We were the children of criminals, and we were free and clear. We thought. You see, you can’t get free or clear. Not really. The FBI came after Carl for the deals he supposedly did in Yonkers … the crimes. They were going to indict him if he didn’t help. He’d be disbarred. Our whole way of life threatened by stupid garbage contracts and those greedy bastards. We had one choice. Let the FBI listen in to our phone and our house, and once they got what they needed, we’d be okay.
I was frightened. I am frightened. Carl started pulling away. Gilly from the FBI, I don’t trust him. He lies like Carl’s father lied. I think he commits crimes to get what he wants.
He wasn’t the worst, though. No, not all.
The worst is Lucco. He showed up a week ago. He took Carl out to the backyard. He smiled the whole time. I listened at the screen door. He knew about the wiretap and the bugs. He knew all about the FBI. He wanted Carl to do things for him.
Now the FBI has us and these mob pigs have us worse. We’re trapped between. Trapped in our own house with this evil prick Lucco. We don’t even talk anymore.
“That’s not polite language.” Lucco stood in the doorway, a snub-nosed revolver pointed at Taylor’s head. “Can’t say I miss the sour bitch. Stop the tape.”
Taylor pressed the button. “Debbie Pour works for you.”
“Eject it and carefully hand it to me.”
Taylor did as he was told. Fear whirled up from the cave it lived in, a thought-freezing, action-slowing wave rising toward his brain.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“My car’s got a deck. We can listen to the rest. Drive somewhere to solve my new PR problem.”
Chapter 23
Lucco opened the front door. “In the car or I put one in the back of your head. Then an extra in your eye.”
Taylor walked to a sky-blue Eldorado coupe, a spot at the rear of his skull tingling the whole time, and pulled open the passenger door, which was heavy enough to be the hatch on a tank. Lucco got in on the driver’s side. He shoved the pistol in the side pocket of his suit jacket. In his head, Taylor ran the film of going for his own gun in the ankle holster as Lucco pulled his. That movie didn’t end well. Taylor either needed to switch to a shoulder holster or stop carrying the goddamn thing around. But a shoulder holster meant he was serious about using the gun on the never-ending hunt in New York—for humans, not facts. He wore the .32 to provide a sense of security and because his dead brother had insisted. A twisted sort of memorial.
Stupid shit to worry about now. Need to get out of this first. Then decide on the gun.
Lucco ejected a tape from the car’s deck and put it in a rack sitting over the transmission hump. The label read Sinatra. As did seven others. Sinatra. Sinatra. Sinatra. The man’s name in red sans serif type much larger than the titles of the albums. Could Taylor name a Sinatra album? No way.
A rosary dangled from the rearview mirror. Miniatures of Jesus, Mary, and some saint adhered to the massive altar of the dashboard. They had nothing on the awe and fear the icons of his mother’s church had struck in Taylor. These looked like little toy friends. An absurd idea came to him. He’d like to interview the statues about the violence they’d heard and seen in this car, stuck there to the dash with faces serene and arms spread. The ridiculousness of the idea calmed him a little. At least he was going to hear the rest of Bridget’s recording. His instinct to get the story, now he was so close, cut into the fear. Story first. Panic later. Between the two, he needed to come up with a plan or the ice water would seep back into his guts.
Listen and watch. And wait.
Lucco slotted the Eagles tape and backed out of the driveway. Bridget’s voice came from the Eldorado’s speakers.
Lucco said Carl was a snitch. Carl tried to deny it. He said he had no idea anything was going on. He didn’t know anything. Carl was panicking. So was I. How did Lucco know so much? How did he know it was safe to talk in the backyard? I don’t know how good these fucking microphones are. It was dark out. They beat on Carl. Kept hitting him in the stomach and ribs. They’d pull him up so they could hit him again. They didn’t touch his face. They hit him so hard. Oh, god.
A quick hiccup. A gasp or a sob. Her voice dropped to a real whisper.
God, it’s all my fault. I admitted everything to them. Just to get them to stop hitting him. I couldn’t stand the way they were hurting Carl.
Someone’s back in the house. I hear them.
The tape hissed. A smile creased Lucco’s disagreeable bearish face, had settled there as soon as Bridget described the beating. For him, this tape was a greatest hits.
One question nagged at Taylor. Why did Bridget ask Tommy for the tapes? Why not buy some? Was she watched that closely? Did she hope Tommy would read the move as a signal, so he or someone would listen to her recordings? If so, it wasn’t enough of a signal. Taylor had gotten to the recordings far too late for Bridget. Or Carl. Now, maybe even too late for himself. Something told him he’d never figure out what she’d hoped to accomplish as she cowered in that house full of fear, every move watched, sneaking into the backyard to make her tapes, days away from her own murder.
Bridget came back on.
It’s worse now, so much worse. They’ve been here four days. Lucco sleeps on a cot in the baby—in the guest room. Plays Sinatra all the time. Stares at me. And worse. Like leering and hating at the same time. Some of the others come by in the day. They just look me up and down. Lick their lips sometimes. After Carl recovered from the beating, Lucco told him how it was going to be. Carl has to say things on the phone to mob people. Things Lucco is writing. Lucco and his guys are talking about their business plans in the house. Criminal plans. Carl’s only job is to agree. Go along with all they say. No missteps or he gets hurt again. Lucco says I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut unless I’m talking about dinner or Carl’s day or our baby-making plans.
This time the sound was definitely a sob. Several seconds of hissing.
Lucco will return from the bar soon. I need to go. I’ll be back to talk. I hope you’re listening. Whoever you are.
Lucco accelerated the Eldorado onto the Cross County Parkway. The Eagles blared from the speakers. “Hippie shit.” He ejected the tape. “Guess she’s finished.” He popped in a Sinatra.
“You were tipped to the FBI’s operation. All the playacting. You must have been feeding them bad intelligence.”
“Fucking James Bond, right?” He chuckled, pleased with himself, like he was talking to a friend. “Tradition said we should put a bullet in Collucci’s fucking head for being a snitch fuck. I got the idea we could get so much more out of him. Send the FBI running down all kinds of made-up shit. Drop them on some fuckers we don’t like.”
“You lived in the house. They’re going to come after you.”
“For things which never happened. Don’t you get it? They won’t be able to make a case. They’ll be chasing their tails for years. I’ve done the FBI in with their own surveillance. Collucci kept saying he wanted a life in the clear. What the fuck is that? This operation will help all the people he walked away from. Very important gentlemen. Men deserving of his respect. People just like his late father, God rest his soul, and the men his father showed allegiance to his entire life.”
They raced east along the Cross County. A sudden summer shower brought heavy rain.
“How did Bridget cross you?”
“She didn’t cross me. Her husband did. Traditions can be bent, but not broken. Someone had to pay for Collucci turning snitch. An example must always be set inside the family. Had to be her. I needed Collucci for the con. Funny thing, killing her made him even more cooperative. Once I told him. Fear does that. With her, I figured I had a two-for-one opportunity. Let people think the chinks did the girl. I’ll tell ya, it was touch and go. The big bosses weren’t too thrilled with my plan at first. They wanted Collucci punished straight up. They like keeping the old traditions. They only agreed to my game long as I plugged
the girl personally. They’re going to be amazed at what we’ve done.”
“Losing Collucci would have ruined all that. You couldn’t afford to have him on the run.”
“He was a fucking idiot. I’d warned him he’d be in trouble if anyone found out about the FBI, but I didn’t mean I’d kill him. He was going to have a long career feeding the FBI horseshit. He took me too seriously.”
“Shocking he’d do that with a dead wife.”
“I forget the effect I have on people.” A rumbling laugh. “I’m going to make sure you understand, before you’re dead. Why not have some fun?”
“Is there really a war over supplying heroin?”
“We have, ah, distribution disagreements.” Lucco turned down the exit for the Hutchinson River Parkway. They were heading for somewhere in the city. “Disappointed we didn’t get more out of Bridget’s body. Lot of work went into dumping her. Those Brooklyn detectives are lazy shits. Thought they’d mess with the tong a whole lot more than they have. Least you were busy spreading the story around everywhere. Thanks for that. Wish I could return the favor.”
The house. Playing Bridget’s tape.
“The FBI must have picked up Bridget’s recording when I played it. You and I in the house together. They’ll come after you for that.”
“The FBI pulled out soon as Collucci ended up dead. No reason to listen to an empty house. They don’t like to be around after one of their sources gets topped. Bad for the snitch business.”
Taylor recalled all the agents in the Queen’s office of Gilly’s operation. Yeah, they’d left Dobbs Ferry. With a source inside the FBI, Lucco was some kind of frightening cross between a mobster and a KGB agent. Or as he’d said, James Bond, but an 007 in the drugs, racketeering, and killing business.
Lucco looked in the mirror. “You’ve been on me one too many exits, asshole.” He punched the accelerator and the Eldorado took off down the narrow parkway with a dinosaur growl. He dodged in and out and around cars south through Pelham toward the Bronx.
Flashing lights came on behind them. A dark sedan zigzagged in their path, followed by two more exact replicas, a mini-fleet of fed-mobiles. In this case, dead giveaway was what the FBI was aiming for. A show of force.
For the first time, Lucco didn’t look like the most confident man at the table. He whipped around a Ford, skidded onto the grass and lost speed spinning tires to get back on the road. The pursuers closed the distance.
Two things in the car would destroy Lucco’s double-agent operation.
The tape.
And Taylor.
One of them had to get through this. All things being equal, Taylor preferred it be himself.
What to do about it?
Before he had an answer, he was slammed into the passenger door as the car flew around a curve. He grabbed for something to hold, and of all things, pulled the door handle. The long, heavy door slowly opened, pulling Taylor from the car. Black road, a blur like a midnight cloud, rushed below him. Wouldn’t feel like a cloud if he hit it. The whirling lights of the FBI cars closing in confirmed that, turning the cloud into hard pavement in lightning bursts.
The tires’ flat whine, pierced by sirens.
The door swung farther out, dragging Taylor.
Buildings and houses were gone. Out beyond the road ran the deep shadowy green of Pelham Bay Park. He’d have been pleased with his instant knowledge of New York geography if he wasn’t facing imminent death by highway.
Lucco reached over a huge right hand, gripped Taylor’s pants, pulled him part of the way in, grabbed his left arm and yanked him the rest of the way, nearly pulling the arm from its socket.
Taylor rubbed his shoulder. Wouldn’t have bothered Lucco if he did, either.
“Do that again, and I let you fall under the wheels.” Lucco hit the automatic door locks. “Then your death would be on the feds.” He looked disappointed at thinking of the idea after rescuing Taylor.
“It’s your driving that’s going … shit!”
The car sped onto a metal-decked bridge and slid on the wet surface toward the rail. Screeching. Sparks leapt up Taylor’s window like a buzz saw was going at the door.
“Shit!” Lucco echoed. “That’s going to cost.”
“You’re not going to get the chance to kill me if you get us killed.”
He jerked the wheel to the left to pull away from the rail and barely missed slamming into a passing station wagon. A little boy, possibly drawn by the spray of sparks, had his face pressed up against the window of the cargo area of the wagon, his eyes wide. Like in a flipbook movie, his amazed face turned into the frightened woman in the front seat.
The Eldorado shot past the wagon on the right and hurtled down the parkway. Taylor had only seen car chases in movies. The French Connection. That sort. Never looked realistic. Now he was for shit sure no film could ever capture the blink-of-an-eye, edge-of-death reality of cars racing after each other on a crowded highway. That little boy could get killed. A lot of people could get killed. Reach for his gun and shoot Lucco? One giant accident. Too many killed. At least the FBI was on Lucco’s ass—and his, for that matter. For now, hold tight and hope hard they came to a gentle stop.
From the Hutch they merged onto the Bruckner Expressway, giving Lucco greater room to maneuver on the wider highway finished only three years ago.
The mobster used the extra space, turning the Bruckner into a drag strip, flying past cars and 18-wheelers, until two trucks running in parallel blocked him. Lucco checked the mirror for the cars chasing and leaned on his horn. Nothing. He did it again and one of the trucks honked back, a highway fuck you.
“Oh yeah?” He swerved the car onto the left shoulder and accelerated to pass.
The Eldorado edged in front of the two trucks by one car length.
Two.
Three.
The tractor-trailer nearest eased off, blowing again on the horn, this time probably asking, Are you nuts?
Lucco’s actions answered yes. “Shit, the exit.” He veered across two lanes in front of both trucks. About to miss the Bruckner Boulevard exit in the Bronx, he skidded inside of the divider between highway and exit, at the same time cutting in front of a car exiting by the normally accepted method. The other car hit its horn and brakes.
This guy’s completely crazy.
Lucco was forced to slow some once they were on local streets. That didn’t stop him from jumping lights and sending the big car screeching left into the turn onto Country Club Road.
The revolving lights were gone. Had the exit stunt thrown the FBI?
The rain stopped. Dark clouds covered the sky, causing a false dusk. The light outside was gray, visibility shortened, confusing distances and sightlines.
Taylor did have a good guess where they heading: the Country Club neighborhood in the Bronx, named after a club long gone but a favorite residential location of mobsters for decades. Much of the Bronx may have spiraled into decay—and the South Bronx continued to go up in flames every night—but Country Club remained, well, a country club of a place to live. Nice houses. Nice lawns. Not-so-nice neighbors. Sitting on Eastchester Bay, Country Club gave off a small town feel. In fact, if you didn’t know you were driving in the Bronx, you could easily believe you were somewhere like Dobbs Ferry. More than appearance linked the Westchester village and the Bronx neighborhood, if this was where Lucco lived.
The Eldorado barely missed a bread delivery van.
Shit.
The flashing lights were back.
Country Club Road gently curved past houses, though Lucco didn’t take the curve gently. He screeched into a right and then another right onto Polo Avenue.
After one block, the Eldorado skidded to a stop in front of a big house on the corner.
“I’ve got men here. We’ll sort you out. Then those fucking idiots can take me in for speeding.”
A hole exploded in the middle of the windshield.
Chapter 24
Taylor slipped to the
floor quick as he could to get the dashboard between himself and a trigger-happy FBI man.
What was left of the windshield shattered. A new bullet hole appeared high in the back of the seat he’d vacated. Stuffing leaked out of the wound. More of the yellow fluff hung off a spring.
Lucco was already out of the car crouched behind his door, his gun ready. Taylor pushed open his door and slid behind it.
“You go anywhere, and I’ll take your fucking head off.”
“The FBI’s already trying to take my fucking head off.”
More shots from in front of them.
Taylor looked behind. The cars chasing were a block away—two driving abreast and one trailing. Taylor’s back would soon be exposed to withering fire from those agents. He didn’t care what happened to Lucco’s back.
“Must have been staked out.” Lucco spoke to himself. “Why the fuck aren’t those idiots in the house doing something?”
As if in response, gunfire rippled from the big brick home.
Taylor peered around the bottom edge of the door. Another government-issued car was parked at the corner in front of them. Lucco had it right. His place had been staked out.
A yell. Pain or surprise? The agents in the stakeout car returned the fire from the house. Taylor now couldn’t make out individual shots, only the deadly cacophony of a gunfight. He was idiot-in-the-middle of a fucking firefight. The acrid stink of gun smoke. Flashes from the house. Flashes from the FBI car. The chasing vehicles were half a block away. He leaned against the car door. A small chunk of safety glass on the ground. He picked it up. His movements slowed. Everything slowed. The piece was a rough octagon. He didn’t know what to do. Lucco would shoot him soon as he moved. The FBI would shoot him before he could surrender.
A Black Sail Page 19