Hit #29, page 7
My old lady is the same way. She knows it is necessary for me to keep guns around for business purposes, although she is not exactly sure what I use them for. She is smart enough never to ask me if I pull the trigger. But this lady is used to guns, and not afraid of them, and the only thing she ever asks me is not to leave guns lying around the house with bullets in them.
Guns are both my vocation and my avocation. A well-turned gun is really a piece of art and I have a couple of guns I will never use. I bought them and I keep them because I think they are beautiful. One is an authentic German Luger. The other is a specially made .38 automatic built on a .45 frame. This is one beautiful item.
Normally I do keep a few new guns lying around the house ready to be used if necessary. Plus I have the guns I carry when I’m conducting business of any kind. There are three of them. One is a regular .38 that I carry when I’m wearing heavy clothing in which it can easily be concealed. A second one is another .38 which I keep in the glove compartment of my car and the third isn’t really a gun, it’s more of a doomsday machine. It looks like a cigarette lighter, the same general size and shape, but in fact packs the punch of a small shotgun. I have specially made cartridges that screw into it. By pressing two little gold buttons I can blow away anybody within 30 feet.
I carry three guns for the same reason there are supposed to be three candles on a birthday cake. One for good luck. One for good health. And one to grow older with.
But I won’t use any of these when I’m on a hit. I’ll meet a supplier like Cockeyed Jimmy and place an order. The gun I get will be used only once and then it will be disposed of just as soon as safely possible. That doesn’t mean I won’t treat it just as well as any of the guns I use regularly. That gun is my job, my protection, my life. It is the whole ball game. If that gun lets you down when you need if, that is all she wrote, brother. So one of the most important things I have to do is prepare the gun and, eventually, test it.
After I left the track I went home for the first time that day. My wife had some fried chicken ready and after we finished eating we settled down to spend a quiet evening together. She curled herself up on the corner of the couch, her reading glasses half way down her nose, watching television and doing a needlepoint picture of a bunch of kittens trying to crawl out of a basket.
I started cleaning the gun I was going to kill Joe Squillante with. And most people say I don’t strike them as the domestic type!
Since I work on my guns quite often, this was nothing unusual and my wife never said a word. As I said, as long as I don’t load them in the house, she doesn’t shoot off her mouth.
The gun was still wrapped, or rather had been rewrapped, in cosmoline oil and oilskin paper. I took a dry cloth and I wiped as much of the oil off as I possibly could. Then I wet the cloth and again wiped the gun down. That gets most of the oil, including the oil in the barrel, off the gun. Once I had gotten rid of as much oil as I thought I could get rid of, I took another dry cloth and went over the gun one more time. I went right through the whole thing, into the barrel, into the cylinders, down into the crook to where the hammer is, inside and outside until I had the whole thing shining.
Then I took my wife’s sewing machine oil, which is a very light oil, and put just one drop down into the trigger housing to keep it lubricated. This is to prevent it from rusting on you and jamming when you don’t want it to jam. I also put some oil on the cylinder so it would spin easily and another drop in the barrel, again to prevent rust. After that I just wrapped it up in a dry cloth and put it away in my drawer until I’m ready to test it.
I could tell the gun had been opened and then rewrapped because there was no serial number on it. The people I deal with are very careful people and they don’t leave anything to chance. Not even me. To leave anything to chance is tantamount to suicide, so the serial number had been filed off. This is to protect the people who sold me the weapon more than to protect me. Without a serial number I have absolutely no way of finding out where the gun came from, if I wanted to, which I never do. The police don’t have that problem. They can take a gun in a laboratory and somehow bring out the remnants of the number, even after it has been filed away.
But habit is a strange thing. Even knowing that the police could get the number, if the serial number had been on the gun I most probably would have filed it away with a grating file. However, if the serial number had been on the barrel, and many of them are, I wouldn’t have even bothered because if you file away too much of the barrel it’ll split open when you fire, and that is one opening I don’t want to attend personally.
The whole operation, cleaning and oiling, took me maybe an hour and a half. This is one area in which time is not of the essence, but thoroughness most definitely is.
As I sat and cleaned my gun and my wife worked away at her needlepoint, we watched the television. I remember we had a “loud discussion” about what to watch at 10 P.M. I don’t remember what she wanted to see, but I made my pitch for a police-detective program. I like those type shows because they always get their man, and I have always enjoyed fantasies. We flipped a coin and it turned out even—I got to watch what I wanted and she kept the coin.
It was a real homey scene, the little woman and her needlepoint, the hit man and his .38. It didn’t last that long. It was only a little after 11 when I finished, but I had been up unusually early, there was nobody worth watching on the Carson show and I was tired. So I did something very extraordinary, I decided to pack it in for the night. My wife couldn’t believe it. “What’s the matter? You sick?” Some great sense of humor this woman has.
I picked up on Squillante at the coffee shop again Thursday morning. I just wanted to make sure there were no unusual breaks in his routine. Although it was still too early to start any real planning, I was thinking mainly about Hunts Point. I also decided I’d better take a more careful look at the Randall Avenue project just in case he decided to go there at night.
The chase had been smooth, but boring, and threatening to get even more boring. One of the things I really dislike about New York radio is that they decide a month before what the top 15 songs are going to be and play them to death. The same songs, over and over. Whenever I meet a disc jockey I expect he’s going to say, “Hello, hello, hello, how, how, how, are, are, are” … and so on.
Squillante did not disappoint me. He made his two stops at the cab garages and his stop on the Grand Concourse and zipped right to the bank. Then back uptown and I thought he was going to his girlfriend’s but he fooled me, he went home. I was sort of surprised, so I stayed with him and when he parked, I decided to wait him out. I had no idea what he was going to do so I sat there. And sat there. And sat there. And sat some more. Of all the things he could have done this afternoon, he did the one thing I didn’t figure. Nothing. He stayed inside all fucking day. Seven and one-half hours.
A lot of things go through your mind as you sit there watching a door. You can’t take your eyes off that door for one minute. You do and your chicken is liable to fly the coop. I’ve tailed guys and tailed guys, and I was either looking the other way or I was so punchy that my mind didn’t register, but they’ve walked out and I’ve missed them. This is no big deal, you lose people all the time. In one case I had been sitting outside this hood’s girlfriend’s house all day and finally got out to take a piss and get some fresh air. I’m pissing and he’s leaving. Only I don’t know he’s leaving.
So you try to concentrate all the time you’re sitting there watching nothing. Waiting for movement. And thinking. Sometimes thoughts you don’t want come into your mind. When I’m alone like that, sitting, watching, waiting, the radio playing in the background, the thing I think mostly about is my first wife. I think about her quite a bit, as ridiculous as that sounds. I know I’m married to a good woman today, but this kid, my first wife, she is just something I never got out of my system. If you find a woman, a super-special woman, and she comes into your life, everything changes. And that is exactly what she was. I think if she had been alive I would never have gone into this business. Now, because she’s dead, every single time I hit one of these guys I feel I just hit some more of the fucking scum that in one way or another was responsible for her death. This is the way I psych myself up.
I hadn’t reached that point with Squillante yet, perhaps because I really knew him as a person, as a flesh-and-blood guy with a wife and a family, but I knew it would come. At this point I was mad at him for leading such a dull life. I had been sitting there almost five hours, nothing. In fact, I must have even gotten a little drowsy just staring at the door, because all of a sudden I hear a tapping at my window.
Shit, I thought before I turned around, I’ve attracted attention.
And I had. A little old lady who must have easily been in her 70s was tapping away. I opened my window, trying to keep an eye on the door as I talked to her. “Yeah?”
She must have had a lot of practice at being a busybody, but she seemed really concerned. “Excuse me, but I was looking out my window … I live just across the street,” she pointed right at Squillante’s building, “and I could not help but notice you’ve been sitting here for a long time.”
“Yeah, well,” I interrupted, “you see, I’ve got to because …” Her ears perked up. “Because, you know.” I stopped.
She didn’t say anything. She just shook her head from side to side. Her way of telling me she didn’t know.
“It’s like this,” I finally managed to respond. “My kids have this dog and it got away and we used to live here and … and the dog got used to that lamp post … over there … and I’m just sitting here waiting for the dog. There! That’s why!” I considered that a marvelous story.
She was not quite convinced. “What kind of dog?” she questioned.
I said the first thing I could think of. “A Great Dane.”
She obviously had heard of Great Danes. “Well, I’m Mrs. Gibson and I live in apartment 4G right across the street, and if you get cold you just come right in, mister … mister …” It was a question.
“Gold! Joey Gold!” It was an answer.
“Mr. Gold. Meanwhile I’ll keep a watch out for your dog.”
“You do that Mrs. Gibson.”
“And where should I call you if I find him.”
“Oh,” I replied quite serious, “right here. I’ll be right here every day until that dog is found. My children love him very much.”
She was taken with me. “What a wonderful father. You know, Mr. Gibson would have been a wonderful father too, only we couldn’t have any children.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, still watching the door.
“Yes,” she said, “it was his war injury. He fought in World War One.” I couldn’t believe I was sitting here listening to some nutty grandmother tell me she couldn’t have any children because of World War I. But I couldn’t move. Finally she finished gabbing. “I must go now.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, but I didn’t mean it.
“You’re lucky Mr. Gold, you know that?”
I asked her why.
“You know there are all kinds of bad people in this city today. So when I see a car just sitting here for so long, like yours, sometimes I call the police.” She now had my full, undivided attention.
“But you didn’t this time, right?”
She knotted her brow. “Of course I did,” she said flatly. I reached to start the engine to get away, but she continued. “But personally, between you and me, I think they’re getting a little tired of hearing from me. They told me to come out and get the license plate of the car and call them back so they could check it from there.”
I relaxed a bit. “But you’re not going to do that now, are you Mrs. Gibson?” I asked.
She smiled. “Of course not. There’s no need anymore, is there?”
I agreed completely. “No need at all,” I said.
She trotted off to her window. I marked that up as an extra bit of luck. Some things you simply cannot plan for, and Mrs. Gibson was one of them. The trick is to survive them, as I had. Or at least as I thought I had.
Squillante hadn’t moved yet. I spent another hour sitting there. I didn’t play any mind games because I was afraid I would lose. But finally, just as I was beginning to think about leaving, out comes my man, dressed, to kill. He had put his whole seven thousand a week into this outfit. A beautiful formal suit with all the matching accessories. And he was alone.
There was no doubt in my mind where he was going: right back to Randall Avenue to pick up his broad for a night on the town. I could see myself sitting across the street from the Copa and probably a few other places and that did not appeal to me to any great extent. But Buster fooled me again. He went bing! Hopped in his car and drove directly to beautiful Brooklyn … to a wedding. I couldn’t believe it was really a wedding so I stopped at a phone booth, called information and got the number of the place, and phoned. That is exactly what it was. Only friends of Squillante would get married on a Thursday night.
I figured they could get married without my standing guard, and I still had to get back uptown to my bookmaking office so I could settle with them for the week, so I kissed him goodbye.
After making my stop I drove home and got ready to make myself dinner. My old lady wasn’t there and she didn’t leave me anything to make, so I knew we would have some sort of argument when she came home. I don’t mind if she goes out, as long as she leaves me something already prepared or something I can cook up myself. I hate driving around looking for a parking space and then have to turn around and go right out to get something to eat.
I was so pissed I drove all the way down to Chinatown for some Chinks. I started thinking along the way that I wasn’t really so mad with my wife as I was with Squillante. This boy was making things too easy for me. I couldn’t understand why a man doing the things he supposedly was doing wasn’t being more careful. It bothered me. I wanted to see him look over his shoulder. I wanted him to be nervous, and he wasn’t. And, more important, I wanted him to make some bets. One bet. Anything to let me know he is what he is supposed to be.
I got home about 11:30. My wife was there with some news but before she gave it to me I started in on her. “What’s the idea of going out and leaving nothing here?”
“What do you mean nothing? There was tuna fish, salami, bologna …”
“I don’t mean crap. I mean food.”
We were yelling at each other now. “What am I, your servant? I’ve got my own life to lead too, you know.”
I started to interrupt, but she didn’t let me. “Listen, I …”
“You never call and tell me where you are or when you’re coming home. I don’t know if you’re going to be here for dinner, or not at all. So why should I bother? Huh? Tell me, why?”
It was obvious she had not had a good day. I figured I’d better soften her up. “Okay!” I screamed. Then I said it a little softer. “Okay, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
We talked a little more, and made up. And then, as we were getting ready to go to bed, she dropped the bomb on me. “Guess who I called today?”
I couldn’t guess.
“Cindy Squillante. I invited them over for dinner a week from Sunday.”
YOUNG LADIES AND OLD LADIES
On Friday I got very nervous.
Thursday night had been bad enough. My first reaction to my wife’s news was to explode, but I caught myself in time. I wanted to tell her to cancel the invitation, but I had absolutely no reason to give her. It was much too far in advance to tell her I didn’t feel like having company that night, and she wouldn’t believe me if I told her that I didn’t like Joe or Cindy Squillante. So I decided to let nature take its course. Perhaps with a little help from me. I knew there was every chance Squillante would not live long enough to share my roast beef.
On Friday morning I picked him up at the funeral home. I parked across the street waiting for him to come out, and as I did I watched a funeral. I never did like watching funerals or going to them.
I wondered what was going on inside, what Sweetlips was telling him. After all, the guy knew Squillante was just not going to show up one day. He didn’t know when, I had no reason to tell him that, just one day there would be no Squillante and maybe a story in the Daily News. Jackie would have to pretend he was upset, but carry on and name a new controller. That’s what he would have to do after. But this was before and I wondered if Jackie was surprised when Squillante showed up in the morning.
And then I thought of the other possibilities. That what they might be talking about in the funeral home was my funeral. Instinctively, I looked in my rear-view mirror. All I saw was a hearse, which did nothing for my confidence. I would have given up the winner in a daily double to know what was going on inside.
When Squillante did come out, about a half-hour late, which bothered me, he got in his car and started driving back up to the Bronx. So far no problems, I’m just laying on his tail and watching him. He stopped at the social club for maybe an hour and played some cards and dicked around. Then he got back in his car and started driving back down toward Manhattan. I can’t figure out where he’s going, so I move in a little closer. This is an interesting new development.
He kept going right into Brooklyn and I cannot figure out where he’s going at this time of day. As we were driving I checked my .38 to make sure it was loaded. Not that I was itchy. Maybe just a little itchy.
Then one of those bad things which sometimes happen happened. We ran into heavy traffic and he made a couple of lights that I caught, and he got waved through an intersection by a cop and I got caught, and before I knew it he was 15 blocks ahead of me and I’m losing him. I could see there was no way I was going to catch him on the avenue, so I figured I would make a right turn, parallel the avenue until I was ahead of him, and then make a left turn and get back on.
