Hit #29, page 2
Therefore it was up to the buttonmen to (a) convince them they would not be hurt if they told everything they knew, or (b) convince them that being dead could actually be better than being alive. The buttonmen opted for alternative b. They used some very subtle techniques. It is a well-known fact in funeral-home basements that you can hurt a guy pretty good by poking his balls with an ice pick. Pins inserted directly under the fingernails also prove very persuasive. This was demonstrated to Allie and Manny and they showed a willingness to talk. And, as soon as they stopped screaming, they did. By the time the Fat Man had been notified and gotten down there, the boys were so eager for some friendly conversation they would have told him the last time their mothers got laid if that’s what he wanted to know.
“Let’s have it,” the Fat Man said.
“A few months ago,” Allie said, “this guy came to us and asked us how would we like to make some money. We said we’d like.”
“Which guy?”
“This guy. This Joe Squillante guy. And so …”
“Squillante!” The Fat Man couldn’t believe it. Joe Squillante had started running numbers for him in the mid-1950s. He was made a controller in 1965 and there had never been a single problem with him or his customers. The Fat Man obviously found it hard to believe that Squillante was his man. That was more than biting the hand that feeds you, that was chopping it off with a fuckin’ hatchet. “Bullshit,” the Fat Man challenged, “Squillante got robbed himself.”
“He sets hisself up so no one suspect him,” Manny said in a squeaky voice. “We went over, he give us the money, that was it. He was givin’ us all the info on all them other people. Joe Squillante.”
“How come he told you his real name?” the Fat Man, who wasn’t at all convinced he wasn’t being put on, asked.
The boys shrugged their shoulders. “We was doing some things with a bartender in Bayside and …” Allie started to explain.
“What sorta things?”
“Hey man, you know, things. A little collecting for people, getting some bets placed for some people, a little muscle work, a gun job …”
“Stick-ups only,” Manny said. “We never shoot nobody. Never. I never even fired the mother.”
Allie looked at him sort of disgustedly. “You know what I mean,” he continued, “things. So this bartender, he told us he had this guy who maybe had some work for us. We met him and he told us he was this guy Joe Squillante That’s all.”
“What’d he look like?” I guess the Fat Man figured it wasn’t below some fucker to use Squillante’s name.
But Manny described him perfectly. “He was like regular size five foot ten and weighed maybe hundred ’n’ seventy. He gettin’ a beer belly. And he got black hair which he combs to the side and it looks like maybe he going bald in front. And plus he got one scar on his face over his eye.”
“That’s Squillante.”
Allie continued the narrative. “So we met Squillante, or whoever he is, and he tells us he’s gonna finger guys for us to stick-up. He said he was taking sixty percent and we could split the other forty. It sounded good.”
“Sounds shitty to me,” the Fat Man said. “You guys were taking all the chances and he was getting sixty percent. How come you guys go for such a shitty deal?”
“Hey, listen, it was still lots more than we was making anywhere else,” Allie said truthfully. They had ended up making about $35,000 apiece.
The Fat Man just couldn’t believe it. He turned to the man who told me this story and asked, “Why the fuck would Squillante get into this shit? The guy is making five thousand a week.”
Nobody had an answer. All Manny and Allie knew was that Squillante fed them good information and never cheated them on the split. The Fat Man didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he took his buttonmen upstairs and held a meeting. He just left the boys sitting there. I would have to guess that they spent their time praying hard. They had to figure they were dead, but they figured wrong. The Fat Man, he needed them.
He just could not believe Joe Squillante was his man. He knew Squillante, he knew the wife, he had even been to both his kids’ confirmations. In the upstairs meeting he kept talking about the fact that he trusted Squillante, and believed in the guy, and knew the guy. Then he said he just would not blitz the punks until he was sure Squillante was his man. So he went downstairs and told them that if they followed his instructions perfectly, there was every chance they might live to become godfathers.
They listened very, very carefully.
A hit is always bad for business so the Fat Man wanted to be sure he had the right man. He told Manny and Allie that they were supposed to act like nothing had gone wrong. Like they hadn’t been picked up and they hadn’t given up Squillante. He told them they were going to be given the money and a couple of slips from the controller they had held up that evening. They were to give this to Squillante. But they were to inform the office before every meeting they had with him. And when Squillante outlined the next job, they were to let the office know in complete detail.
In return they would be permitted to live.
The boys allowed that this was an excellent plan.
Then the office began investigating Squillante. Even though he had been there almost 20 years, nobody could claim to know him very well other than the Fat Man. They knew he was married, where he lived, and that he kept his activities almost exclusively confined to the numbers. It was also known that he was not a big liver. He didn’t have no fancy house, or big car, and he didn’t mess around with broads and hit the nightclubs. He had a girlfriend but she didn’t require much upkeep. So, the thing that bothered everybody was, what was he doing with the money he was making? Where the hell was he putting it?
It took them a couple of days, but they got their answer: Squillante was deep into five different bookmakers. He was losing his shirt and he wasn’t paying so good. The story was that he had started out by betting $500 a week. Then he graduated to $2500 weekly and he was losing. So he went for $5000. Eventually he went into the pit for over $200,000, which is a very large pit.
Out of the clear, blue sky above the guy had become a degenerate gambler. No one seemed to know why or how come, but all of a sudden he was picking up the phone and betting his lungs. And that is what started the whole thing.
Now, he was making $5000 a week, but that was nowhere near what he owed. He must have figured that the only way he could ever get even was to go into business for himself. Unfortunately, he chose the wrong business He went to this Bayside bartender who found him two local desperadoes. Squillante offered them this semi-golden opportunity and they jumped. He was using his share of the earnings to pay off the books.
Manny and Allie did precisely what they were told, and as they said, it was Joe Squillante who met them for the payoff and Joe Squillante who gave them the details for the next stick-up job. The office decided that Squillante had to be permanently fired. Or, as it is known within the organization, burned. That’s when I got the message that somebody wanted to see me.
That was the story I was told after finding out Joe Squillante was my target. It just didn’t sound like the Squillante I had grown up with.
CONTACTED AND CONTRACTED
I get contacted to do work in many different ways. This particular message came to me on a bright, cool Thursday afternoon, while I was in the midst of some real-estate speculation. At the center of my speculation was an age-old question: How long would it take a certain three-year-old to cover some prime New York State race-track real estate? I thought one animal was a particularly good investment, and I was checking my resources to see exactly how much I cared to invest. Unfortunately, I had made a number of similar investments earlier in the afternoon and my spirits were as low as my bankroll.
I finally determined to wager $100. As I finished making what would soon prove to be another one-way trip to the window, this guy I knew from my days as a numbers controller came up to me. “How you doin’, Joey?” he asked.
“Fine, how you doin’?” He was doin’ fine also. We exchanged amenities. I told him business was fine, which it was. At this point in my life, besides doing my hit number, I was into a bookmaking outfit—I had about 25 of my own customers—I was bootlegging cigarettes on a reasonably regular schedule, I was occasionally doing a little shylocking, and plus I was picking up little odds and ends here and there. Finally I said, “I’m earnin’, nobody’s gettin’ hurt, everybody’s happy.”
He shook his head no.
“Everybody ain’t happy?” I asked.
He shook his head yes. “Petey wants to see you,” he said. This individual didn’t know what it was about, he was just passing a message along, but he knew it meant no good for somebody.
Petey is a buttonman. He controls a certain territory for the Fat Man, which means he gets a piece of every bit of action that takes place in that area, from numbers to card games. He and I go back a long way, back to the time I came back to New York to hunt down the last of the three men who killed my first wife. During that time he helped me out by getting me a few jobs where I could earn good without too much effort.
More importantly, he is one of the very few people alive today who knows my real name and what I do for a living. He knows I’m a hit man. And he knows I do good work. Unfortunately, he also knew he could find me at the track, which is a bad habit I’ve gotten into. I knew if Petey wanted to see me he had some work for me. And I’m always willing to listen to propositions.
I left the track after the eighth race and stopped at a pay phone. The gist of the message was to contact him at a certain bar where he likes to hang out. When I called and asked for him I was told he wouldn’t be there until 11 o’clock that night. That was nothing unusual. Petey has a girlfriend he likes to see plus he has a lot of business to supervise. I knew I’d get him then.
I had work of my own to do. I called my book-making office to see what my customers were doing. As with every book, a runner is responsible for servicing his own customers, so he has to keep in contact with the clerks in the office. By the time I called the day’s animal action was in and the clerks were working on it. They gave me the figures for the afternoon and we had done a little heavier than I would have guessed. The phones were already ringing for the nighttime sports and trotting action. As usual, the office wanted to check some credit lines with me.
Each bettor has a credit limit and the only person in the world who can allow him to bet more than the limit is the runner. In this case, me. First problem was this guy named Eddie who had a line of $500 and had blown $450 early in the week He wanted to get even by going for $200 on some ball games. “No,” I told them “give him a hundred.” I knew he was good for the whole $200, but lately he had become a real pain so I wanted to put him in his place. He was one of those people who, if you give him a fucking finger, he’ll take your whole arm.
The second problem was Elliott. Elliott wanted some extended credit Now, this Elliott has been with me for five years. Whatever office I’m working with, he comes along He is very, very rich, but he is also hung-up about being cool. He is particularly easily impressed with muscle and tough talk. In his case I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a sex thing. I told them he could have all the credit he wanted.
Once I finished with the office I had the entire evening to kill before speaking to Petey. The only prior business I had was meeting two new cigarette customers. I’ve been in and out of the cigarette business for almost 15 years. The operation is simple: By bringing cigarettes directly from Carolina to New York and selling them, you can avoid paying any state taxes. It is a very, very profitable business. All it takes is some rental trucks, drivers, a warehouse and customers.
A friend had called me a few nights earlier and said he had two individuals in cigarettes who needed a supplier. I agreed to meet them and this third party set up the meeting. We met in a midtown restaurant so I could combine my business with my real pleasure, which is eating. I sat down, perused the menu, and we started talking. Actually they started talking and I started listening. I learned a long time ago that listening is much safer than talking, especially when you don’t know who you’re talking to.
It turns out that their previous supplier had been busted and they were desperate for butts. They said they could probably take as many as 2000 a week, which is a sizable order. I still hadn’t said a word. Finally, without ever admitting I was indeed in the business, I asked these people to tell me the names of some people they knew who could vouch for them. One guy knew people in Brooklyn, the other guy named a couple of men in Manhattan. “Okay,” I said after writing down the names, “give me your driver’s licenses.”
They didn’t like that. “You a copper?” one of them asked as the veal parmigian arrived.
“Listen, fuck,” I replied in my toughest gangsterese, “you come to me, I didn’t go looking for you. You want to deal with me, you give me what I ask for. No arguments. If not, so long and goodbye. Whatta I need you for?” You’ve got to be strong with these type people.
“Don’t get hot, don’t get hot,” his friend tried to calm me down. I wasn’t even upset, it was an act. The only thing that was bothering me was that my veal was getting cold while those guys screwed around. Finally the peacemaker handed me his license. The big mouth did the same.
“Now you know how the game is played.” I wrote down their names and their addresses from the licenses and returned them. Everything looked legitimate, so I asked for their telephone numbers. “Okay,” I finally told them, “I’m not saying I’m in the cigarette business or anything like that, but if I can help you out I’ll get in touch with you very shortly.” I didn’t even want to talk price with these guys until I was sure they weren’t coppers. And I couldn’t really be sure of that until I checked them out. All of that would have to wait until Friday anyway, because Petey was very firmly in my mind.
The cigarette boys and I discussed food and animals for the rest of the meal. They picked up the check, which is traditional when you’ve asked for a meeting, and we departed.
I’ve never been able to understand about the so-called sixth sense, but it definitely exists. When something is about to begin, when something is about to happen you can feel it. You know it. I knew Petey had a hit for me, somehow I was sure of it. Even though I normally don’t take jobs too soon after having completed one, and figured I probably wouldn’t take this one, it is considered common courtesy to speak to people who want to speak to you. Besides, I was curious. And I could use the money for my real-estate ventures, which lately I had been making with more frequency and less return than ever before. I went to call Petey.
He was waiting to hear the melodious chimes of my voice. Except for a brief hello, how are you, fine, we got right to business. “Meet me under the Williamsburg Bridge at one o’clock,” he said.
“With bells on,” I told him and hung up. It was obviously not going to be a social visit.
Petey is easy to recognize any time. He has a habit of keeping his right hand inside his coat pocket when he’s wearing a coat, or tucked into his belt buckle or pants waist when he’s not. That and the fact that there was no one else standing under the Williamsburg Bridge at one o’clock made it very easy for me to find him.
This particular spot, right at the end of Delancy Street, is a favorite meeting place because it’s quiet, dark and lonely. More than one body has been dropped there for those reasons. Petey hopped into my car and we spoke nice for a few minutes. How’s your old lady? Fine, how’s your old lady, Petey? Fine. When we gonna have dinner together? Whenever you’re not busy. We’ll have dinner. Good, where do you want to go? And so on. Finally he said, “I think I have a contract for you.”
A contract is simply a verbal agreement to have something done. It does not, of necessity, involve a hit. But I knew Petey wouldn’t drag me out at 1 A.M. and meet me under a bridge if he wanted to talk about hauling cigarettes. I knew it involved heavyweight work. “All right,” I said, “lay the story on me.”
“No story, it doesn’t involve my territory. Just a message. Sunday night be at the Half Moon. When you walk in the door you’ll recognize somebody you know. You go up there, you talk to him, see what you want to do.”
“What time do I meet him?”
“Around nine-thirty, ten o’clock. Don’t eat dinner before you go, because he’ll probably want to bullshit with you for awhile.”
Just exactly what I needed—another free dinner!
Obviously making hits is more enticing than cigarette deals, and more lucrative, but it’s not as steady. If you’re going to work within organized crime, you’ve got to make sure you have some sort of steady income. Personally, I usually have a few small things going. Now, cigarettes are lucrative but they require a great deal of time. Even though smuggling butts is not as serious as burning somebody, the same kind of caution that leads up to pulling the trigger goes into putting a deal together. Justice is indeed blind, she’d just as soon throw you in the clink for bootlegging cigarettes as binging some punk. And it’s a whole lot easier to prove. If they catch you with a truckload of cartons your only hope is to stack the jury with chain-smokers.
So I spent a good portion of Friday checking up on the two new dudes who wanted to order from me. They proved out clean. The kid from Brooklyn had a reputation of being a good hustler who earned good, and as far as anyone knew, was honorable in his commitments. Ditto the second guy. So I set up a second meeting.
We met in a luncheonette on Second Avenue in the upper 70s. I laid it out carefully for them. I gave them the price, which depended on how large their order was. “And,” I told them, “I get paid on delivery and I get paid in cash. No such things as owesies.” I told them I’d let them know when I wanted their order and how soon I could deliver.
Big Mouth from Manhattan said they had done some figuring and probably would need 2400 cartons. “How do we get in touch with you?” he asked.
