Hardboiled Crime Four-Pack

by Jack Bunker

  Frankie kept picking at the ketchupy onion rings. “The reason nobody fucks with me is because just like Riverside County is a zone within California, my little turf or whatever is a zone within the territory of a guy named Vincenzo Fegangi. This is a name you’ve heard.”

  Al had. As Vincenzo Fegangi, the owner of Alimena Trucking was just another old guy with a modest business in San Bernardino. As Vinnie Fangs, his “friendships” in Los Angeles were mutually profitable arrangements affording him a comfortable home in Rancho Mirage and a healthy skim of bookmaking in the Inland Empire. Collecting on Super Bowl or Final Four bets was rarely a concern. People who crossed Vinnie Fangs wound up fed to hogs or stuffed in drums of industrial solvents. Vinnie Fangs was a man even scarier than his nickname.

  Not only could Al not speak, he couldn’t even open his mouth. He was no longer looking at the elephantine Frankie Fresh as a half-witted bookie but now, under the still-dimmer light, as a very thick spoke in a wheel of organized crime.

  “So, Al,” continued Frankie, putting his heavy mitt on Al’s shoulder, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to be uncomfortable. Just the opposite. I want you to appreciate the realities of the situation so that everybody’s comfortable, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now,” Frankie smiled, “what’s the scam?”

  “It’s small-time, Frankie. No shit.” Al tried to swallow. He reached for his beer, but Frankie laid his hand on Al’s forearm.

  “There’ll be time for that in a minute. You were saying?”

  “Look, I’m a square, okay? I bet a game or a horse race here and there, but like you said, I’m no degenerate gambler. I’m just a nine-to-fiver.”

  “My ass is starting to go to sleep over here.”

  “Okay. I’m out the door at the insurance company where I work. We got one little slip-and-fall score so I can get some cash before I get laid off. That’s it, I swear.”

  Frankie rolled his neck around. He looked at Al and didn’t say anything.

  “It’s strictly a one-off. A small-time bump.”

  “How small are we talking?”

  “Like nothing. Like…” Al paused. He knew Frankie would demand a piece, but the piece would be smaller if the score was smaller. “Like twenty-five, thirty grand tops—for everybody.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “After the whole speech about insulting my intelligence and everything, you’re gonna play a game like that with me? C’mon.”

  “What?”

  “First of all, your shyster buddy, Edwards? Crooked as that fuck is, he ain’t about to risk his license and going to the can for even half that, much less a third, is what I got him figured for. You might be that stupid, but he ain’t.”

  Al tried to swallow again as he watched beads of condensation sliding down Frankie’s beer mug.

  “Second of all, that skel ain’t got two nickels to rub together, so he can’t take his eye off the ball for some shitty ten-grand score.”

  “What do you mean? He’s broke?”

  “You didn’t know that? Fucking guy’s got half a floor of the Inland Empire Tower and not a single attorney working there. His ‘associates’? They all jumped over a year ago. He doesn’t have a debt under a hundred and eighty days past due, and he owes everybody from the copier guys to court stenographers. Two exwives taking him to court for back alimony.” Frankie separated half his cheeseburger in one bite. “Yeah, ten grand’s not going to make a dent with that slob.”

  “Okay, it’s just that—”

  “And Al?” Frankie wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin and raised his eyebrows. “Make sure you don’t lie to me again, okay, pal?”

  “A hundred grand,” Al said. “That’s the score.” He wasn’t really lying, he told himself. They hadn’t filed anything yet, and there was still a chance it might be a hundred. At least this way, if they got north of a hundred K, Al could skim a little. Fat fucking Frankie Fresh. Goddamnit.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard was it?” Frankie took his hand off Al’s arm. Al reached for his beer it and gulped like a man stumbling out of the desert. Frankie smiled and massaged Al’s shoulder. The enormous bookie plucked another goopy red onion ring from the basket with his free hand while he kept kneading Al’s trapezius.

  “Okay, here’s my proposal.” Frankie pulled his hand from Al’s shoulder and wiped his fingers on his green linen napkin. “And by proposal, I mean explanation.” He wiped the napkin across his mouth. “Now, a standard finder’s fee is ten percent, but I’m a reasonable guy, so I’m only going to take eight.”

  Al set his beer down and started to speak. “But—”

  “Now, before you say anything, I want you to just think of two things. One, just think of me as a partner, okay?” Frankie smiled. “And two, ask yourself whether Vinnie Fangs will be satisfied with eight grand out of a hundred-grand scam on his territory. A scam you plotted and planned to execute without his permission or knowledge.” Frankie took another huge bite of his cheeseburger and again wiped his mouth with the napkin he pulled from his lap.

  Al felt like his head was in a vise. “Got it.” His appetite was gone.

  “See? It’s going to be a good deal all around. In fact, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to front you the cash for incidentals and expenses to keep things moving smoothly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if it’s a slip and fall, I know the ambulance chaser’s got to be paying off some doctor, am I right?”

  Al’s eyes shifted left to right. He looked into his beer as he brought the glass to his lips.

  “That’s what I thought. So seeing as how that asshole’s flat broke, and the last thing you want is to stiff the piece of shit that could blow up the whole scam, I say make sure the doc gets paid.”

  “Makes sense.” God, just get me out of here.

  Frankie tossed a thick envelope on the table. “Here’s five grand. Point-a-week vig on top of first dollar return of the principal. That’s on top of my eight points at the back end. You can tell Clarence Darrow the vig gets paid weekly. No sense you footing the bill alone for an expense that ultimately benefits everyone, am I right?”

  “Yeah.” Now, God. Please just get me out of here right now.

  “There you go. We’ll just settle up the points and the principal when the check gets cut.”

  Al pushed his chair back from the table. “So, Frankie, are we all done here? I kind of got some stuff I need to do.”

  “Sure, Al, sure.” Frankie clapped Al on the shoulder, then pointed to the remaining fries on Al’s plate.

  “You gonna eat those?”

  NINE

  Al took the envelope with the cash back to the locker room and counted it. Five grand. His breathing became shallow. Sweat rolled down his sides from both armpits. He felt like he was getting some kind of rash on his right side. Vinnie Fangs. Jesus Christ. A stupid fucking slip and fall now had him one degree removed from a guy who made Vlad the Impaler look like Don Zimmer. Scam or no scam, Al wanted no part of Frankie’s $5,000 on him. Jesus. Vinnie Fangs. Fuck it. Let J.T. do some worrying for a change.

  Al went to locker fifteen. He’d never make that mistake again. He ran his hand across the locker door. There was no way he could slide the envelope between the cracks, and no way he was going to roll up fifty hundred-dollar bills and push them one by one through the holes in the mesh screen. He stood up on the bench and looked over the top of the lockers. There were ventilation slits, but still not big enough to stuff the envelope through. His hair felt damp, like he’d played twenty-seven holes wearing a rubber hat.

  He hopped off the bench. His pulse was throbbing. How stupid had this been? Why not just call it off? He opened Frankie’s envelope. Once he got on the other side of this, he’d never need to be involved with guys like Frankie again.

  Al took one last look at J.T.’s locker. He felt around the mesh screen. At the top right corner, the scree
n was detached from the door. It wasn’t much, but when Al pushed it, it gave way. He thought he heard someone coming. No, just a noise from the hallway. He pushed the screen in and bent the wire mesh backward. It was tight, but he was able to squeeze the envelope through. He heard it land at the bottom of the locker. Using his car key, he bent the mesh back into place and pulled the screen almost exactly to where it had been before.

  The following morning, Al, cautious now to camouflage his research, had crunched some more numbers. The highest soft-tissue settlement he’d been able to find anywhere was $122,000. One twenty-five was going to be cutting it too close for Al. He called J.T.

  “Listen, we’ve got a little issue. Nothing major, but we’re going to have to rework out numbers a bit.”

  “Okay, you’ve got my attention. Don’t lose it.”

  “I was able to do some more research on our claim on the computer of a new kid we’re training. I made it look like a random session. No worries about it being traced back to me.”

  “Okay, now you’re thinking. What does that have to do with the numbers?”

  “The settlement’s going to have to be more conservative.”

  “What? Why? You said you could settle it for a buck and a quarter.”

  Al knew if he told J.T. about Frankie, he’d freak. Al was freaked himself. He’d decided just to build Frankie’s end into the payout, then settle it a little higher at the last minute. Frankie would be taken care of, and J.T.’s expectations would be managed. He’d have to tell him about Frankie eventually, but not until GSAC cut the check.

  “First of all, you’re the one that’s preaching paranoia twenty-four-seven, so just hang on. This research I did? Turns out the highest we’ve ever paid out on a claim like ours is…” Al hesitated just a second. “One fifteen.” He wondered if J.T. had caught it.

  “Shit,” said J.T. “that does suck, because I got some bad news too.”

  “What?”

  “You know how we budgeted five K for the doc?”

  “For the doc and all the incidental expenses.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I could get him to do it for four. He wants six.”

  “Are you kidding? Six grand for one exam?”

  “Well, yeah, but remember, that includes X rays, depositions, courtroom testimony, and everything else. Remember, a straight doc’s going to push for an MRI. Even if Mack’s on Medi-Cal, a legit MRI’s going to show it’s a bullshit claim.”

  “Fuck,” said Al. There went more of the margin. “I was only able to come up with five.” No sense freaking J.T. out as to where the money came from. “I already left it in your locker last night. Should we try to get another doc?”

  There was a pause. Could J.T. have figured out where the money came from? Of course not. That was just more of his surging paranoia.

  “At this point? No way. First off, the guy knows something’s up—he could come back at us for the cash anyway. Also, we may need a second opinion, and I have a finite number of pervert MDs I can go to.”

  J.T. was jumpy all afternoon. He told Shari, the receptionist he couldn’t afford, that he’d be gone for the day. With a quarter of a tank in the Mercedes, he’d be able to get out to Mira Vista to hit a bucket of balls, maybe play a quick nine, and still make it back to the house. He decided he’d finally sit down that night with a bottle of wine and sort out what must be $1,500 in change he’d accumulated in various jars and urns. Hadn’t paid his quarterly taxes in a year. Still, he wasn’t lonely enough to plug in his home phone just to talk to collection agents. If he could only hang on a few more weeks.

  He’d already started pulling off his shirt when he opened his locker and saw the envelope fall to the floor. It was too thick to have squeezed through any slits or holes on the cabinet door. How the fuck did he get it in there? Reflex made him look around the locker room, but the place was empty. He sat on the bench and picked up the envelope. Five grand. What do you know? The putz had really come through with some expense money. This was a terrific development, because he hadn’t figured out how he was going to pay Chugh for Mack’s exam. Problem solved.

  Once he’d changed into shorts and a golf shirt, he no longer felt the need to go bash golf balls in the late-afternoon heat. He took the five grand from the locker and walked it out to his car, pulling out two hundred before locking the rest in the console of the Mercedes. He went back into the air-conditioned 19th Hole, gave Wanda a big smile, and ordered a double Johnnie Walker Black, rocks, as he plopped down on a barstool.

  Sipping his drink and surveying the room, J.T. relaxed. His mind drifted from the CNBC desk on the TV to how he was going to chart his career resurgence. All he’d needed was a little breathing room. Get the creditors off his back. Loosen up his cash flow. One of his cases was bound to settle. The defendants didn’t want to go to trial any more than he did. Not that he hadn’t gotten a jolt from beating the shit out of those guys in front of a jury back in the day. It was just so much work. Once all those ungrateful bastards at his firm walked out on him, he didn’t have anybody to help him with the heavy lifting. When the first real settlement came in, though, all that would change again. He’d get back on top.

  He crunched the ice in his glass, spun his stool back around, and smiled at Wanda. Pretty face. Jesus, she had big shoulders, though.

  “How about another, Wanda?”

  “You got it,” she said with a wink.

  Yep. It was all going to be fine. A month from now, this whole rough patch would be a memory.

  Something hit J.T. on the shoulder, something heavy like a sandbag. J.T.’s neck turned with a sharp jerk.

  Frankie Fresh was now kneading J.T.’s shoulder. “Howdy, partner.”

  J.T. didn’t know what was happening, but he was pretty sure nothing good was going to come of it.

  “I’m sorry?” he said to Frankie, who was trying to wedge his blubber onto the barstool.

  “I said howdy, partner. You never seen a western on TV? That’s what they used to say all the time. ‘Howdy, partner.’”

  “Oh. Gotcha.” False alarm. Fat goof’s just trying to be amiable.

  Frankie clapped J.T. on the shoulder again and resumed his deltoid massage. “Yeah, I figured since we’re partners and all now, we might get to know each other a little bit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, counselor, what do you think I’m talking about?”

  J.T. played it cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I tell you, I’d appreciate it if you’d get your fucking hand off my shoulder.”

  Frankie pulled his hand away. He smiled at J.T. “Hey, hon,” he said to Wanda while still smiling at J.T., “can I get a Heineken?”

  Wanda drew a pilsner glass of beer and put it on a coaster in front of Frankie.

  J.T. sipped his drink. Why is this fucking turnip smiling at me?

  Frankie just kept looking at J.T. and smiling. J.T. knew the routine. He’d done it himself in countless depositions and cross-examinations. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the other guy will say something just because it’s so awkward. The silence. The gap in the conversation. The urge to fill the hole with something—chatter, anything—just to restore some kind of social balance. It was a reflex. Something polite people did. Litigators knew this. They made their living by it.

  But the lawyer realized that Frankie knew it too—that if he looked at somebody long enough, somebody who owed him money, eventually the mutt would remember where he might be able to get some cash by the end of the day.

  J.T. had had enough. He knocked back what remained of his second scotch, reached across the bar to grab his check, and signed it. He started to reach for his wallet to leave Wanda a tip, but then he remembered he only had the two C-notes in there. Oh well. Tough shit.

  He got up from the barstool, fighting the urge to say something to Frankie. He turned his head slightly as he pulled the door open.

  A smiling Frankie raised his beer in salute.
/>   “So long, partner.”

  TEN

  Buddy drove to the Van Slaters first. He felt like an asshole parking so far away from the store with five hundred spaces closer, but Mack had insisted it had to go down this way. Buddy had never gotten an exact figure as to what Mack was getting out of this. Every time he raised the topic of investing in his ball-retrieval company, Mack changed the subject to how he was going to buy a new truck or some shit with his windfall.

  Buddy went into the store and loaded up a half-dozen bags of chips and a case of Coke into a cart. He expected Mack to be in the lot by the time he checked out. No Mack. Goddamn, that boy was stupid. Probably got lost on the way. Buddy started to push his cart as slowly as he could out to his Monte Carlo with the blistered and faded blue-gray paint.

  He took as much time as he could loading the groceries into the car. While the trunk was still open, he slipped to the far side of the car and grabbed an extra couple of carts. With his, that would make three. That would have to do.

  Just as Buddy was about to close the trunk, Mack pulled into the parking lot, gunning his engine. As he reached the spots where he was supposed to park, he came screeching in with some asshole move where the car slid sideways the last few feet like in those stupid racing movies. Buddy shook his head. Dumbfuck was doing everything he could to draw attention to himself.

  He wondered if that other guy at the club, Al, was a part of this, or if it was a straight-up J.T. deal. Buddy knew that if Mack was involved, there was an outstanding chance it would get fucked up. On the other hand, if it did come off, then Mack would be able, if not obliged, to invest in Buddy’s project. It wasn’t like a handout, Buddy told himself. The guy would get a piece of something with some real potential. Not like pouring his ten bucks an hour into that deathtrap of a dune buggy he was always fucking with.

  Mack got out of the car and put his hand on the roof. That was the signal. Buddy didn’t know why there needed to be a signal, but he didn’t argue. Tired of Mack’s foolishness, he gave the carts a much harder shove than he needed to. The carts took off.