by Jed Power
Chapter 9
Jorge Rivera made the rounds, telling everyone he knew who was big in the business to let him know if they heard of anyone new trying to move weight. He'd already spoken to people in Boston, Lowell, Manchester, Concord, and Providence. Now he was going to reach out to associates in New York. Then he was going to stop up in Lawrence, his old stomping grounds, before heading up to Hampton Beach. He couldn't leave any stone unturned. Not with this load.
Jorge pulled his black Lexus up to a pay phone on Route 114 in Middleton, grabbed his address book from the glove compartment, and walked up to the booth. He opened the book and then hesitated for a minute, running through his mind the discreet words he'd use to disguise the purpose of his calls to anyone eavesdropping. He fished out a pocketful of change and made three calls to New York.
Satisfied he'd spread his net wide enough, Jorge got back in the Lexus and headed north to Lawrence, his home town. Back where it had all started for him so many years ago. He thought about that now, like he did occasionally, as he drove in that direction.
Lawrence, Massachusetts. An old mill city with no jobs and no future. He couldn't wait to get out of there when he was a kid. When he was old enough to go in the army, he did. For four years. And when the four years were up, where the hell did he go? Right back to Lawrence. He'd been hoping at the time–maybe dreaming was more like it–that the city would've changed. And change it had. In fact Lawrence, Massachusetts had taken a major nose dive. Unemployment among the large Hispanic population was sky-high. Besides a few low-paying jobs at factories that had once been some of the most ancient mills in the State, there was nothing. Except drugs. A lot of heroin and cocaine were being sold on the city's streets. So that's what Jorge gravitated to: small-time dealing. There were no other opportunities for someone who had no marketable skills. At least that's what Jorge thought.
Until Dominic Carpucci came into the picture.
Jorge could still remember the first night he'd met the old man. He'd been working a side street off Essex Street in downtown Lawrence. Nothing big: grams and eight balls. He'd been making money, but he wasn't getting famous. Made enough to pay the bills and live a little high–for Lawrence, anyway. He had good quality powder and a pretty regular clientele.
Unlike most of the other dealers in the area, Jorge didn't buy his coke from fellow Hispanic wholesalers in Boston, New York, or Rhode Island. He didn't buy from the larger local dealers in Lawrence or Lowell, either. His community was filthy with informers and rip-offs, so he figured the less everyone knew about his business, the less chance he'd have problems.
His excellent command of English combined with his stint in the service made him feel at ease around Anglos (and they with him). He used both to his advantage when faced with the opportunity to score his coke from a non-Hispanic–Rocco, an Italian guy from Revere who handled only quality. Jorge got his coke on the arm from Rocco and paid him back quickly. He believed in being a fast-pay. Besides, the sooner he handed the money to Rocco, the sooner it wasn't his responsibility anymore. He made things as easy and pleasant for Rocco as possible. Jorge's motto was keep your connection happy and your customers happier.
So one evening when Rocco pulled up in his Caddy and told Jorge someone wanted to meet him, Jorge hopped right in the car. Why not? After all, he had a clear conscience.
When they reached Revere, somewhere near the beach, Rocco parked the car, and the two of them walked down the street to Rocco's apartment building, a brick garden-style job. That was when Jorge began having second thoughts. They always conducted business in various parking lots throughout the Merrimac Valley–never the same place two times in a row. What the hell was going on?
Rocco didn't say a word as they rode the elevator to the third floor. He led Jorge into the apartment and closed the door behind them.
There was a man sitting in an overstuffed chair in the main room of Rocco's gaudily decorated place. The man stood as they entered the room. He looked Italian–class Italian, not street Italian like Rocco. He was short but well built and obviously took care of himself. His grooming and clothing were impeccable. Suit, tie, the works. He extended his hand to Jorge. No surprise–a firm handshake.
"Jorge, my name's Dominic Carpucci," the man said, in a voice that told Jorge that he too had come from the streets, no matter what his appearance said. "I've heard a lot about ya."
"Nice to meet you," Jorge said. He glanced at Rocco, noting the way the other man deferred to the slick-looking Italian. This must be Rocco's connection.
The three men sat in chairs around the room. Jorge close to Dominic, Rocco farther back.
"Can Rocky get you anything, Jorge?" Dominic Carpucci asked.
Jorge cleared his throat. He wasn't sure how to address this man so he decided to take the neutral approach. "No, thank you." Just keep it polite, Jorge thought. Let the man say what he's going to say in his own time.
Apparently, Dominic Carpucci didn't believe in wasting that time. "I know you're wonderin' why I had Rocky bring you here, Jorge."
"I'm curious."
Rocco sat silently, off to the side, as if he were as important in this as the furniture.
"Rocky tells me you've had some special training in the military," Dominic said. "Tell me about it."
"A special ops unit," Jorge answered.
"Intelligence training? Weapons? Hand-to-hand? That kind of stuff?"
"All of that and more," Jorge said confidently. There was a fine line between confidence and arrogance. Hopefully, he didn't come off on the too-arrogant side.
"Interesting," Dominic said. He nodded his head, then looked intently at Jorge and gave a sly smile. "He tells me other things too. Like you been with him awhile. That you got a little business that you run nice. That you're a stand-up guy who keeps his mouth shut. And that you pay your bills on time. That right?"
"I believe in doing the right thing," Jorge said. Where the hell was this all leading?
Dominic's face stayed smooth for a moment. Noncommittal. Then he broke into a wide grin. "I like that answer, Jorge. That's a pretty good answer, huh, Rocky?"
Rocco nodded his head stiffly, looking none too happy as far as Jorge could see.
"How'd you like to come and work for me?" Dominic asked. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his ankle over his knee.
"What would I be doing, Mr. Carpucci?" Jorge asked.
"A little of everything. Drive me around here and there. Maybe make some collections. Talk to some people for me. I'd start you off slow, see how it works out. The pay would be good and I'd keep you from getting bored." Dominic glanced at his Rolex watch. "Whattaya think, kid?"
Jorge wasn't sure what to think, except he knew he didn't like being called kid. But still, working for this guy who was obviously a big wheel, maybe even Mafia, had to be better than standing on a dirty street corner in Lawrence hustling eight balls. Yet there was one thing that puzzled him. "One thing I'm wondering, Mr. Carpucci? Why me?"
"You mean why would I use a Spanish kid like you when I'm Italian?" Dominic laughed and looked over at Rocco who forced a laugh. "Because you're qualified, kid. Aren't any Italian kids I know with your qualifications. Besides, I like having someone from outside who everybody don't know. It'll keep certain people on their toes. All right, kid?"
It was the best offer he'd had in a long time, or more truthfully, the only offer. But there was one more item to straighten out. Jorge nodded, then said, "I have a little thing going on up north in Lawrence. I'm not getting rich, but it's not bad either. What about that?"
"If ya got someone you can trust to take it over, that's okay," Dominic said, waving his hand through the air. "Otherwise, you'll have to dump it. I don't want the heat. In that case, figure out what you been makin' and I'll beat it good. Either way, I'll make sure you do better. You keep me happy, I'll keep you happy. That's the way it works around here."
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"All right, Mr. Carpucci, I accept," Jorge said. He glanced at Rocco sitting like a mannequin in his chair.
Dominic must've read Jorge's mind. "Don't worry about Rocky. I'm going to take care of him too. Right, Rocky?"
"Right, Boss."
And that was the first time Jorge had ever heard someone called boss. It was also the first time he thought maybe he'd like to be called "Boss" someday too. Hell, at least it was something he could dream about, wasn't it?
~*~*~