Hit #29, page 9
So I’ve picked up maybe one tail out of three at least, which means I’m hitting .333, though I admit my one hit was off amateur pitching. Squillante’s average was either .1000 or .000. I would not know for a while yet.
He spent Saturday acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. My only question was whether it was just an act. I didn’t believe he could possibly be that stupid, intentionally. He had to be worried and he wasn’t. So I worried for him.
He went where he was supposed to. He went to the projects, the street corners, the cab garages. He met all the people he was supposed to meet and made all his pickups. He went to the bank and dropped off his proceeds. He made his last few pickups and returned to the bank. And then, his day’s work done, he went directly to his girlfriend’s for an afternoon’s entertainment. I settled down for a long winter’s stay. It could have been worse, there were some very decent college football games on the radio and I didn’t have to listen to no music at all.
One of the things I do when I’m sitting and waiting is time the police patrols, particularly if the area is a potential hit spot. Sometimes they’re irregular and you can’t get any schedule. That alone can make a location doubtful. The one thing you don’t want is a patrol car riding in on you when you’re sitting there with a loaded gun waiting for the intended.
The Randall Avenue project had a few things to recommend it, but it was not a first choice. I figured though, as long as I was sitting there, I might as well get a line on the cops. The first car came by 20 minutes after I parked. This gave me a starting place. The same car reappeared 45 minutes later, and 45 minutes or so after that. Meanwhile, Squillante was still inside, pumping away at his Puerto Rican piece. Or so I assumed.
I really couldn’t figure why Squillante would waste his time with some spic when he had a broad like Cindy waiting for him at home. If I had a broad like that, I started thinking, and then figured why not? As soon as Squillante was dead and in the ground, I’d give her a call as any old and dear friend would, and maybe I would get her away for a few hours to help her forget, and then maybe I’d take her home and ball the daylights out of her.
Somebody was going to. She was young, pretty and very sexy. She wasn’t going to become a nun. Somebody was going to get in her pants. Why not me? I seriously thought about it sitting there. I could almost see me and her sprawled across her bed, her nice, thin legs up in the air as I pumped away at her.
So, I thought, let Joseph Squillante have his Puerto Rican senorita. What I had waiting for me was a lot better. And to get at it, all I had to do was bury Squillante, my job.
I caught myself right there. When you start thinking like that, you get careless. Killing is not a crime of passion, it’s a job. When you do it for love you get caught. I did it for money. And I didn’t want to get the two mixed up.
Maybe, I thought, after he’s been dead a few months. Maybe.
When the time came for the police car to come around again I got out of my car and walked down the block. I didn’t know if they had noticed me or not, but I figured what the hell, I needed the air anyway. And I didn’t need them checking to see what I was doing sitting there for three hours.
That walk proved to be a mistake on my part. In the few seconds it took me to get out of my car and walk down the block I missed Squillante’s exit. Either that or he walked out the back door, or I missed him when I was thinking about balling his wife. I didn’t know. In fact, I didn’t know he left. After the patrol car came and went I resumed waiting in my car. Nothing happened for another 45 minutes, and again I took my walk. It’s possible Squillante left at this point, I will never really know. By the time another three-quarters of an hour passed it was dark enough for me to stay in my car and not worry about patrols. Besides, I knew that they must have changed shifts somewhere along the line and two new patrolmen were riding the area.
In all I waited about six hours and nothing happened. Then the front door of the building opened and this good-looking chick walked out. I had never seen Squillante’s broad before but I had a very bad feeling this was her. She looked exactly like the girlfriend described in Jackie’s letter: small, long hair (the information sheet said it was reddish but I couldn’t tell in the light), great figure and, this was the clincher, this broad was wearing the coat I saw Squillante carrying in Brooklyn. The coat was the thing that caught my attention. It was too good for any dame living in this particular project.
I was stunned. If Squillante was gone the only conclusion I could reach was that he was onto me. I turned my engine on and drove around the corner to check his car. Normally I never watch an individual’s car, I watch the individual. One of the things I learned early in this business is that you never track a person by watching his transportation because he is liable to use several different kinds, particularly if he suspects he is being followed. It is an old law the army taught me: Never make an assumption. Deal with facts. With known things. In this case though I had to throw that law out: His car was gone. I made an assumption and it was very, very bad.
If he had skipped, no physical harm would come to me. Nobody is going to kill me if I blow the job and the man submerges. But it isn’t going to help my reputation and I’m not going to be working too often for a while.
I couldn’t spend time debating the facts. I had to move. I knew he was gone. What I didn’t know was if he had given me the slip intentionally or if I had just missed him one time when I turned my head or walked down the block. If he had given me the slip intentionally that meant he knew somebody was on his ass. I had to find out in a hurry.
I drove my car around the block just in time to see this broad getting into a taxi. If he had given me the slip she was being awfully stupid by leaving the apartment. If I hadn’t seen her I would have simply figured he was still up there doing whatever. I had a quick decision to make: Should I follow the cab or go to the one place I was usually pretty sure of picking him up at, his home? I started to follow the cab. If it had gone downtown, toward the airports, I would have followed it all the way. Instead she headed toward Westchester. I decided to take a gamble and I started driving like a madman toward Pelham Bay.
Every single person in the entire world has at least one place where they invariably show up. Everyone. Once, for example, I was looking for a guy and the only place I knew for sure I could find him was at the race track. The animals were running at Saratoga, but that’s a goodly trip from New York City. I didn’t think he would make the trek so, if he was going to the flats, he had to go to Monmouth Park. I went to Monmouth Park every day for 12 consecutive days to look for this guy and, sure as shit, on the 12th day this guy comes along. It cost me some money, as long as I was at the track I figured I might as well make a bet or two, but I found him.
In Squillante’s case there were a number of places I could depend on finding him: his home, the numbers bank, his girlfriend’s. I knew he wasn’t at his girlfriend’s. There was just no reason in the world he would go to the bank at this hour. That left his home.
He wasn’t there. No car. Lights on in the living room. I drove around the block three or four times looking for his transportation. It just wasn’t there. I was trying hard to relax but there was sweat on my face. Usually I can handle anything that comes along, but I don’t make that many mistakes so I can get used to it. When I blow one it eats me up inside.
I tried to put myself in his place. If someone were after me, where would I run? Where would I hide? Car? Plane? Train? Maybe even a Greyhound? There were just too many options. The first thing I decided to do was call Sweetlips and have him put out the word that anyone seeing Squillante should contact him immediately. It was something I hated to do because it was an admission of failure, and I’m not good at admitting that, but it was something I had to do because I couldn’t let him get too big a head start.
I started driving down the block toward a shopping center where I figured I could find a phone. And then I saw this beautiful sight. Joseph Squillante driving down the street from the opposite direction.
As he drove by I turned my head away and kept going straight. I made the first turn I could and zoomed back toward his place. I got there just in time to see him climbing out of his car with all sorts of packages. That son of a bitch had been shopping! I could have kissed him. He picked up his packages and walked inside. He didn’t even look around. I’m clean, I thought, I’m clean.
I went right straight home and had a big, relaxing, restful, delicious dinner, prepared by my charming wife.
And I never even knew I had been tailed from the moment I left Randall Avenue.
SQUILLANTE BETS HIS LIFE
So far the Squillante job had more problems than it was worth. Between wondering if Squillante was the guilty party, or if the thing was planned just to set me up, and now, if he had seen me, my concentration was shot to shit. All the time I spent wondering I should have been working out a plan. I had been on Squillante almost a full business week and still hadn’t picked out a prime location. Usually I do that in the first few days, yet here I was still wavering between a number of places, really thrilled by none of them. Worse, in my own mind, I still had not resolved the two problems.
If Squillante was betting heavily he was doing it very quietly. All the time I had been with him I hadn’t seen him pick up a racing form or go anywhere near the track. He might have been betting from his girlfriend’s or even from his own living room, but that I doubted. He wouldn’t have bet without studying the sheets and I never saw him buy one. And his betting was the key. If I could catch him getting down I would know for sure that he was the right target. And that I wasn’t.
On Saturday night I decided to find out once and for all.
I called a friend of mine named Reg who is a phone mechanic. This means he can do anything that can be done with telephones, from running a backstrap for a bookie operation—that is two phones in two different locations hooked together on one number—to putting in a Princess phone with a lighted dial and low ring for my wife.
We exchanged pleasantries. “Whattya doing tomorrow morning?” I asked.
“I’m going to church. What do you think I do on Sunday mornings?”
I know Reg well enough to know that he hasn’t been to church since the last Monte Carlo night. “You’re probably sleeping in, you fucking lazy bum.”
He sighed. “Do me a favor? Don’t tell God.”
“Don’t worry,” I laughed, “we ain’t on speaking terms. Anyway I got my own problems. How’d you like to make a hundred bucks?”
“That’s what I been praying for.”
“Fine. I need some of your expert help. Bring your telephone tools and meet me outside Johnny Dee’s place at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Whattya need?”
I don’t like to discuss my business on the telephone under any circumstances. There was no way I was going to tell him now, particularly when I considered him to be the F.B.I. (finest bugging individual) I’ve ever known. “I want to tap a confessional,” I told him. “I think I got a line on some priest trying to pass saltines off as wafers. What the fuck difference does it make why I want you there, just be there.”
“What kind of place is it?” he asked in his best professional tone.
I told him, “An apartment house.”
There was a short pause while he considered the job. “Alright,” he finally agreed, “but I want to be home in time for the football game.”
“You’ll be home for the kickoff,” I lied.
I picked him up in front of Johnny Dee’s because I didn’t want him to know where we were going. Reg is a Manhattanite and knows the Bronx like I know Buckingham Palace. At best he’s heard of it. As long as I was driving I knew he would never remember where we were going. He had his tools in one hand and the New York Times in the other. “What’s the newspaper for?” I asked him.
“To read,” he said simply. You ask a stupid question …
I realized I was taking a big gamble going into Squillante’s building, but I knew the odds against Squillante coming down into the basement on a Sunday morning were about the same as Francis the Talking Mule winning the Kentucky Derby. And if anyone else came down, Reg was carrying more telephone company identification than Alexander Graham Bell himself. Besides, this was a case where the ends justified any means. I simply had to find out.
We had absolutely no problem walking in the back entrance and going down into the cellar. Just to be on the safe side though, Reg thoughtfully gave me a telephone company hardhat to wear.
Reg found the terminal box immediately. The box itself was approximately 12 inches high and 8 inches wide. It opened up to reveal at least 25 different wires in a multitude of colors. “Which apartment does this guy live in?” Reg asked.
I told him and he began searching through the wires. Finally he found what he was looking for and he took two metal clips and hooked them onto the wire. Then he hooked the other end of the wires into a pair of earphones and handed them to me. I put them on and heard a dial tone.
“That’s the apartment.” I always thought Reg was wasting his time working for people in the organization. With talent like his he definitely should have been in politics.
I leaned against the wall and waited for something to happen. Reg sat down next to me and picked up the Times. He pointed at the paper and mouthed the words, “To read,” and began doing so. Sometimes you get a stupid answer twice.
We were sitting down there for maybe a half-hour with absolutely no action. Then someone picked up the phone. Here we go, I thought, he’s going to call his bookie and get down on some gridiron classics.
It was Cindy Squillante. She called some other woman and they gabbed a few minutes and then she invited this other broad and her husband for dinner during the week. Sure, I thought, them she invites over, but us she has to come to our place. We’ll see about that! They kept talking.
Reg pointed to his watch. It was 70 minutes to kick-off time. The pregame show would be going on the air shortly. Get off the damn phone, I thought, get off the damn phone. Eventually they did, but before they finished I picked up a new recipe for chocolate icing.
Nothing happened for another 10 or 15 minutes. Reg was through with the sports and entertainment section and was deep into the book reviews when the phone rang. No matter how much he bet no bookie was going to call him to solicit his action. It was a wrong number. The earphones were hurting my ears and I took them off. “Hey Reg, is it possible they have two phones?”
He turned around and very quickly checked the box. I figured that was the problem, we had the wrong phone. While Squillante must have been busy betting, I was getting a chocolate icing recipe. Reg turned around. “One phone.” He resumed his reading.
The time shot by and I was really getting uptight. If the man does not bet horses then he is betting football or he is simply not betting. That’s it. And so far Squillante was not betting. It was one-half hour to kickoff.
Fifteen minutes later someone picked up the telephone. I recognized Squillante’s voice. This was the call I was waiting for.
He starts betting football and I mean really betting. He makes six games, $5000 a game. Then he hangs up and calls another bookie and goes through the same routine again, this time at $2500 per game. This is my answer. This is where his money is going. I could not believe my ears. I was stunned. This stupid motherfucker was getting himself buried even worse than he had been. It really fractured me. He was on the boards for $45,000 and who knew how long it had been going on.
The bookies obviously let him go because they knew he was a good earner, and when you’re earning they don’t care how deeply you go into the hole. As long as he kept handing in $2000 a week or so I’d let him keep betting too. The odds are that he is never going to get even. You know what it takes to get out when you’re down to something reasonable, even $50,000? I own you, don’t I? And as long as I know you’re capable of earning I’ll let you go on forever. Very rarely is an individual who is consistently making payments shut down even though he has no hope of ever getting even: It’s when he starts missing payments that he is cut off. The one thing bookies don’t want to do is make desperadoes out of their customers. Squillante had become a desperado.
I didn’t have to hear any more. I don’t even know if he made any more phone calls. People like him will start making cover bets at halftime, trying to win both halves of a game or at least break even. Sometimes they just go deeper in the hole. I tapped Reg on the shoulder and nodded. “I got him,” I said, “let’s go.”
He carefully folded up his New York Times, took the clips off the wires and wrapped up his equipment. I drove him back to Johnny’s place, pulled out my wallet and peeled off two hundred-dollar bills. I handed them both to him. “Thank you doctor,” I told him. I could depend on Reg to keep his mouth shut simply out of friendship, but with friendship and money I knew I could depend a little more.
Neither me nor Reg got home in time for kickoff, but I got back in plenty of time to get down on some of the games outside the Eastern Standard Time Zone. Then I sat and watched the television action. I’m sure my old friend Squillante was doing exactly the same thing. And sweating.
I broke about even for the day but Squillante did not do so well. He got what we in the organization call buried. He lost five games and won one. Assuming he didn’t make any more bets than those I heard, and that is an unlikely assumption, he dropped $33,750 for the day. This is because each $5000 bet came to $5500 and each $2500 bet was really $2750 when you add in the 10 percent vig, or service charge, that bookies include. His total winnings for the day were $7,500 and his losings were $41,500, a total of $33,750 in the hole. This is not chopped liver.
I took my wife to Chinatown for dinner that night, but my mind was not on chop suey. I focused squarely on Joseph Squillante. One of the problems had been answered: He was indeed the heavy bettor Sweetlips told me about. I began to feel a little safer knowing he was a legitimate target. But I was gonna keep checking my rear-view mirror.
