Killers

by Howie Carr

NEVER SPEAK WHEN YOU CAN NOD

  I was waiting for them outside the Burger King, one door down. I put the bag down and grabbed Patty and gave her a kiss on the lips.

  “That was beautiful,” I said to her. Then I looked over at Jack. “How about that? Couldn’t have gone any smoother. What a break.”

  “So are my ankles,” he said.

  “Your face is gonna be a mess too,” I said. “Who was that nutty, stuck-up broad?”

  “My ex-girlfriend,” he said, and I laughed again.

  “If she wasn’t your ‘ex’ before,” I said, “she sure as hell is now.”

  Reilly looked over at Patty. “Did you have to call her an old bag?”

  Patty smiled sweetly. “It got her attention, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it sure did.” He rubbed his cheekbone where her purse had struck him. He shook his head sadly, as pedestrians moved around the knot we had created on the sidewalk.

  “What’s it to you anyway?” Patty said. “I thought you said ‘ex.’”

  “Yeah, but…”

  I said, “There’s ‘ex,’ and then there’s ‘ex,’ right, Jack?”

  “Exactly,” he said, and then his eyes widened. “They’re coming,” he said, looking across Tremont Street to the Common. “It’s Donuts and the probation commissioner. We gotta get back to my car.”

  I grabbed him by the arm. “There was another bug under the table. Tiny, even smaller than mine. Has to be the feds—they’re the only ones that have state-of-the-art shit like that.”

  “No shit!” Reilly said. He seemed almost happy about it. “Great minds think alike!”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  His shitmobile was around the corner back in the alley. No ticket—his old police placard apparently still worked. My original plan had been to give him another cell phone and then drive back to Somerville with Patty. Let him monitor the pols’ bullshit. This whole thing was a long shot anyway, and we didn’t all need to be sitting in a cramped car listening to two assholes dropping names and bragging about how tough they were.

  But we’d run out of time, and now we’d all have to listen together. Plus, maybe the feds knew something we didn’t. They could have a bug in the State House too small and sophisticated for Donuts’ state cops to spot. Reilly and I got into the front seat and Patty climbed in the back, muttering about the junk—old newspapers, fast-food bags, empty GIQ bottles of Ballantine Ale. That’s what my father and uncles used to drink; until I was sitting in the backseat myself at Anthony’s the other night, I hadn’t even known they still brewed that panther piss. Patty was still grumbling loudly as she threw everything onto the floorboards or pushed it aside.

  “Shhhhh,” I told her, as I turned on the receiver. All we could hear was the usual barroom noises, laughs, clinking glasses, an occasional shout.

  “Hope we got the right booth,” I said.

  “You did,” he said. “My sources are pretty good on this sort of thing.”

  “Will the ex put two and two together?” I asked.

  “You mean, assuming she ever talks to me again.”

  In the backseat, Patty giggled. A cloud of smoke floated into my face. Patty never read the warning labels on the cigarette pack. But then she never read much, period.

  Suddenly, I heard a clear voice. “Two VOs and water, Sean.”

  “That’s Donuts,” Jack said.

  “VO and water?” repeated Patty. “Jack, do you know anyone under sixty?”

  “You mean besides the old bag?”

  “Shhhhhh,” I said again.

  “We can’t afford any more fuck-ups,” the senator said. “I thought you told me those cons at the Python knew what they were doing.”

  “They killed Sally’s nephew didn’t they? And that other wiseguy there.”

  “But none of the Somerville guys. You wanna push a war in the news, you need casualties on both sides.”

  “How ’bout those two McCarthy killed up the Hill?”

  “I meant, white casualties. How many times I gotta tell you, Drew, nobody gives a rat’s ass about spics getting shot. Or crooked hacks like your shooter there from probation. Your average citizen cheers, actually. Nobody thinks those guys are going to take over a casino. You gotta hit some of those guys over at the Alibi.”

  Reilly looked over at me. I don’t know what he was expecting me to do, wet my pants maybe. But I played a dead hand. Talk is cheap.

  “Tonight,” the commissioner said. “They’re at the Python, just waiting for the word.”

  “Normally, I wouldn’t want to know the details, but I haven’t been very impressed with your performance so far.”

  Then there was nothing, except glasses clinking. Their VO and waters had arrived.

  “Thanks, Sean,” I heard the senator say, as another cloud of smoke drifted up from the backseat.

  The commissioner was talking. “The problem is, the only way my P.O.s run into these guys is if they get caught.” P.O.s—probation officers. Like they were some kind of professionals, rather than run-of-the-mill payroll patriots. “If they get lugged, maybe my guys can recruit them. Problem is, the best ones never get caught, they learned inside, like McCarthy there. That’s why we’re having trouble. We’re using second stringers.”

  “Nobody like Bench McCarthy, eh?” the senator said.

  “You’re a legend,” Reilly said.

  “Shhhhh,” I said again.

  “He did time, Bench McCarthy,” said the commissioner. “They all do time, sooner or later. I pulled his jacket. He had a spotless record with DOC, except of course for the boog he shanked in the shower for Sally Curto.”

  “Let’s just make sure you and I don’t end up with our own jackets,” the senator said. There was an awkward silence for a moment or two before the commissioner spoke again.

  “I guarantee we’ll get somebody tonight, maybe not Bench, but some of his guys. The plan is, we bust into both of the places he might be at, shooting. The Alibi and the garage in Roxbury. He’s gotta be one place or the other, he’s never in Allston at night, and he keeps that garage open most nights ’til midnight. They’re just waiting at the Python for me to call…”

  “These guys I’m with, they want to see some results.”

  “Results? The bill’s dead, isn’t it?”

  “Gotta keep it that way,” Donuts said. “That’s what they’re paying us for.”

  “I understand,” the probation commissioner said. “But the feds are closing in on the department. They subpoenaed a whole bunch more today; my people are absolutely fucking scared shitless. They’re not used to this.”

  “And you are?” asked the senator.

  “You tell me I’m going to get taken care of, I figure I’m going to get taken care of. Your word is your bond, right?”

  Reilly glanced over at me. I didn’t know what he was thinking, but I was picking up major rat vibes from the commish. If this thing went south, the race would be on. The fact that they were cousins meant nothing, not when the Graybar Hotel loomed on the horizon. My money would be on the commish to beat feet to the feds first, because he had more to trade up—his cousin, the next president of the state Senate.

  The commissioner was still talking.

  “See, my problem is the guys at the Python are getting antsy. It’s one thing to knock over a check-cashing agency on the Lynnway, it’s another thing altogether to make a run at Bench McCarthy.”

  Fucking right it is, pal, and don’t you forget it. This is what they mean about your reputation preceding you. It really can save a lot of wear and tear on your ass.

  I stepped out of the car and took out one of my burner cell phones. I called Hobart at the Alibi. I told him to get two cars over to the Python and have them tail whoever left the bar, as long as there were at least two of them inside the car. Then I told him to find Salt and Peppa and tell them that I wanted them in Roxbury on the roof of the building across the street from the garage with sniper rifles. Then I told Hobart, get
my Bushmaster .223 out of the garage at the top of the hill and make sure it was loaded. I stepped back into the car.

  “Did I miss anything?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Reilly said. “Just some tough-guy talk. People getting whacked, hit, clipped, the usual B-movie shit.” He looked over at me. “They haven’t called the Python yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  Then they mentioned Sally, and it was time to start listening again.

  “What about Sally?” said Donuts. “We gotta get him too. That’s part of the deal with your goddamn guinea friends, that we clear the decks for them.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “So is our guy working on that?”

  “Yeah, he says he’s got it all figured out. He’s—”

  “I don’t want to know. I just want it to happen.”

  “How about your boy on Morrissey Boulevard?” the commissioner said. “Is he ready to run with this tonight?

  The senator chuckled. “Yeah, he told me he’s hearing that something might be going down tonight. That’s what his ‘sources’ are telling him.”

  Now it was the commissioner’s turn to laugh. “His ‘sources,’ huh?” He laughed. “You think he’s ever even met a gangster?”

  “Not unless the hood lives in Lincoln. That guy, I don’t think he ever leaves the Globe building, except when he’s going down to Newbury Street to buy some sixty-dollar socks.”

  “How’s he get all that great dialogue?” the commissioner said, his voice cracking up. “As if I didn’t know—”

  “I’m sure tomorrow’s piece will be full of on-the-scene reportage, cinema verité of the printed page. Maybe Bench McCarthy’s last words—”

  I took that as my cue to hit the road. I glanced over at Reilly. He looked like he wanted to say something, probably about what his girlfriend would think if she could hear this. I’d gotten the feeling she was one of these people who thought everything was on the level, or at least that the Globe was. Why else would she hang around with a fruit like the one she’d dragged into Bennigan’s? But whatever Reilly wanted to say, he thought better of it after listening to those State House coat-holders running off at the mouth about killing me. Sometimes you just leave the patter to the guy who’s calling the shots, which was me.

  “I gotta get going,” I said to him. “Can you sit on this, let me know if anything happens? I especially want to know when that commissioner asshole makes his call. Just call me and say ‘They’re in the air.’ That’s all, nothing else. Then hang up. And don’t call me again tonight.” I turned toward the backseat. “Patty, I’m gonna be tied up the next few hours. Jack’ll take you home, or you can call an Uber.”

  “I’ll stick with Jack,” she said.

  I should have leaned into the backseat and kissed her, and I should have shaken Reilly’s hand. But I was already running late.

  As I closed the door, the last thing I heard was the commissioner telling the senator, “Just makes sure McGee spells Sally Curto’s name right this time. It always cuts down on the verité of the cinema if you’re claiming to be a street guy yourself and you can’t even spell the Mafia guy’s name right.”

  “It’s the Globe,” the senator said. “What do you expect? It’s not like they’re writing about somebody important like Harvey Milk.”

  I was barely listening now. I felt it coming on, the tingly sensation I always get when I’m looking for somebody, and I don’t mean looking for somebody who owes me money. I opened the door of Reilly’s car, got out of the front seat, slammed the door and headed toward Tremont Street to pick up my car behind the State House.

  I knew what I had to do, and I only had one question. Who was this guy who was coming after Sally? I was pretty sure I knew, but I had to be sure. Damn, if only they’d dropped his name. Stupid fucks, name-dropping left and right like the civilians they were, but on the most important one, the real turd in the punch bowl, the snake at the garden party, they dummy up.

  I could feel the goose bumps on the back of my neck.

  34

  BEYOND A REASONABLE DOUBT

  Patty had moved into the front seat and was listening to the conversation, which had descended even further into inanity and pseudo-machismo.

  “Jack,” Patty said, “are these assholes as slimy as they seem, listening to them?”

  “Slimier,” I said.

  “They like to sound tough, don’t they? But they really aren’t, are they?”

  “They’re not going to be in that car driving to the Alibi tonight, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be in that car tonight, would you?”

  “No, Patty, I wouldn’t.”

  The conversation dragged on for a few more minutes. I was afraid they were going to order another round, but I got lucky. About twenty minutes after Bench left, the commissioner dialed his phone and said, “Dónde está Toro?” The Bull indeed. In English he told Toro it was time to move, and Patty looked at me.

  “You want I should call Bench?” she said.

  I shook my head and dialed his number.

  “They’re in the air,” I said, and he replied, “Okay,” and then hung up.

  “Wanna go somewhere and have dinner, Jack?” she said, and the temptation was great, very great. But I needed her kind of trouble like, well, like a hole in the head. Plus, I did have an appointment in Dedham, thank God. I told her no and she said, “Is that snotty bitch from the Globe really your girlfriend?”

  “Used to be,” I said.

  She regarded me closely. She was interested in me, not physically, thank God, but in a gossipy high school who’s-dating-who kind of way.

  She asked me, “You think you’re going to make up with her?”

  “I don’t think the time is exactly right,” I said. If the time was ever right. Patty seemed calmer now, a different woman almost. But she was just a kid, no matter how Hollywood she looked, or how long she’d been running around with Bench.

  “Are you pissed at me?” she said, touching an old-fashioned metallic cigarette lighter with her engraved initials to a Newport.

  “Nah,” I said, truthfully. “What happened was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

  “You getting anything on the side, Jack?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said evasively. The truthful answer would have been no, period. But no guy wants to look like a loser, especially when you’re sitting next to someone who looks like Patty Lamonica.

  I started the Oldsmobile and headed over to Ball Square. Normally I would have gone straight up Winter Hill on Broadway, but that meant passing the Alibi, and I didn’t feel like getting caught in any cross fires, so I took Medford Street through Magoun Square—a name I’ve always considered particularly appropriate, given the high percentage of goons in the neighborhood. Then I turned left onto Broadway.

  “Can I ask you another question, Jack?”

  “Sure. I don’t know if I can answer it, but I’ll try.” Good Lord, I was sounding almost fatherly.

  “I couldn’t quite follow that conversation,” she said. “Why do these people want to kill Bench and Sally?”

  “As best I can tell,” I said, “it appears that some big casino company with more money than brains got aced out on the action—there’s only three licenses up for grabs, and one of ’em’s for the Indians. So this company—I don’t even know which one it is, just that it was one of the losers—decided to try to kill the bill until next year when everything would start over, on a level playing field. So they went to Donuts, and somehow he sold them on this insane idea of killing Bench and Sally. Maybe his cousin came up with the scheme, I don’t know. Anyway, Donuts figured that if he could make it seem like the local element was already fighting over the spoils, the pols at the State House would get cold feet. His cousin, the commissioner, is about to get indicted, and he’s already got a bunch of crooked guys he had to fire looking for work, so they had plenty of talent warming up in the bullpen, or so they thought.”


  “But they really didn’t?”

  “No,” I said. “The guys they sent out, the cons and the crooked P.O.s, they could fuck up a wet dream, pardon my French.”

  She laughed at that. They’re not making Catholic schoolgirls like they used to, if she’d ever been one, which I doubted.

  I said, “Whatever, they couldn’t close the deal.”

  “Because of Bench?”

  “Because of Bench.”

  “Why are the feds after the Probation Department?” she asked.

  “Because the P.O.s—the probation officers—they all paid off pols to get their jobs, and now the feds want to know who they paid, and how much, so they’re terrified of going to prison, the P.O.’s. And the commissioner there, he’s talking tough, but usually, the tougher they talk, the faster they fold. He’s got to be in the crosshairs. Did you hear Bench say there was another wire under their table? That’s got to be feds. And from what I heard, it sounded like the commish was telling Donuts—the senator—that he expects to have Donuts taking care of him.”

  “What do you mean, ‘taking care of him’?”

  “That means he gets his end, even if he goes down.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then Donuts goes down too.”

  “How’d they get hooked up, those two?” she asked.

  “Cousins, and birds of a feather,” I said. “The senator had some walking-around money from the casino company. And he knew the commish was all jammed up with the feds and might have access to wiseguys—make that, wannabe wiseguys—who might be talked into trying to take out your boyfriend.”

  She considered that for a moment. Then she asked me, “They really aren’t good people, are they?”

  “No, they’re not,” I agreed.

  I pulled the car up in front of Bench’s condo in Ball Square.

  Patty said, “Did you hear that guy saying that somebody was trying to set up Sally?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Who was the guy they were talking about?”

  “I think Bench knows, but it’s a big shot, a made guy probably, Mafia, and with guys like that, it’s like proving something in court.”

  “You mean, beyond a reasonable doubt?”