Hit #29, page 4
Even then I have made mistakes. I’ve been seen pulling the trigger. I’ve been seen in the areas where my bodies were found. These things happen, they’re almost unavoidable if you work regularly. But I have never been convicted of anything because I was always ready for the possibility that something could happen. I’ve always played completely by the rules. I’ve always made sure I was working for legitimate people who would back me when I needed them. And, they did. The witnesses who said they saw me weren’t sure they saw me, and the people who said I was in the area decided maybe I wasn’t. I like to say that the people I worked for made sure that these so-called witnesses told the truth: First we decided what the truth is, then they told it.
On the surface, the Squillante job did not look like it was going to be a difficult one. I had the complete cooperation of the people who hired me. I was going to have all the information available. The man had no idea he had become the bullseye. And I had as much time as I needed to fulfill the contract.
But, the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable, I felt. Why should the Fat Man, and Jackie put Squillante on a $20,000 platter for me? I hadn’t worked for them in over three years. Jackie had no love for me. And there are a few other good hit men around. I would guess that it might have something to do with the fact that I knew Squillante—it’s always a plus to know the man you’re after because you can get close to him easily—but there really is no way any of them could know that I knew him. And, of course, Petey was a friend and a fan of mine.
I filed these thoughts in the back of my mind. I decided to ask Petey what went on at the meeting where my name was brought up. And I also decided to keep an eye on my flanks. Further than that I couldn’t afford to dwell on what-might-be. I had a job to do.
Loosely figuring, I gave Joseph Squillante two weeks to live.
The race meet was at Aqueduct at this time because the renovation of Belmont was underway. It didn’t make much difference to me, I can lose my money at one place just as good as I can at another. Actually, except for the fact that it was all of a sudden very cold, it was not such a bad day. I had a couple of winners early and I was a few hundred bucks ahead at the end of the fifth race. I went up to the $100 window and waited. Sweetlips was precisely on time. He walked up to me and handed me an envelope. “I got a present for you,” he said.
“I thank you,” I told him and stuck the envelope inside my pocket. I decided to be a little friendly. “You gonna stick around for awhile?”
He shook his head no. “Man, I book ’em, I don’t bet ’em.”
I laughed out loud. “I book ’em too.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I know.” And he didn’t laugh. Then he simply walked away, leaving without so much as a wave goodbye. I took a few short steps to the window and put my money down. If I had been a bit smarter I would have done what Sweetlips hadn’t—waved goodbye.
This was my last visit to the track before really going to work. When I’m on a hit that’s where I focus my attention. Of course, it’s not the only thing I do—you got to keep your other businesses going—but I do try to stay away from the track. You’ve got enough things going without spending time studying the form.
After I left Aqueduct, about even for the day which was a pleasant change, I called my bookmaking office and got the week’s results. At that point I was working a half-sheet, which means that I split all profits with the office, but that they covered all losses and took whatever they were down out of my future earnings. They told me I was ahead $6000 for the week. That means I had what is called a “black sheet.” Of that $6000, I keep $3000 and the office gets the other half. All I have to do is collect it. I don’t even have to visit the office, I simply go to my losers first and collect their debts, then pay the winners off out of that.
On the way to see my first loser, I stopped at my attorney’s office and handed him $10,000 cash from the money Jackie gave me. He would put it in a safe-deposit box for me, and hold the key. The only people in the world who know about that box are my wife, my brother, my lawyer and me. If anything happens to me the money goes to my wife, my brother will see to that. Besides, I trust this lawyer in financial matters. You have to trust someone.
I spent a good portion of the afternoon going around visiting my customers. I meet most of them at their offices, at bars, at restaurants. Sometimes they just leave the money with a bartender or maître d’, but they manage to get it to me somehow.
I started with my losers. I am used to losers. A man who has lost for the week will usually be grumpy and say things like, “I’m gonna get you next week,” or, “Boy, were you lucky this week,” or the most familiar, “If only I had listened to my brother-in-law who had a friend who knew this guy who knew this jockey’s butcher …” But most of your losers pay up right away. Only occasionally do you get somebody who has gone in over his head and can’t pay, a Joseph Squillante for instance.
I have had my share of welchers. No one as deep as Squillante, but I have had people go close to $100,000. I’ll let them go if they have a good job and good standing, because I know they’ll find some way to pay me back, if not in cash, in services. I had free use of a 1973 Cadillac Coupe de Ville all year thanks to a car dealer who fell behind. Instead of letting the “vig,” the interest, add up each week, he just let me have the car while paying back the principal. There’s a term for this. It’s called life insurance.
One way or another I had seen or gotten in touch with everyone with one exception. All of a sudden it’s 6:30 and Solly from the garment district isn’t anywhere around. I had nicknamed him Sorry Solly because he had been losing pretty consistently and at this point was down about $3000. This is not really much because I know Solly has his own importing firm and I know he’s worth a lot more than that. But he had been putting me off for a few weeks and promised he would be able to settle on this particular afternoon. I don’t get mad, I just make a mental note to call him tomorrow and see what his story is.
After finishing with my losers I meet my winners. They are always gonna be there in person! Winners are just as predictable as losers. Every winner is convinced he has finally learned the secret of successful gambling and from this point on he will never have another losing week. Fine, I encourage that. I want them betting with me.
I got a doctor from the Bronx who bets with me. I’ll stop by his office on Monday or Tuesday and, if he’s a winner, which he is often enough, he’ll be screaming and shouting, “I got you this time. You’ll never see this money again.”
“Not until next week,” is my usual, and usually accurate reply. I swear, this guy would rather hit an exacta than find the cure for cancer. I like him as a customer, but if I was sick I wouldn’t go near him with a cold.
I never meet all my customers every week. Normally, if a guy has a break-even week, or if he’s just a few dollars ahead or behind, we’ll let it ride another week and put it on his account. On this particular night I was home by 10:30 P.M.
My old lady was not on the premises when I arrived, which is not at all unusual. This is one remarkable woman. She knew all about women’s liberation long before them other big mouths started shooting off. But more importantly, she understood how to handle it. Because of my profession I have a somewhat erratic schedule called no schedule at all. Sometimes I’ll be home for dinner, sometimes not. Sometimes I’ll leave town for a few days on very little notice. This woman takes everything in perfect stride. She has a complete life of her own—but she manages to incorporate my life into it.
I didn’t know exactly where she was this evening. She might have been out playing Mah-jongg or canasta or bridge or at the movies with some of her girlfriends. The one thing I know she wasn’t doing was seeing another man. That is just about the only thing I would not stand for. I’ve treated that woman super-wonderful. She has more money salted away than the Green Giant has peas. And I also give her the respect that a husband owes to his wife. I know how lucky I am.
My first wife was killed because I was involved in illegitimate enterprises. I was hauling drugs into the country for an independent operator. It was all very easy, I was just taping the packages to the rims of my car tires. The customs people might inspect the tire, but they never take it off the rim. I had done enough work to be owed $40,000, but this wise guy thought it would be cheaper to kill me. Which it would have been, had he been successful. He hired three thugs to do this job, and they went to my house when I wasn’t home. My wife, who was very pregnant at the time, let them in. Instead of being gentlemen and leaving when they saw I wasn’t there, they kicked her in the stomach, and then left her lying there. She hemorrhaged and died.
I hunted each of the three thugs down and killed them very slowly and very painfully. The boss was luckier—he was arrested and sent to jail. When he comes out, if he lives that long, I’m going to kill him too.
I appreciate my second wife. I appreciate the things she does for me. For example, this night I appreciated the fact that she wasn’t home. I sat myself down in my big print-covered easy chair, turned the light on and opened the envelope Jackie Sweetlips had given me. There, on a piece of paper neatly typed, was everything I always wanted to know about Joseph Squillante but never bothered to ask.
There were four pages filled with information about Squillante: where he lived, background about his family life, where they went on their vacation the previous summer (Disneyland!), even his middle name (Franklin). Also his car, the type, color, license-plate number and even the fact that it had a big scratch on the right rear fender. They also gave me the name and address of his girlfriend and his best friend, an advertising executive who had nothing to do with the business. Finally there was a list of additional items of information about his haunts and habits. The thing that attracted my attention most was the line that said, “As far as is known, Squillante does not carry any weapon. No one has ever seen him handling a gun.”
The last two pages gave me his normal daily schedule and the information I needed about his runners: where they lived, their phone numbers and where Squillante picked up from them. The office had this information in case something happened to Squillante and someone had to fill in for him. When what was going to happen to Squillante happened, someone, probably one of his runners, would inherit this list.
The names were not listed in any particular order, but they were grouped by general geographical location. There was also a little notation next to each one, indicating whether they figured to be early or late pick-ups. Three or four were called “possible last pickups.” The reason the office knew that is because Squillante would occasionally call or stop in at the bank before finishing for the day and say, “I’ll be back in a half hour because I’ve got to stop and pick up from so-and-so.”
Squillante would start picking up his numbers by 8 A.M. at the latest. This did not thrill me because I knew I would have to get up very early to beat this bird. The list did not say where the runners were picking up their action, but they would meet him in the Bronx. By 10:30 he would have picked up approximately 45 envelopes and then drive downtown with the money and the slips to the bank, to drop everything off. Then he would go back and meet his final runners. Two days a week, at least, he would not go to the bank first. Instead he would keep the action with him and go to his girlfriend’s place. She was a Puerto Rican girl who lived in the Randall Projects up in Throgs Neck, She had one kid, a little boy, seven years old.
According to the list he generally turned everything in and had all his paperwork done by 2 P.M., 2:30 at the latest. Since the numbers is based on total mutuel betting, all bets are supposed to be in the office by the time the first race goes off. Since it had gotten cold they were starting the animals at 12:30, so I figured old Joe would be done by 1:30. Then, at some point he would stop in at the office to pick up his results, and the cash for his winners.
So this list told me a lot about Squillante. The only thing it didn’t explain, was how the hell could he have gotten in so deep? He owed more than $200,000! That means he had probably lost another $300–400,000 before that and had paid off. I didn’t understand it.
The thing that amazes me about Squillante and people like him is that they know what a sucker game this is, and they know very few people ever come out ahead. Squillante had more tax-free dollars than he ever dreamed of, yet he got fucking desperate. I make big money. I gamble. I lose, and I blow a lot of money. But I never bet more than is in my pocket. I have never yet made a fucking bet if I couldn’t cover it. I have never borrowed money unless I knew I could pay it back and when I could pay it back. It amazes me that people in my business could leave themselves in a position to get shafted. Or that they would get greedy and steal. And Squillante? Doing both? I found it hard to understand. And even harder to believe.
I was trying to digest as much of the material as I could before my wife came home and found me sitting there reading. My wife has seen me do a lot of unusual things in the time we’ve been together, but reading is not often one of them. If I had anything besides a racing form or the New York Daily News in my hand she would know something unusual was happening and I didn’t need that nohow.
She came wandering in at 12:30. By that point I knew as much about Squillante as the Fat Man and Jackie Sweetlips, and was deeply immersed in the Johnny Carson Show. She was thrilled because she was a winner for the night. The game was Mah-jongg and the last of the great riverboat hustlers had won herself a sparkling $1.78 or something like that. I had a better surprise for her.
“How about some coffee?” I asked her.
“That’s a good idea,” she agreed, “you make it.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I bargained, “you make it and I’ll give you a surprise.”
She looked directly at me. “You going away again?”
I didn’t like her sense of humor. “Ha, ha,” I answered. “Just put some hot water up, okay? And don’t give me a hard time.” This time she did exactly that.
She served it to me in the living room. “Where’s my surprise?”
I handed her the envelope. It had $5000 in it. “Here,” I said. “If you made better coffee you could have had more.” I laughed. I always make it a point to give my wife a chunk of whatever I earn. It keeps her happy, and when she’s happy she doesn’t give me a hard time, so I’m happy. It also keeps her loyal. And she deserves it. So, $5000 for her, $10,000 in the safe-deposit box and $5000 for me and Aqueduct to share.
She smiled as she counted it. I don’t know what she does with her money, I never ask, but she must have a sizable amount stashed away somewhere. “Thank you very much,” she said and kissed me on the forehead. She never asked me where it came from. She suspects what I do, but I don’t believe she actually knows that I pull the trigger. That’s the way I want it. And that’s the way she wants it also.
I don’t think she would have taken the money if she knew it was partial payment for the death of Joe Squillante.
The countdown had begun.
TAILING HIM
I am not a morning person. Some people are actually sharper in the morning than they are at night. I am not one of those people. I think it goes back to when I was a kid just starting out and I had to get up at 5 A.M. and go stand on a corner to take numbers bets from people on their way to work. It always seemed to be cold and I was usually very tired. So when I started doing good financially I reserved the mornings for sleeping. In fact, if I do have to get up early in the morning. I’m usually awake a half-hour before my heart starts beating.
If there is one thing I dislike more than early mornings, it is cold early mornings. There is a chill that just cuts right through you, no matter how much clothing you have on. This Tuesday morning was damn cold out, so naturally I was not at all thrilled at getting up at 6 A.M. to go chase Joe Squillante all over the Bronx. But business is business. You got a job to do, you get up and you do it. And I had a job to do.
The only tools I had with me when I left the house and climbed into my sparkling 1966 Oldsmobile Cutlass were maps of the Bronx and Manhattan, two pens, a notepad, a portable radio, a wristwatch and an army blanket. I didn’t even carry a gun with me, although there was one safely tucked away behind a false back in the glove compartment. I don’t like to carry a piece on me unless I have to—for example, I would never go to any sort of meeting without a loaded weapon—and in this particular case it didn’t seem to be necessary. The gun in the glove compartment is for emergencies. None of which requiring that kind of solution have ever come up.
The reasons for the maps were obvious. Even though I know every street in the Bronx like I know every wrinkle on my wife, I really wanted to pinpoint my location in terms of one-way streets, traffic lights, construction obstructions, stop signs and blocks closed because of children at play. I was planning to make these notations on the map as we went along. The pad was for writing down thoughts and ideas about certain places; what made them desirable, acceptable or no damn good. The portable radio was to preserve my battery when I was just sitting there, watching and waiting. The wristwatch was because, as expected, the clock in the car did not work. The blanket again is obvious—it gets damn fucking cold sitting in a car without the heater on. And I can’t turn the heater on because it won’t work if the engine isn’t on and I can’t turn the engine on because I’ve got to save gas because I never know how long I’m going to be sitting in one spot.
In order to see what Squillante’s schedule was like I had to be at his house before he left for his morning’s work. I got to his place, which was just off Roberts Avenue, about a quarter of seven. He was walking out of his front door just as I got there. If I had been five minutes later I would have missed him. He was dressed for the weather, a leather coat that looked to be lined, a scarf and a hat. The hat I expected Squillante is one of the few hat people I know. When we were teen-agers he was the first individual who wore a suit on any day except Sunday. The guy always liked to dress good, and I guess wearing a hat is part of that. This particular hat was very advertising-man. Gray brim bending slightly over his forehead and one little multicolored feather sticking out of the side. If you didn’t know he was going to pick up from his runners you might guess he was on his way to a law office or some such place.
