by Joe Corso
“Great.”
Lonegan turned to Dugan.
“What about Red?”
“I shot him five times point blank. The last thing I remember is he was bleeding and the big guy was dragging him back into the club. But there were some more explosions so I guess they were both incinerated.”
“You shot him five times in the chest?” Lonegan asked.
“Yeah. Saw the bullets him hit, then he fell,” the agent responded.
“Well,” Lonegan added, “the reason I’m asking is, we didn’t find any bodies in the wreckage. Not Moose. Not Red.”
“Sir, I have a theory on that.”
“A theory? Okay. Let’s hear it.”
“If one of our men went down, we wouldn’t leave him behind. We’d do all we could to get him out of there and take him with us, wouldn’t we?”
“Yes, so what’s your point?”
“Maybe the big fella didn’t want his boss to be left dying there so he dragged him out and took him somewhere where he could be buried properly. He couldn’t have lived sir. Not with five thirty– eights in him.”
“There’s no question that you have a valid point, Dugan, but I’d still like to see the body. I have to see a body.”
Meanwhile, the newspapers and television reporters couldn’t get enough of the excitement, as tragic as it was, that had played out at the club. Scenes from the legendary club exploding and burning were replayed, serving as the opening headline for every local news station. The explosion was attributed to leaking gas jets in the cellar.
Moose slept very little through the night, between changing the blood packets and jumping at every sound Red made. The moment he nodded off, he’d sense Red stirring and Moose, ever the loyal soldier, was afraid to allow his body to give in for fear of Red taking a turn for the worse. He checked his watch. It was now morning. Moose once again felt Red’s head. It was warm, but not steaming hot like he’d been all through the night. His color had improved a bit and his breathing was rhythmic and steady. He lifted Red’s head, gave him his medicine with a little water, and replaced the last plasma packet that was pouring life into his body. Red moved a bit this time and struggled to open his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of Moose, but said nothing.
Moose needed a phone. There was an old pay phone right there in the Gentleman’s Club but he knew he couldn’t use it – too risky.
“Red,” Moose said, “I have to leave for a few minutes. I’ll be back. Don’t worry, I’ll be back. Just keep resting. You’re doin’ fine, Red.”
He left the building and walked a while until he approached the lot opposite The Starlight Club from the Flushing Meadows side of the street. He walked into the mechanic’s shack and picked up the phone without asking permission. The mechanic, busy working on a car on the lift, stopped, stepped into the room, and looked at Moose who just nodded. The mechanic smiled as he walked back to the car to resume his work. Red was alive. Moose removed the card from his back pocket and called Ben. Ben was happy to hear of Red’s progress and instructed Moose to change his bandages, try to get fluids into him and to continue all the medication. Moose, with the phone still in his ear, pressed the phone button, held it for a few seconds, released it and started to dial again.
“Joey, it’s me,” he said. “Your car needs a checkup. I suggest you see to it now.”
Twenty minutes later, when Joey Bones, one of Red’s bodyguards, arrived, Moose briefly explained what had happened. He instructed Joey to get the word out to his captains that Red was alive, but for anyone outside of those few elite, word was Red was killed by a son of a bitch calling himself Lonegan.
“I have to go now. I have to watch Red,” Moose said to Joey and he headed out the door.
Trenchie and Shooter pulled off Interstate 10 into the Texas truck stop for a bite to eat. They found an empty table in the back of the restaurant and settled into their seats to wait for their waitress. People seemed glued to the television, watching some sort of explosion. Trenchie glanced at the TV and turned away from the unfolding story when it hit him. He shot out of his seat and rushed toward the TV to take a closer look at the drama taking place on the screen.
The female newscaster said, “Although I have never been to The Starlight Club, I have seen the two movies that featured the legendary night club. The explosion that took the life of owner Red Fortunato was attributed to leaking gas fixtures from the eighteen hundreds that still remained in the building.”
By this time, Shooter was standing alongside Trenchie. Trenchie nudged him.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re goin back. Gas leak, bullshit! It was that fuckin’ bum Lonegan. I’m gonna kill him and all the rest of that rat bastard team. Who the hell do they think are they are goin’ around killin’ people? Bastard Bobby Kennedy. I’ll take out the President too, if I have to, just to show ‘em it can be done and then I’ll get Bobby Boy and they’ll never know who did it.”
The men headed straight for the car, hopped inside, and headed to the Big Apple. Shooter had never seen Trenchie so angry.
Chapter Eleven
Trenchie and Shooter drove nonstop, each taking turns at the wheel. After two days of driving, they arrived in New York and headed straight to the Zebra Club. When they entered, they were surprised to see a lot more of their men milling around, sitting at the tables there, and standing at the bar. Piss Clams spotted them the moment they came through the door, walked over, kissed Trenchie on both cheeks, and gave both men the familiar Italian hug.
“What are you guys doing here? I thought you’d be in California by now.”
“We were headin’ there,” Trenchie said, “but we stopped in Texas for a bite to eat and saw on TV what happened at the club. We heard that Red was accidentally killed when the buildin’ exploded.”
“Well, Trenchie,” Piss Clams, said, “truth is, the feds blew up the building tryin’ to get Red, only they killed a couple of customers instead. Red was with Moose. They made it out the back door only to run into one of Lonegan’s men who shot Red. Moose dragged him back into the building but there was another explosion. The building came down on the shooter. Moose grabbed Red and dragged him back outside and carried him to his car and took him back to the Gentleman’s Club. Took him to the safe room, taped the wounds to stop the bleeding. When he did, he noticed that four of the bullets passed through him, but one was still inside.”
Trenchie’s patience was growing thin listening to Piss Clams tell the story.
“Piss Clams, cut to the God Damned chase. Tell me what the hell happened to Red.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Moose got Ben at the drugstore and brought him back to help Red.”
“Whatta ya mean, ‘help Red’? Is Red alive?”
“Well, he got Ben . . .”
“So help me God, Piss Clams, if you don’t get to the short of it, I’m gonna lay you out right now!”
“Okay, so yes,” Piss Clams continued.
“Ben went to Red. Red’s alive?’
Trenchie’s face changed from red to white in seconds. First anger, now shock.
“You mean Ben the ex–doctor?” Trenchie asked.
“Yeah, that’s the guy. Anyway, he patched Red up. He did a few blood transfusions, got the bullet out, and sewed up all the bullet holes. Moose stayed with him all night changin’ his dressings and makin’ sure when the blood ran out, he put up more. Ben told him that if he lived through the night there was a good chance he’d recover.”
“Where’s Red now?”
“He’s at the Gentleman’s Club in the safe room Angelo built for him.”
“Is Tarzan in the back room?”
Piss Clams turned toward the door.
“Yeah, he’s in the back.”
Trenchie nodded and thanked Piss Clams. Then he walked into the back room to talk with Tarzan.
“Do we know who these guys are?” Trenchie asked as he barged right in on Tarzan.
“We know who a few of them are,”
Tarzan answered. “Besides Lonegan, the guys we know are Dugan, and two others named John and Hank. I don’t know their last names. That’s the four I know of.”
“Well, we killed two of ‘em in Florida when they tried to kill us. We messed up another guy . . . an ‘Agent’ Jackson. I don’t think he’ll be botherin’ us for a while. So who else is there we have to worry about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know where they’re workin’ out of?”
Tarzan thought a minute.
“I don’t know where their headquarters are, but I know they park the motor home they’ve been usin’ in Flushing Meadows Park, so it’s away from pryin’ eyes.”
Trenchie smiled for the first time since Texas.
“That’s good. Do we have any dynamite?”
Tarzan smiled.
“Man, Trench, you go straight for it, don’t ya?” he said. “Well, yeah. Nicky, cuz he’s a construction foreman, uses dynamite all the time for demolition.”
Tarzan spent just seconds on the phone to Nicky. He hung up the phone and relayed the conversation to Trenchie and Shooter. Seems Nicky told Tarzan that he hated what these guys did to Red.
“He has the keys to the dynamite shed and he’s gonna stop by the construction site, pick some up, and drop it off to us today.”
They waited until it was dark and then Trenchie, Shooter, Tarzan, Joey Bones and Nicky walked to the field. It was easy to spot the large black motor home with its tinted windows, parked on the first base side of the first baseball field they came to. Trenchie didn’t say much but he liked Nicky. He was a no nonsense type street guy just like Trenchie and Trenchie appreciated him going out on a limb for this job. Seems he was just as pissed of as everyone else about what happened to Red and The Starlight Club. He wanted to see somebody pay for it.
A few scattered lights spread a thin carpet of fuzzy light over the park. It was like trying to make out something in a fog. If anyone in the RV was monitoring the surrounding area, they would surely see bodies approaching the motor home. No lights came on and no one came out to investigate which was a good sign.
Nicky placed the dynamite expertly around the RV and when he was satisfied with its positioning, he unrolled the fuse and backed far enough away to protect himself. He then lit the fuse and waited. The explosion rocked Flushing Meadows Park, lighting the sky like a meteor. The large, black government RV was leveled. The men exited the park and headed back to the Zebra Club. Along the way, Shooter insisted that they pull over to a pay phone right next to a closed deli. He dropped in a coin, made a call, spoke a few moments, dropped in another coin and repeated this several times – the message to the local television stations and papers the same – the gas leak that caused the explosion at The Starlight Club was the same one that caused the explosion in the RV in Flushing Meadows.
Chapter Twelve
Lonegan was seething as he stared at the smoldering, burned out RV that once served as his high tech traveling field office. He had a lot of explaining to do to the local police and to his superiors. For example, what was a civilian motor home doing on the field in Flushing Meadows Park when no vehicles were allowed on the property? And who exactly were the two bodies that were found burned beyond recognition in the wrecked motor home? They had to remain unknown. And why wasn’t New York City’s forensic team allowed to perform autopsies on said bodies? Lonegan couldn’t answer these questions.
It wasn’t long before Lonegan was joined by the guys from the One Hundred Tenth Precinct. They weren’t buying Lonegan’s story of Red being a threat to the area. They knew Red; he kept a low profile. He didn’t cause trouble and he made their jobs easier by monitoring the neighborhood, keeping crime down. Sure, the police officers were even permitted to use The Starlight Club for special occasions, but that aside, the guy just didn’t make waves.
The police listened as Lonegan did his best to justify their actions, but nothing made any sense. They were stunned at the callousness of Lonegan’s crew – this obscure government agency.
Captain Priestly was the man in charge and he loathed the idea that two innocent people sitting at a bar were killed in an explosion by federal cowboys. He was still waiting for a reason as to why Lonegan, who allowed his men blatantly to destroy a world-renowned landmark and kill three people, should not be held accountable. Priestly didn’t respect criminals much but he got along well with Red. Every year, Red allowed the policeman’s ball to be held at the club and every year, on top of that, Red personally bought two or three tables. It was his way of supporting the Widows and Orphans Fund. He sponsored the P. A. L. Little League and supplied the uniforms for the team. Red never refused to assist and support Captain Priestly no matter what he asked of him. Over time, Captain Priestly began to think of Red less as a gangster and more of a businessman, a successful businessman just protecting his territory and neighborhood. The more Priestly listened, the more incensed he became – senseless murder, stupid actions that could start mob wars. It was a long stretch from a gas leak to a bomb.
Hours passed and there seemed to be a standoff taking place between the officers of the One Hundred Tenth Precinct and Lonegan’s fake agents until Captain Priestly finally had had enough. He pulled Lonegan aside and told him he wanted answers and if he didn’t get them that, he and his team would be arrested, right now. Priestly was angry at Lonegan’s defiance and Lonegan was pissed for having his authority challenged. Captain Priestly then ordered his men, who outnumbered Lonegan and gang, two to one, to surround them. It was showdown time – Captain against Captain.
“You invade my town,” the normally docile Priestly yelled. “You blow up a building, harass honest businessmen, park your damned truck wherever the hell you want, refuse my men access to a crime scene, kill civilians, and then refuse to answer my questions about the details?”
Priestly motioned for his men to come closer.
“Give me the answers I want now or you can tell your story to the judge in the morning. After that, you can tell it to the reporters who’ll love this story of why men in ‘high’ places are being arrested. This will surely be an embarrassment to the higher – ups.”
Lonegan was feeling the heat. He had no idea how this mission had spun so out of control. Somehow, he had marginalized Red’s stature in the community, miscalculated how the locals, including the police in Corona, felt about him. The police anger and hostility were unexpected.
Lonegan took a deep breath.
“I’d like to make a phone call before you do something you’ll regret, Captain Priestly. I’m sure that after the call this will all be straightened out.”
Priestly, still fuming, agreed to the phone call.
“There’s a phone across the street in the poultry store on the corner. Go there to make your call. When you return, I want answers or I swear on all that’s holy, I’ll place all of you under arrest. Do you understand, Captain Lonegan?”
Lonegan nodded.
The Attorney General was not happy. He had a lot to lose here. After being fully apprised of the situation, he immediately called his brother. The President, after a brief explanation, and recognizing the possible political ramifications of what he’d been told, agreed to intervene. Lonegan smirked as he handed Captain Priestly the phone.
“Someone wants to speak to you.”
“Captain Priestly,” the voice said, “I want to thank you for taking my call.”
Priestly recognized the voice immediately.
“I’m not going to waste your time, so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve issued a Presidential order giving Captain James Lonegan the sole authority to continue this investigation to its conclusion. I’m asking you to cease with your investigation into the bombings that took place in your community. Do I have your cooperation in this matter, Captain Priestly?”
Priestly was taken completely by surprise by the President’s question. He had no choice. The Commander in Chief had spoken.
“Yes, Mr. President. I understan
d.”
“Thank you, Captain Priestly. I knew I could depend on you.”
Priestly replaced the phone, stared at Lonegan as Lonegan reveled in victory.
No other words were spoken as Lonegan headed straight for the door and back to his men waiting for him in the park by the burned out RV.
Within minutes of the phone call, an order was issued from the White House, signed by the President himself, ordering the local authorities to cease all inquiries and investigations into the bombing of The Starlight Club. The order went on to state that this was a national security issue and would be handled at the federal level. Within the hour, a gentleman arrived at the precinct, papers in hand, stating such and delivered them directly to the Captain.
Lonegan wasted no time requisitioning a large box truck from the covert compound and like the other vehicle, it too, was filled with the latest in electronic gear. It wouldn’t be comfortable to drive across the country, but it would do for the job he had in mind.
Lonegan called his team to a meeting in the crowded interior of the truck.
“Men, I’m sick of these thugs performing acts of violence with impunity and last night’s episode was the last straw. We’re going to the Zebra Club and we’re going to end this right now. We’ll arrest everyone in the bar, except for Trenchie. I want him for myself. If any of those guys resist arrest, kill ‘em.”
The men looked at each other. These were harsh words. These agents were no strangers to killing, but their history was not to kill indiscriminately, at least not Americans, and especially Americans on American soil.
The truck made the short drive to Corona Heights and parked in a spot across from the Zebra Club. Inside the club, Piss Clams was seated at a table near the window with a clear view of the street in front of the club. Since the bombing of The Starlight Club, he had sat at that table most nights, frequently checking out the cars pulling in and out of the club and the ones parked nearby. He spotted the truck parked across the street and counted as the six men climbed out of it. He turned and yelled out a warning to everyone in the place.