying to circle around and pick me up again. I waited 20 minutes but they never reappeared. It didn’t make any difference. Someone was trailing me. The only question was who.
I figured two possible choices. Maybe old Joe Squillante was not as stupid as he seemed to be. Perhaps the reason he wasn’t looking over his shoulder was that he didn’t have to—he had some people doing the looking for him. Or maybe Jackie Sweetlips is taking advantage of a good situation and making it better—for himself. I was going to burn Squillante, as instructed by the Fat Man, and then Jackie was going to burn me.
Neither possibility filled me with great joy.
If the tail was sponsored by Squillante, then the hit was in jeopardy. If his boys had been tailing me long enough to see that I was following him, my cover was blown. He would have no doubts about what a tail meant, and he would either have to fight or run, and do it quickly.
If the tail came from Sweetlips the problem would not be as great. I doubt he would give me credit for being smart enough to realize he set it up. But he certainly would be more careful in the future.
There was nothing more I could do about it at this point anyway. I closed my notepad for the day and went home.
By the time I found a place to park, checked to see that no one had followed me home, and walked over to my building, it was past seven o’clock. I figured I would call the office and see how we did, then stay home all night and read my notes. The time had come for me to start making some serious decisions about Squillante’s future, or lack of same. It was going to be a quiet, thoughtful night at the old Joey apartment.
Wrong! Usually I have a pretty good memory for things my wife tells me, but I was surprised to hear a lot of noise when I opened my front door. It took me a second, then I realized this was the girls’ night at my place. Each Monday night my wife meets these five ladies at one of their places and they play canasta or poker or Mah-jongg or go to a movie or just gossip. This week it was my lucky turn. This was exactly what I needed. I’ve got to sit down and plan a murder and these girls are busy driving me insane.
I’m never sure if they’re glad to see me or not. They know I’m in the business but they don’t know exactly what I do. Sometimes I like to put on a tough-guy act for them, I overdo it on purpose, which they seem to love. We get along all right. Whenever I get some panty hose or some double-knits I’ll give them first shot. And whenever I’m sending a truck down for some cigarettes I let them know about it and they spread the word at their offices or to their friends. Between the five of them they can usually get rid of anywhere between 250 and 500 cartons.
“Who wants cigarettes?” I asked as I sat down and grabbed some of the cold chicken my old lady was feeding them. With the exception of Phyllis, whose husband is a dentist and who refuses to buy from me because she believes she is financing organized crime and therefore paying for every possible evil, they started screaming and shouting. I assume they were making a couple of dollars on cigarettes for themselves and I didn’t care. I told them to call my wife before Friday and give her their orders.
I was deep into a chicken leg when Patti, who looks like an opera singer and has a high, squeaky voice that just irritates the hell out of me, demanded, “Have you got anything else?”
“What do I look like, a goddam department store?” They all laughed. I had to be a little careful in front of these ladies because my wife doesn’t like me to curse. But they loved the whole act. Their husbands were just normal husbands. Patti’s husband ran a drug store. Diane’s was a mailman and I don’t know what Barbara’s or Betty’s husbands did. But for the ladies I was better than going to the movies, I was the “real thing.” “Yeah, I got sumthin’ else,” I told them, in dialect. “I got me twenty reel sets of skin flicks. I can let you have them for seven dollars apiece or a hundred for the whole set. Who wants a set?” They laughed some more. Actually I did have access to the movies but none of the girls wanted any. Besides, my old lady would have killed me.
I finished my chicken and got up to retire to the bedroom. “Where’re you going?” my old lady asked.
“I got to go inside and plan a killing,” I said in a loud voice. The girls loved it, and went back to their playing and dining.
Actually what I did first was find out whether I was rich or poor. There had been a number of point upsets in the pro games Sunday—most of the favorites won but only a few covered the point spread—so I didn’t figure we had done too badly. The office confirmed my beliefs, we were in the black by approximately $7500. For me $7500 is a big week because I don’t have many very big bettors. Nobody like Squillante, for example. I don’t need them or want them because eventually they’re going to either break you or you’ll break them. It’s the inevitable result. I wrote down my winners and losers and set aside a good portion of Tuesday to settle up.
I started to take out my notes on Squillante but I knew there would be no way I would be able to concentrate with the racket these ladies were making. They had taken out the Mah-jongg set and were two-bam and three-cracking me to death. And, since I had to get started arranging the cigarette haul sooner or later, I figured this was now sooner. I got on the phone and located Joe Cheese who was my usual banker on these journeys. He had a singles restaurant on the Upper East Side, a western-style place that was usually packed with tight-breasted chicks and horny guys. And, on occasion, Joey. Cheese told me to come over and grab a snack and a snatch.
I sang one quick chorus of “Good Night Ladies,” and was out the door.
NEAR MISS?
I took the long route down to Joe Cheese’s place. I stayed off the main highways and continually checked my rear-view mirror to see if I had company. I knew I would have to find out who had been tailing me before I hit Squillante, because people who tail people have an awful habit of turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Cheese’s place was not very crowded when I walked in. “Where are all the broads?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s Monday night and it’s early. People are recovering from the weekend. We’ll do some business later on.”
“Fine, then you and I can do some business now. I got orders for cigarettes.” The Cheese was one of the biggest shylocks in New York City at this time. We had worked together on a number of things throughout the years, but lately all of our business was in the cigarette field. It was a straight cash deal. He would loan me $80,000 and expect that back plus $15,000 from the profits. If we were arrested, which was very unlikely, it was a straight wash, I didn’t owe him any money. My profits, for sending trucks to Carolina, bringing back about 40,000 cartons of cigarettes and distributing them, came to about $10,000. The Cheese made a bigger slice than I did because he was gambling with his money; all I was putting up was my freedom.
It is a profitable way of making a living. The obvious question is, if I’m making $10,000 on cigarettes and not really taking any chances, and $20,000 on a killing in which I’m risking my life, why bother with the killing? There are a few reasons.
First, the only reason I’m in a position to put together a deal like this is because I have a heavyweight reputation. That comes from pulling the trigger, everything else is secondary. When I stop pulling the trigger that rep is gone and with it go many earning opportunities.
Second, there is excitement involved in the doing. I pull the trigger for the same reason people who have become millionaires in the rackets continue to risk going to jail by running two bit bookie or numbers operations. It gets in your blood and becomes the most natural thing to do. I can’t imagine anything more boring than running a cigarette smuggling operation every week.
And third and finally, there is more security in pulling the trigger than hauling butts. There have been times when the state troopers and tax people made it too dangerous to bring cigarettes in and I had to stop. There has never been a bad time for killing.
I told Cheese I would need the money Thursday night, cash in full, and he agreed. He told me to meet him at the restaurant and he would have a shopping bag for me. That was his joke.
I told him if the horses I was betting didn’t pick up by then he could consider it a going-away present. That was my joke.
It was past 11:30 by this point and I figured the ladies would be getting tired of one another and I could return to my humble abode and get some work done. My timing was not quite right and I had to sit in the bedroom for a few more hands and the last round of coffee and cake. I tried to make the best use of the time by contacting a guy named Bobby Roach who I often did cigarette deals with. Bobby is an arranger, a hustler. He makes things happen. He gets goods and he moves goods, but he is more than a fence because he actively goes out and gets his items. Like cigarettes. And burglar alarms.
“Burglar alarms!” I screamed into the phone, laughing. “You have got to be shitting me.”
“No, honest,” he said. “There was this truck full of small home burglar alarms that anyone can install, and somehow the truck ended up in one place and the load ended up in another.”
Now I had heard absolutely everything. This crook was selling hot burglar alarms.
“Can you maybe get rid of a few for me?” he asked. “We got about six hundred pieces. I priced them and they sell for fifteen bucks and up. We want seven each.”
I told him I didn’t want anything to do with his hot burglar alarms. Then I told him I had orders for 40,000 cartons of cigarettes and cash to pay for them.
“Whattya want me to do?” he asked.
“Everything. I got some business going and I don’t have the time to do this thing right. I’ll give you the money and the orders. You get the trucks, pick up the load, bring them back and deliver them. I’ll give you five thousand bucks.”
“Sounds familiar,” he said. And that was it. The Roach could handle this operation because the thing was so smooth it practically ran itself. It didn’t require much brainpower, just time. And that is exactly what the Roach had: a little brainpower and a lot of time.
He agreed to start working on the operation and I made arrangements to meet him Thursday night with the money. I wanted the trucks to leave Thursday night so they could be back over the weekend, in time for Monday deliveries.
The house was finally clear when I finished with the Roach. “How’d you do?” I asked my wife and she frowned.
“I lost,” she said. The final tab was two dollars and change and she was the big loser. She was very grumpy about it.
“You big-time gamblers are gonna break us,” I laughed. At the time I didn’t know how lucky she was going to be. A year later she discovered the trotters and one night hit the superfecta for more than $5000. My old lady. It turned out later that there was some talk about the race being fixed, but she didn’t know it when she won. And the money still cashed.
But now she’d had a tough night at the table and was going to sleep. This was fine with me, I wanted to sit down and get a good, long look at my notes.
I now have Squillante’s routine down as good as I’m going to get it. He follows a very strict schedule every morning and then is somewhat irregular in the afternoon and totally unscheduled at night. That meant, unless I could draw him to me, I was going to have to hit him during his rounds in the morning, near his girlfriend’s project or the social club in the afternoon. There were a number of possibilities. I took a clean sheet of white paper and made a list of the places which had potential. In the column next to each place I listed all the possible problems. In this way I began eliminating different areas.
My major concerns were my ability to get him alone and in the open, the traffic flow in the area and the availability of public transportation. Because this entire job was going to take place in the Bronx where I had grown up and prospered, I knew the traffic patterns reasonably well. While chasing Squillante I had been taking careful notes about stop signs, lights, oneway streets and schools in the area. (You try to mix with a crossing guard lady when school lets out and you will have more trouble than if you get caught pumping bullets into your target.)
Finding a place that insures quick, easy and dependable movement is of the utmost importance. I know of more than one individual who blew a job because they didn’t think it through from beginning to end. One particular guy worried about the end, the getaway, more than anything else and worked out a very careful plan. His only problem was he forgot to worry about the beginning. He timed the job so he would be able to make the hit and then meet some people for dinner. His mistake was getting on the East River Drive. There was an accident and he was delayed 35 minutes and missed his target. So he had to have his dinner without the appetizer.
