The Friendship of Criminals

by Robert Glinski

  Sonny liked what he was hearing. Not necessarily the details, more so Marcek’s realistic take on his weaknesses. Sons of talented fathers overestimated the transitive property of admired characteristics. Sonny had seen dozens trip on those false expectations. They weren’t bad guys, just awful at self-analysis and thus liabilities on the job.

  “When I bent down and acted interested in his tires,” continued Marcek, “he didn’t seem all that anxious to get close. I said, ‘You should take a look because there’s a knife jammed in this one.’. That’s when he squatted down and I popped him. Out cold, one punch.”

  Sonny couldn’t resist a smile.

  Marcek didn’t take offense. He had his mother’s self-deprecating streak, which steered him clear of hot-blooded responses. “In case I’d guessed wrong, I checked his suit pockets for any envelopes, tried to roll his fat ass under the car, grabbed the briefcase, and beat a path back to Broad Street. Angie met me on Chestnut Street and off we went.”

  “I read The Philadelphia Inquirer. There haven’t been any stories about O’Bannon or a robbery at the Bellevue.”

  They discussed the discrepancy and decided O’Bannon probably didn’t make a report. A prideful criminal defense attorney wouldn’t want the public knowing he was vulnerable and something less than the rock upon which all waves broke.

  Marcek’s turn to smile. “There’s another fact explaining why there’s no report.”

  Sonny thought back to the twenty thousand dollars in the envelope. “Rea’s little visit.”

  “Right,” said Marcek. “O’Bannon wouldn’t want the head of the Philadelphia mob thinking his new attorney just lost the money he’d given him.”

  “Now we’re coming full circle,” Sonny said, eager to walk through the analysis. “The girl told you eighteen and had no reason to lie. The variable is Rea and his man coming in and out. Once you roll O’Bannon and pop the locks on his briefcase, he’s carrying much more. Knowing you, my cut is generous and not necessarily indicative of the total. The girl was expecting a piece, probably half, so when you gave her ten, she was giddy. You kept ten and the rest is me. I’m thinking that puts forty in the briefcase, which you’re figuring came from Rea.”

  Marcek gave Sonny a soft salute.

  “Could just as well be nothing,” said Sonny.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences like that.”

  “Okay, so what do they have cooking to explain that much money?”

  Marcek shrugged. “No idea.”

  “You tell your father?”

  “Of course. He didn’t make much of it or wasn’t in the mood to discuss. He stewed on it for a couple days and then got sore you were getting his share.”

  While Sonny figured the entire episode was probably a big nothing, he was glad the kid tried connecting the dots and shared the details. Out of respect for Anton, he’d give the sequence a second review later in the day. Time often provided a fresh perspective.

  Sonny said, “Best lesson your old man taught me? Be quick to forgive. Grudges are too expensive to lug around. The envelope and your story make up for Angie Sugarpants.”

  Being the youngest of the Bielakowski children, Marcek grew up with a vague sense of Sonny Bonhardt. He had half-memories of cruising around Port Richmond in Sonny’s convertible Cadillac and once or twice seeing a ball game with him and Michael. But by the time he was a teenager and ready for shaping, Sonny had split for Florida. Without him, Marcek’s professional training was reduced to piecing together his father’s mumbles and his own hard-fought, firsthand experience. Now, observing how Sonny tracked and dissected the O’Bannon scam, Marcek was grateful for a second opportunity. “Like I said, won’t happen again.”

  Sonny sat forward, resting his hand atop a foot-high stack of newspapers he’d asked Marcek to bring up from the condo. “Let’s get started. I’m supposed to teach you how to come up with good business ideas.”

  “I’m ready.”

  “One problem. I don’t have a clue how I do it. Most ideas come in eureka moments. Best I can offer is explaining what I do in preparation of those times.” Sonny paused as though there might be a question. When none was asked, he said, “This first part is like making chili. You know how to make good chili?”

  Marcek didn’t know where Sonny was headed, so he shook his head. Confessed ignorance at least guaranteed nothing could be assumed.

  “Chili,” said Sonny, “is pretty decent on Day One. By Day Two, it’s coming into form. And by Day Three, the flavors have combined into a perfect blend. That’s sort of me with these newspapers. I may read an article and have no reaction. Hell, I may read a week of articles and come up with eggs on the scoreboard. But then, out of nowhere, few days later and boom, an idea strikes. And it always comes back to something I read in a newspaper or magazine.”

  “I hate reading,” said Marcek, only half joking. He’d spent two grand paying off an assistant high school principal to let him graduate.

  “Don’t say garbage like that. It annoys me when I hear young people reveling in dullness. There are plenty of uncharming, hands-on tasks in your dad’s shop, so be grateful you’re not boiling livers for the blood sausage.”

  A decent debater, Marcek saw it wasn’t going to be much use going toe-to-toe with Sonny Bonhardt. Thumbing through the newspapers as if they were a pile of T-shirts on sale, he said, “Sports count?”

  “I’ve gotten ideas in every part of the paper, but you must read the newspaper as it’s packaged. Front to back, no skipping to the comics or box scores.”

  The newspapers were current editions from eight major metropolitan markets plus The Wall Street Journal and USA Today. Marcek settled on the New Orleans Times-Picayune for no other reason than that it seemed the least academic and most entertaining. “You ever see something right away and know it’s good?”

  “Sure,” said Sonny, separating the sections of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. “We don’t need to make this a thousand-mile march. A beautiful woman falls in your lap, give her a kiss. If you read an article and get an idea, make a note or shout it out.”

  Paper in front of his face, Marcek wondered what Angie was thinking on her raft. A quick peek at Sonny’s progress indicated he was already trailing, so he sped through some nonsense about the president’s travels to Europe and offshore drilling regulations. Once he reached the local news section, the content got more interesting, particularly an investigative piece on the flow of narcotics into Louisiana. A map showed all the highways and interstates in the region and an arrest count for each of the corridors. Leading the way by almost double was I-10, which connected Florida to the Gulf Coast. Mentioned in the article was the recent arrest of a man who’d been pulled over twelve miles outside of New Orleans. With the assistance of a drug dog named Randy, four members of the Louisiana State Police discovered thirty pounds of uncut cocaine hidden in the car’s rear panels.

  “Sonny?”

  “Yeah,” he answered without looking up.

  “Seems like maybe there’s some easy money running drugs from Florida into Louisiana if you’ve got a process.”

  Sonny snapped down his paper and gave Marcek a hard look over the top of his reading glasses. “First, Anton gave me one rule with you—no drugs. That’s the most dangerous money you’ll ever make. Second, we’re not reading the newspaper for dumb crimes to do better. And third, why you asking?”

  Marcek wished he hadn’t said a word. He was anxious to make a good impression and had pressed. Here on out, he’d be more discerning, wait for Sonny to offer up an idea or two so he’d have a better sense what they were targeting. “No big deal. I’m reading an article in the New Orleans newspaper about a Florida guy arrested for running dope.”

  Sonny filled his lungs with warm ocean air, wishing he could find permanent solace in that fleeting moment. “It give a name?”

  “The guy? Yeah, he’s called ‘unidentified male.’ The article is using him as an example of a bigger problem. Says he drove up from
the Miami area. That’s what gave me the idea, like maybe there’s a better delivery system than driving past state troopers with drug dogs.”

  Sonny folded his paper, excused himself from the table, and stepped to the waist-high stucco wall wrapping the rooftop deck. He wondered about the time. How much did he have? Maybe a week, as little as a day. Tough to tell with desperate men.

  He was reminded of the Iwo Jima photo, the famous one of the soldiers planting the American flag. One soldier’s face was obscured, his head turned down so only his backside was visible. Even without a face or name associated with the photo, the soldier’s mother saw the hazy black-and-white reproduction and knew it was her boy. After the man was identified as someone else, she wouldn’t hear of it. Hundreds of thousands of men had stormed Iwo Jima, but that picture was her son, she could just tell. Turns out, after a bit more investigation, her mother’s intuition was right. The man hoisting the flagpole with the hidden face was her son Harlan, a fine young Texan who died shortly after the photo was taken on that godforsaken piece of coral.

  That was Sonny with the article. Could have been anybody busted with that cocaine—one of a hundred thousand drug mules working for maintenance money or paying off a debt. But deep in his heart, in that spot where truth cannot be denied, Sonny knew it was Michael. His son never went to rehab. He wasn’t sharing personal demons in group therapy sessions. He wasn’t graduating with a shiny coin. He wasn’t moving into a sober living house. And he wasn’t rebuilding any of his poisoned relationships. No, Michael wasn’t doing any of that because he was in a Louisiana jail cell, feeling sorry for himself, trading food for cigarettes, and pondering life in Angola. Michael took the goddamn two hundred grand, bought cocaine, made a couple bets, bought some more cocaine, had another go with the odds, busted out, and went into hiding. Out of options and probably with Cassir’s shotgun in his ear, he decided to drive a car from Miami to New Orleans. Tweaked, stressed, and impatient on I-10, Michael was suspicious enough to give the police probable cause to hit their blues and start the roadside dance.

  At the wall, running the sequence a second time, Sonny realized none of it really mattered. Thinking about who did what and why was a waste of time. Stripped and boiled to the bone, Sonny was down a son and on the hook for another two hundred grand. That was the agreement he cosigned. Yes, he had the money, but it was all that he had. Paying it out, on top of what he’d paid for his own gambling obligations, tapped him for the year. He wouldn’t have gas money.

  He called Marcek to join him. Looking out on the Atlantic Ocean, hands in his pockets, Sonny said, “We’re done with the newspapers.”

  Reading the sentence as more open than closed, Marcek held his tongue.

  “I’ve got another project,” said Sonny, still looking east. “High stakes. It goes right and it’s the score of a lifetime.”

  Like a kid sprung from detention, Marcek wanted to ask a dozen questions, but the mood wasn’t compatible. Whatever Sonny had gleaned from the article carried a somber vibe that favored silence.

  “There’s a new medicine on the market called Viagra.”

  “I’ve seen the commercials.”

  “You and me, we’re going to steal some of it.”

  After internalizing the consequences of the last five minutes, Sonny decided a radical change was in order. Upfront fees were no longer meeting his needs. His ideas made millions while he’d settled for percentages and decimal points. For what? So he could feel full in January and margined by Thanksgiving? After working for most of his life, Sonny should have been able to handle Michael’s double-down setback over drinks and dinner, not let it wash him down the drain like an old hair.

  Watching the sailboats harness and hold their slivers of wind from his rooftop perch, Sonny knew the cure wasn’t another year of newspapers and press releases from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. To get well, to get truly independent, he needed to get balls deep into a score, one last big motherfucking score to send him on a never-ending sailboat ride. “I’ve discussed stealing a trailer of Viagra with your dad. Our usual arrangement is for me to sell him the idea after handling initial research and planning.”

  “But you’ve changed your mind.”

  “I’m keeping the heist. Whatever it produces, he’ll broker.”

  Marcek nodded.

  “Since you’re down here, I want you as my partner. Full share.”

  “What’s he going to think?” asked Marcek. The answer didn’t dictate his decision. He was in. He was only asking because that’s what was expected.

  “Nonissue,” said Sonny. “We kicked everything down the road except him lining up a bulk buyer. He’d need that regardless of the arrangement. In good faith, we’ll cut him in for a partner’s share. The standalone idea is worth a hundred grand. But the street value of a loaded truck is probably thirty times that. Instead of your dad’s crew, you and me will handle the operation and delivery to Philadelphia.”

  Marcek had heisted six trucks in his career, two in the last year. Though not his specialty, they weren’t far off. The problem in Philly or anywhere on the East Coast was the competition. Pick the wrong outfit or the wrong driver and half the take went to smoothing ruffled feathers. He figured Florida had to be a cleaner landscape. “Not to brag, but I’m pretty good with this type of thing.”

  “Hearing your O’Bannon story, you’ve got the ability.” Sonny checked on Angie again, who looked as though she’d fallen asleep on the raft. “She’s going to fry in this sun. Where are you two staying?”

  “We have an apartment in Delray Beach.” Marcek wondered what Sonny was considering for Angie. If he vetoed her participation, Marcek would struggle holding back his opinion. He wanted Angie close and could see plenty of ways she’d be useful.

  Sonny leaned forward. “A truck of pharmaceuticals isn’t like clipping a load of dresses or jacking a truck you’ve tracked off the loading docks. This is very specific. Pfizer manufactures Viagra, and much of the logistics is covert to protect themselves from people like us. Might be dangerous. Chance of getting pinched is above single digits.”

  Marcek said he understood the differences and wouldn’t underestimate the details or risk. Wanting to push beyond the caution-and-warning stage, he said, “You got access to a second truck and warehouse? If we’re hauling up to Philly, we’ll need a stash house and transportation.”

  “I’ve got a secure warehouse. The other pieces will be on-site in a day. Clean truck. Clean trailer. Clean logbooks. I’ll give you the address and a set of warehouse keys when we go downstairs. Can you drive an eighteen-wheeler, or do I need a wheelman?”

  “I can handle us up to Philly. What do you need me to do right now?”

  “The raw materials come in on an ocean freighter and are delivered to various manufacturing facilities for processing and packaging. I don’t know the location or exact identity, and nobody else does either. All very hush-hush. What I do know is eventually those pills end up in a Walgreens or CVS or Publix. Start backtracking the shipments up through the supply chain. At some point, you’ll unravel enough string to find our source.”

  “Find a trailer of Viagra and make a plan.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long do I have?”

  “One week.”

  Sonny appreciated Marcek’s approach. He was straightforward, concise, and—most importantly—trusted. If he had balked or insisted on his father’s involvement, Sonny didn’t have the resources to handle the job himself. Marcek in Florida was a good sign, like a swallow at sea.

  In the elevator ride off the roof, Sonny stood by the control panel, his shoulders toward the center of the car. For twenty floors, the only movement was Angie reaching for Marcek’s hand. When the elevator doors opened, Sonny took a half step out. Looking back in, he said, “Angie?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bonhardt?”

  “When you leave here today, Marcek will begin working on a new project.”

  Unsure what was expected, Angie removed her sun
glasses. “Okay.”

  “If you aren’t interested, I’ll buy you an airplane ticket. You can fly home or anywhere in the world. That’s an open offer. Call me anytime and I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  She could feel the gaze of both men. She steadied her knees and made sure not to overgrip Marcek’s hand. “I understand.”

  “The project is dangerous. Marcek assures me you’re not naive, that you can handle yourself. Fair enough, I’ll take him at his word. But if anything I’ve said is unappealing—or the risks unacceptable—I’ll give you a plane ticket plus five grand. We’ll all go our separate ways. No hard feelings.”

  Angie took note of the increased tender. She’d spent her life catering to a selfish bum of a father who didn’t believe in options or outs. If he sneezed, she was expected to catch a cold. Well, those days were gone. “I get what you’re laying out, I really do, but I’m not running. If Marcek is done with me, that’s one thing. Otherwise I’m in.”

  Sonny nodded twice and turned down the hallway. He knew his thoughts were petty and misdirected. Still, he couldn’t help himself. The problem wasn’t Marcek or Angie as people or participants in the heist—he was solid, and she was growing on him. They’d be fine. His issue was resentment. They were hand in hand on a primrose path while Michael was rotting away, his best days a decade gone. Sonny was left sharing his experience, time, and wisdom with another man’s son. For any father, that was a bittersweet equation.

  22.

  NEVER ANXIOUS TO PAY the same bill twice, Sonny had no choice with Michael’s legacy. He’d already tasted Cassir’s style once, could forecast his progression, and didn’t need the bad energy.

  Two miles from the marina, he stopped at a liquor store for booze, ice, and pretzels. If Cassir wasn’t already in the parking lot or on the boat, Sonny would kill time with his old friend bourbon. It wouldn’t be long. Like any halfway decent investigator, Cassir would begin with what he knew, the marina, pressing lower echelon employees until he made the right connection. Might as well save everyone the hassle.