Permanent Interests Page 5

  "Barney's in the slammer."

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  "Slammer, schlammer! These guys can run their outfits out of a whale's ass. They smell weakness like a fly smells shit. Believe me. They'll hear about Al Malandrino being on the ropes faster than I will."

  Ricky reflected silently for several minutes, his eyes locked onto the sugar bowl as he aimlessly churned the contents with a spoon. He had come a long way since Uncle Cheech rescued him from certain hard time in the joint when he was only seventeen. Cheech worked the system to get Ricky off on a murder one rap. He had kidnapped Joey Lupica, a rival suitor for Ricky's girl, tied him up and slammed him repeatedly in the head with a two-by-four. After Cheech worked his magic, all the witnesses developed amnesia, the prosecutors became anemic and the jury very open-minded. While he possessed as much conscience as a protozoa, Ricky felt eternally loyal to his new family, especially Al Malandrino.

  "Okay, Uncle Al. You're right. You're always right.

  What do I gotta do?"

  "You contact Dimitrov. Keep your ears open and be ready to pass messages."

  "Sounds like the goddamn 'hot line'."

  "You bet, Ricky. This way, we avoid misunderstandings. Who knows, maybe even a war." Al smiled, then devoured a chocolate biscotto.

  Pironi's antique, wood-and-glass, lace-curtained door opened. Wentworth's fresh, All-American face poked itself in, the blue-gray eyes scanning the place.

  "Hey Chuckie!" Al shouted, waving one arm. "Over here! Whaddya doin', Chuckie? Lookin' out for some tail?" Al winked and nudged a decidedly unenthusiastic Ricky in the ribs as the latter downed a glass of Pellegrino.

  Ricky half-raised his left arm to deflect his uncle's light pugilistic jab.

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  Al motioned Wentworth to have a seat. They shook hands. Ricky offered a limp wrist, almost as an afterthought.

  "So, you guys have met?" Al asked.

  "Yeah," Ricky murmured. "Ran into each other at the Al-Mac office. Wasn't it Chuckster?" Ricky's deadpan eyes challenged Wentworth's.

  "It's Chuck," Wentworth corrected him.

  "Whatever." His attention was suddenly captured by a well-filled leather miniskirt sashaying on the street outside the window displaying "Pironi's" in gilt, cursive lettering.

  Al motioned for Wentworth to take the seat next to him.

  "So, what's up, Chuckie-boy?"

  "It's 'Chuck'!" Ricky interjected sarcastically.

  Al shot a reproachful look at Ricky, then turned back to Wentworth.

  "Well, Mr. Malandrino…uh, Al, I just needed you to sign these papers to hire two more employees -- newly retired army sergeants -- to help me out on security matters.

  They'd also double as warehouse foremen to replace two that we fired recently. So you'd be getting twice your money's worth." He handed Al a sheaf of papers.

  After scribbling his signature quickly and handing back the documents, Al slapped Wentworth on the shoulder.

  "You're a good kid, Chuckie. Doin' a terrific job. Anytime you need anything, you let me know. Don't be shy."

  "You've been more than generous, sir." Wentworth then excused himself, begging off coffee and biscotti, and departed.

  "That kid's a real piece of work, Uncle Al. I can't believe you hired a guy like that."

  "What's your problem, anyway?" Al said. "I get somebody who can clean up the mess over at Al-Mac and 50 JAMES

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  you dump all over him. I never saw you shakin' the tree over there, little nephew."

  "It's just that we got Beaver Cleaver working at Gangsters R Us. He'll get in the way."

  "I think I see the problem now," Al said. "You're jealous! Ol' Chuckie there gets more done in two months than you did in two years over at Al-Mac"

  "Gimme a break. If I wasn't here, all your goombah competitors would be all over you. Not to mention the fuckin' Spanish, Chinese and any other greaseball hoodlums jumpin' out of the melting pot demanding a piece of the action."

  Al gestured that he'd had enough. "Chuckie Wentworth has what you and I never had: trust. He also happens to be very good at what he does. Finally, the guy adds respectability at a time when the businesses -- and I --

  really need it. So, I'm not asking, but I'm telling you: Get along with him. Help him out. When you help him, you help the family. You obstruct him, you hurt the family.

  Capisce?"

  Ricky

  nodded.

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  The "Wen-ching Ho" had been unloaded of its cargo, its crew either at quarters or taking in as much as they could of New York in two nights time. Customs did its thing checking the cargo and cleared the whole lot of canned food and electronic components from China after some cursory checks. Homeland Security was a bit more vigorous. Washington was tied in knots over a veritable armada of cargo ships, fishing vessels and scows from the Orient transporting hundreds of illegal Chinese immigrants to the U.S. This on top of fear, verging on paranoia, that al-Qaida would try to smuggle a "dirty bomb" into the country. After three hours of thoroughly screening the ship's crew and poking into every conceivable crevice, the Feds gave a clean bill of health and departed.

  Customs agent Ed O'Meara lingered behind. He had unfinished business.

  He met with Ricky as agreed, in the warehouse dispatcher's office at 8:00 pm. Ricky sat comfortably behind the gray metal desk in the small windowed cubicle smoking a cigar.

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  "Edmund! Lookin' good!" he greeted the customs agent in a voice of mock sincerity. "How's the wife, the kids, the mortgage?" he cracked in barely disguised ridicule.

  "Fine, fine," Ed replied impatiently. "Let's get this out of the way, and we can both go home."

  "What's the matter, Ed? Job getting you down? Haven't they given you the annual step increase yet? What about that promotion? You a GS-11 yet, Ed?"

  "Yeah, real funny Mr. Laguzza. Can we get this over with, please?"

  "Sure, why not? Just like to keep up with old friends is all." Ricky got up and gestured to himself. "How do you like the duds, pretty spiffy, huh?" He wore pleated dark green trousers held up with bright red suspenders. The crisp blue longsleeved shirt had a white collar which was closed at the neck with a large brass pin. A broad silk tie with a detailed portrait of flappers around a Model-T

  graced his neck. Ricky was in one of his yuppie moods.

  He reached down and grabbed a small duffle.

  "Here it is, pal" he said as he dumped the contents onto the desk. Fifty stacks of 20-dollar bills rolled out. "Fifty grand, like we agreed. Take the wifey and kiddies to Disney World."

  O'Meara was not amused. He was scared. This was the seventh such dealing he'd had with this man. While it was a very lucrative relationship, the briefer his contact with Ricky, the better. Here's this horse's ass cracking sick jokes, risking getting both of them caught in the process.

  Security's sake demanded no-muss, no-fuss transactions.

  Besides, he didn't like the greaseball. This guinea wise-guy is jerking me around, a family man, O'Meara thought.

  He hurriedly gathered up the cash back into the bag.

  "What's wrong? Aren't you going to count it? Who knows, maybe this time, I'm stiffing you." Ricky took a PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  pensive puff of his Nobile as he regarded the customs man with squinty eyes.

  "I trust you, Mr. Laguzza," O'Meara lied. He just wanted to get his ass out of there. With Ricky, he felt like a mouse in the presence of a large cat which delighted in torment. O'Meara dealt with him out of necessity. He had six kids, the twins soon to enter college. His superiors cheated him of promotions. And the government imposed de facto racial and gender quotas for recruitment and promotions. The way O'Meara saw it, they could all go to hell. Fifteen years of looking through people's dirty underwear and crawling into the stinking holds of freight
ers won him no rewards and little hope for advancement. He had to cut his own deals. Look out for his and his family's welfare. And, after the first plunge, no looking back.

  "Hey Eddie, you don't wanna know what you cleared for me?" Ricky queried mischievously, gesturing to a dozen cases of canned lychees.

  "The less I know, the better, don't you think, Mr.

  Laguzza?" O'Meara held the bag in his hand and was poised to sprint out the door.

  "You got it, pal. That's what I like about doing business with you, Eddie. You ask no questions. Just take your money and run."

  O'Meara nodded once and made his move.

  "Just one last question, Eddie." Ricky leaned against a file cabinet with the cigar clenched between his front teeth.

  Nobody else knows about our little relationship? About this transaction?"

  O'Meara jerked his head over either shoulder, as if expecting cops to smash in the doors with sledge hammers any second. His heart churned like the diesel engine of a ship accelerating out of harbor.

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  "You can trust me, always, Mr. Laguzza. Why should I tell anybody? I'd only be doing myself in."

  "I don't know, Eddie. You micks talk up a big storm when you pour a couple of beers down your gullet."

  Outrage momentarily displaced O'Meara's fright. He instantly recalled his fireman father knocking the front teeth out of an Italian shopkeeper when the latter blamed the elder O'Meara and his fellow firefighters for letting the man's store go up in flames. The Italian had called the brigade "a bunch of lazy Irish drunks." Ed O'Meara, however, knew better than to try to live up to his old man's reputation.

  "Like I told you, nobody. I'd like to leave now."

  "Hey. Go," Ricky replied easily, one arm crossed over his chest, the other gesturing toward the door. "I'll be in touch."

  O'Meara scampered away, his head rotating wildly for any sign of danger. He clutched the duffle close to his chest.

  From the front of the warehouse, a hundred feet away, Ricky heard a commotion -- loud voices and scuffling. It was too late to bolt and take action.

  "Whoa! Nobody leaves!"

  A fat man in an ill-fitting gray suit and felt hat two sizes too small came sauntering toward Ricky with two other men in tow. The larger one, a neckless giant, dragged O'Meara by the collar. Ricky froze.

  In big clumsy strides, the fat one ambled up to Ricky as if he were about to try to walk straight through him. He halted three inches from Ricky's nose. The goons were right behind.

  "Well, well, well. What do we have here?" the interloper exclaimed, looking around him. The menace emanating from this artless baboon was accentuated by PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  round colorless eyes set too close together atop a potato nose. "Looks like we caught somebody red-handed doin'

  somethin' that's most likely against the law. What do youse guys t'ink?" he motioned to his cohorts, his eyes locked onto Ricky's face. The goons were expressionless. The huge one holding O'Meara by his collar gaped stupidly from a dullard's face.

  "Who the hell are you?" Ricky demanded. "You're no cops. I know all the cops in this area. And you're not Feds either. Feds dress better and don't drool."

  "Who

  am

  I?" the fat guy bellowed. He snickered, made like he was about to throw a look at his henchmen, then crashed his right fist into Ricky's groin. Ricky doubled over, grabbing hold of the desk to keep from falling.

  "You guineas are all alike. Think you can bust in here, do business without going through the union."

  Ricky coughed into his handkerchief. "What're you talking about? What union?"

  Fatso pulled a billfold from his inside jacket pocket, opened it and shoved it into Ricky's face. It displayed an I.D.

  "Brotherhood of Teamsters, pal! You do anything on this pier, you gotta go t'rough the Teamsters."

  "What the fuck you talking about?"

  "Hey, keep talkin' like that, and I'll have to invite the Longshoremen in too. I'm sure they'd be real interested in what kinda deals are goin' down in their warehouses. Let's get down to business fast. No tellin' who else is goin' to stumble in here. All these lychee nut cans. I hear that junkies are really getting off shootin' up lychee nut juice.

  We know that you have a nice cozy relationship with customs here. We know that some of our finest customs officers get a nice share of the pie. Since the Teamsters transport everything in these warehouses to the distributors, 56 JAMES

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  the Teamsters gotta have their cut too. Just look at it as your contribution to the pension fund."

  "Does Al Malandrino mean anything to you, buddy?"

  Ricky demanded as he regained his composure.

  Fatso rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. He pointed a finger upward and raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Malandrino…Oh yeah, ain't he that dumb guinea who just barely escaped serious time in the joint? Ooh, yeah. Sure. Real smart guy. I t'ink I have actually heard of him. Seems to me he's got this t'ing against unions.

  Can't stand 'em. Locks 'em outta all his businesses. Not a guy for the working man."

  "Who do you work for?" Ricky demanded. "Bellomo?

  Persico? Who? I think we're going to have to talk with whoever is supposed to keep you under control."

  "Listen you ginzo greaseball piece of shit. I work for me and the Teamsters. Max Chesny. That's who I am, you got it?"

  Chesny backed up two steps. Without taking his eyes off Ricky, he began to reach for a two-foot metal pipe that sat on the warehouse floor.

  Ricky prepared to lunge at him and his two cronies.

  Every muscle tensed. His eyes bored in on the intruder.

  As if in defensive response, the obese Teamster stood up instantly. He stiffened and shivered.

  "Come on, blubberball. I'll take you and your buddies on," Ricky yelled.

  Chesny's eyes rolled upward. His fingers straightened.

  His legs trembled. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose.

  He seemed to be rising from the ground.

  The goon holding O'Meara fell onto his hands and knees, eyes bulged to the point of popping out of his head.

  His tongue protruded from his mouth. The man's head appeared ready to explode. Ghastly moans emitted from PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  deep inside his shaking body. Blood-tinged foam gushed over his chin and down his throat, wetting the lapels of his overcoat.

  Ricky heard a "Chump!" then a "Crack!" The third goon crashed to the floor. His neck began spraying blood in all directions. A fire ax was planted squarely down his right ear and into his jaw.

  Ricky moved fast. He grabbed the pipe from the floor and zonked Chesny smack on the side of the head. But Chesny gave no reaction as bloody vomit oozed from both sides of his mouth. There was the sound of cracking ribs from behind.

  Suddenly, there appeared none other than Dimitrov from a stack of crates containing Swedish refrigerators. The Russian had a sickly contented grin on his face as he visibly struggled against Chesny's weight. He was yanking a large knife up the dying man's rear rib cage.

  Two of Dimitrov's mates were attending to the other Teamsters, one garroting the big man; the other admiring the handiwork of a quick ax to the head of the third Teamster.

  From the rear of the warehouse ran Bags and Herman

  "The German" Metzger, like Bags, a life-long and loyal employee of the Malandrino clan.

  "What the hell…is this?" Ricky demanded.

  "We are aborting a contract with Teamsters," Dimitrov huffed as he reached Chesny's shoulder blade.

  "Holy Christ!" Ricky shouted.

  Dimitrov ignored Ricky. He wasn't quite finished yet.

  He let Chesny's corpulence drop to the floor. He then methodically commenced to eviscerate his victim. A geyser of blood gushed in several directions, covering the floor quickly in a sticky scarlet mess.

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>   Ricky grabbed Dimitrov's shoulder to yank him backward. The Russian bolted around and flashed a foot-long chromium blade to within a half-inch of Ricky's eyes.

  He backed off, holding his hands outward from his sides.

  The other two Russians held Bags and the German at bay.

  "You see this?" Dimitrov asked calmly. Menace and madness radiated from his eyes.

  "When I was boy in Murmansk, I work in fish factory.

  Every day, I clean sturgeon, take out eggs to make caviar. I become like surgeon. Cut quickly and expertly. I do it with eyes closed. Sturgeon knife you can use to shave with." Dimitrov scraped Ricky's three-day growth, instinctively causing him to flinch. "Sturgeon knife cut bones like other knives cut cheese." The Russian broke his trance-like gaze and backed off slightly.

  "Ricky, breathing hard, was half bent over, with his hands on his knees. "Next time I have some people over for a cozy massacre, I'll know who to call."

  "I will tell you something, dear Mr. Ricky," the Russian said, resuming a distant glower. "We learn in Afghanistan how to kill properly. We, as soldiers, killed with gun --

  clean, simple, quick. But enemy kept coming to kill us.

  When mujahideen kill us, they take time. Sometimes they cut off ears, take out eye or cut off nose. Next day, they cut off balls. Maybe they take five days to kill Russian. They slice off skin and tie body to big rock in desert so his comrades can see. Whole companies of Russian soldiers refuse to fight when they see this. They kill commander rather than fight such people. Some desert to enemy, become Muslim. We learn lesson from Afghanistan. We lose war because enemy kills better than us. Now we Afghantsi kill skillfully. Teamsters never again bother us.

  I guarantee you this."

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  "Let's just get the fuck out of here."

  Dimitrov eyed O'Meara, who was slumped against the crates crying uncontrollably. He had vomited all over the duffle bag.

  Ricky stiffened. "Don't even think of it. He's useful.

  You don't know how useful. Without him, we're finished.

  He's not going to breathe a word about this. Are you Eddie?"

  The customs man whimpered. He held his knees tightly and rocked back and forth.