The Bouncer

by David Gordon

“How we going to catch those motherfuckers if the whole damn FBI and CIA can’t?” Alonzo asked.

  “We’re the only ones who can,” Gio said. “Not the law. Not the press. Us. The people in this room. We’ve got the connections, the knowledge, the muscle. We have to, to save our businesses. And not only that. The way I see it, it’s our duty. None of us here are saints—except of course you, Maria.” She laughed at that and nodded. “But whatever we do, it’s just business. Between professionals. Soldiers. But these sick terrorist fucks, they kill women, children. Remember those two in California? They gunned down a bunch of retards, for fuck’s sake.”

  At this several of the guests crossed themselves, and Alexei spit on the ground.

  Gio continued: “How dare they put us in with those sick maniacs. We are all proud New Yorkers, patriotic Americans whose families came here from somewhere—Russia, Sicily, the Caribbean, Louisiana—fleeing poverty and just this kind of bullshit oppression. I know mine did.” They nodded. “And let’s face it. No one loves free enterprise and the American way more than us.” That got a laugh. “We are the American dream, my friends. I say we protect it and catch these motherfucking ISIS pieces of shit.”

  Gio looked around. He’d hooked them, he knew. They were all talking, stirred up. But he had to reel them in.

  Gilberto, a Colombian coke lord from Elmhurst, spoke up. “I don’t know, man. Us working with cops? And Feds even? That can never happen. Cats and dogs, man. And rats, too, don’t forget. We got to be careful.”

  Gio nodded. “Tell me about it. But the fact is, it has happened before. Menachem, you remember Lucky Luciano?”

  “I was just a little pisher then, but sure, I remember.”

  “Well, back then, during World War Two, when the government was worried about sabotage and spies on the docks, they reached out to Lucky, who was the boss at the time, because they knew he was the one who could secure the waterfront. And when the Allies were getting ready to invade Italy, he talked to his friends overseas. Mafiosi blew up Fascist installations to provide a diversion, and they tipped off our troops about where to land. Am I right?”

  The Rebbe nodded. “You’re a smart boy, Gio. Just like your father. And okay, like you say, we’re not saints. I don’t deny I have some dirt under my nails, too. But catching spies and finding bombs? Who knows how to do this? Me? You? Alonzo? Maria? We’re businesspeople, like you said. And we’re street people. This is a whole different thing.” He wagged a finger. “And don’t tell me to call the Israelis. That kind of meshugas I don’t need.”

  Gio put his hands up. “One step at a time,” he said. “All I’m saying now is what if? Hypothetically. If we did have someone. We would need to make a pact. All of us here would have to agree, and tell our other friends, to give this man free access. To grant him authority to operate across all our territories and do what he has to do to track them down.”

  “Like bounty hunter,” Alexei said. “Or no, like the marshal in old westerns.”

  “Exactly!” Gio said, pointing at him.

  “Whoa, whoa …” This was Patty White. One of the last of the old Irish mob that once controlled the West Side, still had powerful political connections, a sports book, and a crew of killers. “My dad just got locked down in a supermax thanks to a federal fucking marshal. I’ll thank you to choose another word.”

  “Sheriff!” It was Uncle Chen. He chuckled.

  Menachem patted his leg. “That’s good! Sheriff. Like Clint Eastwood in the movies,” he said.

  Gio didn’t recall Clint playing a sheriff much, but whatever, he let it go.

  “All right, Gio,” Alonzo said. “Let’s say, hypothetically, we’re in. Where in hell are we going to find us a gangster sheriff?”

  Gio sat back. He could use one of those espressos about now. “Let me look into it,” he said. “I’ve got a friend I can call.”

  7

  Joe’s guess was right. If you get invited to one, a Scottish-Korean wedding is definitely worth checking out. Luckily for everyone, the food was mainly Korean and the whiskey mainly Scottish. The music was loud, the yelling louder, and the laughing loudest. And the staff gave up trying to stop the smoking. The Korean relatives pretended not to understand and the Scottish just said, “Fook off.”

  Of course, as a last-minute addition, Joe was seated at a table off to the side, along with Derek; Derek’s fiancée, Julie, a slim, smart Chinese girl from Forest Hills; and Crystal, from the club, who had gone all out, with a dazzling gown, updo, and sparkling makeup that looked as though it had been atomized over her light brown cheekbones and deep brown eyes. Joe was glad he had worn his one suit. Black, so that it could also work for funerals. The rest of their table were family friends: a very old Korean couple who spoke almost no English and an equally old Scottish couple who spoke with such thick accents that Joe could barely make out a word, which was even more embarrassing because in theory, they were speaking English. Then Derek whispered in his ear.

  “I just got a text from Clarence, the guy I told you about. He’s downstairs waiting to meet you.”

  Joe excused himself. Julie and Crystal moved to sit together, laughing and chatting, Crystal giving Julie hair and makeup tips for her upcoming wedding. Outside, Derek and Joe crossed the street, dodging the creeping midtown traffic, to where a man in a leather jacket leaned against a black Lexus.

  “There he is.” Derek nodded in his direction and the man nodded back.

  Clarence looked like a project manager who had boxed a little in his youth, which is exactly what he was. Thinning hair over a thick skull, wide forehead, bent nose, expensive dental work, smooth tan. Everything he wore—the zip-up leather jacket, the polo shirt, the tan slacks, the loafers—was pricey and tasteful, and none of it fitted quite right over his broad, boxlike physique. Same for the heavy gold watch and diamond pinkie ring on his fat bruiser’s paws. He was a tough guy who was smart and hard-assed enough to boss around other tough guys. Derek introduced them and he gave Joe a knuckle-crusher shake. Joe just smiled.

  “Hey, Joe, thanks for coming out. Derek’s good people and he vouches for you. And I asked around a bit. Folks say you’re a real pro. So if you want in, the job is yours.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Shipment of weapons coming in tomorrow, AKs mostly, some rocket launchers, a special item or two. Some redneck is bringing them up from down south to sell illegally at a private gun show out in the woods. We hit him on the road. Us three and a friend of mine, muscle if we need it. But I doubt we will. According to my info he’s just some amateur gun nut. Should be cake.”

  “How big is my slice?”

  “I guarantee you each five grand just for the ride, even if the truck’s full of pig shit. Otherwise my client has agreed to take the whole shipment at set prices per piece. Could be up to a hundred. We split four ways.”

  Joe thought for a minute, his gaze drifting to a cab that was inching by. The turbaned driver made eye contact and nodded, while his fares, a hipster couple, each stared into their phones. Joe nodded back.

  “I’ll drive,” he told Clarence. “Just drive. No violence. No heavy lifting.” He winked. “Bad back.”

  “Sure,” Clarence said. “You and me will let the kids do the work.” He held out a hand and Joe shook it, gently.

  On the way back inside Derek was complaining. “That fiancée of mine. I made the mistake of telling her I got a job. She’s already decided how to spend the dough on a dining room set for our new place. And a two-thousand-dollar couch! The couch I have now cost me a hundred bucks at Housing Works and it’s fine.”

  Joe patted him on the back. “Might as well get used to it. Just say, ‘Yes, honey’ and smile.”

  “That’s what my uncle says, too. Hey, Joe, were you ever married?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Derek laughed. “Same old Joe. So forthcoming. Now, where are our dates anyway?”

  They were on the dance floor, gyrating wildly with each other and
the old Korean and Scottish couples. Jerry the giant was drunk again, bursting from his tux, but this time he was a happy drunk, dancing like a jolly beast with his tiny bride riding atop his shoulders and waving a bottle of single malt over the cheering crowd.

  Meanwhile, uptown, Donna had finally gotten Larissa, her daughter, to bed after reading the same book four times—not bad, really—when the phone rang. Frantically she shut the bedroom door and then carried her purse into her bedroom and shut that door, too, then checked. It was a work call, forwarded from the office number, which she didn’t do for every rando, only for the legit sources who had her direct line, though of course not her private cell. Especially not this sleazebag. Norris was a gun guy, a creep down in North Carolina, up on federal charges for selling guns to known felons, trying to earn some mercy points by informing on the other creeps. This time he had info on a shipment of stolen military hardware: AKs, rocket launchers, and other goodies. Some redneck was bringing it up north to a private gun show for sale. If the Feds planned it right, they could shut down the whole party.

  Suddenly wide-awake, Donna got the details and called her contacts at ATF. She also told them she wanted to ride along as FBI liaison. Who knows? It could be her big break. In any case, it was a field trip, a ride in the country. It should be cake.

  8

  Joe drove. It was a windowless cargo van, painted with an innocuous U-DRIVE logo. Derek sat beside him, chattering and dialing the radio. Clarence and his muscle, an ex-con called Lex, rode up ahead in a pickup, public works green with a phony insignia, showing the way. After meeting all together to discuss the plan on Monday, Joe and Derek had spent Tuesday and Wednesday acquiring and prepping the vehicles, while Clarence and Lex saw to weapons and other gear. They left early Thursday morning, soon after daybreak, and stopped once for a piss and coffee just over the Pennsylvania state line. Only Derek was ebullient and excited. That was his nature and his way of channeling the pre-job nerves. The others were quiet, which was fine with Joe.

  They drove another hour, first on a state road, then finally on a two-lane blacktop through scrubby woods and not much else worth mentioning. Finally, Clarence pulled over at an intersection. A dirt road led off to the right.

  “This is me,” he told Joe when he stopped the van on the shoulder behind the pickup. “You guys head down that way about a quarter mile to the blind turn and set up. You’ll see the spot. Careful, though, that road’s a bitch.” He grinned. “It’s meant to be.”

  “Okay,” Joe said, and went back to the van. They kept watch while Clarence ducked behind the pickup and pulled on his green road worker suit, orange vest, and hard hat. Then Lex got in with Joe and Derek, taking the jump seat, still silent. As Joe turned down the dirt road, he could see Clarence in the side-view mirror, parking the pickup across both lanes.

  He’d been right about this road. Rutted and narrow, it was just a country lane. Joe drove slowly, wrestling the steering wheel, avoiding the deeper ruts, and inching over the potholes. He found the spot Clarence had described. It was fine, a hard left into thick woods. He stopped, and Lex and Derek hopped out. They started unrolling the tire spikes, while Joe carefully executed a three-point turn and eased the van back among the trees. Then he put it in park, shut the engine off, and jumped out. Joe checked his watch.

  “Should be about fifteen minutes,” he said.

  Lex got a duffel bag from the van and removed the weapons. He and Derek had assault rifles modified to fire on automatic with extra-capacity magazines. Next Lex handed out the ski masks and plastic ties before tossing the duffel back into the van. Then Lex and Derek got down in the ditches on either side of the road, positioned at an angle so as not to risk firing on each other, and Joe got back in the van, stuffing his mask and ties into his pockets.

  Now when the target vehicle came around the blind turn, it would hit the spikes, blowing out its tires. Derek and Lex would come at it from both sides, ordering the driver out and hopefully tying him up without incident. At that point Joe would pull the van out, now facing back the way they’d come, and open the back doors so that Derek and Lex could easily shift the cargo from the disabled vehicle to their own. Then they’d get back in and drive out. If anyone approached from behind them, the dead truck would block the way. Clarence would be on guard at the other end, where they’d rejoin the main road. He’d abandon the pickup, which was stolen with fake plates, of course, and take the keys, thereby blocking another approach. He’d hop into the van with the others, and, if all went well, Joe would drive them away. It was a simple plan, but it was meant to be a simple heist.

  9

  Donna was doing sixty when she saw the public works pickup blocking the road. There were cones and a flagman waving her off. She muttered a curse under her breath. She had driven alone, intending to meet the ATF folks at their staging area, a state recreation rest stop about a mile up ahead. They planned to seal off the gun show access routes, then wait and watch till they saw the dealer with the stolen hardware arrive, grab him, and storm the show itself, looking for other illegal weapons or unlicensed sellers. It was a simple plan. But already someone had fucked it up. Roadwork should have been noted when the Feds contacted the locals. Now here was this schmo in an orange vest standing right in the path where the target was expected to come, waving a flag. She grabbed her radio.

  “Base, this is Zamora. Come in.”

  “Go ahead, Zamora, this is Casey.”

  “Hi, Casey. How come no one told us about this roadwork going on?”

  “Roadwork?”

  “I’ve got a public works flagman with a detour about a mile up from you.”

  “We have nothing scheduled for today. Maybe there was some kind of accident? Or a tree fell? Can you tell him to clear out for an hour and come back?”

  “Roger. I’ll handle it.” She pulled over and parked on the shoulder near the pickup, then grabbed her sunglasses before stepping out of the car. She did not grab her vest.

  “Good morning,” she told the broad-shouldered, unsmiling man in the orange vest and hard hat, brushing back her jacket to show the badge clipped to her belt. “FBI. What seems to be the problem here?”

  Joe knew something was wrong when he heard the shots. He was sitting in the van, staring at the trees across the road. They were pines, mostly, and the air through the window smelled of pine, too, mixed with a rich undertone of mulch and rotting wood, the forest scent of both death and life. He was just noticing how still it was, how empty of man-made sound, only birds calling, a woodpecker hammering, and some kind of ambient insect hum. Then the shots came. There were three, close together, maybe from two guns. He craned his neck, peering at the road, and saw both Lex and Derek poke their masked heads above the ditches where they were lying in wait. They looked at each other, making Who knows? gestures with their arms. Then Lex raised a hand, signaling he had an idea, and he got out his phone. Clarence was supposed to ring when the gun dealer turned down the country lane. Lex called him. He shook his head.

  “Voice mail,” he yelled.

  “What should we do?” Derek yelled.

  “Don’t know,” Lex yelled back.

  Joe put the van in drive. He eased out into the road, careful to avoid the spikes. He opened the door. Lex and Derek ran up, still in their masks, rifles cradled in their arms.

  “Get in,” Joe said.

  “But Clarence said—” Lex began.

  Joe cut him off. “Never mind that. Either Clarence had to change the plan or the job’s off. Either way I’m not staying here.”

  Derek hopped in, and a beat later Lex climbed aboard. Derek climbed over to the jump seat and Lex settled in beside Joe.

  “Okay,” Lex said. “I just hope Clarence isn’t pissed.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Joe said as he hit the gas. “Hope he isn’t dead.”

  10

  It was the look in his eyes that first told Donna something was wrong. Panic. True, lots of folks look basically terrified when you ide
ntify yourself as FBI. Maybe they have something to feel guilty about, maybe not, but they know it’s trouble. But this guy looked different, his eyes moving wildly about, as if looking for a way out of his head. Then, when he dropped his flag and stepped toward her, she instinctively stepped back. And when he reached his hand behind him, hers dropped to her gun, and she yelled, “Stop!” And when his hand came back out holding a 9mm Sig, she lifted her gun up and fired, twice, as he fired once.

  His shot went wild, hitting a tree somewhere or maybe an unlucky squirrel. Her first also missed; she’d fired too quickly, before she was fully in position, and the bullet went through the side panel of his pickup. Her next round went right through the meaty part of his thigh.

  He howled and went down, dropping his weapon, and she closed in, gun on him in the two-hand pose now, kicking his gun off to the side.

  “Hold it right there,” she ordered. “Don’t move.”

  He nodded, hands up.

  “Now roll over on your stomach,” she said. “Facedown. And be smart. Next one’s going through your lungs, and that’s not the kind of vest that helps.”

  He did it. She cuffed him. Good. Donna was in control of the situation now, but what the fuck the situation was, she didn’t have a clue.

  She ran back to her car and got on the radio. She called for backup and let them know a suspect was shot and an ambulance was needed as well. Then she told the ATF base command that something had gone very wrong.

  “What did? Who is this suspect?”

  “I have no idea,” Donna said. “I didn’t have time to ask before he shot at me. But you better move on the gun show now. Try to seal it off. I’ll stay here.”

  “Okay, but be careful.”

  “Don’t worry,” Donna said, a bit annoyed, as she was the only one who had done anything right so far. “I got it.”

  But she was wrong, about that at least, because while she was talking, another vehicle came down the highway at full speed. Seeing the roadblock ahead, the driver made a quick turn down some country road.