by Joe Corso
“Let us handle it, Red,” Trenchie insisted. It’s not like we ain’t done this sort of thing before. Stay out of it Red. You owe it to the family. Don’t let stubborn pride get in the way of clear thinkin’. We got this.” Trenchie had a point and Red realized he was right. He had a responsibility to over a thousand men and he owed them his leadership.
“Okay,” Red said, finally relenting. “Tarzan, you drive. Trenchie, you sit in the back and be me. Tarzan, when he gets out of the car, you get out with him but stay about ten feet behind him. I want you to watch his back. And don’t either of you guys go into the place alone. I want whatever has to be said to be said outside, where you both can see what’s happenin’. If you walk inside, you could both get ambushed, so stay out of an inside meeting. Is that clear?” Both men nodded yes. “I wish Shooter was here. If he was, I’d put him on the roof with an AK47, but he’s not, so we just have to make the best of it.”
The stretch limo pulled into the parking lot opposite the address Bernstein had written down. The men sat in the car waiting for the door to open. Tarzan beeped the horn to alert the men that they had arrived, even though both he and Trenchie knew that the men were already fully aware of their presence. After about ten minutes, a door opened and two men walked over to the car.
“There was only supposed to be one of you, not two,” one of the men said.
“Tell your boss that I’m here,” Trenchie said. “Tell him to bring the contract with him. I need to read it first and then I’ll sign it. Go ahead. Go tell him that.” Trenchie words were calm and firm.
Another set of minutes passed until the door once again opened and this time, three men emerged from the building. One of them held a stack of papers in his hand. As they approached the car, Tarzan reached for the gun he had placed onto the passenger seat. He pulled back the slide and checked the chamber once again as a precaution. Tarzan whispered to Trenchie. “Maybe we should just shoot all three of ‘em now and be done with it.”
Trenchie said stoically, “If we did that we wouldn’t know who’s behind this little caper.”
“I hear you,” Tarzan continued, “but it would make me feel a whole lot better knowin’ these guys were done with.”
“Let’s hear what they have to say before we make a move,” Trenchie stated.
One of the men approached and tapped on the car window. Trenchie lowered his back window just enough so they could speak.
“Look, we can’t talk with you sittin’ in the car,” the guy said. “Step out so we can talk.” Trenchie was busy sizing up the guys. These weren’t the small Hispanic guys that he fought when he first got out of the joint. These were big, strapping, muscular guys who looked like mercenaries or ex–military. He wasn’t particularly worried but nevertheless, one needed to know his enemies.
“Sure, we can talk better outside the car,” Trenchie said but Tarzan was worried. He, too, stepped out of the car but he kept his distance, standing by the front fender. Tarzan had a clear shot of Trenchie and the three men who talked near the rear of the car. Tarzan’s eyes moved among the three men looking for any movements out of the ordinary. Suddenly, from behind, Tarzan felt something hard crash against his head and everything went black. Trenchie had his back to Tarzan so he couldn’t see but when he heard a clunk against the car he turned to see Tarzan, and his gun, on the ground. Trenchie whipped back around right into the face of a fourth man standing there with his gun trained on Trenchie’s forehead.
The men bound Trenchie’s hands behind his back and shoved him inside a car. They drove for a few minutes to another warehouse on the other side of this large complex. One of the men got out of the car and raised a large bay door that allowed the car to continue into the empty, cavernous warehouse floor. The men ordered Trenchie to walk, at gunpoint, across the concrete floor and to a steel pole, near a workbench, close to the wall. There, two of the men tied Trenchie to the pole. Satisfied that Trenchie was a no risk prisoner, one man introduced himself as Sal and promptly slammed a roundhouse right hand hard into Trenchie’s face, cutting the area around his eye with his large diamond ring. Blood spewed down the left side of Trenchie’s face, drenching his shirt. Trenchie smirked, looked at him, and smarted off, “Is that the best you have? You hit like a girl for Chrissake.”
“How about this wise guy?” and Sal, putting all of his weight behind his fist, hit him again in the face. He followed with a punch to the gut. This time the attacker recoiled as his hand struck hard against Trenchie’s protective vest. “What’s this?’ he taunted. “You’re wearing a bullet proof vest? You son of a bitch. I almost broke my hand on it.”
Trenchie laughed and countered with, “I hope you did break it. Might toughen you up a bit. You hit like a pussy!” That was all it took. All four men began taking turns, punching and kicking Trenchie senseless until he faded into unconsciousness.
chapter seventeen
Trenchie had never really lost consciousness. The men were all high on themselves, pumped up over having gotten the best of the big guy. There was no question that the pounding had weakened him. He was tied to a pole, his legs hurt, his face throbbed, and he had a massive headache but he still had his senses about him. Trenchie was careful to appear lifeless and remained slumped over the plastic ties that bound his wrists, feigning unconsciousness while he devised his plan. The men lifted Trenchie upright and the rope that bound him dug into his wrists. One of the men looked at his three buddies and sneered, “He’s not so tough now is he?” Trenchie’s thoughts were not pleasant. He could feel the anger welling up inside of him – that old prison anger, the same anger he felt when a bunch of jerks decided to trash the club.
The leader turned to his buddies. “He’s unconscious so we might as well grab some coffee from the kitchen while we’re waiting for him to wake up,” Sal said.
“Good idea Sal,” one man concurred. “Looks like our tough guy’s gonna be out for a while.”
Trenchie waited for the men to leave and gradually began working his fingers toward the innocent looking adhesive bandage just above his wrist. He stretched his fingers a bit and inched them closer and closer until he felt its edge. He gently dug his nail underneath the cotton square in the middle of the adhesive, raised it up a bit, and grabbed hold of the razor blade. It was a trick he had learned in prison and one that he used when faced with situations like these. Those fools never even bothered to check under his sleeve. All he could hope for now was that he wouldn’t drop it. He slowly worked the blade into a tight grasp of three fingers. It seemed secure. There was no time to waste as he began to cut through the ropes, thanking God that they hadn’t used wire or handcuffs. It didn’t take long until he had safely freed one hand, then the other. It was decision time. He could try to make it out of there, but it was quite a distance to the exit, and the men could walk through the door at any moment. He needed a weapon but all he could see was a large empty warehouse. Behind him, he spotted a workbench which had some tools stored underneath it. He walked over to the bench and quietly sorted through them until he found a large adjustable plumber’s wrench. It was the only semblance of a weapon he could find. He picked it up and swung it back and forth to get the feel of it, all the while making a plan. He could storm into the kitchen and take the men by surprise or . . . he could return to the pole, play dead, and make his move when they came to get him. If he waited at the steel pole, he risked someone spotting the wrench. Quickly, he gathered the loose plastic ties and threw them into the garbage bin sitting next to the workbench. He returned to the pole and put his hands behind his back, all the while firmly gripping the wrench. Trenchie let his head droop, pretending to still be unconscious. Just as he had repositioned himself, the door flew open and the four men emerged from the kitchen. The men were laughing and making snide remarks about Trenchie, calling him a pussy because he was still unconscious. Careful to keep his head down, he waited for them to move closer. Sal picked up Trenchie’s chin and taunted, “Are you awake buttercup? Can you hear m
e?” Trenchie nodded and raised his head a little so that he could look into his eyes. “Good you’re awake. I didn’t want to kill you until you were awake and you understood what was about to happen to ya. I’m gonna kill you like you guys killed my friends, like your movie star friend hurt my pal. Ya know my pal Bob Gray? I didn’t really care for what your guy did to my buddy.” Trenchie’s eyes widened with the mentioned of Gray’s name. “Oh so you recognize the name. You didn’t know that Bob was a friend of mine? Oh well, too bad. Now I’m gonna take this nice and slow. It’ll be a little painful, but in the end it won’t hurt anymore ‘cause you’ll be dead,” he laughed. “So if you don’t mind, me and the guys here are just gonna sit here and watch you die slowly, you punk. You may be big, but you’re not really so big right now, are ya?” he said.
Trenchie raised his head and heaved a big wad of spit right into the guy’s face. It landed square in his eye. As Sal brought his hand up to wipe it away, Trenchie seized the moment. His arm swung around hard and Trenchie slammed the wrench into the top of Sal’s head in a downward motion, splitting his skull like a coconut. And as he was falling, Trenchie, at the speed of a pick pocket, managed to grab his gun from his waist. The wrench rested deep inside Sal’s brain. He was dead before he hit the floor. Without hesitation, Trenchie fired a shot into the second guy’s knee cap, shattering it. He fell to the ground, holding his knee and writhing in pain. The man served as a bit of a barrier between Trenchie and the remaining guys. Trenchie grabbed that man’s gun and then armed with a weapon in each hand, started firing like an old western hero. Shooter would be proud. Bam–bam–bam–he fired shots into each of the other two men, killing them instantly. Trenchie struggled to get up but ambled over to the guy with the broken knee. He looked right into his eyes and saw pure fear. Trenchie smiled and said, “This won’t hurt a bit,” pressed the gun against the man’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The bullet took part of his head with it. Bone fragments, brain matter and blood filled the air and painted the walls. Trenchie reached over and collected the other guns. He rifled through the men’s wallets, grabbed their car keys from their pockets, and placed them all onto the bench. He remembered Sal mentioning that there was coffee in the kitchen so that’s where he headed – to the kitchen. The sink reminded him that he should probably take a moment to clean up. He turned on the cold water and with a paper towel, carefully washed his bloody face. He cut a dish towel into strips and dressed his wounded wrists as best as he could and then did what every killer does right after knocking off four guys – he poured himself a cup of coffee. To his surprise, it was fresh and robust – just the way he liked it. Must be some sort of omen, he thought. Very considerate of them to make him coffee the way he took it, he mused. Trenchie finished one cup and poured himself a second. By this time, he was beginning to feel a bit better, even though he knew that caffeine was probably not the best medicine for a headache. With the hot cup of coffee in his hand, he walked back to the bench, as refreshed as a man could be who had just taken a savage beating and had left four men lying dead, on a cold concrete floor. His strength was slowly returning and for some crazy reason, he thought of how Samson must have felt after Delilah gave him that famous haircut. There was no question about it – the beating had taken a lot out of him. He glanced at the dead men on the floor and said out loud, “There’s a silver lining in everything. I’ll take tired over dead any day.” Trenchie walked back over to bench, set his cup on top of it and began searching the wallets. When he finished sorting, he found they each had slips of paper with the same phone number on it. He placed them into a bag with the guns they had. He wiped down everything in the area including the wrench, washed the cup he used, picked up his bullet proof vest and took all four sets of car keys, not sure which one would start the black late model Mercedes that was sitting there in the middle of the empty warehouse. With the bag in hand, he walked toward the car. The first two keys failed but the third set opened the lock. Trenchie tossed the bag into the back seat and followed the red exit sign at the other end of the warehouse. There, as he looked around cautiously, he waited for the gated doors to open and drove off into the cool night air. All in a day’s work.
chapter eighteen
Just like Trenchie, Tarzan had a pounding headache when he regained consciousness. He looked up and saw the limousine but no one else. Trenchie, he thought, he must be in trouble and all he could think was how in the hell had he let that happen? What was he going to tell Red? He was a bit shaky as he pulled himself to his feet and he stood still for a few moments. Shaking the cobwebs from his head, he got into the car and started driving along Santa Monica Boulevard. He stopped when he spotted a gas station with a pay phone. He knew he had to get it over with. Red had to be called. Tarzan explained briefly what happened to them as best he could recall the events. Surprisingly, Red was calm and simply ordered him back to the studio.
“We can’t do anything else until either Trenchie or those punks call us,” Red stated. “Only then can we make a move. We’ll be waitin’ for you here.”
Tarzan left the car parked in front of the building and walked up toward Bernstein’s office. Crusted blood coated his head. Red and the studio head were sitting in Bernstein’s office. Bernstein wasted no time. He immediately called for the studio nurse, telling her that he had a man in his office with a head wound who needed medical attention now. Red paced the floor willing the nurse to complete her work on Tarzan’s head. They needed to be ready, ready for the phone call. After almost two hours, the phone did ring. It was Trenchie calling to give them the good news that he was downstairs. Red was relieved and he made no secret about it. His buddy was safe. Now he had to find out what had happened to him.
As Trenchie walked past the secretaries’ desks, he could see the ladies cringe. Judging from the rearview mirror inside the car, he knew he looked a bit scary. Trenchie looked like he’d fought sixteen rounds and had never gotten off a punch. He opened the door to the office and stood there for a moment filling the doorway like a wounded behemoth. His head was matted with blood, his eye badly cut and almost completely closed, his face was bruised and swollen. He looked like a cross between the elephant man and that famous purple dinosaur. Everyone in the room just stared until he broke the silence. “It looks worse than it is,” he said as he waved off Red who was walking toward him to get a closer look. Trenchie settled into the plush leather chair at the side of Bernstein’s desk.
“What happened?” Red asked. Trenchie began his story. He explained how he had heard Tarzan’s gun hit the fender, heard him fall to the ground, and explained what happened after that.
“When I was no longer a threat to them and when I couldn’t defend myself, the bastards beat the shit out of me,” Trenchie said in a controlled anger type fashion. Red’s eyebrows shot up at these words.
“How’d you get out of there?” Red asked.
Trenchie looked around the room at Morgenstein, then at Bernstein. He wondered if he should say anything further. “Let’s just say that I left the place and those four bastards didn’t.” Morgenstein was in awe. He could not understand how a man with his hands tied behind his back, unable to defend himself, could walk away from four killers.
Trenchie looked at Bernstein and said, “Larry send someone down to the car. I have a bag in the trunk. Tell them to bring it up here and warn ‘em not to look inside it.”
Bernstein sent his secretary to get the bag from the limo and Trenchie waited until a nurse finished tending to his wounds and left before speaking again. “Red,” Trenchie said, “I forgot to mention somethin’. While they were working me over, the guy called Sal said the beating was for what Jimmy the Hat did to his friend Bob Gray.”
“Ok,” Red said. “Well, now we know for sure that Gray was part of the Detroit mob when Jimmy broke his knees. The question is – is he still part of that mob?”
Trenchie spread out the items on Larry’s desk. Tarzan took the cards, cash, and notes of any kind, and placed them int
o a pile so they could look through them hoping to find a clue. “Red, check the business cards and slips of papers I found in their wallets,” Trenchie suggested. “One number keeps popping up.” Red turned to Larry and said, “We have to find out who that number belongs to. Do you have any contacts in the police department?”
“Are you kidding? I donate a substantial amount of money to the Police Benevolent Society. The department loves me.” Larry pressed his intercom. “Lucille, please get Sergeant Withers on the phone for me.” A few minutes later Lucille buzzed back with Withers on hold. “Sarge, I need a favor,” Bernstein stated rather than asked.
“Sure, Mr. Bernstein, what’s that?”
“I need a name and address for a phone number I have.” Bernstein recited the number to him. “That’s no problem,” and the sergeant placed him on hold. It was no more than five minutes later when Sergeant Withers returned to the phone. Larry carefully wrote down the address and double checked it by reciting it back to the police man. “I appreciate this Serge,” Larry said. “I’ll make it up to you when Christmas time rolls around.” Bernstein handed Red the name and address he was given. Red’s eyes showed rage when he read the name.
“Robert Gray again . . . that son of a bitch. He has some balls after what Jimmy told him what he’d do to him.” Red looked at Tarzan. “Do you feel up to visitin’ this guy?” Trenchie, too, was pissed.
“I’ll do it,” Trenchie said. “Nothing would make me happier,” he said while clinching his teeth.
“Trenchie you stay put,” Red ordered. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere, much less try to kick someone’s ass right now. Me and Tarzan can handle this guy.”
“Bullshit,” Trenchie insisted. “I’m comin’ with you. You actually think that I’m gonna sit here while that SOB runs roughshod over us?” Red knew his friend well. He knew there was no arguing with him. He was like a mule so it didn’t take long for Red to recant. Red turned to Larry. “Do me a favor and send one of your secretaries to your prop room. Tell her to find Trenchie the largest shirt she can find and bring it here – the shirt he’s wearing is full of blood.” A little while later wearing his new shirt Trenchie and the men said their good–byes and headed off to take care of business. The door closed and Bernstein looked at Morgenstein.