The Friendship of Criminals

by Robert Glinski

  Anton paused again, this time twice as long. “Give me those cold pills and you and Marcek get my cut of the Viagra.”

  “You certain?” Sonny didn’t understand the angle. Part of him wanted an explanation. The other part said Shut up and take the deal.

  “Yes, Sudafed for the Viagra. It’s what I want. Tell Marcek to start driving.”

  “Hit the road tonight?” asked Sonny, protective of his young partner. “He’s looking a little beat-up.”

  “He there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Put him on.” In Bielakowski’s world, if a job required one hundred hours of straight work, then one hundred hours of straight work happened. No debate.

  Sonny handed over the phone and tried making sense of Anton Bielakowski’s shift. Not once in sixty years had he known the man to get involved in street drugs. And here he was giving up six hundred grand for the privilege. Didn’t add up.

  Turning his back, Marcek said, “It’s me, Dad. We did good.”

  Bielakowski agreed, giving his son well-deserved credit. Never one to need the pat on the back himself, he sometimes forgot his boy liked the approval. “Sonny says you’re sleepy.”

  Marcek looked over his shoulder to give Angie the winning-team smile. “Long days. No worries, though. I’ll sleep a few hours tonight, load the second truck in the morning, and be on my way. Probably a two-day haul with an overnight in North Carolina. I’ve got clean books, so there shouldn’t be any problems as long as I take it nice and easy.”

  “Start driving tonight,” said Bielakowski, his tone no longer the complimentary father. “When your eyelids get heavy, light a cigarette. If the nicotine isn’t enough, use the hot end to blister the back of your hand.”

  Marcek didn’t want to alarm Sonny and Angie with a wordy question so he stuck with “Why?”

  Bielakowski stoked his son’s fire. “There’s a million dollars waiting. And if that isn’t enough, the sooner you get here, the better chance you have at blasting an Italian with one of Big Bern’s shotguns.”

  “I’ll be there.” Marcek had figured the heist was just a money grab. Now his old man was making clear the truck was a chess piece in the war with Rea. He couldn’t get to Port Richmond fast enough. “Tell Mom I’m bringing home a guest. Her name’s Angie.”

  Marcek set the phone down, grabbed his woman by the hand, and told Sonny he’d be back in a week with his share of the sale.

  28.

  ANTON BIELAKOWSKI WENT ALONE to meet the Russian.

  Time was short, too short to waste an hour traveling back and forth downtown for more towels, flip-flops, and Russian courtesies. They agreed on a strip-mall tavern ten miles north of Bielakowski’s neighborhood, a shot-and-beer joint wedged between a barbershop and a check-cashing store. The Russian had started his gambling operation in the tavern and, on occasion, still took calls there. Bielakowski parked in a handicapped spot, popped an antacid, and waited. His custom before any meeting was spending a few moments studying the scene. Up, down, left, right. Who’s hanging around and where’s the exit? More than once he’d rolled off, spooked by a suspicious van or odd-looking pedestrian. The antacid was his timer. When it was gone, he was ready.

  Entering through double glass doors, Bielakowski paused to let his eyes adjust. The tavern’s blinds were drawn, leaving the room in a state of smoke-tinged twilight. Three old men sat at the bar, getting drunk staring at a noiseless television. A bartender—cleaning glasses at the far end—turned his back when Anton entered. Kolya Drobyshev was in the corner booth, seated with a second man who shared the same wide face and broad features. The vor wore a tailored blue suit without a tie. The second man, dressed in a smooth black leather jacket, was two decades younger, which meant his value depended upon certain physical qualities and the willingness to use them.

  Crossing the room, careful not to trip in the dim light, Bielakowski stood before the Russian with his arms relaxed at his sides. He wasn’t interested in sitting or sharing a drink and refused both when offered. “The shipment is arriving,” he said. “You’ll need three plus in cash.”

  “Congratulations,” said Drobyshev, raising his glass to the success. A bottle of unchilled vodka rested in the middle of the table. “I’m ready when you are. This man will represent my interests in the exchange. His name is Alex. I knew his father from prison and promised to look out for the boy if anything should happen.”

  Bielakowski waited for a sign of respect from the younger man and returned the nod in kind. He wondered if the introduction was Drobyshev’s way of hinting Alex was his son. Given the physical similarities, he would not have been surprised.

  “I have other business I want to discuss,” said Anton.

  Since the Russian was hosting, it was his choice who listened in. Anton Bielakowski’s obligation was providing the opportunity to clear the decks, nothing more. When Drobyshev waved off the concern, Bielakowski said, “You told me the Italians want to expand their role in the meth market.”

  The Russian frowned and nodded. “Yes, this is true. It’s a delicate dance, but they have feelers out. No success yet from what I understand.”

  “I want to accelerate the process.”

  Drobyshev didn’t flinch. “How so?”

  “I have what the Italians are looking for.”

  The Russian paused, then chuckled and backhanded his assistant in the chest. “They should have never started with you, Anton. I warned that Rea. I told him, Provoking that Polack will not end well. You know what he said? He called you old. See how backwards he is? Isn’t that the point? Does he think you’ve lasted this long because you are dumb?”

  Bielakowski disapproved of the crowing. He preferred better done over better said. “Before I make my request, let me explain the payoff. Once I defeat the Italians, you may have what you want from their operations. Pick the bones. I don’t care and will not object as long as Port Richmond is left alone. All I ask is that if the War Boys survive and are capable of continuing, you leave their meth market alone.”

  Drobyshev’s face was now flat and cold. “How long does this grant for the bikers last?”

  Bielakowski let a few seconds pass before answering. “One year. Nothing is guaranteed after that.”

  “Fine.” The Russian understood Bielakowski’s sensitivity for maintaining Philadelphia’s balance of power. Too much, too fast was never part of the man’s history. “What is it you ask of me?”

  With his hip hurting from the spring moisture, Bielakowski was careful not to reach for a chair or the table’s edge. No sense clouding the discussion with his frailty. “I have six pallets stacked head-high with Sudafed. I need you to do a blind sale with the Italians.”

  Thinking back to their meeting in the steam room, Drobyshev was pleased with his maneuvering. He’d planted the seed and it had grown accordingly. He wasn’t foolish enough to imagine Bielakowski was unaware of the guidance. That level of stupidity was reserved for Rea. And who steered, for the moment, was irrelevant. General direction was enough. “Your Viagra trailer was perhaps a bit more crowded than planned, eh?”

  Bielakowski’s easy shrug answered for the Sudafed’s origins. “Anything you’re able to negotiate for the cold medicine, half is yours. But you must keep the price low enough that they don’t balk. Offer to finance if you must, and I’ll make up any difference.”

  “I understand the value here is not the sale.”

  The old man nodded. “If you don’t want your fingerprints on the play, you’re free to outsource. Perhaps our Armenian friends would be willing to assist, but that’s to your discretion.”

  Drobyshev raised a finger to his assistant. “Alex, pay attention to what you are hearing. The sausage maker is setting fires in South Philly.”

  “No violence is required of you,” said Bielakowski. “Set the meeting, pick up the trailer, deliver it to the Italians. You get half plus whatever you obtain when the Italians and War Boys start shooting each other.”

  Downing hi
s second drink, the Russian reached for the bottle. His assistant had no glass on the table. “With that much trouble inside their own neighborhood, the Italians will have to settle with you. What will you demand?”

  Watching Drobyshev enjoy the alcohol, Bielakowski decided to have a drink when he got home. He’d ask his wife to sit and they’d reminisce about when the children were young and Philadelphia was a different place. “We want to be left alone. I have no ambitions beyond protecting my neighborhood. This squabbling over city blocks has lost its appeal.”

  “I’ll call right now,” said Drobyshev, pulling his cell phone from inside his suit jacket. “Would you care to listen?”

  Anton Bielakowski raised a hand, shook his head, and turned to leave. The crumbs had been sprinkled. It was time Rea learned why his predecessors left the Poles of Port Richmond alone for so long.

  29.

  WINTER HAD BEEN HARSH to the ball fields, and spring temperatures still hovered in the low fifties. Neither was enough to stop Raymond Rea from organizing the year’s first softball practice. Two o’clock at the FDR fields, no excuses. Cleats, sliding pants, and gloves were encouraged. No-showing was not.

  The old guys thought Rea was nuts for having a team of wiseguys in a public softball league. Other than attention, what was the purpose? He reminded the grumblers it was his call and if they disagreed, they could complain to Monte or Anticcio. Oh, I forgot—one’s in jail and I killed the other. Guess we’re playing ball. Rea’s humor was a reason why the twenty-somethings idolized him and the fifty-somethings prayed he’d catch cancer.

  Coin Operated Partners, a corporate front for Rea’s video game and poker machine business, sponsored the Italian’s softball team. Despite the two guys in charge of uniforms not knowing acronyms from embryos, they thought blue jerseys with COP in black lettering were nice middle fingers for any spying law enforcement. Team COP finished fourth its inaugural season and hoped for better production in year two. Rea pitched and batted third, both justified since he was the only team member who’d played high school ball.

  Once practice started on the muddy FDR fields, players took turns in the batter’s box, catching fly balls, and fielding grounders. It was still a month from the opener, so coolers of beer were on the field and cigarettes dangled from every other lip. Rea was manager and court jester, throwing softballs behind the batters, cracking wise about the differences between catching and pitching, and enjoying being the center of attention.

  After practice, as the men gathered in the parking lot, Rea made a point of pulling Nick Martin to the beer cooler and keeping him supplied. The undercover agent wasn’t half finished with one when Rea was pushing another into his hand, opened and ready to go. On top of the booze, the boss was patting Martin on the back, even wrapping an arm around his shoulder after an okay joke that hardly broke through the noise.

  One by one, as the coolers emptied and the spring sun lowered, men gave excuses for heading home or to their girlfriends. The three oldest were grabbing dinner and groused about who was supposed to have made reservations at the new joint on Spruce Street.

  Not giving it much thought at the time, Martin realized he’d accepted a ride to practice from an outfielder who had since disappeared. As numbers dwindled, Rea made clear he’d drive him home. “Get in,” he said, waving him toward his Lincoln. “Been meaning to catch up with you on a few things.”

  For the first few miles, the two men talked ball. Rea hoped they had sufficient power in cleanup. Martin said he didn’t know enough to give an opinion because their four-hitter drank a six-pack before taking his swings. They joked how fat some of the men looked in their baseball pants, and each made excuses for the pitches he’d missed.

  Heading north on Broad Street with City Hall in the distance, Rea said, “Anyway, glad you’re on the team. Last year’s lineup was a hot mess. No balance, you know? Don’t get me wrong, we had good players. But Bill, rest his soul, even Bill knew he sucked. With you in center, our defense got upgraded.”

  Martin nodded, knowing the dialogue was subtext. He wasn’t riding with the boss so they could bullshit over South Philly softball. This kind of attention meant he was moving up, down, or out.

  “Since we’ve got the time, some things I’ve been meaning to get straight.”

  “Okay.” Martin was glad Rea was sticking to Broad Street instead of I-95. With lights every block and a speed limit of thirty miles an hour, he could bail with a decent chance of surviving. He started considering how to position his feet so he wouldn’t hook his heels or get run over by the rear tire.

  Rea looked sideways at his passenger. “All that beer is making you antsy. You got to piss?”

  “No.”

  “Settle down, okay? You think I’d give you lead-off, then drive you to the swamp after our first practice?”

  Martin tried acting cool, but his shrug came up short. “I’m a paranoid guy. Too many movies.”

  “Nick, man, I’m wearing baseball pants. Use your head. What, I’m going to choke you with my bare hands or use a baseball bat? Fuck’s wrong with you?”

  Martin swore under his breath, acting a little put out without crossing into anger. It wasn’t time to prove he was a tough guy. This sequence was all about him getting his balls busted without losing his cool.

  “You live in a dark world. Chill, man. You’re making me too much money to be thinking like that.”

  Martin tapped his finger near the door handle and nodded. Keep earning was the message.

  Rea checked his mirrors before sipping the beer he’d brought along. “There is some stuff, though. That’s why we’re doing this in my car. I flip rides every month through my cousin’s lot. That way, I know they’re clean. This Lincoln hasn’t been too bad.”

  “That’s smart. I never heard of anyone else doing that.”

  “It’s because everyone else is lazy. They’d rather do twenty years than two minutes in front of a notary signing over the title.”

  “I might copy that routine.”

  “Good by me. I need all you guys taking precautions, too. I’ll give you my cousin’s address. He’ll set you up. You ready for the other stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  When Nick Martin started with Jimmy Zoots’s South Philly crew, he moved from Jersey across the bridge to a townhome in Queen Village. There wasn’t a perfect route from the FDR ball fields to Martin’s place, but Rea was taking the long way. Martin figured the extended route meant heavy business.

  Rea stopped talking at a red light and didn’t start again until it turned. “How’s your operation in Jersey? Okay despite the move?”

  “Good. Could always be better. After ten years I’ve got it dialed in pretty good. Eagles killed me this year, know what I mean?”

  “Wiseguys in Jersey are funny to me,” said Rea. “It’s like they all have this inferiority complex.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Not quite Philly, not quite New York. They’re like that story of the wandering Jews—you know that one? Monte was telling me about them once. There are some crazy Jews that have been wandering all over Africa looking for a home for a thousand years. That’s those Jersey guys. They should make a show about that.”

  “Yeah, that’s a funny idea.”

  Rea’s voice dropped an octave. “Anyway, and this is what we need to discuss, after last year’s tug-of-war with Anticcio, relations got a little strained with our northern cousins. New York wasn’t formally backing either of us, but they weren’t exactly neutral. Anticcio was their guy.”

  Martin looked for a read and drew a busted flush. “I heard it’s been getting better, like we’re not so much the kid brother. Least that’s what Costa’s been saying.”

  “Costa? The thing with Costa is he shouldn’t be talking out of school.”

  “I was just saying…”

  “No, it’s okay. This time he’s actually right.”

  “Yeah? That’s a good thing.”

  Rea opened his right hand to
help explain. “For New York, yeah, I think the perception is we’re getting it together—first with the tax and now our expansion. And they seem to like us pushing on Bielakowski and the Poles. That’s where you come in.”

  The mention of the Poles made Martin’s skin tingle with memories of the binding rope. Even though he’d given Bielakowski his word, time had whittled away at the commitment. Truth was, between the Italians and Poles, Martin needed Rea to win or what was the point of the last ten years? All down the toilet because the Pole had gotten lucky snatching an undercover FBI agent in Kensington? Hell with that.

  Rea tapped Martin’s arm. “Listen up. On this New York thing, I’ve been handling the communication myself, but that can’t work forever. One, it’s too damn much exposure. And two, it’s bad for business, like a ballplayer handling his own contract negotiations. Impossible to keep personal feelings out.”

  Martin turned his hands up, unsure what to say and wanting to keep his options open.

  Rea didn’t speak again for another three blocks. At Third Street, instead of going straight, he turned left into Northern Liberties. He drove half a dozen blocks, eyes tracking the cars parked curbside until he stopped in front of a metered parking space cordoned off by orange City of Philadelphia cones. With cars stacking up behind him on the one-way, he told Martin to hustle out and clear the space.

  “What are you talking about? You serious?” Rea’s look was enough to get Martin out and tossing the cones onto the sidewalk.

  Once Rea swung into the space and Martin was back inside, the boss made a point of twisting in his seat to make eye contact. “Here’s the deal. You’re getting bumped up. I want you as my guy with New York. It’s working and needs to stay on the rails. Any business involving New York and North Jersey is your responsibility. I’ll have final say and will attend most negotiations, but you’re my day-to-day point person. Their guy is Dom Bidanno.”