"Take a look at this file, Doc," said Counsel, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "His name is Kevin McBright. He used to ride with us. Now he's a liability, if you know what I mean."
"What's his situation?" I asked
"He just got busted and he's about to go punk on us," answered Iron Man.
"We can't afford ex-members with loose lips," Counsel said, staring straight at me. It would have been more appropriate for him to say that they couldn't afford ex-members, period.
"The most trustworthy person alive is a dead man," added Iron Man with a slight chuckle.
"You want me to take care of it?" I asked. My instincts told me to play it out.
"Yes," said Savage forcefully. "And soon, too."
"Within the next five days," added Counsel
"What does this do for me?" Besides keep me alive, I thought to myself. Iron Man and Crazy both looked over at Counsel.
"You get these," said Counsel. He laid a brand-new set of Henchmen colors on the table. "Just get the job done, and you're in."
"Then I guess I'm gonna be in." I slapped Iron Man a high-five and picked up McBright's file. Now what the hell am I going to do? Take what I have and call in the operation? Kill the guy? I needed to talk with Leverick or Atwood as soon as possible.
"Let's get back downstairs and fuckin' party!" exploded Iron Man, pounding the table with his fist. We returned to the party. At five the next morning, I returned to my apartment and went to sleep. The longest day of my life had finally come to an end.
Chapter 8
In four more hours, Angelo's Cocktail Lounge would open for its after-hours guests. Angelo Vinetti always arrived at ten o'clock to take his place at the rear table, close to the stage. He would conduct business with local associates while he ate, occasionally paying attention to the strippers warming up onstage.
Michael "Zorro" Zoritella, the vice-president of The Henchmen's Philadelphia chapter, waited on the corner of Market and Second. He would not go in to see Vinetti alone. His instructions had come directly from the chapter president: Wait until he arrives, and then go in together. The Henchmen were always cautious when they dealt with the Mob. Zorro looked at his watch. Ten-twenty. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. "Shit," he said as he patted his pockets for matches. He let the unlit cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth as he continued to wait. Samuel "Whitey" Hilton rolled up in his blue BMW. Zorro got into the car and immediately pushed in the cigarette-lighter.
"Relax, man," said Whitey. "We're only picking up cash."
"I don't like dealing with this prick. He'd fuck us if he had the chance." Zorro took a drag of the cigarette and let the smoke out through gritted teeth.
"He knows better than that, bro," said Whitey. "They hire us because we can get the job done when they can't. They never would have found Williams on their own."
Edwin Williams was one of the wealthiest drug dealers in Philadelphia. He worked for Vinetti and the Toritelli family. The Toritellis controlled forty percent of the drug traffic in Philadelphia. The Henchmen controlled forty, with the remaining twenty percent divided between the Colombians, Jamaicans, and independents.
Williams had committed one of the most serious offenses possible within that criminal organization. He had killed a law enforcement official without permission. When a judge who'd handled a case involving one of Williams' most profitable street-level dealers had refused to take a bribe, he'd had him shot outside his home in Malvern. Williams went underground, and the Toritellis hired The Henchmen to find and kill him. When someone disappeared into the labyrinthine city, there were no better stalkers than The Henchmen. They knew every alley, every dope dealer, and every flop house from Front Street to City Line Avenue.
It took them only eight days to locate Williams in an apartment on Cleveland Street. When the body was discovered, it was too badly burned to be properly identified without dental records. Two hookers had also been shot and burned. One survived a few hours in the hospital.
The police released a statement two days later stating that the male had been shot six times in the head before he was set on fire. The two hookers had each been shot once.
Zorro walked into the bar ahead of Whitey. Neither Henchman was wearing his colors. Whitey was dressed in a blue three-piece suit. Earlier in the evening he'd been handling some legitimate club business and had needed to look the part. He looked distinguished, with his gray, well-coiffed hair and his trim mustache. Zorro wore a Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.
Vinetti barely looked up from his plate as the odd couple walked through the door and sat down at his table. He motioned with his head, and one of his people came over to the table with two stacks of cash. Each stack contained fifty one-hundred-dollar bills. Whitey picked up one of the stacks and flipped through it. He placed it back on the table and looked straight at Vinetti.
"It looks light, Angelo," he said.
"Ten thousand. Count it."
"We get twenty. We always get twenty. Your man Famantia said you understood that." Whitey's voice was cool and steady. Zorro began thumping his burly fingers on the table.
"I pay ten. I always pay ten," Vinetti said. He laughed and looked around the room. His men joined in the laughter, right on cue. They stopped when Vinetti did.
"What the fuck is this shit?" fumed Zorro. "I told you we couldn't trust these scumbags!"
"Watch your mouth, punk!" Vinetti ripped the napkin from his collar and threw it on the table. "You fucking creeps are in over your head if you think you're going to get tough with me! I'll have your fucking balls for dinner!"
"No, I'll have your balls, motherfucker!" Zorro snapped, as he stood and reached behind him for his .38. A rapid succession of clicks stopped him cold. Two of Vinetti's lieutenants had their guns cocked and pressed against either side of Zorro's head. The bar-tender pointed a twelve-gauge shotgun, and a stripper aimed a .25-caliber semiautomatic that she had pulled from her boot. Vinetti leaned back in his chair, his pot belly supporting a poorly made necktie, and shrugged his shoulders.
"What can I tell you? They love me." He grinned.
Whitey calmly took the two stacks of money. He placed them in his jacket pocket and slowly rose to his feet. Vinetti's people kept their guns on Zorro, who had now lowered his hands to his sides.
"You owe The Henchmen ten thousand dollars," said Whitey. He turned around and proceeded to leave the lounge. Zorro followed cautiously, almost walking backwards, never taking his eyes off Vinetti's people.
Once outside, Whitey unlocked the passenger side of the car, as Zorro exploded.
"Shit! God fuckin' damn it! Shit, Whitey! We fuckin' backed down in there, man! What the fuck is going on? Shit!"
"Get in, man. I got it handled."
Zorro got in, slamming the door shut. Whitey picked up the car phone and motioned it toward Zorro like a shaking finger. "Nobody pulls that shit on us." He dialed the number one on his speed-dialer. Counsel picked up on the second ring.
"Yeah," Counsel answered.
"It's Whitey."
"What's up, Whitey? How are things in the City of Brotherly Love?"
"Oh, not bad. I'm just left feeling a little hungry after my meeting tonight."
A long pause.
"I see. What do you want to do about it?" asked Counsel.
"I'd like to take my friend to dinner. He deserves a good meal."
Another pause. Shorter this time.
"What's on the menu?"
"Oh, something hot. And very spicy."
"Who's your friend?"
"I'll spell it for you. H Y F R A A Y."
Another long pause. Whitey could picture Counsel deciphering the code which, during the last meeting of chapter presidents, they had both agreed to use when discussing sensitive matters over the phone. He knew Counsel would have his doubts. Killing Vinetti could be bad for business. Not that Counsel would be afraid to take on the Mob. But an all-out war would gain nothing. He would have to a
llocate too many resources to the Philadelphia area, thus hurting business in New York and other East Coast territories. Yet he knew Counsel wouldn't let his Philadelphia chapter down.
"When were you planning to go eat?" Counsel asked.
"Right now," replied Whitey. "This motherfucking minute."
Whitey immediately thought of The Henchmen's bylaw number seven, which states that no Henchman shall fail to retaliate fully when wronged. Counsel had little choice.
"Enjoy your dinner," he said before he hung up the phone.
Whitey smiled and placed the car phone back in its compartment. He removed a pair of gloves from the cradle and instructed Zorro to wait in the car. He then released the trunk lock. Inside the trunk was a set of golf clubs. He removed the red leather bag and reached inside, pulling out a disposable bazooka, standard army issue. He threw the weapon over his shoulder and took up his position behind a brown station wagon across from Angelo's. Inside he could see Vinetti, still sitting at the table with his two men. Vinetti was talking while he picked his teeth and gestured animatedly. Whitey squeezed the trigger slowly.
"Right in your face, scumbag," he said, releasing the rocket with a powerful swoosh. A second later Angelo's exploded, sending glass and debris in all directions. Whitey fell to the concrete, trying to avoid the flying glass, wood, and metal. A fiery form came running through the smoke into the street. Whitey couldn't tell if it was Vinetti or one of his people. It fell about three feet from the station wagon. Whitey watched the figure burn.
"Whitey! Whitey! Goddammit, man! Let's get the fuck out of here!" pleaded Zorro. Whitey dropped the smoking weapon to the ground and ran to the car. He hopped in, and the blue BMW sped down to Front Street and off toward the clubhouse in South Philadelphia.
The Bobby Jones concert was running an hour overtime. One of the most successful country-and-western singers, he sold out every city he played in. The crowd was roaring for a third encore. Barbara and Alice, two teenage fans, had become separated from their friends.
"Hey, Barb. Lez go up fron' and get a bedder look at Bobby," said Alice, her speech slurred from one too many beers.
"I don't know, Ally. Those motorcycle guys are keeping everyone away from the stage."
"Come on. Doan be a wimp. Lizzen, we're on our own. I'm sposed to be sleeping over your house. Your sposed to be sleeping over mine. We agreed we were gonna make this the bez night ever, right?"
"Oh all right, Ally," said Barbara hesitantly, "but I know I'm gonna regret this."
The two teenagers began to make their way down to the stage. The outdoor, general-admission arena seated eleven thousand, and had standing room at stage level for five hundred. Six Henchmen bikes were parked near the stage with a sign draped across them: DON'T EVEN THINK OF TOUCHING THESE BIKES. The crowd was well aware of The Henchmen's reputation and kept a respectful distance from their motorcycles by standing behind the barriers.
Hiring The Henchmen to guard the stage was something Bobby Jones did whenever he played a city near a Henchmen chapter. Using bikers as bodyguards used to be fashionable among the rock bands of the seventies. For a dozen cases of beer and free admission to the concert, any band could hire The Henchmen or any other outlaw club. After the incident at Saratoga in 1979, however, only a few old-time friends of the outlaw clubs would hire the bikers. In Saratoga The Henchmen's New York City chapter had been hired by The Losers, a hard-rock band, to keep people off the stage. One of The Henchmen got into an argument over a girl. The boyfriend pulled a gun and shot one of the bikers in the leg. What they finally scraped off the floor when the ambulance arrived was a boyfriend beaten badly enough to have killed ten people. Every bone in his body had been broken. They beat his head so severely with a ballpeen hammer that his brain was exposed. No one was arrested. There were no official witnesses.
"Hurry, Barb! Thiz could be the laz song," said Alice, as she tugged on Barbara's arm. Alice, seventeen, was a bleached blonde who wore too much makeup. At five-foot-two and one hundred-fifteen pounds she was shapely and provocative. She was accustomed to using her looks to her advantage. At school, at home with her stepfather, and with her many boyfriends, Alice could always get what she wanted. Barbara, slightly taller at five-foot-five, had brown hair and brown eyes. She was more cautious than Alice, but was easily seduced by the excitement of a new challenge or experience.
The girls started their descent toward the stage. Gerald "Beef" Macruder, the sergeant-at-arms of the San Pagano chapter, was standing between the bikes and the stage. He swayed to the music, while keeping a threatening eye on the crowd. A baseball bat was slung over his shoulder like a foot soldier's rifle. Two of the Henchmen were sitting on their bikes. Mario "Slip" Zatela, the chapter's vice-president, talked with some of the crowd. He shared some booze and some smoke with the people closest to the barriers.
Sanford "Sandy" Collins, the chapter president, spoke to one of the stagehands. Sandy's brother, Lucky Joe, was the newest member. Lucky Joe had gotten his nickname because he'd been shot three times and survived. The remaining two members of the chapter were not at the concert. The San Pagano chapter had only the eight members required by charter. If one of the six members who were still on the street was killed or jailed, the club would have two weeks to find a worthy prospect or they would lose their charter.
Alice pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She stood next to one of The Henchmen sitting on his bike. "Nice bike," she said.
"I know it is," answered Frederick "Fred" Adams. "How ya doin', pretty girl?"
"Great, man. Bobby Jones is dynamite. Juz look at him up there. Heezza best." Alice started jumping and shouting as Bobby Jones began what would be the final song of the night: "Highway Woman." It was a trademark of the Bobby Jones Band to end each concert with this double-platinum hit. Barbara made her way over to Alice. "Shit, Alice. I almost got fucking stomped trying to get up here," she said.
"Hey, how would you ladies like to meet Bobby Jones after the concert?" asked Fred.
"Get out, man! No shit?" said Alice.
"No shit. Let me just talk to my prez." Fred dismounted his bike and walked to the end of the stage to confer with Sandy. Sandy looked over at the girls, who were watching them carefully for the prez's approval. Sandy smiled, gave Fred a kiss on the lips, and nodded his head yes. The two girls were ecstatic. They were going to meet Bobby Jones. The legendary Henchmen were going to introduce them.
"It's all set," said Fred eagerly. "There's a party at his hotel suite right after the concert. You can ride with us."
The concert ended at one A.M. Two roadies opened the side gates near the stage and the six Henchmen began to thunder out of the arena in pairs. Sandy and Slip rode first, followed by Fred and Bruce "Red" Tonnelly. Beef and Lucky Joe were in the rear. Alice rode with Fred. He placed her in front of him. She thought that unusual, but when she questioned him he assured her that he just wanted her to be safe. Barbara rode in front on Lucky Joe's bike. The bikes roared south onto Highway 395, the opposite direction from Bobby Jones' hotel.
The bikers took the girls to San Pagano, an old industrial town, thirty-five minutes from the concert arena. Barbara was the first to realize what was going on. She started to squirm in her seat.
"Let us go!" she screamed, turning to look at Lucky Joe. He grabbed her by the neck. "Shut the fuck up, or I'll drag your ass all over the street until your face is torn off," he said. A sinister delight shone in his eyes. Barbara started to cry. Lucky Joe laughed as they turned up Halston Street.
The San Pagano chapter was located in the middle of the industrial section of town. In the forties this had been a mini-boomtown, with factories and small businesses. Early in 1964 the shops started closing and people started to migrate to more prosperous areas. San Pagano is now a low-income community. Most of the factories are shut down. Few businesses remain. The ideal location for a Henchmen clubhouse.
The clubhouse was an old ranch-style home that had once belonged to one of the factory owners. The
boarded-up factory still stood only thirty feet from the house. The Henchmen had bought it in '86. The bank had repossessed when the owners couldn't make the monthly payments. On the other side of the clubhouse stood a shabby bungalow that the factory owner had used to sleep guests. A family of eight now occupied the tiny three-room house. Living next to The Hench-men was something they had gotten used to. They were willing to put up with the noise and the occasional shotgun blast fired into the air. In fact, most of the neighbors welcomed living on a block where drug dealers and burglars dared not go.
Barbara was still crying and shaking. Alice, although aware of what was going on, had stayed calm. She figured she could charm her way out of this the way she always did. Lucky Joe had to carry Barbara into the house kicking and screaming. Alice, still being cool and no longer feeling the effects of the alcohol, was led in by Fred. He held her arm in a painful grip. She winced from the pain and fought back tears. Lucky Joe threw Barbara to the floor. Alice broke free from Fred's grip and ran over to Barbara. She tried to comfort her as the six bikers surrounded them.
"Hey, you guys," said Alice. "Don't you think this has gone far enough? You've had your fun. You scared the shit out of us, now you can let us go."
"We haven't had our fun yet," said Red. All the other Henchmen started to laugh. Red picked up Alice and pushed her toward Fred. Fred caught her and pushed her at Sandy. They continued this for about three minutes, until Alice was dizzy from being bounced around like a beachball. Barbara climbed to her feet and tried to intercede on Alice's behalf. "Leave her alone!" she cried, throwing herself between Lucky Joe and Sandy. The two girls stood there surrounded by the six bikers. Barbara trembled, wetting her pants. Alice ground her teeth together. How dare these men treat them this way? Who were these animals with no compassion? Why did they delight so at inflicting. suffering? Sandy stepped forward. The girls looked at him with a mixture of fear and disdain. With his long, straight black hair, square jaw, and high cheekbones, Sandy looked like a savage Indian of Western folklore. His huge, bodybuilder arms made him even more threatening. "Who wants to have the first dance?" he asked. Red turned up the stereo.
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