USA Noir Noir: Best of the Akashic Noir Series

by Johnny Temple

This was the time when it could get ugly. There was a tough moment of silence. Then Ricky laughed. “No worries.”

  The beers arrived.

  “Ricky Kelleher.” He clinked glasses.

  “Bob Gardino.”

  “I seen you before. You live around here?”

  “Florida mostly. I come up here for business some. Delaware too. Baltimore, Jersey shore, Maryland.”

  “Yeah? I got a summer place I go to a lot.”

  “Where?”

  “Ocean City. Four bedrooms, on the water.” Ricky didn’t mention that it was T.G.’s, not his.

  “Sweet.” The man nodded, impressed.

  “It’s okay. I’m looking at some other places too.”

  “Man can never have too much real estate. Better than the stock market.”

  “I do okay on Wall Street,” Ricky said. “You gotta know what to look for. You just can’t buy some stock ’cause it’s, you know, sexy.” He’d heard this on some TV show.

  “Truer words.” Now Gardino tapped his glass into Ricky’s.

  “Those were some nice fucking boats.” A nod toward the briefcase. “That your line?”

  “Among other things. Whatta you do, Ricky?”

  “I got my hand in a lot of stuff. Lot of businesses. All over the neighborhood here. Well, and other places too. Maryland, like I was saying. Good money to be made. For a man with a sharp eye.”

  “And you have a sharp eye?”

  “I think I do. Wanta know what it’s seeing right now?”

  “What, your eye?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s it seeing?”

  “A grifter.”

  “A—?”

  “A scam artist.”

  “I know what a grifter is,” Gardino said. “I meant, why do you think that’s what I am?”

  “Well, for instance, you don’t come into Hanny’s—”

  “Hanny’s?”

  “Here. Hanrahan’s.”

  “Oh.”

  “—to sell some loser asshole a boat. So what really hap­pened?”

  Gardino chuckled but said nothing.

  “Look,” Ricky whispered, “I’m cool. Ask anybody on the street.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. A deal went south is all. Happens.”

  “I’m not a cop, that’s what you’re thinking.” Ricky looked around, reached into his pocket, and flashed a bag of hash he’d been carrying around for T.G. “I was, you think I’d have this on me?”

  “Naw, I don’t think you’re a cop. And you seem like an okay guy. But I don’t need to spill my guts to every okay guy I meet.”

  “I hear that. Only . . . I’m just wondering there’s a chance we can do business together.”

  Gardino drank some more beer. “Again, why?”

  “Tell me how your con works.”

  “It’s not a con. I was going to sell him a boat. It didn’t work out. End of story.”

  “But . . . see, here’s what I’m thinking,” Ricky said in his best player’s voice. “I seen people pissed off ’cause they don’t get a car they wanted, or a house, or some pussy. But that asshole, he wasn’t pissed off about not getting a boat. He was pissed off about not getting his down payment back. So, how come he didn’t?”

  Gardino shrugged.

  Ricky tried again. “How’s about we play a game, you and me? I’ll ask you something and you tell me if I’m right or if I’m full of shit. How’s that?”

  “Twenty questions.”

  “Whatever. Okay, try this on: You borrow”—he held up his fingers and made quotation marks—“a boat, sell it to some poor asshole, but then on the way here it sinks.” Again the quotation marks. “And there’s nothing he can do about it. He loses his down payment. He’s fucked. Too bad, but who’s he going to complain to? It’s stolen merch.”

  Gardino studied his beer. Son of a bitch still wasn’t giving away squat.

  Ricky added, “Only there never was any boat. You never steal a fucking thing. You just show him pictures you took on the dock and a fake police report or something.”

  The guy finally laughed. But nothing else.

  “Your only risk is some asshole whaling on you when he loses the money. Not a bad grift.”

  “I sell boats,” Gardino said. “That’s it.”

  “Okay, you sell boats.” Ricky eyed him carefully. He’d try a different approach. “So that means you’re looking for buyers. How ’bout I find one for you?”

  “You know somebody who’s interested in boats?”

  “There’s a guy I know. He might be.”

  Gardino thought for a minute. “This a friend of yours we’re talking?”

  “I wouldn’ta brought him up, he was a friend.”

  The sunlight came through some clouds over Eighth Avenue and hit Gardino’s beer. It cast a tint on the counter, the yellow of a sick man’s eye. Finally, he said to Ricky, “Pull your shirt up.”

  “My—?”

  “Your shirt. Pull it up and turn around.”

  “You think I’m wired?”

  “Or we just have our beers and bullshit about the Knicks and we go our separate ways. Up to you.”

  Self-conscious of his skinny build, Ricky hesitated. But then he slipped off the stool, pulled up his leather jacket, and lifted his dirty T-shirt. He turned around.

  “Okay. You do the same.”

  Gardino laughed. Ricky thought he was laughing at him more than he was laughing at the situation but he held on to his temper.

  The con man pulled up his jacket and shirt. The bar­tender glanced at them but he was looking like nothing was weird. This was, after all, Hanny’s.

  The men sat down and Ricky called for more brews.

  Gardino whispered, “Okay, I’ll tell you what I’m up to. But listen. You get some idea that you’re in the mood to snitch, I got two things to say: One, what I’m doing is not exactly legal, but it’s not like I’m clipping anybody or selling crack to kids, got it? So even if you go to the cops, the best they can get me for is some bullshit misrepresentation claim. They’ll laugh you out of the station.”

  “No, man, seriously—”

  Gardino held up a finger. “And number two, you dime me out, I’ve got associates in Florida’ll find you and make you bleed for days.” He grinned. “We copacetic?”

  Whatever the fuck that meant. Ricky said, “No worries, mister. All I wanta do is make some money.”

  “Okay, here’s how it works: Fuck down payments. The buyers pay everything right up front. A hundred, hundred fifty thousand.”

  “No shit.”

  “What I tell the buyer is my connections know where there’re these confiscated boats. This really happens. They’re towed off by the DEA for drugs or Coast Guard or State Police when the owner’s busted for sailing ’em while drunk. They go up for auction. But see, what happens is, in Florida, there’s so many boats that it takes time to log ’em all in. I tell the buy­ers my partners break into the pound at three in the morning and tow a boat away before there’s a record of it. We ship it to Delaware or Jersey, slap a new number on it, and bang, for a hundred thousand you get a half-million-dollar boat.

  “Then, after I get the money, I break the bad news. Like I just did with our friend from Jersey.” He opened up his brief­case and pulled out a newspaper article. The headline was: Three Arrested in Coast Guard Impound Thefts.

  The article was about a series of thefts of confiscated boats from a federal government impound dock. It went on to add that security had been stepped up and the FBI and Florida police were looking into who might’ve bought the half-dozen missing boats. They’d arrested the principals and recovered nearly a million dollars in cash from buyers on the East Coast.

  Ricky looked over the article. “You, what? Printed it up yourself?”

  “Word processor. Tore the edges to make it look like I ripped it out of the paper and then Xeroxed it.”

  “So you keep ’em scared shitless some cop’s going to find their name
or trace the money to them. Now, just go on home, keep your head down, and watch your back. Some of ’em make a stink for a day or two, but mostly they just disappear.” This warranted another clink of beer glasses. “Fucking brilliant.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So if I was to hook you up with a buyer? What’s in it for me?”

  Gardino debated. “Twenty-five percent.”

  “You give me fifty.” Ricky fixed him with the famous mad-guy Kelleher stare. Gardino held the gaze just fine. Which Ricky respected.

  “I’ll give you twenty-five percent if the buyer pays a hun­dred Gs or less. Thirty, if it’s more than that.”

  Ricky said, “Over one fifty, I want half.”

  Gardino finally said, “Deal. You really know somebody can get his hands on that kind of money?”

  Ricky finished his beer and, without paying, started for the door. “That’s what I’m going to go work on right now.”

  * * *

  Ricky walked into Mack’s bar.

  It was pretty much like Hanrahan’s, four blocks away, but was busier, since it was closer to the convention center where hundreds of teamsters and union electricians and carpenters would take fifteen-minute breaks that lasted two hours. The neighborhood surrounding Mack’s was better too: redeveloped town houses and some new buildings, expensive as shit, and even a Starbucks. Way fucking different from the grim, hustling combat zone that Hell’s Kitchen had been until the ’70s.

  T.G., a fat Irishman in his mid-thirties, was at the corner table with three, four buddies of his.

  “It’s the Lime Rickey man!” T.G. shouted, not drunk, not sober—the way he usually seemed. Man used nicknames a lot, which he seemed to think was cute but always pissed off the person he was talking to, mostly because of the way he said it, not so much the names themselves. Like, Ricky didn’t even know what a Lime Rickey was, some drink or some­thing, but the sneery tone in T.G.’s voice was a putdown. Still, you had to have major balls to say anything back to the big, psycho Irishman.

  “Hey,” Ricky offered, walking up to the corner table, which was like T.G.’s office.

  “The fuck you been?” T.G. asked, dropping his cigarette on the floor and crushing it under his boot.

  “Hanny’s.”

  “Doing what, Lime Rickey man?” Stretching out the nickname.

  “Polishing me knob,” Ricky responded in a phony brogue. A lot of times he said stuff like this, sort of putting himself down in front of T.G. and his crew. He didn’t want to, didn’t like it. It just happened. Always wondered why.

  “You mean, polishing some altar boy’s knob,” T.G. roared. The more sober in the crew laughed.

  Ricky got a Guinness. He really didn’t like it but T.G. had once said that Guinness and whiskey were the only things real men drank. And, since it was called stout, he figured it would make him fatter. All his life, trying to get bigger. Never succeeding.

  Ricky sat down at the table, which was scarred with knife slashes and skid marks from cigarette burns. He nodded to T.G.’s crew, a half-dozen losers who sorta worked the trades, sorta worked the warehouses, sorta hung out. One was so drunk he couldn’t focus and kept trying to tell a joke, forget­ting it halfway through. Ricky hoped the guy wouldn’t puke before he made it to the john, like yesterday.

  T.G. was rambling on, insulting some of the people at the table in his cheerful-mean way and threatening guys who weren’t there.

  Ricky just sat at the table, eating peanuts and sucking down his licorice-flavored stout, and took the insults when they were aimed at him. Mostly he was thinking about Gardino and the boats.

  T.G. rubbed his round, craggy face and his curly red-brown hair. He spat out, “And, fuck me, the nigger got away.”

  Ricky was wondering which nigger. He thought he’d been paying attention, but sometimes T.G.’s train of thought took its own route and left you behind.

  He could see T.G. was upset, though, and so Ricky mut­tered a sympathetic, “That asshole.”

  “Man, I see him, I will take that cocksucker out so fast.” He clapped his palms together in a loud slap that made a couple of the crew blink. The drunk one stood up and stag­gered toward the men’s room. Looked like he was going to make it this time.

  “He been around?” Ricky asked.

  T.G. snapped, “His black ass’s up in Buffalo. I just told you that. The fuck you asking if he’s here?”

  “No, I don’t mean here,” Ricky said fast. “I mean, you know, around.”

  “Oh, yeah,” T.G. said, nodding, as if he caught some other meaning. “Sure. But that don’t help me any. I see him, he’s one dead nigger.”

  “Buffalo,” Ricky said, shaking his head. “Christ.” He tried to listen more carefully, but he was still thinking about the boat scam. Yeah, that Gardino’d come up with a good one. And man, making a hundred thousand in a single grift—he and T.G.’d never come close to that before.

  Ricky shook his head again. He sighed. “Got half a mind to go to Buffalo and take his black ass out myself.”

  “You the man, Lime Rickey. You the fucking man.” And T.G. started rambling once again.

  Nodding, staring at T.G.’s not-drunk, not-sober eyes, Ricky was wondering: How much would it take to get the fuck out of Hell’s Kitchen? Get away from the bitching ex-wives, the bratty kid, away from T.G. and all the asshole los­ers like him. Maybe go to Florida, where Gardino was from. Maybe that’d be the place for him. From the various scams he and T.G. put together, he’d saved up about thirty thou­sand in cash. Nothing shabby there. But man, if he conned just two or three guys in the boat deal, he could walk away with five times that.

  Wouldn’t set him for good, but it’d be a start. Hell, Florida was full of rich old people, most of ’em stupid, just waiting to give their money to a player who had the right grift.

  A fist colliding with his arm shattered the daydream. He bit the inside of his cheek and winced. He glared at T.G., who just laughed. “So, Lime Rickey, you going to Leon’s, ain’t you? On Saturday.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The door swung open and some out-of-towner wandered in. An older guy, in his fifties, dressed in beltless tan slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer, a cord around his neck holding a convention badge, AOFM, whatever that was.

  Association of . . . Ricky squinted. Association of Obese Ferret Molesters.

  He laughed at his own joke. Nobody noticed. Ricky eyed the tourist. This never used to happen, seeing geeks in a bar around here. But then the convention center went in a few blocks south and after that, Times Square got its balls cut off and turned into Disneyland. Suddenly Hell’s Kitchen was White Plains and Paramus, and the fucking yuppies and tourists took over.

  The man blinked, eyes getting used to the dark. He ordered wine—T.G. snickered, wine in this place?—and drank down half right away. The guy had to’ve had money. He was wearing a Rolex and his clothes were designer shit. The man looked around slowly, and it reminded Ricky of the way people at the zoo look at the animals. He got pissed and enjoyed a brief fantasy of dragging the guy’s ass outside and pounding him till he gave up the watch and wallet.

  But of course he wouldn’t. T.G. and Ricky weren’t that way; they steered clear of busting heads. Oh, a few times somebody got fucked up bad—they’d pounded a college kid when he’d taken a swing at T.G. during a scam, and Ricky’d slashed the face of some spic who’d skimmed a thousand bucks of their money. But the rule was, you didn’t make people bleed if you could avoid it. If a mark lost only money, a lot of times he’d keep quiet about it, rather than go public and look like a fucking idiot. But if he got hurt, more times than not he’d go to the cops.

  “You with me, Lime Rickey?” T.G. snapped. “You’re off in your own fucking world.”

  “Just thinking.”

  “Ah, thinking. Good. He’s thinking. ’Bout your altar bitch?”

  Ricky mimicked jerking off. Putting himself down again. Wondered why he did that. He glanced at the tourist. The
man was whispering to the bartender, who caught Ricky’s eye and lifted his head. Ricky pushed back from T.G.’s table and walked to the bar, his boots making loud clonks on the wooden floor.

  “Whassup?”

  “This guy’s from out of town.”

  The tourist looked at Ricky once, then down at the floor.

  “No shit.” Ricky rolled his eyes at the bartender.

  “Iowa,” the man said.

  Where the fuck was Iowa? Ricky’d come close to finish­ing high school and had done okay in some subjects, but geography had bored him crazy and he never paid any atten­tion in class.

  The bartender said, “He was telling me he’s in town for a conference at Javits.”

  Him and the ferret molesters . . .

  “And . . .” the bartender’s voice faded as he glanced at the tourist. “Well, why don’t you tell him?”

  The man took another gulp of his wine. Ricky looked at his hand. Not only a Rolex, but a gold pinky ring with a big honking diamond in it.

  “Yeah, why don’t you tell me?”

  The tourist did—in a halting whisper.

  Ricky listened to his words. When the old guy was through, Ricky smiled and said, “This is your lucky day, mister.”

  Thinking: Mine too.

  * * *

  A half hour later, Ricky and the tourist from Iowa were standing in the grimy lobby of the Bradford Arms, next to a warehouse at Eleventh Avenue and 50th Street.

  Ricky was making introductions. “This’s Darla.”

  “Hello, Darla.”

  A gold tooth shone like a star out of Darla’s big smile. “How you doing, honey? What’s yo’ name?”

  “Uhm, Jack.”

  Ricky sensed he’d nearly made up “John” instead, which would’ve been pretty funny, under the circumstances.

  “Nice to meet you, Jack.” Darla, whose real name was Sha’quette Greeley, was six feet tall, beautiful, and built like a runway model. She’d also been a man until three years ago. The tourist from Iowa didn’t catch on to this, or maybe he did and it turned him on. Anyway, his gaze was lapping her body like a tongue.

  Jack checked them in, paying for three hours in advance.

  Three hours? thought Ricky. An old fart like this? God bless him.

  “Y’all have fun now,” Ricky said, falling into a redneck accent. He’d decided that Iowa was probably somewhere in the south.