by William Lobb
Frankie asked Jones, “So what do we know at this point?”
The bartender brought shots and beers. Jones took a long drink and started to explain the situation. “Fat Joe is being very helpful. The guy that hit Eddie works on the dock that we’ve delivered to. He might have even unloaded trucks for us at one time, during one of our turnarounds. Fat Joe knows where this asshole lives; he is over in Brooklyn somewhere. Joe said he would take us by his house and point it out, so I’m going to call him later tonight. He gets to work about midnight and I’ll find out if maybe he can meet us there in the morning.”
Then, Jones asked Frankie what his plan was. Frankie said quite simply, “I want to kill this motherfucker. I’ve been giving a lot of thought into how to do it and the message I want to send. We could assassinate him from a distance but that’s not what we want. We want to kill this motherfucker and make sure that everyone knows this is payback for Eddie.”
Jones looked at him and said, “You realize Vince and those guys don’t want anything to do with this, and I know for a fact whoever was behind this doesn’t want any attention drawn to them either. Do you have any idea of the kind of shit you’re about to step into?”
Frankie looked at Jones and said, “I don’t expect you to do this with me. I just need to know who this guy is. I’ll take care the rest.”
Jones looked at him and said, “Fuck that. We’re in this together; he was my friend, too.” Frankie raised his glass to Jones’s, clinking them together in a toast. A deal had been struck.
Frankie stood up and said, “I’m feeling pretty wasted. It’s been a long day and I’ve been drinking all day. Did you get me a room?” With that, Jones handed him a set of keys. Frankie said, “I’ll let you get back to that hot little blonde. You call Fat Joe at midnight. I think we should roll out here about 6:00 a.m. and meet him tomorrow morning. Mr. Jones said it sounded to him like a plan. Frankie got up, threw some cash on the bar, patted his friend on the shoulder, and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Frankie woke up early, about 5:00 a.m., took a shower, dressed, and walked across the parking lot to a coffee shop. He grabbed a couple of hard rolls and coffee to go—yeah, hard rolls, thoughts of Canadian waitresses, and simpler days and times. He walked up the stairs to Jones’ room and noticed a light on. Jones answered the door when Frankie knocked. He was dressed and ready. Frankie smiled when he glanced over to see the blonde girl asleep on the bed. Jones threw a couple of hundred-dollar bills on the dresser and leaned down to whisper something in her ear. As they closed the door, Frankie remarked, “Looks like love to me.”
Mr. Jones said, “That girl is awesome; let’s go so I can get back.”
Frankie replied, “I can respect that,” as the two climbed in the car and took off for the Bronx.
Between bites of roll and sips of coffee, Jones filled Frankie in. “Fat Joe said to meet him at the dock at the market at 8:00 a.m., so we better pick up some beer and porn somewhere.” They had about a two-hour drive; Fat Joe would wait. They stopped at a convenience store before heading north on the Garden State. Jones went to the beer cooler, while Frankie shopped for the hardest porn that could be found at a 7-11 in North Jersey, on July 2, 1982, at 6:30 in the morning. The girl behind the counter gave the two of them a strange look over their selections: beer, porn, Marlboros, and ice.
“Breakfast of champions,” Frankie explained as he smiled at the cashier and then turned to walk out the door. At the car, he poured the water out of his Styrofoam cooler from last night’s road trip, and filled it with more beer and ice. He grabbed two beers, handed one to Jones and said, “Let’s go to the Bronx”
They pulled up to the parking area for cars along the backside of the building and walked up a small, greasy set of stairs onto the loading dock. The air was a mix of diesel exhaust, fruit from the warehouse, and a general stench that was simply Hunt’s Point market. They saw Fat Joe’s office, spotted him in it, and waved. Fat Joe’s office was just an eight-foot by ten-foot corner of the dock, framed out in two-by-four lumber and heavy chicken wire, but it was a place of legend, a museum of porn.
Frankie calculated one time, the average stroke book was $2, hardcore stuff ran $5, and the really rare Euro porn, maybe $10. That averaged out to about $5 per magazine. That would calculate to easily a million dollars’ worth of porn, by Frankie’s careful calculations. Fat Joe wasn’t a pervert; he was a collector of modern and vintage porn. Fat Joe once said he’d probably seen half of these drivers’ mothers’ pussies at some point, in his long and distinguished career, and jerked off to them too. On more than one occasion, Frankie had heard him say that to a driver who pissed him off. Or, holding up a magazine, he’d say something like, “Yeah, I saw your mom in here with a goat—nice spread,” or something creative like that. Yes, that was Fat Joe from the Bronx. It did not get any more real than this place, especially on a hot summer night.
The shift change was right on time and the three of them walked out to Frankie’s rental car. Jones climbed in the back because Joe was too large to fit back there. He passed around beers and handed Joe a thick stack of fresh porn, all wrapped in cellophane. Joe rifled through the stack and gave a look of approval. Fat Joe then motioned which way to drive out of the market as he opened and examined his new treasures, and the three were on their way to Brooklyn. Fat Joe talked a lot; he didn’t have a lot of friends and people kind of treated him like a freak, but Frankie and Jones both liked him. He was funny, and the guy always had the backs of those in his inner circle. Joe had known Eddie a long time—over ten years—back when Eddie was pulling legitimate loads out of Orange County, south to Florida and back to the Bronx. Sometimes Eddie would take him to breakfast after his shift ended, and they’d talk about baseball, and in the past year, they discussed the ins and outs of the “flower business.” Fat Joe was as pissed anyone about Eddie’s murder. He knew things were getting hot in Florida and the Bronx, but he never saw this hit coming.
The three of them were doing a good job of ridding the universe of the beers they bought earlier in the morning. Fat Joe started to tell the boys all he knew about the guy who killed Eddie. His name was John Quarry, a low-level street thug. He sold a little weed; a lot of it skimmed off the top of the “flower” deliveries. Fat Joe figured he was given a choice after getting caught stealing the drugs, by guys in a rival mob—the Colombians, guys who worked for Pablo Escobar. Joe turned around so Jones could see him in the back seat, and said, “You realize if you hit this guy, you’re going to have the New York mob and the Colombians pissed off at you?”
Frankie said, “Yeah, you’ll have that,” and drove on into Brooklyn.
Jones asked more about John Quarry, so Joe went into a little more detail. “He’s a punk, thinks he’s the shit, he’s not. He’s just a short little black dude from Brooklyn who doesn’t think. He’s got a little-man complex, maybe a little dick, too.”
Frankie interrupted him. “Wait a fucking minute. This guy is black? What the fuck?” He slammed his hands on the steering wheel.
Jones asked, “What the fuck does him being white or black have to do with anything?”
Frankie yelled back, “Sammy was black, my best friend, the guy I killed. I told you about him! Now I kill this guy? Shit! People find out, they’re going to think I’m a racist; that I have a thing for killing black people!”
Jones and Fat Joe sat and looked at each other. Jones chimed in, “You fucking moron! When we do this, we are going to have half of the New York City crime families and the fucking Colombian cartels after our asses. Oh yeah, and the fucking cops. And all you’re worried about is people will think you’re a racist! What the fuck is your malfunction, you asshole?”
Frankie yelled back, “My grandma is real big on that shit. She was fucking pissed after I killed Sammy. If she finds out I killed another black guy, my ass is cooked!”
Jones laughed. “You asshole, you’ll p
robably be dead inside a week. It won’t matter what anyone thinks about your ass.”
Fat Joe shook his head. “You two guys are fucked up.” Frankie said, “You guys do not know my Grandma.”
They drove on to John Quarry’s address, an unremarkable section of Brooklyn on Church Street. Frankie thought about the name, thought about his Grandma, and muttered, “Why not?” They sat in the car, drank beer, and waited. Fat Joe had already told John he was coming over this morning to buy weed, so they didn’t wait too long. His car pulled up and parked in front of them on the street. Frankie wrote down the plate number. They all exited the rental and went to meet John, who was standing next to his car.
Fat Joe introduced his friends as Frankie and Jones, adding, “They’re cool.”
Everyone hoped John would not recognize them as guys who rode with Eddie. John didn’t comment. He asked Joe if he had the money. Joe confirmed that he did and they all walked in the building and took an elevator to John’s apartment. He lived there with his sister and her kid. Frankie was not happy about that. They walked inside; money was exchanged. John gave Fat Joe a paper bag with two ounces of what he called “mid-grade, decent bud.” Then everyone shook hands and said goodbye. Frankie asked if he could stop by, maybe tomorrow when he had some cash, because his supply in New Jersey had dried up. John said call first and make sure he was going to be around, and then the three of them walked to the elevator and left.
In the elevator, Frankie said, “When we grab him, I hope the sister and the kid aren’t there.” Fat Joe said that the sister worked days at a local bodega, and her kid stayed with her mom. He was pretty sure John would be alone the next morning. They got in the car and drove to Fat Joe’s apartment. Frankie handed him an envelope and thanked him. Fat Joe looked at the two of them as if he knew he’d never see them again.
Joe said, “You assholes be careful.”
Frankie said, “Careful is my middle name, Joe. Thanks.” Frankie and Jones drove off.
Driving back into Jersey, Frankie cracked another beer, then looked over at Jones and said, “This is like a beehive, like a hornets’ nest in the ground, you know? I know it’s best to leave it alone, but I want to go over there and kind of poke a stick in it and get them all pissed off. I don’t really care if I get stung or not. That’s how I feel today; that’s how I feel right now. I just want to stir this guy up and take him out.
“I think we should get your blonde friend and see if she has a friend. We should go out tonight for a nice dinner. Then I’m going to get to sleep early tonight because I want to be fully in the moment tomorrow when this all goes down.” Jones
asked him exactly what his plan was; was he going to shoot the guy?
Frankie replied, “No, I’m not going to shoot him. I am going to beat him to death so he feels himself slowly dying. It’s going to be a fair fight. I think we’re going to take his car, with him in it, and drive him down to the Jersey swamps by the Meadowlands, where there’s nobody around, and we’ll leave his body in the car so the cops find it. That’s my plan; whichever man is left standing wins, but I got a feeling I want to kill him a little more than he wants to kill me.
“I’ve got a pretty good feeling that tomorrow night I’ll be back at the motel and I will be sitting in that bar next to you, getting good and fucking drunk. Hate to say this, Mr. Jones; that’ll be the second man I’ve beaten to death, almost the third. That guy, Billy—he lived. It doesn’t get any easier, and I’ll tell you this, it is just one more set of stones I have to carry. I’m not letting go of Eddie’s stones on this trip. I’m picking up the stones of this asshole now, this useless, fucking asshole named John Quarry. I want to leave his body so they find and identify it. I want that on the news; this guy was found in the Jersey swamps. Then all those New York City mobsters and the Colombians can all go fuck themselves. I’m out of here, Mr. Jones. I don’t know what your plan is, but I wish you’d ride with me. We seem to see things the same way.”
They pulled into the hotel parking lot. Jones went to his room. The girl was across the street at the beach. Frankie walked down to the liquor store and bought some vodka. It was early afternoon. He went to his room, put on a bathing suit, poured himself a few shots, had a few beers, and ventured over to the beach, where he found Jones and the blonde. He sat down and joined them. The blonde had a friend, a cute brunette. He asked if they’d all join him at the steakhouse down the street about 7:00 p.m. Everyone agreed to meet and Frankie walked back to his room alone to get drunk.
After Frankie left, the brunette told Jones that his friend was a little scary, a little too intense. Jones said, “He’s fine; just a little stressed,” and he ran into the ocean with the blonde.
Frankie woke up a few hours later, somewhat hungover. He took a shot of vodka and got in the shower. Then he walked to the steakhouse with Jones. They met the girls outside, went in, and sat at the bar.
They were waiting for a table when this guy walked in: loud, pissed off, and dressed in leather. The blonde looked down at the bar and said, “Shit.” Jones looked at the guy, then the blonde, then back at the guy. Frankie stood up and went to the guy in leather.
He touched his jacket, put an arm around him and said, “Please don’t do this tonight. Let me buy you a beer,” as he led the guy away from Jones and the girls. There was some kind of intensity about Frankie at that moment that convinced the guy a free beer was the safest option. Frankie sat at the other end the bar with the guy; they talked about his bike, the beach, and the blonde girl. Then Frankie noticed Jones and the girls were gone. He looked the guy in leather in the eye and said, “Thank you for not starting shit here tonight. I’ve got some things to do tomorrow, and I just could not deal with anything else tonight.” Again, there was a frightening air about Frankie that night that even he didn’t quite understand. The guy in leather sat, strangely quiet. Frankie asked him, “When was the last time you killed a man?”
The guy looked at him. He answered, “Never. Why?”
Frankie said, “Never? That’s good. That’s really good. You shouldn’t. Killing people is really hard—not the actual act, but what goes along with it. The haunting, the guilt—the people you kill, they stay with you forever; they haunt your days and your nights. They never leave you, and they drag you down with the weight of what you’ve done. Those are the stones of our existence.”
The guy started looking nervous. Frankie ordered more beers and shots. Frankie picked up the shot, fired it back, and told the bartender to keep them coming. He looked at the guy in leather and said, “Let’s get fucked up and do shit. I want to hurt somebody tonight.” The guy in leather didn’t know what to say. He was getting scared. Frankie looked at him and said, “I’ve only killed once; that will change soon, though. There was another guy I almost beat to death. Does that count?” He looked at his hands, and he showed his right hand to the guy. “See this hand? One more shot, just one more good shot and it would have been two so far.” The guy said he had to go, but Frankie said they should hang out. The guy excused himself, headed for the bathroom and then bolted out the front door instead. Frankie watched the guy leave and laughed. He threw some cash on the bar and walked back to join the girls and Jones.
He sat down in the booth next to the brunette, smiling and laughing. He looked at the blonde and said, “If that guy ever bothers you, just tell him you are going to tell me or Jones. He’ll not bother you again.” Frankie could smell fear and that guy was scared. They all laughed.
Frankie ordered a massive steak. Jones laughed, but inside he was thinking that something was changing in his friend Frankie.
He’d only known Frankie about seven months, but since they’d met they had been practically inseparable. He liked Frankie and he trusted him, but something about him was changing. He was always a little dangerous, but he was becoming edgier, darker, more violent. He seemed to be looking forward to tomorrow and this deal that was about to go d
own with John Quarry. It wasn’t a need for revenge; it was something else. Just as suddenly, instantly as Frankie had become a smuggler and let it define him, he now seemed to embrace this role as a killer, some kind of hit man, but a little too much. Jones thought to himself that after tomorrow they might part ways.
Dinner was pleasant, but everyone was a little on edge. Frankie apologized to everyone. Jones and the blonde went back to his room. Frankie wanted to take a walk on the beach, while Jones was to call John Quarry and see if an early morning meeting was still okay. The brunette offered to walk with Frankie.
He walked first to the liquor store and bought a bottle of wine for her, a pint of vodka for him, and a corkscrew. They walked on the dark, abandoned beach for about half a mile before they reached the jetties made out of huge stones. The gaps between the stones had been filled in with sand from long-forgotten storms.
The sea was a little rough that night, betraying an oncoming storm hiding out past the horizon. The air and the sky were strangely clear for a hot night in July. Frankie and the woman walked out to the end of the stone pier, with the ocean on both sides of them, moving carefully with the moonlight to guide them. They sat in silence watching the moonlight as it reflected off the water, and listened to the crash of the waves.
Frankie kept finding himself looking to the north and east, across New York Harbor toward Brooklyn. The brunette, whose name was Barbara, finally asked him if she had done something to offend him. This seemed to snap Frankie out of his own head for a moment and he apologized for being preoccupied all night.