Rules of the Game

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Rules of the Game Page 2

by Bruce Fitzpatrick


  "I am," answered a middle-aged, plainclothes detective. "Who are you?"

  "Federal agents," the stocky man answered, flashing an ID. "Bobby Russo, DEA."

  "Sergeant Joe Patterson, Lawrence Homicide."

  "Glad to meet you, Sergeant. This is my partner, Lenny Fernandez. What can you tell us?"

  "There's not much to tell. The guy's dead; shot gunned all to pieces.”

  "Anyone else get it?" Russo asked.

  "Yeah, his girlfriend. Vanessa Tarrow. We figure she just got in the way."

  "Any idea who did it?"

  "I could give you a phone directory full of names," said Patterson dryly. "Paulie Lapienza was not loved. Someone took a potshot at him about six months ago. He didn't have the sense to leave. He was too arrogant. But why am I telling you all this? If he was in your back pocket, you know more about him than I do."

  "Can we see the body?"

  "Sure, over here.”

  As the detective and the agents walked off toward the ambulances, Adrian made sure he got a good look at them. It would be a cold day in hell before he’d forget their faces. In this business, there was no such thing as being too careful.

  Chapter Two

  After unlocking the gate, Adrian got back into his BMW and drove to the rear of the warehouse. As he unlocked the large, sliding doors, he looked up at the dingy sign overhead: "New England Furniture Transfer Company, Lawrence, MA."Some transfer company, he mused. If his current lifestyle depended on this, he'd soon be living under a bridge. Still, it served its purpose.

  He walked inside and switched on the lights. One look and he wanted to turn them back off again. The place was depressing. Crushed cardboard boxes, wooden pallets, and three bins of dilapidated furniture whose next trip would be to the Big Showroom in the Sky stared vacantly at him. Papers and dust coated the floor, and the sun hadn't penetrated the filth on the windows in years. Even the forklift looked like clutter.

  His thoughts were interrupted when a semi pulled into the yard. He walked to the window, wiped it clean, and watched the cumbersome vehicle make a wide circle before angling back through the open sliding doorway. When it came to rest, he walked around to the passenger door and opened it.

  "Hey, Angie, good to see you."

  "Didn't sound too happy an hour ago," Angelo grunted. He was a short, stocky, barrel-chested man of about fifty. Even so, Adrian suspected he would still be a formidable opponent for most men half his age. "I thought I was gonna get stuck here with this shit."

  "C'mon, you know better than that. My bride doesn't like the inconveniences and the hours I keep, that's all."

  "Yeah, I know what you mean. That's what busted up my marriage. Hell, we were together twenty years." Then, quickly glancing at the truck, he added, "C'mon, let's knock off the bullshit and get to work. Give me a hand with the back of the truck.”

  As they reached to rear of the truck, Angelo tapped his pockets and cursed. “Shit! R.J., bring me the keys."

  A wiry man of about thirty-five exited the cab and joined them. Adrian silently regarded him. R.J. stared daggers back at him. Adrian's expression didn't change. Their eyes locked, each man refusing to back down. Angelo caught the silent exchange.

  "I said knock off the bullshit! I warned you guys about that before. Getting tired of trying to keep you two from lockin' up."

  "Some time you won't be around, Angie," R.J. said, without moving his eyes from Adrian’s. "When that time comes I'm going to kick me some Yankee ass. Ain't I, boy?"

  Without warning Adrian took a quick step and was on RJ before he could react. He grabbed him by his shirt, yanked him around and slammed him hard against the truck. “You always got something fresh to say, and I’m getting tired of it. Keep it up and I’ll deal with you. Maybe that’ll keep you from running your mouth all the time."

  Angelo stepped between them and forced them apart. His voice was a guttural snarl and his face was beet red.

  "Any more shit from either of you, and I'll bust both of your heads. We got enough shit in that truck to put us away for a long time. If you guys want to beef, do it somewhere else on your time, not mine. Now get to work. Adrian, get the forklift and unload those pallets of bogus furniture. R.J., climb inside the back of the truck with me. Now move!"

  The truck was emptied in less than a half hour, its contents split into two groups: bogus furniture and bales of pot.

  "All set, Adrian," said Angelo. "The big boxes have two fifty-pound bales each. The little ones have one. Two-thousand pounds in all. You can check 'em if you want."

  "You've never screwed me in two-and-a-half years, Angie. If there's a problem, I'll let you know."

  Angelo turned to R.J. "Grab the forklift, and load that furniture back inside while I take care of something." R.J. sauntered off.

  Angelo went to the cab and took an attaché case from a false compartment behind the gas tank. Then he and Adrian went into a small office in a corner of the warehouse.

  Adrian snapped on the light and Angelo opened the valise on a scarred and ancient desk. He removed a large manila envelope and tossed it on the desk as if it was yesterday's newspaper.

  "One kilo," he announced. "You can go from here to hell and back, and you won't find a better product. It's the best cocaine you ever got from me. Colombian kid in Miami is taking good care of me. I'm real pleased with him."

  Adrian approached the desk. "Let's have a look at it."

  He laid the kilo on its side, and then patted it with his fingertips, appreciating the large number of rocks that met his inquiring touch. He opened the bag and sniffed its contents.

  "Smells fresh."

  He took a matchbook, scooped out a small sample and poured it onto the desk pad. “Now let's look at it up close.” He moistened his fingertip, touched it to the cocaine and then to his tongue. He measured the bittersweet medicinal taste for a moment, and nodded.

  "You're a man of your word. I'm impressed."

  "That always makes things a lot easier. You wouldn't believe what I go through with some of these jerk-offs I have to do business with. It's like they want to romance it."

  “That’s exactly what they do,” Adrian agreed. “It’s a ritual, a head thing.”

  Angelo called out to the warehouse, "R.J., you about done?"

  "All ready to roll."

  Angelo turned to Adrian.

  "Got your people lined up?"

  "Yeah, it'll be gone in forty-eight hours."

  "So when will I see you?"

  "In a few days. Where you staying?"

  "The Holiday Inn, South Lawrence. Room 217."

  "I'll call you when I'm ready."

  Adrian walked Angelo back to the truck and opened his door.

  "I need you to finish up in three days, four the most,” Angelo said, as he climbed into the truck. “Got to get back to Miami."

  "Okay. In the meantime, enjoy our New England hospitality."

  R.J. leaned forward in his seat. "I'd enjoy thirty seconds alone with you, Bad Boy. That's what I'd enjoy."

  "Yeah, and you'd spend the rest of your life getting over it," said Adrian, his eyes focused and unmoving. “I know deep in my gut that you’re no good, and sooner or later I’ll prove it.”

  Adrian watched the truck pull out of the yard. He then closed the doors and walked back to the office. Sitting behind the desk, he drew the sample of coke into two huge lines and snorted them up. Then he made the first of three phone calls that would make for a busy and profitable day.

  *************

  Later, after hiding the day’s receipts in the warehouse’s attic, Adrian went back to the office. He pulled out what was left of the cocaine, drew some from the bag, crushed it and snorted it. The two pounds he had sold netted him a fifteen thousand dollar profit, and he still had three and a half ounces left. The pot had made him another hundred-and-seventy-two thousand. He smiled. Other than some of the dangerous and unpredictable characters he had to deal with, who said crime didn't pay?

&nb
sp; Chapter Three

  Adrian walked through the door, tossed his jacket over a chair, and yelled to Jennifer, "Any pretty ladies feel like going to dinner with a tall, handsome man?"

  She peered out of the bedroom, wearing a bathrobe with her head wrapped in a towel. "Is that a bribe from a guilty man?"

  He walked over to her and put his arms around her. He was mildly disappointed when she didn’t respond, but let it pass.

  "I just thought it would be nice if I took you and Andy out for dinner. No bribes. Speaking of Andy, where is he?”

  "My sister took him to the beach. They'll be back later."

  “Oh? How sad...” He hunched forward like an ogre. “That means no one's around to protect you from the big bad troll. I knew this was a good day to come out from under my bridge. Come here, let me have a closer look at you."

  Before she could resist, he pulled open her robe and let it drop to the floor, exposing her nakedness. "My, you are a lovely little morsel, the prettiest lady I've seen all day."

  "I better be the only lady you've seen all day." She picked up her robe and began putting it on.

  He took a handful of the robe and used it to draw her close.

  "Adrian," she protested, easing away from him. "Be nice. I just got out of the shower."

  "All the more reason to have my way with you. This troll likes his foxy lady right after you shower."

  She resisted again.

  Frustrated, he asked, "What is it? What's wrong with you? Last night was great, and today you're acting like a completely different person. I don't get it. There’s no consistency, and it's starting to irritate me."

  She fired back at him. "Maybe your business life doesn't lend itself to romance.”

  "Hey, it puts gourmet food on the table, designer clothes in your closet, and nice cars in the driveway. I never hear any complaints about that.”

  “What about being a good father and husband? What about being around more often? That's what Andy and I really need."

  "You can't have the best of both worlds, Jen."

  "I don't want worlds, Adrian. I want my husband!" She stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

  **************

  Feeling restless, Jimmy the Valet walked to the bedroom, opened the bureau drawer and dug out the package of cocaine. He hefted it a moment and then took it to the kitchen, scooped some out, ground it up, and took a hit. The stinging, bittersweet bite caused him to shudder and made his eyes water. Damn, he thought, Paulie Lapienza might have been a snitch, but he had dealt a fine product. Too bad he hadn't hit on Paulie for more of it.

  Leaning forward, he snorted the remaining two lines. He needed a lift to help him through the next couple of hours.

  He sealed the package and put it in a brown paper bag, then wrapped it in his jacket. As he was about to leave there was a loud knock at the door.

  He froze. The knock came again, louder.

  Without thinking, he blurted, "Who is it?"

  "Police! Open up!"

  "For what?"he yelled, panic-stricken.

  "We have a warrant for the arrest of James Hennessey."

  Jimmy's nervous system reeled with terror. Getting arrested wasn’t part of his game plan. He wheeled and headed for the back door, but realized it was probably covered. He spun around and ran toward the sliding door that opened onto the balcony. In his haste, he tripped over the coffee table, sending its glass top and two ashtrays clattering to the floor. At the sound of breaking glass the front door crashed in, and a swarm of detectives and uniformed police stood framed in the doorway, their weapons trained on him. Jimmy lay sprawled to the floor, looking up in desperation.

  They had him. His worst fears had become reality.

  "Freeze!" shouted Detective Bill Patterson, a burly man who himself was something of a battering ram. Jimmy did as he was told. Patterson advanced warily, holding his weapon in front of him with both hands. Meanwhile, his fellow officers fanned out in a semicircle, their service revolvers trained and ready as they warily scanned the apartment.

  "Lie face down on the floor and put your hands behind your head, Patterson ordered."

  After Jimmy obeyed, Patterson bent over and carefully frisked him. Finding nothing, he reached down and picked up the brown bag, which Jimmy still held in his hand.

  Patterson stood up and backed away. Turning to a uniformed policeman, he said, "Cuff him, and read him his rights."

  While Jimmy was handcuffed, Patterson opened the paper bag and took out the half-pound of cocaine. Seeing it for what it was, he smiled with satisfaction.

  "Planning a night out, Jimmy?" the asked, sarcastically. "You have enough here to get half the city high. Someone's going to be pretty upset about losing this. But that's alright, it'll give us something to talk about after you tell us why you set up Paulie Lapienza last night. And just think, you'll even get to meet some nice federal agents who want to talk to you, too."

  "I got nothing to say."

  Patterson smiled.

  "I think you will when you hear what your options are. Everyone does."

  ************

  Jimmy was booked and fingerprinted, then led to a small room by the ill-tempered, sarcastic Patterson, and detective Robert Mitchell. Seated, he looked nervously at his surroundings. There was a one-way mirror in one wall, and a microphone with a tape recorder on the wooden table before him.

  Mitchell, a man in his early thirties, seated him, then backed away and looked at him sympathetically, as though he understood what Jimmy was going through. Appearing to be in his thirties and in good condition, his boyish looks were disarming. He was the antithesis of the middle-aged, overweight Patterson.

  "You're in a tough spot," said Mitchell in a calm, soothing voice. "Why don't you tell us about it? You'll feel a lot better. Help us, we'll help you."

  "What Detective Mitchell is trying to say," interrupted Patterson, "is that you're going away if you don't cooperate. I don't like you. I think guys who did what you did are weasels. And that's bad news for you, because I'm in charge of this case. You're gonna eat, breathe, sleep, and shit just like I want, or you'll spend the rest of your time on earth buried alive."

  "Take it easy, Sarge," said Mitchell. "Give the kid a chance, he just got here."

  Mitchell regarded the tape recorder on the table in front of Jimmy. Jimmy stared at it as if it were an electric chair. He wished he'd been born a hundred years earlier, when police lacked such technology.

  Mitchell flipped on the recorder and played Jimmy's phone conversation of the previous night. As the recording echoed through the small chamber, Jimmy stared blankly at the wall, his stomach a knotted, churning cauldron of burning acid. His life had suddenly been suspended, and his destiny was no longer in his own hands. The rock and the hard place had come together -- with him in the middle. He looked up at Mitchell when the tape finished its damning testimony.

  "So?"

  "So?" asked Mitchell. "It puts you right in the thick of things. It makes you an accessory to first-degree murder. It makes you a lifer in MCI Cedar Junction. It makes you one of the living dead. How does it feel, having a wife and three kids who will fade away with the rest of the outside world? You'll grow old in there, Jimmy, old before your time. Unless, of course, you piss off the wrong person. Then they'll ship you home early, in a box. Think about it, this is some serious shit."

  "Hey," snapped Patterson, "shit or get off the pot. We're offering you a chance to save yourself, which is more than you gave Paulie Lapienza. Talk, and we'll get you a break. Refuse, and we'll lock you away with all the other stand-up guys who kept their mouths shut. It's your choice."

  "Lighten up, Sarge," said Mitchell. "He knows it’s over."

  He turned to Jimmy. "How do you want it? You can call your attorney and take your chances -- which are none -- or you can waive your rights and talk to us before we put the rest of the pieces in place. Cooperate while you still can."

  Jimmy lowered his eyes. His shoulder
s were slumped, and his hands were clasped limply in his lap. The fight had drained from him.

  Mitchell continued, this time to Patterson. "You know, Sarge, it might be easier for Jimmy to make his decision if you backed off a little. Go get some coffee, okay? Jimmy and I can talk while you're gone." Then he added reassuringly, "Here, take my service revolver with you. I won't need it will I, Jimmy?"

  Jimmy shook his head slowly, without raising his eyes from the floor. Patterson took Mitchell's weapon and left.

  Mitchell looked down at Jimmy, quietly regarding him. The sweet-and-sour routine was working. Jimmy would be easy, one of the easiest. Guys like him turned around for different reasons, mostly the fear of going to prison. Then there were those who did it for vengeance -- usually vengeance manufactured to justify their betrayal. And there were others, too, who needed to ease their conscience. No matter why, the results were the same -- they copped out. Informants saved the system time and money, and made the job easier. In essence, they helped solve crimes.

  With Patterson gone, Mitchell began. "Let him cool off for a while. Sometimes he takes things too personally. But be careful, he can be a pretty nasty guy when he loses it.

  "On the other hand," Mitchell continued, "he can be an okay guy, too. Do things his way, he'll let you plea-bargain. You won't walk out free, but he can influence the DA, and he can influence the judge. He can make life easier for you."

  Jimmy's mind was reeling. Mitchell's little speech had made its intended impression. Probably, he thought, the only way he'd ever see daylight again was to cooperate. But then, the people he could testify against would try to kill him before he talked. And what about his family? They might face the same danger. No, he decided, it would take more than reduced charges and a lighter sentence. Even in prison -- especially in prison -- he'd be vulnerable. They'd have to make a better offer.

  Before Jimmy could answer Patterson came back, followed by two men he’d seen at Lapienza’s murder scene. Even in street clothes, he'd have pegged them for cops. Patterson made the introductions.

 

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