Poughkeepsie Shuffle

by Dietrich Kalteis

  The Lewiston crossing wasn’t normally busy this time of day. Bucky watching the advance lights, the inspector finally waving him on. Bucky making a grand on this haul, double what he got for crossing state lines.

  Back when he made the first run for Mateo Cruz from Poughkeepsie to Toronto, Bucky knew he was hauling more than just the cars. When he said he’d do this run, he guessed Mateo had his guys pack the cars with coke or pot, something they’d want north of the border. None of his business and nothing he wanted to know about. If the inspector found anything, that dumb look of surprise was going to help get him off. Just the driver, Bucky was scraping a living, had mouths to feed back on a dot on a map, place called Fishkill.

  Parking where the guy in the uniform pointed, Bucky let her idle and stepped down. He went and paid the toll, then went to the pay phone outside. Fishing a quarter, he punched in a number, waiting, hearing the click, the operator asking someone at the other end about accepting the charges. Bucky waited for Ted Bracey’s voice, saying, “Yeah man, it’s me, just passed through.” Listened, then said, “Uh huh, be there in a bit, just gonna stop for a quick bite first.” Then he hung up. Walking easy back to the cab, he flicked a salute to the guy in the booth. Yuh, an easy grand.

  •

  Behind his desk, Ted Bracey set the phone down, turning the volume back up on the Sony on the bureau, CFTO running the news, Tom Gibney looking serious, talking about the mounting gang war in the city.

  “Haven’t seen nothing yet,” Ted said.

  Gibney talking about illegal firearms making their way into the country, the RCMP investigating. Ted smiled, thinking Bucky Showalter just crossed at Lewiston. No problem slipping right in. Ted’s man Mateo Cruz taking care of welding on the cells at the Poughkeepsie shop, Mateo swearing the Uzis couldn’t be detected.

  Gibney was reporting how authorities found a couple of Uzis at the scene, footage running of the aftermath of the latest bloodbath: three bodies face down on the pavement, cars shot up, windows of a local grocery blown out. Gibney saying police were trying to trace the source of the weapons.

  “Fresh from the Six-Day War,” Ted told him. “Nine-millimeter with the thirty-two extended magazines, twin-folding metal strut stocks and black poly grips.” He pointed at the screen, an officer being interviewed, holding one of the weapons, saying it could fire a couple hundred rounds a minute. “Try six hundred rounds,” Ted said. “Baby weighs just three and a half pounds, easy to tuck inside of cars. Fetches two grand a pop.”

  The screen switched back to Gibney in the studio, saying several handguns were also found at the scene.

  Ted nodding, saying to the TV, “Mateo’s crew uses an old Dazey Seal-a-Meal machine. Vacuum seals bags of pistols right in the gas tanks.”

  Gibney telling how police suspected a Rexdale gang, the Bent Boys.

  “And those boys just drooling for more guns, paying me half up front.” Ted thinking he’d make enough from this run to get Mal Rocca, the fucking loan shark, off his back. Money Ted had needed to open this dealership.

  Gibney went on, the Bents waging war with the Moreland Dreads, killing each other over drug turf. More footage running across the screen: four more gang members gunned down over this past week, a drive-by with no arrests. Gibney stacking the count at nine in the past two months.

  “As long as they pay cash, it’s all good.” Ted watched, the screen showing Dustin, the eldest Bent, after he’d been gunned down two weeks back in Steeltown.

  “Partied the night away,” Ted said. “Should’ve looked before stepping from the Regent.”

  Gibney saying an unnamed woman and the valet were also caught in the open, a muscle car with tinted windows screeching up out front, spraying bullets.

  The screen showing crime scene tape and the aftermath of the killing. Gibney saying the lone eyewitness couldn’t ID the shooters, wasn’t even sure of color of the car, calling it “a tinted-up white trash starter kit.” The footage changed to the day after Dustin Bent’s funeral, Gibney saying an anonymous tip led to the younger Bent, Reggie, getting swept up in a sting and facing some hard time for trafficking cocaine, possession of a handgun.

  “Leaves the middle brother, Jerrel, running things, facing off with the Dreads stepping out of Scarlem, trying to lay claim to some Rexdale housing projects.” Ted reached the knob, turning down Gibney, saying, “While you assholes throw headlines around like ‘ghetto blasting’ and ‘spiking gun violence.’” Reaching for the bottle of scotch in his drawer, he filled a glass on the bureau, saying, “Here’s to supply and demand.”

  Glancing at his TAG Heuer, he figured he’d wait till Bucky Showalter showed up out front before calling Jerrel Bent. Then he’d let Mal Rocca and his Pizza Connection know he’d have the rest of their money. Tossing back the scotch, he considered holding back an Uzi and sending Rocca his own message. Son of a bitch having his guy’s finger hacked off like that. He refilled the glass.

  . . . Line of Fire

  “The way Mal fuckin’ Rocca makes his point, showing you don’t mess with him,” Ted Bracey said on the phone, calling Mateo Cruz down in Poughkeepsie, letting him know he just got Bucky’s call, ended up explaining what happened to his man Robbie Boyd, calling it, “An extensive fucking manicure.”

  “Doesn’t look good. Your guy gets done like that, snatched up right out your front door, and you not doing nothing about it.”

  “I say I’m doing nothing?”

  “Just saying, what it looks like.”

  “What it’s supposed to look like. Shit’s all gonna be in the rearview, don’t you worry about it.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe till then, pack more than a lunch when you walk out the door.”

  Ted hung up, telling the receiver to fuck off.

  Bonnie buzzing the intercom, telling him his ten o’clock was waiting.

  “What ten o’clock?”

  “Name’s Jeff Nichols.”

  Remembering, Ted said, “Send him up.”

  . . . Prelude

  Ted leaned across the desk. Silver hair parted and combed back, tailor-made suit, fancy watch, gold ring on his finger. He offered his hand, saying, “Marcel Banks tells me good things about you.”

  “Yeah, same here,” I said. Tie around the guy’s neck was worth more than everything I had on. Wanted to stick a finger in my own collar, the clip-on choking me. Felt every bit the aging ex-con in a cheap suit. I stopped my toe from playing with the hole in my sock. No point aggravating it.

  A bureau was tucked next to the desk, one of them small Sony TVs, a gold clock on top, its pendulum swinging back and forth. A photo of a little league team on the wall, Bracey’s AutoPark jerseys in blue and gold, championship plaque next to the clock. Sharing & Caring community awards. Bracey’s AutoPark making a difference. Keeping it local.

  “Place used to be a boxing gym called the Knockout,” Ted said, starting with small talk.

  “That right?” I glanced around, cinder blocks painted white, posters of Chuvalo on the walls, place like a shrine to the man.

  “Never knocked off his feet,” Ted said, glancing at the one behind me, above my head. “You ever see old George fight?”

  “Never did, no, but know who he was.”

  “Is,” Ted said. “Man’s still around.”

  “Right. He still fighting?”

  Ted shook his head, “Last one was back in ’78. KO’d some guy down at the St. Lawrence.”

  I nodded. “He train here, old George?”

  “Might’ve.” He went on, telling me how he’d picked the place up at auction, had it gutted, the walls painted, floors sanded, open ducting and exposed beams at the ceiling, kept a few of the Chuvalos.

  “Seen the ones in the showroom,” I said, guessing they were important to him. “One with Ali behind the girl . . .”

  “Bonnie, down at reception, right?” Ted explaining that b
efore their match, Ali called George a washerwoman.

  “Bet he didn’t after, right?” I guessed.

  “Bet your ass he didn’t. Fifteen rounds, old washerwoman’s still standing.”

  I glanced out the open door. The reception desk faced a line of sales desks on the showroom floor, Vick the only guy sitting there when I came in. Giving me a grin and a thumbs up. A bank of industrial windows next to him faced out onto St. Clair. Late-models lined the showroom floor, mostly Chevs and Fords.

  Done with boxing tales, Ted went on about selling cars, not saying anything about running guns, the real reason Marcel sent me. Guess he was biding his time, making sure I was right for it. Didn’t tell him Marcel already filled me in, how the hidden cells opened.

  The intercom buzzed, Ted clicking the button, Bonnie saying Robbie Boyd was back, Ted saying he was busy, switching it off, adjusting the smile, both of us hearing footsteps coming up the stairs. Then the door opened and the guy, Robbie Boyd, stood there, waving his bandaged hand, saying, “Fucking avoiding me now, Ted?”

  “Robbie, my man, can see I’m in the middle, right?” Ted motioned to me, keeping his cool.

  “Fuck that, you owe me.”

  “Already told you, what you got coming’s coming. Look, Robbie, sorry about the mishap, but —”

  “Mishap, fuck mishap, Ted. You got any idea of the pain?” Robbie waving his bandaged hand, letting me see it. Saying, to me, “Here’s what happens, you work at a place like this, pal.” The guy looking pissed.

  “Maybe some guy that you sold a lemon,” Ted said. “The thing crapped out on the DVP, and the guy took it personal.” He leaned back, talking to Robbie, smiling at me, saying, “They’re out there, right, the lunatics?”

  Robbie said to me, “I were you, man, I’d run the fuck out of here.” Waving the bandaged hand again. “That or stick a gun in your pants while you still got the fingers to pull the trigger.” Then he turned and stomped down the steps, could hear him saying something to Vick on his way out.

  I turned to Ted, saying, “That the guy I’m replacing?”

  “Man’s heart was never in the job.”

  “Fingers either, huh?”

  Grinning back, he said, “So, Marcel says you got a hard bark.”

  “Yeah, but so far, we just been talking about boxing and selling cars.”

  “First things first,” Ted said, putting the smile back on, “but, anything else, that part comes later.”

  . . . The Promised Land

  “So, Vick tells me you two go back, the Don, right?”

  “Vick’s not holding back.” I guessed Vick had sat in the same chair when he signed up. My toe was back to playing with the hole in the sock. Fuck it, I let it play. Stuck my finger in my collar, realized you can’t loosen a clip-on tie.

  “Why were you in?”

  “Carelessness.”

  Ted Bracey smiled, acting like jailing was fun, then saying, “So we’re clear, I go by gut. You tell me where you’re going, not where you been.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning on the surface this job’s about making sales, talking cars to customers. Anything else comes later. Sound like something you’re up for?”

  “So far, yeah.”

  Clicking the intercom, Ted said, “Bonnie, coffee.” Then told me he had a broker buying up late-models at auction south of the border, New York State mostly. Lease-ends and repos, low mileage, clean and American made, nothing past two years old. Ted having the cars detailed at his shop in Poughkeepsie, strapping them on a car-carrier and transporting them north.

  Marcel Banks had told me most of the part Ted wasn’t saying, Poughkeepsie being where they added the cells that opened on hydraulics, state-of-the-art smuggling gear according to Marcel. Every car rigged so you had to put your foot on the brake and turn the key at the same time, flip a switch under a fake bottom on the console, the hidden cells popping open, giving up its bellyful of guns.

  “So, you want me selling cars, huh?”

  “Ground level, same as Vick.” Ted grinned. “Setup like this takes the right people, Jeff. Guys I can depend on.”

  I nodded. No problem with him being careful, the kind of thing that kept smart fellows out of places like the Don.

  Opening the door, Bonnie brought in a service tray, setting it down, cups on saucers, a creamer and sugar bowl. A serious-looking woman with a chiseled smile, the definition of efficiency. Haircut blunt and clothes neat. She left without a word, closing the door behind her.

  Stirring in a packet of sugar, I glanced at the clock on the bureau. Supposed to pick Ann up at the library over by Christie Pits in forty minutes, rain pattering against the high window behind Ted. Ted saying he paid twenty-five percent of profits, told me it was in my best interest to sell as close to sticker as I could. In case I couldn’t, he set the mini at a hundred bucks, the least I’d make on a sale.

  Glancing at his TAG Heuer, he said, “Little early, but I’m peckish. What say we grab a bite?” Didn’t wait for an answer; he got up. “Deli next door’s first-rate. Got the real kosher dills, you know the ones?”

  I said yeah.

  Reaching in his drawer, he pocketed what looked like a .32-cal Ruger. Saying nobody likes a car salesman, he took to the steps and crossed the showroom, telling Bonnie to hold his calls. I looked around, but Vick wasn’t at his desk. Opening the door, Ted let me go first.

  . . . Beamsville

  Jamming the gears, Bucky Showalter hauled out of Lewiston, rolling onto the 405, then onto the QEW. His AM on some BTO and his thoughts on the truck stop this side of Port Dalhousie. The Dalhousie Delight served a six-inch stack, buttermilk cakes with blueberries and enough syrup a man could drown in. The waitress was Alicia, full-figured with a ready smile, all the woman a man could want, thinking about her as he flew along the highway.

  Just Bucky’s luck, the Beamsville scales’ sign was flashing. Not even an hour from the Fort Erie crossing, Bucky guessing Ted Bracey’s gal Bonnie got it wrong, the scales supposed to be closed this time of day.

  Pulling in, he turned down the radio, the cb just giving squelch. Waiting on the long-haul ahead, he leaned back on the headrest, thinking ahead to a weekend of tipping up Heineken, thinking about the waitress. Way she felt, things she did lying there under him. When the long-haul ahead pulled back onto the highway, black diesel puffing from its stack, Bucky worked the stick, shifted and pulled the rig over the scale in the right lane. He waited, and then the signal light went red.

  “Fuck me.” Slapping both hands against the wheel.

  Meant he had to pull in, the inspectors likely to bilk him for fuel tax or some shit. Coming from the booth, the guy in uniform signaled for Bucky to climb down. Swinging open his door, Bucky pointed to the inspection decal up on the windshield. Didn’t hear the second guy coming from behind the trailer as he stepped down. Not suspecting anything but bureaucracy.

  Cold-cocked from behind, he sunk to his knees. Felt the wet blood on the back of his head, Bucky tried to get up, getting hit again, a couple guys running past him, scrambling up on the trailer. Bucky lay there with his cheek on the pavement, the wet flowing along his ear. Last thing he was thinking, he was going to miss the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the grill. And the way the she felt — the waitress — fishing for her name as he spun into the dark. Katie, maybe that was it.

  . . . Squeeze Play

  Deli-cious was filling fast, the noonday rush starting. Swivel stools at the long counter were all taken, a scattering of tables and a condiment counter lined the window. Ted laid his arms across the top of the of the corner booth, his back to the wall and his eye on the door. Rain slanted against the glass. A Federal Express truck splashed up water along St. Clair, pulling to the curb, the driver hitting his four-ways. People huddled under umbrellas walking past. Me, I was biting into a Rueben.

  “You and Vick, lik
e brothers in the joint, that kind of thing?”

  “Saw him in the yard now and then, maybe the chow line. First I put eyes on him outside was at Marcel’s, sitting in the next chair, saying, ‘Hey brother, they let you out, huh?’”

  Ted asking again what I did time for, liked that it was related to cars, telling me he had two cars jacked off the lot, grinning, saying if he ever caught a guy doing it, well, that’s what the pistol was for, the one I saw him tuck in his jacket.

  I smiled and asked about sales training.

  “Use your instincts, go by gut. Tire kicker walks in looking at a ham sandwich, you sell him a Whopper with cheese, you follow?”

  I nodded, said, “Yeah, I think so.”

  Pointing at the side dish, he said, “Sell me a pickle, same way you’d sell a car. Show me something.”

  “Sell you a dill from Hungary, tell you it’s Polish, charge you extra.” I dropped my crust on the plate.

  He nodded. “It’s the way you got to work the buyer, gain their trust, work the impulse. All the sales training you need.”

  The waitress came past, setting down our tab, looking annoyed at him, telling him he had a call, some guy named Mal, pointing to the wall phone by the counter. Reaching in his pocket, he handed her a five, said to tell Mal he wasn’t here. Then he slapped a twenty on the tab without looking at it.

  Tucking the five away, the waitress cleared the plates, pinched the twenty and the tab between two fingers and walked off.

  It was the first time since I stepped through the Don’s discharge area I could see the top of Shit Mountain, sure I was going to watch the shit rolling downhill for a change.

  Getting up, Ted told me he had a trailer of late-models crossing at Lewiston, had a lot to do before it got here. Walking past the cash, he held the door and we walked to the car lot next door. A couple of Chevy vans and a 240Z Datsun sat around the side, a two-tone Challenger with stripes down the hood and sold written across the windshield. A pair of Fiestas sat on either side of the doors. Ted said he wanted me starting right away. “Things work out, we’ll talk about an override, a little walking-around money.”