Night Work

by Greg F. Gifune

  "Sounds good," Frank said, escorting him to the door.

  "OK, I'm out of here, got a long ride back to New York." They shook hands and Charlie smiled warmly. "Hopefully this is the start of something special, gentlemen."

  Once the door had closed behind him and they were certain Charlie Rain had gone, Frank and Gus both burst into nervous laughter as a wave of relief washed over them. "Holy shit," Gus said, "we did it! We fucking did it!"

  Frank ran his hands through his hair. "Not bad for a couple of refrigerator salesman, huh? Think he bought it?"

  "Are you kidding? You were un-fucking-believable tonight."

  "You forget, I bullshit for a living, sir."

  Gus couldn't stop laughing. "This is even better than I thought it'd be. Rain's an idiot, Frank. If we play him right he'll be working for us in no time."

  Frank lit a cigarette and flopped down onto his bed. "No, he's dumb like a fox, that one. He's not as stupid as he pretends to be." He released a lengthy sigh. "And we still better be able to deliver."

  "Do you really think we can pull it off?"

  "Two things will make it happen, Gus. Money and muscle."

  Gus scratched the back of his neck. "The money end I can understand, but we've already got the muscle. Both of us can handle ourselves in a scrap."

  "That's not what I'm talking about. We need real muscle. The kind people sit up and take notice of. And we need enough money so that we can make a genuine go of this. We can't start out worrying about how we're going to pay bills we haven't even created yet."

  Gus sat down on the other bed. "What do you have in mind?"

  Frank forced himself into a sitting position. "I've been giving this some thought from the beginning. You remember my buddy, Vincent?"

  "Sure, I met him a few times."

  "I'm going to talk to him."

  "What can he do for us?"

  "He's connected, that's what he can do for us."

  Gus didn't respond for a moment. "For real?"

  "Yeah."

  "Can we trust him?"

  Frank took a hard pull on his cigarette. "Absolutely. I've known him for years. He's originally from Federal Hill, here in Providence. His family moved into a place a few doors down from ours when I was in junior high school. He's got an older brother up to his ears in the mob. Vincent works a little freelance for them from time to time but he's managed to stay away from the major stuff. Still, he knows just the sort of people we need to make this happen."

  "I don't know, Frank," Gus said. "You're talking about crawling into bed with some serious motherfuckers here."

  "I've been around people like that my whole life, Gus. The neighborhood was full of the bastards. Hell, I've got a cousin in upstate New York who's a made man, for Christ's sake. I'd go to him but I know Vincent a hell of a lot better, and I'd trust him much sooner."

  "Friendship is one thing," Gus warned. "Business is something else, Frank."

  Frank nodded. "I've done some freelance work with Vincent myself over the years. Nothing big. Plus, remember last summer when I had a trunk full of VCRs?"

  "I bought one myself."

  "That was a scam I ran with Vincent. I can trust him."

  Gus lit a cigarette, exhaled with a sigh. "You know better than I do, Frank. I just don't want to get in over our heads."

  "You heard what Charlie Rain said. We're going to need muscle; there's no way around it. Vincent's the best move we can make. He's in with these people, but mostly on the fringe. That'll allow us to tap into their resources without actually going into business with them."

  Gus stood up and began to pace. "If you bring Vincent in, what happens to me?"

  "Nothing."

  "Will we have to make him a partner?"

  "Yeah, I already spoke to him about it briefly."

  "Oh."

  "Gus," Frank said softly, "what was it you told Charlie tonight? A little bit of something is better than all of nothing, right?"

  "Do whatever you think is best. I'll back you either way."

  "Good man."

  Gus dismissed the tension and smiled. "Were we beautiful tonight, or what?"

  "Positively gorgeous."

  "I'm gonna go celebrate, hit some of those strip clubs a few blocks down, see if I can find me a long-legged whore. You wanna come?"

  "I'm going to bed."

  "You sure?"

  "Yeah," Frank said, "and don't bring anybody back."

  Gus hesitated at the door and smiled mischievously. "Would I do something like that?"

  Alone with his thoughts, Frank tried to contain his excitement. He'd rehearsed the meeting with Charlie Rain in his mind for weeks, and now that it was over, he still found it hard to believe that he'd pulled off his end so smoothly. Even Gus had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, which in itself was a minor miracle. Things had almost gone too well, and Frank found his excitement slowly turning to concern.

  He butted his cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand, grabbed the phone and dialed his home number. After five rings the answering machine clicked on.

  "We can't come to the phone right now," Sandy's voice said. "Please leave a message after the tone and we'll get back to you."

  Frank hung up and checked his watch: Almost midnight. She was probably already asleep and hadn't heard the ringer.

  He continued to tell himself that until sleep, although tardy, finally arrived.

  CHAPTER 3

  Vincent Santangelo rocketed through the streets of Providence in a Ford Escort like a man who had just held up a liquor store. The fact that the car was in no way designed for the demands he placed upon it did little to discourage him as he somehow managed to consistently get from one point to the next both alive and uninterrupted by police.

  "I admit you know a lot more about cars than I do," Frank said, gripping the armrest on the door in an attempt to avoid attaining permanent union with the windshield, "but I'd be willing to bet this doesn't have the same handling package your Corvette's equipped with."

  "Fuck it, that's the car's problem." Vincent laughed, changed radio stations, enthusiastically increased the volume once he found a heavy metal tune then bolted down a side street. "Besides, it's a company ride. It'll end up scrap soon anyway."

  They screeched to a stop in front of a small saloon. Two tiny windows faced the street, both dressed in blinking neon beer signs. The front door was open. Vincent double-parked, shut off the car and after a quick inspection of himself in the rearview mirror said, "Come with me on this one, will ya?"

  Frank had done so before but always knew about it in advance. Sudden requests made him uneasy. "Why?"

  "Stand by the door but don't actually go inside. Just make sure the guys at the bar know you're there."

  "Expecting trouble?"

  Vincent smiled that crooked grin of his. "Let's find out."

  They crossed the street and Frank stayed near the door as instructed. Had he known this was going to happen he'd have dressed differently. In a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, he looked more like a pizza delivery boy than someone supposedly on Michael Santangelo's payroll did.

  ***

  Vincent slipped off his sunglasses and continued on into the dark room with an arrogant strut. Five men sat at various points along the bar, and a chubby bartender stood behind the counter with a cloth draped over his shoulder. He recognized Vincent immediately. "Vincent, hi - how - how are you?"

  "How you been, Mick?"

  "Can't complain," the bartender smiled. "Can I get you something?"

  "Privacy."

  "You got it."

  A man in his early fifties sat huddled over a bottle of cheap beer. Vincent took the stool next to him. "Aren't you gonna say, hello?"

  "Hello, Vincent."

  "Where the hell are your manners, Jerry?"

  The man fidgeted in his seat. "I didn't recognize you."

  "Here's the thing. Michael says he wants you to give him a call. You remember my brother, Michael, right?"<
br />
  "Of course."

  "He expects a call before the end of the day."

  The man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope. "I've got five hundred here. Tell Mike I can have the other fifteen hundred by tomorrow noon."

  Vincent took a wooden toothpick from a bowl on the counter and rolled it into the corner of his mouth. He looked at the envelope Jerry was offering and shrugged. "What's that?"

  "I told you. It's five hundred of what I owe him."

  "What'd I just say?"

  "Huh?"

  "You fucking retarded?"

  "I don't get what you mean."

  "Did I ask you for money?" Vincent asked in a quiet voice. "What the fuck is that, a loan? Did I ask you for a loan?"

  "I was just trying to - "

  Vincent leaned against the bar. "If you and Michael have some sort of business going, that's between the two of you. I'm just here to tell you to give him a call before the end of the day. Any of this getting through?"

  "Yeah," he said, stuffing the envelope back into his jacket. "Tell him I'll call before - "

  "I look like an errand boy, is that it?"

  Jerry nervously twisted a napkin between his fingers. "I'll call him today. Is that good enough for you?"

  Vincent slid off his stool, the heels of his boots hitting the floor with a distinctive thud. Although he was an inch or two under six feet, Vincent was a muscular two hundred and five pounds. His outfit of black jeans and a lightweight black leather jacket combined with his swarthy looks to form an extremely intimidating presence. "Don't give me attitude, you cocksucker."

  "Please don't bust the place up," the bartender pleaded. "Please, Vincent, with all respect, take it outside if you have to talk to Jerry harshly."

  Frank lit a cigarette, stepped a bit further into the bar. Several faces turned and noticed him but no one said a word. He and Vincent couldn't get the hell out of there soon enough as far as he was concerned, but he held his ground in silence nonetheless.

  "I apologize," Jerry said. "I been under a lot of stress lately. I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink. No hard feelings, right?"

  "Yeah," the bartender said cheerfully. "What can I get you?"

  Vincent's eyes never left Jerry's. "I dunno, Mick. You got any fucking brains back there? Gimme a large order of brains for this mindless fuck."

  Everyone in the bar laughed too loud and too hard, and that was exactly how Vincent wanted it. Even Jerry cracked a smile and extended his hand. "You're right, I'm dumb as a brick sometimes. I apologize."

  Vincent kicked the stool out from under him so quickly that by the time his actions had registered Jerry had already crashed to the floor.

  From the doorway, Frank flicked his cigarette away and checked over his shoulder to make certain the street was still clear. One man started toward the door but saw Frank and hesitated. He shook his head, and the man returned to his seat without protest.

  "Have another drink, ya clumsy prick."

  Again, the bar exploded into nervous laughter. Jerry, more embarrassed than hurt, could have gotten up but knew better. Standing would be interpreted as a challenge, and that was the last thing he needed. Vincent turned to Mick. "You see that?"

  "He fell," Mick answered staunchly.

  "You're cut off," Vincent cracked. "That'll give you plenty of time to call my brother."

  "No problem," Jerry mumbled.

  Vincent picked up the stool and slid it back against the bar. "I'm outta here. Take it easy, Mick."

  The bartender nodded. "You take care, Vincent, and tell Michael I said hello."

  By the time he and Frank reached the car Vincent had already begun to laugh. They tore out of there without another word, putting quite a distance between themselves and the bar before Frank was able to relax.

  Throughout the morning and early afternoon, in between stops, Frank had done his best to explain all that had happened with Charlie Rain as well as the plans he and Gus had already formed to that point. Vincent listened intently and occasionally asked a question or two, purposely refraining from offering any definite opinions of his own.

  "Can you believe Jerry?" Vincent shook his head wearily. "Dumb bastard's been borrowing money from shylocks since I was a kid, for Christ's sake. Like I'm gonna take an envelope full of cash in a public place and discuss my brother's personal business."

  The neighborhoods improved somewhat once they ventured beyond that section of the city, and Frank was reminded of why he'd traded city life for Angel Bay and why he had promised himself that he'd never live in any city again.

  "The stupid shit spends too much time at bars and betting horses - not that I blame him. He's got a wife so ugly I'd sooner kill myself than fuck, and a kid about our age who's an even bigger loser than he is."

  "How does a guy like that ever pay back big money?"

  "He's not in for big money, Frank. Shit, he probably only borrowed about a thousand bucks. Figure he's done business with Michael for years so I'll bet compared to a guy right off the street he hardly pays much juice. Still, you think a guy like Jerry can walk into a bank and get a legitimate loan?"

  No, Frank thought. But then again, neither could he. At least not the kind he'd need to start the business. "You think he'll come up with the money by tomorrow?"

  Vincent shrugged. "Who gives a shit?"

  "Wouldn't want to be him if he can't."

  "They might slap him around a little - maybe even break something - but it's not like in the movies where loan sharks whack people out because they owe them a few bucks."

  Frank nodded. "Can't get money from a corpse."

  "Fuckin' A."

  They came to a red light, and surprisingly, Vincent actually stopped for it. "I've got to swing by Michael's office," he announced, glancing both ways for cops. "After that we can hang out at my place and talk."

  "Just wait for the light, will ya?"

  Vincent grinned like a shark just before he ran the light. They bolted through the intersection, leaving blaring car horns, screeching tires and, Frank was certain, his lower intestines in their wake.

  They pulled onto one of the busier and more congested streets in the city, where one could find just about anything: Food, entertainment, independently owned shops, larger outlets, bars, cultural and learning centers, office spaces, and a highly diverse mixture of people.

  Vincent parked in front of Dino's, a small clothing store where suits and slacks made from the finest Italian fabrics were sold. A factory in the city imported the fabric, handled the design and production of the clothing, and then shipped product not only to Dino's but also to various outlets across the country.

  Michael Santangelo owned the entire operation.

  Frank decided to wait in the car while Vincent ran in. He returned in less than five minutes, hopped behind the wheel and pulled out into traffic without comment. Once they had traveled a few blocks, he handed Frank five twenty-dollar bills. "What's this for?"

  "Helping me out."

  Frank had gone on the route with Vincent many times and he'd always been paid. But after only helping at one stop he hadn't expected compensation. "You don't have to - "

  "Hey, you don't want it? Give it back."

  "Did I say I didn't want it?" Frank smiled and buried the money in his wallet. "I just said you didn't have to pay me."

  "Don't worry about it. He gave me five hundred for the day."

  When he wasn't running errands or visiting people who owed his brother money (known by the family as the "juice route"), Vincent sold used cars at a lot owned by his cousin, Jimmy. Although the opportunity to work with Michael on a full-time basis had always been an option, Vincent had never wanted a life of crime, preferring instead to move along the outskirts of the world his brother inhabited.

  At the city limits they stopped at the lot, switched the Escort for Vincent's Corvette, and drove back over the border into Massachusetts. A few minutes later they reached Vincent's apartment in New Bedford.


  Vincent lived on the second floor of a two-family house on a quiet side street in a working-class neighborhood. There was a small fenced-in yard, a gated driveway where he could park his car without fear of theft or damage, and a private side entrance.

  The front door opened directly into a large kitchen. Vincent went to the refrigerator. "You want something to drink?"

  "What have you got?"

  "Couple cans of soda."

  "What else?"

  "Some soda."

  "I guess I'll have a soda."

  Vincent tossed a can of Pepsi at him and took one for himself. "Come on, I gotta work out."

  "Can't you take a day off, for Christ's sake?"

  One bedroom was set up as a gym. A large weight bench sat in the center of the room, flanked by a stationary bike, and a freestanding, combination heavy and speed bag station. Several weapons were scattered across a low table along the back wall, including two ninja swords and an assortment of mostly illegal pieces generally associated with the martial arts. Steel plates were stacked neatly on the floor, and three of the four walls were covered with posters of bathing beauties and centerfold models. The fourth wall had been decorated with women's underwear tacked up into uniform rows.

  When Vincent returned from the bathroom he was dressed in a pair of shorts, sneakers and a tight fitting t-back tank top. He stretched while Frank admired what they commonly referred to as the "wall of shame".

  "Couple new entries here."

  Vincent grinned. "The blue lace and the white crotchless."

  "Anybody I know?"

  "The spic with the big tits I was telling you about. Rosa something. I chased her around for a month before she finally gave in. Threw that whore a good one. Eyes all rolled up in her head, calling out shit in Spanish. What an idiot."

  Frank fingered the white pair. "And these?"

  "Margot."

  "I didn't know you were seeing her again."