Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

“Damn.” The Marshal wagged his head rapturously.

  Sandro threw his gloves into his helmet into the storage compartment. “Turn around a second,” he said to Tatiana. She raised her eyebrows, then dutifully faced the opposite direction. Standing between the open door and the interior of the car, Sandro began to remove his fire proof racing gear. “Why did she send for me?” Sandro asked the Marshal as he put on beige slacks and tasseled loafers.

  “Not gospel, but I think the lawyer for your man there, what’s his name, had an accident,” said the Marshal. “Can I take a look at the engine?”

  “Sure,” said Sandro. “Pull the engine cable for the Marshal,” he said to Tatiana. She reached into the car and released a cable. “It’s back here,” Sandro said, lifting the rear lid to reveal the flat twelve cylinders and four mean exhausts.

  “Whoa.…”

  “I’m going to give the Judge a call,” said Sandro. “I’m not supposed to be on that case.”

  “It’s okay with me Counselor, either way,” said the Marshal, leaning over, his hands behind his back, to peer into the engine compartment from a respectful distance. “Like I said, I’m just following orders. I got the phone number right here if you want. I’m supposed to call when I find you.” He handed Sandro a small slip of paper.

  “Can you tell them you couldn’t find me?”

  The Marshal shrugged. “I wish I could, Counselor.”

  “I’ll give you a ride in the Ferrari.”

  “Don’t make me charge you with sorely tempting a government official,” the Marshal chuckled.

  “Let’s give them a call.” Sandro said, taking his car phone from its cradle on the console. Cars on the track were loudly zooming past the pits. “Won’t be able to hear. There’s a phone booth back here,” said Sandro, walking toward the back wall of the timing tower. He punched his phone code into the keypad, then the numbers from the slip of paper the Marshal had given him.

  “So what if Hardie’s lawyer had an accident?” Sandro murmured half aloud as he faced the phone. The phone on the other end rang, then rang again. “She put me out of the case so it could go forward! Now she wants me back in it?” Sandro listened to a few more rings, then hung up.

  “How’d you do?” said the Marshal.

  “Answering machine. Says to call after five. Makes no sense. After five they go home.”

  “Not a very good system,” said Tatiana.

  “People don’t have all those answering machines up here. We answer our own phone if we’re about.”

  “There’s no way I’m flying down to New York and leaving my car up here.”

  “I can drive the car to New York if you want,” said Tatiana, a smile on her lips.

  “Like I said, there’s no way I’m leaving my car here and flying down to New York.”

  “You don’t trust me to drive your car?”

  “I trust you with my life,” said Sandro.

  “What about the car?”

  Sandro smiled wider, knowing that Tatiana was leading him through the Jack Benny routine he had told her about. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” Sandro filled in. Tatiana laughed, putting her arm around Sandro. “What time is the next plane to New York, anyway?” Sandro asked the Marshal.

  “Well, you’re in luck there, Counselor. This isn’t exactly New York City. First direct flight isn’t until tomorrow morning. There’s a plane that leaves here at three thirty this afternoon. Goes to Chicago, gets into New York, about seven forty five.”

  “I can drive and be in New York before that.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind about that, Counselor.” The Marshal wagged his head again at the Testa Rossa.

  “Is there any way we can work this thing out?” Sandro asked. “How about if you don’t find me until tomorrow morning?”

  “I’d sure love to accommodate you, Counselor, but if someone at the office calls over here, and somebody says you’ve been here racing cars, and I didn’t get you to New York. Well, heck, you know …”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Sandro glanced at the track. The cars from the session were coming into the pits. “Get in,” he said to the Marshal, nodding toward the Ferrari. He took his helmet out of the storage compartment and handed it to the Marshal.

  “You mean it,” the Marshal said, starting to slide in behind the steering wheel.

  “The other side, wise guy.”

  The Marshal and Tatiana both laughed. “I just wanted to sit behind the wheel a second.”

  “Billy, lend me your helmet,” Sandro called to a driver near the pits. The other driver threw his helmet to Sandro.

  “We’ll go around once, and then you can call New York and tell them you did your mischief, you messed up our beautiful weekend.”

  “Sorry, Miss,” the Marshal said to Tatiana. “Italy, right, your accent?”

  “You have a great ear for accents,” Sandro smirked as he fired the engine. It snarled into life. He feathered the throttle, warming the engine as the Marshal, smiling like a kid at Christmas, donned the helmet, slid into the passenger seat, and buckled the safety belt.

  “We’ll go for one quick tour around the track before the next cars get out there. Then we’ll hustle on to New York.”

  “They gonna let you go around the track?” asked the Marshal.

  “Hey, you’re the U.S. Marshal, aren’t you?”

  “Damn right,” he laughed. “Move it on out.”

  Sandro slipped the car into first gear as he studied the track. He eased forward, moving slowly on pit lane. He revved the engine to 7,000 RPM, held it, then popped the clutch. The car lunged toward the looping right hander at the end of pit lane; Sandro deftly upshifted to second just as the car crested a slight rise in the track; the bottom seemed to fall out of the car.

  “Jee-suss Ch-ri-st!!!!” shouted the Marshal.

  Harlem : June 18, 1996 : 4:05 P.M.

  The Midnight Cafe was on 137th Street off Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard. Its walls were wood paneled, remnants of its service as an Episcopal chapel in the late 1880s, when Harlem was a fashionable, brownstone-lined suburb of Upper Manhattan. Later, the chapel was converted into a funeral parlor, until 1930, when it became a speakeasy, then, finally, after Prohibition, a restaurant.

  During normal business hours, The Midnight Cafe was an upscale restaurant with a dash of forbidden for adventurous, white downtowners. To add to its inaccessibility, and therefore, desirability, the Cafe’s doors were always locked, opened only to customers who identified themselves to a bouncer at the Judas Eye in the door.

  After dinner hours, the lounge area in the front of the Café morphed into an after-hours blues club, mostly for soul brothers and sisters. The dining room in back was usually empty by then, the late night habitués preferring the intimacy of the lounge.

  At the moment, except for an early party of four white suburban theater-goers, the dining room was empty. Red Hardie and Money Dozier sat alone in the last banquette in the lounge area. They had come directly from the long strategy meeting at Marty Adams’ law office, a meeting prompted by Leppard’s nose bleed, the Judge’s threat to revoke Red’s bail, her plan to bring Sandro Luca back into the case, and all that occurred earlier in the day.

  “You want another drink, Mr. Red?” asked Money as he drained his glass of Chivas Regal.

  “I’m okay, Money.” Red’s attention was focused on the wood paneling of the wall across from their table.

  The Midnight Café was not a regular stop for Red and Money. In fact, they hardly ever patronized the place. Not that they stayed away purposely. For no particular reason, the Café had never made it onto Red’s list of usual stops. Which is precisely the reason it had surprised Money—and the surveillance crew following them—when he suggested they stop there before heading home. When the doorman, and then the proprietor, saw Red and Money at the door, they were elated to have such notables join them. Red declined the booth usually occupied by the proprietor, right up in front, preferring, instead, a banquette tucked
away in the back corner of the lounge.

  Money signaled the waitress, a light skinned young woman with a taut body clad in an ultra-short black dress with substantial decolletage. The owner had especially assigned her to their table.

  “What can I get you, gentlemen?” the waitress said with a wide smile. She knew very well who the two men were. Everyone in Harlem knew.

  “I’ll have another of these,” said Money, shaking the ice cubes within his empty glass, his eyelids fluttering.

  “Can I get you another?” the waitress smiled toward Red.

  “Hmmm. No, no, I’m fine just now,” Red glanced and smiled momentarily at the waitress. She turned to see where Red’s attention was focused.

  “What’s causin’ you consternation, Mr. Red?” Money asked as the waitress left.

  “Every day is something new, something weird, Money. Can you imagine, that damn little witch thinks I had something to do with the lawyer’s nose bleeding!”

  Money shook his head slowly.

  “On top of that, we can’t even have ourselves a quiet drink without that tail they tied on us.” Red chuckled now, softly. “They must be going crazy out there. They don’t have a bug in here, that’s for sure. And the people at the door won’t let them in—so they’re euchred. Have to sit in their ugly little car and wait.”

  The waitress put a fresh drink in front of Money. “You sure you don’t want anything?” she said to Red, smiling.

  “I’m fine, honey. You know what we were talking about in court today—” Red stopped, smiled, waiting for the waitress to leave, “—you know, about a snitch.” Money nodded. “I mean, look at the places the Man has raided, the stashes of cash supposed to be safe that they grabbed, even, sometimes, knowing the strategy we come up with for the trial. Somebody’s got to be feeding them inside information. That’s the reason I told you to empty the cash out of some places personally, before they got to it.”

  “You tell me who this snitch is, Mr. Red, when you figure out.”

  “You can eliminate the lawyers,” said Red. “They’d know the strategy, but not the safe places.”

  Money’s jaw muscles flexed tautly as he picked up his drink. “You figure it’s one of the Defendants?”

  “Hard to imagine. Why would one of the Defendants be doing something to hurt himself?”

  Money shrugged.

  “Could be one of the Defendant’s people, though, a wife, a girl friend—” Red picked up his empty glass and turned to look toward the front of the restaurant. The waitress was already walking toward the table.

  “Another of the same?” said Red.

  “Will do,” she said brightly, swiveling her way toward the bar.

  “You don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Red, but that accountant nephew of your ex-wife is awful close to everything.”

  “Why is it that Awgust has always rubbed you the wrong way?”

  “’Cause, frankly, Mr. Red, he’s always been a little sneak.” Red shook his head. “Remember that time with the kids in the school playground, when he was a kid?”

  “That was a long time ago, Money.”

  “Still the same sneak, Mr. Red, still the same. I don’t really care nothing about him. I’m only concerned about you.”

  The time that Money was talking about, the time at the playground, Awgust Nichols was still only a young teenager. He had come running to Red, crying, sniffling, scared looking, saying that the kids in the playground were taking his money, throwing his homework around, giving him a hard time. Red, angered by what Awgust told him, took young Awgust, dark-skinned, his lower jaw slightly underslung, into the front passenger seat of his long, purple, fish tail 1973 Cadillac convertible. They drove slowly along Harlem’s Lenox Avenue. Red kept that car waxed to a mirror finish. People on the sidewalk admired the car as it moved slowly. Some recognized the driver and waved.

  Red Hardie was not quite forty then, handsome, vigorous, his reddish hair styled in a modified Afro, with a medium moustache. He waved back to many, smiled to some. His face was not happy, however. “You okay, now?” he said, turning to the unhappy Awgust.

  “I guess, Uncle Red,” Awgust said softly. He was the son of Red’s wife, Leslie’s, sister. Awgust was also Leslie’s Godson. As Leslie and Red were childless, Leslie took her duties as Godmother seriously. At the time of the playground incident, Red and Leslie were going through some personal problems—Leslie was on Red’s back about staying out late, about finding a lipstick wedged in the passenger seat of the car, about the narcotics business that was replacing the numbers business—so Red figured that helping Awgust might put him back on Leslie’s good side.

  Red tried to calm Awgust, console him, particularly when he said that he was too scared to go back to school anymore. It was then that Red offered to drive Awgust back to school, said he’d speak to the young punks, to the principal, to his teacher, to whomever Awgust wanted, but school was important, it was essential. Awgust was too bright to let himself be bothered by some worthless loafers; he was a young man with a future; he was going to make his parents and his Aunt Leslie proud.

  Awgust’s parents had already mentioned to Red (at Sunday dinner a couple of weeks before the playground incident) that Awgust had complained about the work being too easy at the school, how rowdies there were taunting him as a goody-goody, tearing his clothes, his books, his homework. Red said he would help Awgust’s parents with the tuition at a private school starting the next semester. That made Leslie very happy. She and her sister began the search for a new school the very next day.

  “I sure don’t think you ought to speak to the principal,” murmured Awgust as they neared the school yard.

  Red waved to someone on the sidewalk. Awgust had always been mightily impressed by the number of people who admired and respected his uncle. Not that Red knew all of them; they knew him by reputation, had seen his picture in the local papers, glanced at him as he walked by with his retinue. In most locales, being the head of an organization reputed to be in the numbers racket, to be selling millions of dollars worth of narcotics each week in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Washington D.C., and elsewhere, would not make one an elder of the church, a member of exclusive country clubs, and a pillar of the community. In Harlem, however, that reputation was a distinction, an indication that Red Hardie was smarter, smoother, faster, and more clever than the Man.

  Actually, for quite some time now, Red had begun to spend more time in his legitimate enterprises, real estate and dry cleaning stores in Harlem and the west Bronx, than he did with The Brotherhood. As a result of Leslie’s prodding, Red had decided to distance himself from illegality, placing Money Dozier in charge of day-to-day operations.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” Red said, turning to Awgust next to him on the front seat.

  “I said I don’t think you should speak to the principal.”

  “I agree. My first reaction is to kick the tar out of them. Just show me who they are.”

  “No, no, that would only make things worse, Uncle Red. They’d only be worse after.”

  “Then I’ll come back again and hang them from the fence in the school yard. Maybe that’s what I ought to do right now.”

  “I think it would be enough if they just see you drive me to the school. That’ll be enough to keep them off my back for just the next month or so until I change schools.”

  Red shook his head. He wasn’t convinced.

  “I know them. They’ll be impressed just by seeing you. They’ll recognize you from your picture in the newspapers.”

  “I sure don’t want to make things worse,” Red shrugged. “I just don’t want to see you running from school.”

  “Let me out right here by the playground. See, there they are, over there, near the basketball court.”

  Red looked across to the far side of the fenced in school playground. A group of young men turned to look toward Red’s car.

  “You sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I’m sure.” Awgu
st opened the passenger door and stood on the sidewalk. Kids from the playground came to the inside of the fence, looking through the wire strands at the two people in the car. Red exited the car and came around to the sidewalk to join Awgust. “You want me to walk you inside?”

  “I’ll be okay,” said Awgust.

  A thick set, dark-skinned young man came out of the playground and walked toward them.

  “This one of them?”

  “No, this is Aunt Elma’s son, cousin Anton Taylor.”

  “Oh, yes, Elma’s son,” said Red, nodding to the young man who now stood beside them. “You here when Awgust had trouble?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Anton. He glanced at Awgust.

  “Remember, I want to hear if there’s any more of this trouble,” Red said to Awgust, then to Anton. “Okay?” Red wasn’t sure exactly how to handle this situation. If it was someone from the street, he’d handle things differently. But these were kids, and Awgust was a different kind of young man, not tough.

  Awgust nodded. “Can I borrow a couple of dollars,” he said.

  Red stuck his hand in his pocket and came out with a roll of bills. “Sure can. Here’s five.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Red. I’m sorry I had to run to you.”

  “Who else am I going to take care of if I don’t take care of you?” said Red. He watched as Awgust and Anton walked back into the playground. Awgust turned once to wave at Red.

  “Wow,” Anton said to Awgust as they walked through the crowd of school kids, “you should have seen them. They almost shit when they saw you drive up with Red. Just like you said.”

  Red was still standing outside the fence, watching.

  “Good,” said Awgust. His face taking on a harder, more intense aspect as he looked directly toward the young men who were standing near the basketball court, particularly Hempy Heartman, the biggest member of the opposition. As Awgust and Anton walked, other young men stepped in behind them and walked with them. These were Awgust’s cronies.

  “Anybody here have any more doubts about where we coming from?” Awgust said directly to Hempy when he and Anton reached the other group. No one said anything. “When I lend you money, I’m lending you other people’s money. You can see where it comes from, right?” No one answered. “Next time you don’t pay everything, on time, people will have to pick you off this playground fence. And you,” he said to Hempy, who usually swaggered through the schoolyard, brushing aside other students. “Mess with me, and you mess with more than you can handle, dig?”