THE HIGHWAY
STEVEN GROSSO
This book is a work of fiction. References to establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by STEVEN GROSSO
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1537295237
ISBN-10: 1537295233
Novels by Steven Grosso featuring Benny Steel
The Highway
Divine
Those Who Seek
DEDICATION
To my family—whatever, whenever, unconditional—forever.
It seems to me that any sensible person must see that violence does not change the world and if it does, then only temporarily.
—Martin Scorsese
Time wounds all heels.
—John Lennon
Get busy living, or get busy dying.
—The Shawshank Redemption
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
PROLOGUE
SHAKY FOUNDATIONS
What a night it was, the air still, humid, just warm enough to break a sweat. The man with a plan had never felt more alive, more human—a perfect night for revenge.
He stood on a street corner next to an abandoned building. He was out of sight from pedestrians, in front of one of a handful of payphones in the city, just north of Center City Philadelphia. He paced in front of the booth, unable to hide his eagerness, and replayed through his mind how he’d execute his master plan. His co-conspirator stared at the ground, not as invested in this thing as the man pacing, but still ready for action—and the reward.
The man with a plan patted him on the shoulder. “You ready?”
The co-conspirator shook his body as if a chill had run through it. He pondered whether or not to go along, but nodded, the decision made, no turning back. The man with a plan snatched the black phone and untangled the silver coiled wire as far as it could go, then handed it over. The co-conspirator listened in on the dial tone and jabbed at seven digits—seven digits that would alter their lives, a sure thing.
The man with a plan crept up from behind and focused on the call, his plan about to become a reality, his revenge a long time in the making. The co-conspirator broke out in a sweat and spoke into the receiver as the man with a plan reached under his shirt and grabbed a 9mm. What a night it was; he had waited so long for this chance, a call long overdue, as if he’d finally take care of a problem that nagged at his soul.
PART ONE
HEAT
1
Thomas Hitchy carried himself with intensity—fearlessly—as if ready to die at any moment. At 6’8, he towered over the average man. Sculpted and firm muscles protruded from his upper body. His neck, chest, and arms were as thick as tree trunks. Over the years, the number of hours he’d spent at the gym, curling dumbbells and bench-pressing weights, had come to show in his physique. His rough, squinty eyes and sharp jawline struck fear into others and often left them wary and standoffish—sort of like staring Mike Tyson in the eyes in his prime. Tattoos wrapped around each of his 26-inch biceps. His temper exploded as fast as a yellow streetlight flashed to red. If he wasn’t yelling, he was shaking his head in disgust. He had one mood: pissed off. He’d be a psychologist’s longest-running client.
He walked around with a constant chip on his shoulder, even in his childhood. His upbringing hadn’t resembled one of, say, a preppy kid from the suburbs with a two-car garage, summer camps, and a college fund or even of a poor kid from the South with a fishing rod, backwoods, family picnics, and Sunday services at the local church. Thomas Hitchy came from the school of hard knocks, and the scars under his right cheekbone, tattoos, untrusting eyes, and respect on the streets proved it.
Throughout his childhood, he’d bounced around various run-down sections of southern New Jersey and impoverished neighborhoods of Philadelphia. He’d moved six times before his thirteenth birthday but eventually settled into a rough area of Northeast Philly where one had to fight daily to survive or be eaten alive by others looking for the one thing they could call their own: respect. And they were willing to make an example out of anybody to get it. Doctors and lawyers weren’t role models to kids where he’d grown up, but rather drug-dealers, pimps, street-toughs, and athletes were what they aspired to be. In that neighborhood, finishing high school was an accomplishment, college a rarity for most. Far from dumb, he had noticed trends and knew many of his boys hadn’t lacked the intelligence for higher education; they had instead lacked direction, support systems, and opportunity. Many of his close friends had been arrested before the age of fourteen.
His dad had grown up in that neighborhood as well and popped into his life from time to time between his prison sentences. Elders looked out for Thomas Hitchy out of respect for his father, a career petty criminal, but feared and tough. They’d do anything for “Big Tommy’s” little boy. Young Tom had always heard tales of how his father had orchestrated multiple crimes of armed robbery and simple assault and of how he’d sometimes escaped untouched. It had fascinated him; he’d have big shoes to fill.
Although Tom hadn’t seen his father often as a child, his mother had reminded him daily of their similarities, said that he’d inherited his father’s height and quick, Irish temper. She had told him how no clothes were ever big enough to fit the two of them. His mother, a kind-hearted but troubled woman, had tried her best to keep the three of them together. She ultimately died and lost a long-fought battle to her own demons of drug abuse and psychological issues when Tom was just sixteen years old. Immediately afterward, he’d found himself alone, not watched after, with the exception of his grandmother, the only other family member
he’d ever known. She’d tried to keep him straight but would’ve had a better chance learning how to tame a lion. His outlook toward life had changed just after his mother’s death; he’d developed a me-versus-the-world attitude, which still followed him to this day. And he’d destroy anyone in his path.
At seventeen, he’d dropped out of high school. A few teachers had wanted him to stay, said it was a shame to waste his brain. He hadn’t listened and instead worked a string of odd jobs to pay rent for a bedroom in a house he’d shared with five other thugs from his neighborhood. He’d bounced from job to job during that time, working as a construction laborer, cook, and busboy, but none of them lasted. His frustration had grown.
His roommates had hung around with a group of tough guys a little older than them—guys with nothing to lose. They’d pushed dime bags of weed and often graduated to cocaine. They were tough, and everyone knew it. Few adults in the neighborhood had chased them away or called the cops because they’d feared that retaliation was imminent.
Tom, armed with natural intelligence, street smarts, and massive biceps, had moved with such force that he’d been quietly known as the leader. Although he hadn’t been given the official title, few had questioned his authority at the time.
From the ages of seventeen to nineteen, he’d graduated from a bachelor’s degree in weed selling and moved on to a master’s degree in cocaine distribution. He had developed a reputation, and it had served him well as he followed in his father’s footsteps. Crime was his life. Everyone knew and feared him. He’d gained power in his small world—and enemies.
Now, at age thirty-three, his annual earnings were that of an entry-level attorney at a top firm, around $150,000 a year, but the difference was, he worked on the other side of the law. He put his best efforts forward to live modestly and deflect attention from authorities but at the same time let the people in his world know who ran the show. He lived in an apartment with his girlfriend, Venice, in a higher-priced section of the city, Old City—and attempted to hide his activities and live the way life had prepared him to—elusive but strong, ruthless, and fearless. Although he’d left the old neighborhood, the old neighborhood had never left him.
June rolled around, and the sweet smell of summer floated through the air—the trees, the pollen, the heat, the car fumes, the barbecues. The scorching sun, which didn’t set until after eight at night, brought residents from their homes and broke their winter hibernation. People had wider eyes, were more active. Locals jogged, dined outdoors, and sat in front of their homes and bitched and moaned about the heat while simultaneously enjoying it. They talked baseball and bitched and moaned some more about the Phillies. Parents’ voices echoed throughout the streets as they yelled for their kids to come in and eat dinner, while the children played pick-up games of stickball or knocked over neighbors as they rode bikes through the narrow city streets. Coffee shops pulled tables and chairs from storage and arranged them outside for customers to converse, scroll through laptops, flip through newspapers, or just relax on. Twenty- and thirty-something singles hit the night scene in Center City on warm summer nights, sipping beers and mixed drinks outside bars, reclining in seats under streetlights bathing the black streets, looking for love in all the wrong places or for a quick lay. Energy vibrated through the packed streets—everywhere—people fed off one another.
The day had been a scorcher, and temperatures were still in the eighties at just past 8:30 p.m. The sun was setting and transitioning to orange, shining its light through the windows of Tom and Venice’s apartment as an outline of a half-moon was beginning to peek through the dim, blue sky. A gentle breeze shifted the curtains from side to side, but the calming view of the sunset just outside their walls didn’t cut the tension or crack the eggshell environment inside.
As usual, Tom was ticked off. He huffed and puffed and paced the living room floor, stomping his size-twelve sneakers into the hardwood. He had just wasted an hour of his life arguing with his girlfriend, and his patience was wearing thin. They’d shouted back and forth at one another the entire time. He’d punched the wall, adding another hole and trip to Wal-Mart for a picture frame to cover it. It had been their fourth frame that month. She wailed. She slammed cabinets, alternating between tears and spiteful grinning.
And the bickering was picking back up. They’d stop yelling for a moment here and there, and Tom would creep up from behind and sweet-talk her, wrapping his thick, rough hands around her waist, gliding his lips across her neck, whispering for peace. She’d let him stay for a few seconds before throwing another temper tantrum, and he’d respond with one of his own.
It was nearing bedtime for others in their apartment building, but to them the night had just begun. Neither of them worked, and neither set an alarm clock. Since they had moved in, their neighbors had eavesdropped on their disputes, and this hour-long battle wasn’t any different.
Now it turned violent when Tom chucked a kitchen chair across their living room.
Venice stuck her head out the apartment’s window—lips flapping, tears flowing, voice trembling, tongue bouncing—informing whoever was listening how much she hated him. He raised his arms up and down from his hips to his shoulders and yelled how he didn’t give a fuck. But as intense as the fighting had gotten over the course of their relationship, it always cooled down. Both knew, in all honesty, it was love in their way—the only way each knew how to show it. However, if he didn’t leave the apartment, he knew things could turn ugly before they had a chance to cool. Besides, he’d gotten a call from a customer a half an hour prior who wanted to meet him at a coded spot, “the Chinese restaurant,” for a deal. And business was business; Tom never missed an opportunity to make money.
He slammed the door with authority, rattling the frame above it.
Venice screamed, “And don’t come back, you low-life!”
“Yeah, whatever. Fuck you!” Tom said, half tough guy, half lovingly.
His Nikes pounded two flights of stairs, and he shook his head at how much he enjoyed the arguments and the challenge and the exchange of words. He found it therapeutic—a means for preparation. He lived his whole life waiting for something to go wrong, and the disputes kept him sharp.
The first floor smelled funky, like wet socks after a workout. Tom rubbed his nose and exited the three-story building. A light rain had fallen an hour or so earlier, and the cracks in the pavements were damp and dark under the street light poles. The black streets still glistened from the rain. Subtle orange light from the sun meshed with the sky’s navy blue, and a few white decimal points for stars peeked through the earth’s natural glow.
Hitchy squeezed his key fob, and the car’s rear and front lights blinked twice and the car beeped. His small Ford was more fitting for an elderly woman who played Bingo every Tuesday night rather than a 6’8, 240-pound man. When he stood next to the hood, he looked like a kid by a ride-on car in Toys R Us. He’d originally bought the vehicle to keep a low profile but began to think the more and more people stared at him that he was drawing more attention to himself because of the mismatch. He only allowed himself one luxury that deviated from his low-key persona: tinted windows. The glass had black limousine tint.
Hitchy hopped into his car and started the engine. He leaned against the headrest and rubbed his face with both hands, giving the car a moment to warm-up. The heat inside the vehicle choked him, and sweat seeped from his pores, so he spun the air conditioner to full blast. He pinched his shirt and flicked it forward, then punched the steering wheel. “Why’s it so fuckin’ hot? Fuck!”
His pants pocket vibrated, playing a cut from a Jay-Z song. Venice’s name blinked across the screen, but he ran his hand through his brownish-blonde buzz cut and decided not to answer. The last thing he felt like doing was arguing again.
He tossed the cell onto the dashboard and grabbed another phone from his pocket and chucked that one next to the other. He leaned over and brushed by his rearview mirror, and the scent of a
red strawberry air freshener in the shape of a tree shot up his nose. He sniffled twice for clear air and unzipped a hidden compartment he’d recently installed deep in the seat cushion. He twisted and forced his fingertips inside and dragged out a brown bag filled with individual plastic bags of cocaine, and the rustles of paper echoed throughout the vehicle as he unrolled it. After a quick count, he found that all the contents were there. To the average person, the package would’ve held a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He tucked the bag under his white t-shirt and forced it in between his belt buckle and boxers. Then he turned the radio on and fought out of the parking space. A customer at the “the Chinese restaurant” was waiting for him.
He drove about nine blocks through the city streets and calmed down a bit due to the air conditioner pushing steady, slow cold air. The coded message disguised as “the Chinese restaurant” was just an ordinary cutout under I-95.
He pulled up, and the highway stood tall over the ground below it, its structure held up by concrete. He hooked a right just in front and rode the brake. The tires crackled over pebbles, and he cut off the air because it clanged too loudly for his liking and rolled down the windows. Tires bounced on the road above him. He flipped off his headlights and crept to the far end. The area was dark, seeing three feet in front of him nearly impossible. The only light came from atop the highway. Remnants of the sun flickered and faded red and hung low, ready to collapse and disappear from the sky at any moment. Of all his coded meeting spots, the highway always made him uneasy—maybe the darkness or isolation, but whichever, business was business.
He slid a hand under his seat and across the smooth carpeting, making sure his gun was within reach. He knew he could never be too careful. He snatched the sweaty, damp bag from his crotch and eyed the white powder inside but flinched and swiveled his head.
The Highway (A Benny Steel and Marisa Tulli Novel - Book 1) Page 1