Hit #29, page 14
“My, my,” she said happily, “look how she loves you. Are you sure this isn’t your dog?”
“Look, Mrs. Gibson, honest, this isn’t my dog. I mean, I really appreciate this and everything, but this just isn’t my dog.”
Maybe she thought I was lying. “How do you know?”
“Whattya mean how do I know. I know my own dog, don’t I? And this isn’t it. It’s the wrong color, for starters. Too dark.”
She didn’t know what to say. “You mean I’ve been keeping this dog in my apartment for four days and it isn’t even yours.” She stopped, opened her mouth and asked with great uneasiness, “Then whose is it?”
I gave her a blank look. “Where’d you get it?”
“A teen-ager brought it to me and said he saw my reward sign and …”
“Reward sign?”
“Oh, yes, I didn’t want to tell you, but I put up a ten-dollar reward to get the dog back.”
Inside I was laughing hysterically. I knew exactly what happened. “Mrs. Gibson, I’m not sure how to tell you this. But I think what you got there is a hot dog.” I said it very carefully, making sure to separate the words “hot” and “dog.”
She didn’t pick up. “A hot dog?”
I corrected myself. “A stolen dog. The kid read the poster and took the dog when somebody tied him up outside or something.” I could see she was really worried.
“You mean I could be arrested?”
“I’m afraid so, unless you return the dog immediately.”
“Where? Where?”
I told her to call the ASPCA or the police and they would probably have a missing dog report. Then I reached into my pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill. “You’re a lovely lady Mrs. Gibson,” I said, “and I want you to know I appreciate you worrying about my poor little dog and trying to find her for me and my children.” I handed her the bill. “Now you go inside and call the police.”
“You’re right, Mr. Gold, perfectly right. And I want you to know that I’ll keep looking for your dog until we find her. Poor thing.” She started walking away. “I promise you, Mr. Gold, I promise.”
“That’s good, Mrs. Gibson, that’s nice.” Just at that moment the dog must have seen something that interested it because all of a sudden it took off running, with poor, nice Mrs. Gibson doing her very best to keep hold of the leash attached to her stolen dog. As they disappeared around the corner I stopped laughing long enough to pull away and head home for dinner.
On the way home my idiot mistake dawned on me. I was so busy being a smartass I had put the one person who can identify me and place me on Squillante’s block in touch with the police.
A very, very silly thing to do.
The little woman was not there, but she had the foresight to let some chop meat thaw out so I could make hamburgers. I was mixing Joey’s famous hamburger sauce when the telephone rang. “Hello?”
“Joey?”
“Yeah.”
“This is Squillante, Joe Squillante.”
I fumbled for a reply. “Yeah? Well, what’s happening?”
“Nothing much. What’s happening with you?”
“Same thing. Nothing much. I didn’t expect to hear your voice when I picked up the phone.”
“Oh?”
“I thought maybe it was my old lady. She isn’t here and I didn’t know where she was.” I couldn’t figure out what in the world Squillante was calling me about. My mind was racing in two directions as I spoke to him, one trying to make the normal conversation, the other trying to understand the call.
“I’m sorry she’s not there. Actually I’m calling to tell you that Cindy and I can’t make it Sunday night.”
I was thrilled. “Oh, that’s too bad,” I said as realistically as I could, “my wife was looking forward to seeing your wife. What’sa matter?”
His voice was calm and level. “Nothing really. It’s just that my mother was supposed to take care of the children all day but now she’s had a very mild heart attack …”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
He laughed. “It’s nothing really. She has one every time she thinks I’m taking my wife somewhere and not her.” We both laughed. “Anyway, we’re probably going to be spending Sunday visiting her in the hospital so we thought we’d better cancel now.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said graciously, “I’m sure there’ll be other times.” Liar.
“Oh, yeah, it’d be nice to see you.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, “I’m sure you will.” I’m so clever. “Well, I’ll tell the old lady. I hope your mother feels better.”
“She will. As soon as she finds out she spoiled our weekend. So long.”
“Good-bye Joe.”
I thought about Squillante as I twisted and packed the chop meat. Imagine, using your own mother as an excuse to skip town. If Sweetlips was telling the truth, that’s what Squillante was doing. I decided to believe Squillante. Which made me disbelieve Sweetlips. Which made Saturday night a little more dangerous. Which kept me on my toes.
I ate my hamburgers.
By the time I got to Joe Cheese’s establishment it was packed wall to wall with broads of all descriptions and men trying to make them. “Whattya givin’ away?” I asked when I reached his table.
“Pussy,” he laughed. “Wall to wall pussy.” Thursday night, he explained, was always a good night because people who don’t have dates for the weekend are out taking a good shot at getting one. And the more optimistic among them are trying to find a balling partner for the cold November night.
We talked about the general decline in morality for a few moments, both of us agreeing it was a good and wonderful thing, then we walked back into his office. “What we have heeereeeerrrrrrr,” he said, trying to imitate the jailer in Cool Hand Luke, “is one whole lot of money!” He handed me one package, wrapped in brown paper. I knew from past experience what was inside: two packages, each approximately three inches thick, of one-hundred dollar bills. “That is eighty-thousand dollars, my friend,” he finished.
It wasn’t necessary to count it. If the Cheese says a package contains a pound and a half of ostrich shit, you can be positive it is exactly one and one-half pounds, not an ounce more, not an ounce less.
“I’ll see you next week.”
When I come back to pay Joe Cheese his money, it would not be wrapped in neat little three-inch packages. The dealers I sell to pay with any denomination they can get their paws on, so there will usually be as many singles as hundreds. My wife and I sit up counting all night. It’s really a funny scene; the entire dining room table is covered with green cash dollars and the two of us are packing bills into hundreds and thousands. When we finish I take some shopping bags and divide up shares: This is the Cheese’s, this is mine, this is expenses. Joe’s is obviously the biggest. The following night I pick up the shopping bag, or bags, filled with bills and covered with a newspaper, and walk into wherever we’re meeting. The first time I did that Cheese went nuts. He couldn’t believe anyone would treat money so casually. I wasn’t worried: I knew I wasn’t going to let anything happen to that cash.
My share of the profits can be anywhere from $2000 to $15,000, depending on the size of the load.
As I got up to leave Joe Cheese’s establishment, he said, “Bring me a pack of Marlboros.”
“Hard pack or soft?” I asked. When you’re in the business you’ve got to be precise.
“Hard.”
“It’ll be my present.” He walked me through the front door and wished me a good trip. Occasionally I would drive one of the trucks myself and he thought this was one of those times. I didn’t bother to correct him. As far as I was concerned, the more people who thought I was out of town for the weekend the better it was.
I took the bundle of money and drove out to Jamaica, Queens, to meet Bobby Roach at the warehouse. This place was just a big empty building with garage-type doors. Certain individuals who were known to certain other individuals could rent space out and be sure no one was going to come snooping around. At various times all sorts of merchandise had been left there, much of it from temporarily borrowed trucks. When I got there our rented trucks were already inside.
The Roach was inside the cab of one with the two drivers trying to keep warm. I didn’t feel comfortable at all inside the place. Because it was so empty every sound echoed a number of times, and the poor lighting cast shadows in every corner. It did not exactly present a feeling of security. “You guys all set?” I asked the drivers.
They nodded.
“You know the story. Do your job and there’s a bonus at the end. Fuck with me or this money and you’re dead. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“It depends on how busy they are down there,” one of them, an individual called Mack, obviously because he was a truck hauler, told me, “I’d say Saturday night, but don’t be surprised if it’s not until Sunday afternoon.”
“No later,” I said very seriously. I handed Mack the package. “There’s eighty-thousand bucks there. It ain’t my money, so guard it with your life.” I knew he would, because he knew what I would do if the money disappeared. “Gentlemen, have a safe trip. Remember, thousands of smokers are depending on you guys.”
After the trucks left Bobby and I walked out to my car. I asked him how the burglar-alarm business was going and he told me they were moving but slow. “You gonna be here Sunday?” he asked.
“I’m gonna try. I got some things to do over the weekend so I don’t know how free I’ll be during the day. I’ll call you no matter what.”
I left. The boards were clear. My bookmaking business was done for the week. The cigarette trip was on its way and I had nothing more to do. I was free and clear to deal with Squillante.
All I had to do was get a car and be at the spot early. I intended to be very early.
Although it was well after midnight when I got home my old lady was still up. “Where’ve you been?” she asked me, which is unusual for her. It’s a question she very rarely asks.
“Sending out some trucks for a cigarette pickup.” This is one operation I keep her well informed about. “Tell your girls they’ll have their butts on Monday. Where you playing?”
She thought for a moment. “Patti’s. I’ll write down the address.”
“Okay, I’ll bring a van over there. Make sure they all bring their cars with them and I’ll load them up.” We talked for a few minutes, husband-and-wife small talk, and then she remembered to tell me we had been invited to my brother’s house for dinner.
“When?” I asked.
“Saturday evening.”
It figured. “I can’t make it. I told you never to make plans for me without asking me first. You did it with the Squillantes and now you’re doing it again. Don’t you ever learn?”
Actually, she was pissed. “What do you mean you can’t make it?”
I was starting to yell. “Don’t you understand English? I can’t make it. I got business.”
“I’m not going to call your brother and tell him you can’t make it.”
“Good. I got a better idea. Call my brother and tell him we both can’t make it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. If I feel like going, I’m going.”
I looked her right in the face and lowered my voice. “You ain’t going,” I said quietly. “I never tell you what to do. This time I’m telling you what to do. And you are staying right here, by yourself Saturday night.”
She stopped yelling. She knew I was very serious. “Why? For what?”
“Because I said so, okay? I just want you here by yourself Saturday night because,” I thought quickly, “because I’m expecting a very important telephone call and I can’t be here.”
“What am I,” she screamed, “your answering service?”
“You are Saturday night. And if anyone calls, you tell them that I’m asleep inside.” I wanted her there to establish an alibi in case I needed one. A wife is the perfect alibi. She can’t be forced to testify against her husband, unless she volunteers, of course, and my old lady was not about to volunteer after all the money I had given her. She can, on the other hand, testify for the defense. And as long as she was home alone she would be in a perfect position to do so.
She was very quiet for a few minutes. She obviously knew something important was happening, but knew she couldn’t ask about it. It was something unwritten between us, she never asked me about my work. In return she got just about everything her heart desired.
I broke the silence. “Joe Squillante called. They can’t come Sunday night. His mother had a heart attack or something.”
She didn’t say anything. “Why don’t you call my brother and tell him we can come Sunday night. Make up some story about Saturday night.”
“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “sometimes …” She didn’t finish the sentence.
I was looking for something to say that would soothe her, because I really don’t like to fight with her unless absolutely necessary. Finally I came up with the perfect answer.
“Wanna play some gin?” She did, and we sat up another two hours playing gin rummy. It worked out very well. She won $1.85 and went to bed happy.
RIGHT GUY, WRONG CRIME
My wife was gone by the time I woke up Friday morning. I didn’t know where she went, shopping with friends, to a movie, I didn’t know. I just knew enough to be thankful for small blessings. I laid there in bed outlining the day. The only step still to be taken was getting an automobile, but that had to be after dark.
I got up and made myself some breakfast: two eggs over easy, a stack of wheatcakes and coffee with milk not cream. Then I opened the New York Daily News to my horoscope. It said Friday was a good day to meet new people “who have my best interests at heart,” proving once again you can’t believe everything you read.
There was a knock at my door around 11:30. I opened it and there stood the new people. Two of New York’s finest, in full blue uniform. “Halloween was two weeks ago, kids,” I said. I don’t think they appreciated it.
“Are you—?”
“If I ain’t he’s gonna be pissed when he gets home and finds I been sleeping with his wife.” I really was in good humor. For some reason, though, they didn’t laugh.
“Would you get dressed please, we’d like you to come downtown and answer a few questions.”
“Do you have a warrant?” I always ask this question because it bugs the hell out of them. They admitted they didn’t. “Don’t worry about it fellows. Let me put a shirt on.” What the hell, I didn’t have any plans until much later anyway.
Actually that wasn’t the reason I was so agreeable. Obviously they had some reason they wanted to talk to me, at this point I didn’t know what, but deep in my heart of hearts I could only guess it had something to do with number 28. If I didn’t cooperate they would have come back after me with a warrant. And that might have caused me real problems because I didn’t know when they would serve it. If they caught me out in the street they would find a loaded .38 in my pocket, and that could cause more problems. So I was quite willing to go along with them.
I worry more about being caught for something silly, like carrying a concealed weapon, than getting picked up because of a hit. The hit I can do something about, the small things have a way of causing big trouble. Thus far I’ve been very lucky, but it’s been close.
One night I had been doing an excess amount of drinking in Manhattan, and I don’t believe in drinking and driving, so I grabbed a cab and asked the driver, “Feel like taking a ride to the Bronx?” I know cabbies don’t like to go to the Bronx at night because they rarely can get a fare coming back into Manhattan and a cabbie can make more than the round-trip fare just by hanging around downtown. But this driver, an older guy in his late forties I would guess, said alright. He drove me home and we bullshitted along the way. When we got there I threw him a $20 bill and said thanks. He was most appreciative.
Two weeks later I was working on a contract. One evening I was walking down Madison Avenue a block or so behind my target. I looked across the street and I see the law in the person of two plainclothesmen who knew me very well. Unfortunately, I was carrying a piece on me at the time. Oh Jesus, I thought, now I’m fucked. I kept walking until I reached the end of the block and I had to stop because the light was just changing. Incredibly, the first car to stop at the light is my $20 cab driver. I took it as a message from heaven.
“Hey sweets,” I said, “hold this for me,” and in one swift motion took the cannon out and threw it on his front seat. “Ride around for a few minutes. If you come back and see me walking down the street, return it. If you don’t I live at [I told him the address] and I’ll be home later.”
He nodded and drove off. I walked another block and sure enough the law stopped me. “What are you doing down here?” cop number one asked.
“Taking a leisurely stroll. Is that against the law?”
“Mind if I toss you?” cop number two asked.
“I mind,” I said, “but go ahead and make yourself happy.” He patted me down and amazingly enough didn’t find anything.
“You know,” number two said, “we don’t like to see you down here. Why don’t you stay up in the Bronx where you belong.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“It’s a free country pal, I can go wherever I want to.”
Number one butted in. “We been watching you for six blocks. You been tailing that guy up ahead.”
“What are you talking about? I had a heavy dinner and I’m walking it off. I told you, just a little stroll.”
“If anything happens to him …”
I interrupted. “If anything happens to him what? What are you gonna do, come around and bother me? So you come around and bother me. Now if you got no further questions …” And I walked away.
I guess I walked about 20 blocks, up to 70th Street and here comes my friend in his cab. “You okay?”
