Keeplock: A Novel of Crime

by Stephen Solomita

  “You enjoying this, Simon?”

  “Very much.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “Which puts me one up on you.” He wasn’t giving an inch. “Now, maybe you wanna tell me what you’re doing here? Tell me exactly what magic trick you expect me to perform?”

  “You blaming me, Simon? If you were in my place, what would you have done?”

  “I couldn’t be in your place, because I wouldn’t have dealt with Calvin by damn near killing him. I’d have found another way.”

  “You can’t change the past. It’s not stored in some computer’s memory. It doesn’t erase.”

  “But it does crash.” He broke a smile and I followed him into it. “So what’d you come here for?”

  “If I told you I needed to talk to someone and I don’t have anyone else, would you believe me? Nobody, Simon. Not a fucking soul.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, I’d believe it.”

  “And if I told you I had a second reason, would you believe that, too?”

  “And a third and a fourth and a fifth.”

  “I thought I was the wise guy.”

  “Why don’t you just give it to me?” His voice was gentle now. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want somebody else to know what’s happening. There are gonna be a lot of guns behind that department store. Guns that shoot real bullets that kill people. If something goes wrong, Condon and Rico will let me fry.”

  “You told me that last time I spoke to you, but I get the point. Remember what you said about the past? That it can’t be erased? I’m thinking about all the times you came in here and lied. The past being what it is, how could you blame me? Like, for instance, if you can’t defend yourself by telling the truth, what good does it do for me to know it?”

  “You work with the prosecutors all the time. You can tell them what’s going on. If they think you’ll testify for me, they won’t go to trial.”

  “What if I refuse?”

  “You can’t refuse. No more than you could handle Calvin the way I did. You’ve got a conscience, Simon. And you believe in really stupid things like justice. Once you know, you won’t turn your back.”

  It was eight o’clock when I left Simon’s office. Winter was taking a last shot at New York and the commuters were hustling along, driven by a sharp wind. Instead of going directly to the subway, I walked back to Tenth Avenue until I found a dealer who needed money bad enough to freeze his butt at eight in the morning. I bought ten bags of dope from him, a bundle, and stuffed it into my jacket.

  The ride out to Woodhaven, in Queens, involved two subways and a bus. I’d probably be a little late, but I stopped in a candy store and bought a package of rubber bands and a small box of paper clips. I didn’t have to worry about how I’d pass the time, because there was only one thing to think about at that point—Tony Morasso. The space between controlling Tony and having to kill him or hurt him so bad that he wouldn’t be able to do the job was no larger than a crack in the sidewalk.

  I was going away from the morning rush to work, and the E Train I took in the Port Authority was only half full, while the G I switched to in Long Island City was nearly empty. A couple of stops into Queens, a tall kid in a black leather jacket got on the train. His blond hair hung down to his shoulders and he had it tied with a red bandana. He sat down, put his feet up on the seat, and lit a cigarette.

  I took out a paper clip, bent it very carefully, fitted it to a rubber band, and let fly. I missed my target, the cigarette hanging from his mouth, but I caught him on the tip of his nose. His first reaction was confusion. He brought a finger up to his nose, then looked down at the paper clip resting on his knee, then across at me.

  The shrinks say that depression is just a cover for deep-seated anger. That rage is the real basis for suicide. I sat back in my seat and folded my arms across my chest, putting all of that deep-seated rage into my eyes, then blew the anger through the space between us. He looked back at me, trying to figure out what had happened and what he had to do about it. I helped him along by slowly stretching my lips into a broad smile.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I said quietly. “Get out.” I was making him for a punk, but if he happened to have a piece tucked into the waistband of those greasy jeans, I’d be in a lot of trouble. It’s called “walking the line,” which is what I was going to have to do with Tony Morasso.

  “Why are you doing this? I ain’t botherin’ you.”

  “Get the fuck out.” I started to fit another paper clip into my trusty rubber band when he jumped off the seat and almost ran into the next car. I think he was crying.

  The rest of the trip went smoothly enough. I took a bus up Woodhaven Boulevard to Sixty-ninth Avenue, then walked the four blocks to the two-family home where Eddie had stashed his gang of would-be murderers. It was the perfect spot. The blocks surrounding Woodhaven Boulevard, white working class for the most part, form a narrow tongue that separates the black slums of Brooklyn from the black slums of South Jamaica. Most of the families are either German or Italian and have been living there for generations. They’re far more afraid of the darkies to the east and west than of the mob within their midst. Over the years, they’ve learned to mind their own business and keep their mouths shut.

  I stopped in front of the address Eddie had given me, a two-family home surrounded by a narrow strip of lawn, and suddenly realized that I didn’t know which floor he was living on. Eddie had told me that he’d used a phony name when he’d rented the place, but he hadn’t told me what name he’d used. So much for the master criminal. I suppose I could have gone up and pushed a bell at random, but what would I say if some little old lady answered?

  My dilemma was solved when Eddie’s wife, Annie, opened the front door and waved me forward.

  “Jeez,” she said as I went by, “am I glad to see you. Eddie’s upstairs keeping Tony busy until you come, but you’re here and now we can have breakfast.”

  The words flew out of her mouth. For a minute, I thought she was on speed or coke, but her eyes were clear and it didn’t seem likely that Tony would let drugs into the house with the job so close.

  “You’re renting the whole house,” I said.

  “Of course. It wouldn’t pay to have nosy neighbors, would it? I’m doin’ the breakfast. That’s my job, because I ain’t crazy about guns. I take care of the house, do the shopping and cleaning and like that.”

  Eddie’s use of his wife as a domestic servant might seem out of date, but in the old days, Italian criminals kept their families away from the action. I followed Annie back through the lower apartment into the kitchen. She was short and wiry, full of life and spunky to a fault. I realized both that I liked her and that I was going to send her husband to jail for the rest of his life.

  Annie didn’t waste any time. As soon as we were in the kitchen, she went to the stove and lit the burners under two huge frying pans. “Jeez, that Tony’s a crazy one. Avi’s gonna kill him, I just know it. Avi ain’t a bad guy, for a Jew, but ya never know what he’s thinkin’. I mean I always heard Jews liked to talk and stuff, but he never says nothin’.”

  “What about Parker? How’s he doing?”

  “John’s a real doll. He’s showin’ me how to use a computer, keeps tellin’ me about how I can get a good job, but what do I need a job for? We’re gonna be rich, right?”

  She was shoving Wonder Bread into a toaster, buttering the pieces as they popped out, turning the bacon in a third frying pan, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Sometimes my husband can be a real dope. I mean bringing an asshole like Tony Morasso here. God, what a mess. Eddie says you can keep Tony under control and I sure hope he’s right. You must have a magic wand or something, ’cause Eddie’s been trying like crazy and he can’t get Morasso to lay off Avi and John. I mean, how are you gonna do it?”

  “I’m gonna ask him real nice.”

  She reached across the table and hit the back of my hand with a wooden spoon. T
he gesture was affectionate. “Eddie told me you were a wise guy. I said maybe you could handle Tony, but who was gonna handle you?”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “Eddie said you were a professional, even if you were too independent. He said Avi used to be in the Jewish army and Parker used to work in a big corporation. They were part of a team and you were always independent, but you wouldn’t screw up the job.”

  I heard the sound of footsteps on stairs and turned to face the doorway. Eddie came in first, followed by Parker, Stern, and Morasso. Avi and John smiled. Eddie must have told them I was coming on board. Tony, on the other hand, stopped in his tracks when he saw me.

  “What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?” His eyes were rolling in his head.

  “I see that freedom hasn’t improved your vocabulary.”

  “What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck is this shit?”

  “But it’s nice to know that you’re trying.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I GLANCED OVER AT John Parker and Avi Stern. Parker wore a look of joyous anticipation, like an altar boy in a Norman Rockwell painting. Avi’s heavy-boned face was impassive, as always. I could understand why Eddie had picked Avi to shoot the cop. Jews are supposed to be great politicians and lawyers, but Avi had no middle ground. When he went off, he tried to kill. I considered him the most dangerous man I’d ever met and I was proud to be able to perform for him. I wasn’t so sure how I felt about ratting him out.

  “Pete’s comin’ in with us,” Eddie said matter-of-factly. “He’s the last one. Now we’re ready.”

  Tony Morasso’s confusion turned to fury. He raised shaking fists to his chest and turned on Eddie. “Nobody asked me,” he shouted. “How come nobody didn’t ask me?”

  “Because you’re a bug, Tony,” I said, “and bugs don’t make decisions.”

  “Why do you let him talk to me like that?” Tony spoke without looking at me. Small drops of spit flew off his tongue, spattering Eddie, who stared into Tony’s eyes without flinching.

  “Pete’s comin’ in with us, cuz,” Eddie said calmly. “I didn’t ask you because I didn’t feel like it. What the fuck have you got to do with it, anyway? I’m runnin’ the show, here. Which is what I told ya when ya signed up. Now, I expect you to get along with Pete. Just like I expect everyone else to get along with you. I got too much to worry about to be a fuckin’ baby-sitter. If you got a problem, work it out with Pete. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  There was no profit in allowing Tony Morasso to pick his time and place. I wrapped a paper clip around a taut rubber band and let fly.

  Ping.

  The clip bounced off his forehead and landed on the floor. Just like the asshole in the subway, Tony stared down at the clip in disbelief.

  “You fuckin’ bastard.”

  Ping.

  This one hit him in the neck and fell to his shoulder. He brushed it off like it was a cockroach, then spun on his heel to face me. His eyes were rolling wildly.

  “You better cut that shit out. We ain’t in the joint now.”

  His voice was so sharp it sawed its way into my brain. I started to flinch, then thought better of it. “I’m your baby-sitter, Tony,” I said. “And I wanna tell ya somethin’ out front—if you’re a bad boy, I’m gonna punish you. On the other hand, if you’re good, I’m gonna give you a cookie.”

  He stamped his foot so hard the glasses rattled in the cupboard.

  Ping.

  “I want out. I want out. I ain’t doin’ this job with him in it.”

  Dead silence. Every eye was fixed on Tony, including Annie’s. I could see the truth wash over him, penetrating his rage. There was no walking out. He was trapped.

  Ping.

  He rushed at me, his small blocky hands curled in front of him like claws. I have to admit that his contorted face and his high-pitched squeal were frightening. In most situations they would have given him an advantage, freezing his opponent for a split second. But I’d dealt with bugs before and I knew that self-control, if you can accomplish it without surrendering to the fear, gives you a big edge. I stepped to one side and kicked hard at his right leg. He went down head first and I jumped on his back, grabbed his hair, and slammed his face into the linoleum. I didn’t wait for him to acknowledge the pain. He was too far gone for that. I cupped my right hand and crashed it into his ear.

  His eardrum must have been vibrating like a harp string. It should have hurt enough to catch his attention, but when I got off his back, he tried to get up. Fortunately, he was too dizzy to do anything but wobble forward. With all the time in the world, I curled my right hand into a fist, rotated my shoulder back and smashed him in the ribs. This time he stayed on the floor.

  I walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. “Somebody say something about breakfast?”

  “Comin’ right up,” Annie announced. Her face was flushed with excitement. If this little drama had gone down in a bar, I would have rolled out with Annie hanging on my arm.

  Avi and John were already sitting at the table. Eddie came over and joined us, leaving Tony Morasso to consider the dynamics of the situation.

  “I fucked up the eggs,” Annie announced, ripping the pan off the stove. “Anybody like burnt eggs?” She answered her own question by dumping the mess in the garbage and starting over.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have someone to talk to,” Parker announced. “I’ve been trying to show these guys how I got into the computer. It’s like teaching physics to an amoeba.”

  “Later, John,” I said. “Let’s do it later.”

  I was watching Tony carefully. He had struggled to his feet again, then staggered over to Annie. For a minute I thought he was going to attack her, she being the weakest person in the room, but when he turned back to me, he had a knife in his hand.

  The room went silent. Except for the click of a revolver being cocked. Fortunately, the revolver was in Eddie’s hand.

  “Put the knife down, Tony, or I’ll blow your fuckin’ heart through the back of your chest. Put it down.”

  “You said no guns before we do the job.” Tony was on the edge of tears. “How come you got a gun?”

  “Put the knife down, Tony. Or I’ll kill you.”

  Eddie’s voice was rock hard. His eyes showed all the emotion of a preying mantis contemplating a butterfly. Tony put the knife back on the counter.

  “See, it’s not hard to be a good boy,” I said. Tony tossed me a hate-filled look. “Remember what I told you? About if you were a good boy, I’d give you a cookie? Here’s the cookie.”

  I held up the tiny envelopes of heroin, pinching them gently between my thumb and forefinger. He blinked several times, trying to process the information, then greed replaced the rage in his eyes.

  When shrinks use the phrase “drug of choice,” they know what they’re talking about. Some addicts are natural dope fiends, others prefer coke, and still others are content to drink themselves into oblivion. I don’t know if the shrinks have devised a test to predict which individual will turn to which drug, but over the years I’ve noticed that the psychos almost always prefer heroin.

  Tony Morasso was the most natural dope addict I’d ever seen. He’d never used heroin before he’d come to Cortlandt, because he hadn’t had the opportunity. Once inside, however, he’d taken to it like a duck to water. Not that he’d become an addict. Drugs of any kind are too expensive in the Institution. Unless you’re dealing yourself, it’s almost impossible to accumulate enough money to become addicted. But each month, as soon as his money order arrived, he’d convert it to cartons of cigarettes and trade the cigarettes for heroin. With Eddie, of course.

  Eddie and I had devised a scam to get a small amount of dope into the Institution. We’d intended to use it ourselves, doling it out over the weeks between deliveries. I was working as an administrative porter at the time and one of my jobs was to sweep the visitors’ reception area, a large room where visitors were processed
and searched before meeting their loved ones. Annie made the seven-hour bus ride to Cortlandt once a month, being sure to arrive on a weekend morning when the reception area was most likely to be crowded. She’d stand on line for a while, then stroll over to the water fountain, take a drink, light a cigarette, and throw the pack into a little wastebasket next to the fountain. Fifteen minutes later, I’d come by with a large black trash bag. In the course of emptying the wastebasket, I’d casually palm the cigarette pack. All prisoners receiving visitors are strip-searched, before and after they enter the visiting area. Administrative porters, on the other hand, receive only an occasional frisk, and no frisk was going to uncover the dope because Annie delivered it in a balloon and I shoved it up my ass at the first opportunity.

  Eddie and I had occasionally shared the dope with a few of the cons on the courts, but we never told anybody where it came from or how much we had. There were too many snitches and, of course, the rule in prison is DTA—Don’t Trust Anyone. When Morasso’s turn came around, the tension dropped off him like a turd from a pigeon’s ass. You could almost see it splatter on the ground. After that first time, Tony had begged Eddie to give him more. He might have gotten it himself—it was more than available—but his relationship with the black and Spanish crews who controlled most of contraband was so bad that he was afraid to approach them. Eddie and I, understanding his plight, were happy to sell him a piece of Annie’s dope. At double the going rate, of course. When your motto is Death Before Dishonor, can you do less?

  “No drugs, cuz.” Eddie finally broke the silence. “No drugs till after the job is done. That’s the rule.”

  “It’s not drugs, Eddie,” I said, “it’s medicine. Tony’s a sick man, he needs his medication.”

  I glanced at my companions. John Parker’s head was bouncing up and down. Even Mr. Stern had broken a smile. Eddie looked serious, almost grim. Maybe he was doubting the wisdom of recruiting me, as he’d doubted the wisdom of recruiting Tony Morasso.