Ten point Five: The Bait

I’m starting to think that my story isn’t going to have a happy ending. I guess that’s to be expected when you stumble along blindly against gangsters. Whose story really ends happily, anyway? Nobody gets out of life alive.

I’m just being morbid. Killing a guy does that to you. And though I’m getting all right with the killing, death is death. Strangely, it might be life, too. I’ve been on the edge. Ragged, sure, but I’ve never been so tuned in, so motivated. I don’t sleep well, still, but when I get up in the morning, I go. I do something. I’ve always been a physical, active guy, but now I have this sense of…not urgency, exactly. It’s not a panic, though I’ve been there, too. Immediacy. That’s the word. I’m here, doing. This time, this moment—it’s intoxicating. And a distraction from my morbid thoughts.

Lenny looks even worse than when I saw him last. He’d been in the trunk a long time. I’m looking at him from behind a one-way mirror. Beyond the dehydration, he looks lost, forlorn. Clearly, Lenny knows his gang has given him the pink slip.

“Well?” Rocky asks. He wants me to finger Lenny for my assailant. Why not? If he’s off the street, he’s not going to be looking for me. Why did his employer give him up, though? I mean, he’s lousy at his job. Goes to shakedown me, gets his ass handed to him. Goes to collect money from cowed merchants, gets his ass handed to him.

“You guys get anything more off the security camera tape?” I ask.

“We’re going over it again, trying to enhance it.” They’d shown me the tape. To my great relief, you can’t tell I attacked him or identify my truck. Second time, two guys, a short body builder and a tall, mean looking Latino let him out of the trunk. They talked to him, gave him some water, then shoved him back in. I assume the Latino is the guy Salamanca warned me about.

“So they knew him, liked him well enough to keep him from dying of thirst, but not enough to let him out of the trunk,” I say. “Why?”

“Looks like they wanted to give him up. Don’t know why, but he hasn’t said anything beyond his initial outburst when we found him,” Rocky says. “So is he the guy?”

There’s something here for me. Lenny’s employer could have dumped him someplace extra dead. Why risk him talking to the cops? Probably, he’s too scared of his employer to talk, or he knows he’s going to walk. The only way the police can continue to hold him is if they find the gun he shot Jerry Gold with, or if someone testifies against him for one of his crimes. Like, say, assaulting a firefighter. That person would have to appear in court, be available. And vulnerable.

“You know, Rocky, I can’t tell. It all happened so fast.”

Rocky’s not happy with my answer. His jaw’s open and his thick brow is extra furrowed. “For crissake, Spearsy, we both know this is the guy. Just finger him and we’ll lock him up.”

“Sorry, Rock. I’m just not sure.”

Rocky’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “Never figured you to be scared or a guy like him.”

“Maybe it’s not fear.” Confusion knits his brow. I walk out of the room while he ponders.

Ten point Four: The Element of Supplies

Something will shake out soon. I can’t just shove the bag man for a gang into his own trunk and leave him there. While I wait to see what, I decide to go see Salamanca again, then go shopping.

When I get downtown, it’s raining again. Front rolled in of Lake Ontario, and it’s cooler than I like it at this time of year. Nobody answers at Salamanca’s office. I try the office line—no luck—then try his cell phone. He picks it up on the fifth ring.

“Yeah man?”

“I have a gift for you, Tony. Let me in.”

“Can’t. Not there.”

“Hey, you all right? I can barely hear you.”

“Bit of a headache. What do you need?” He sounds sleepy.

“I just shook the tree on the late Mr. Colón’s gang. Left Lenny locked in his car trunk.”

“Why would you do an idiot thing like that, Spears?” He sounds less sleepy now, but I can hear the wince in his voice. I remember that when he was with the Marines, Salamanca got shot up pretty bad and had a plate put in his head. The weather doesn’t help.

I tell him what Symphony Johnston told me, and about my theory on Lenny being Jerry Gold’s killer. “I’m thinking I need to borrow a tank or two, maybe get some backup.”

“I can’t help you on the backup right now, Spearsy, but anything I have in the arsenal is yours. I’m serious. Take whatever.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen, if you’re smart—and I know I can rule that out—you’ll use the money you took off Lenny and fly the hell to Europe. You cannot fuck around with these guys. Whatever you’re going to do, do it fully. You’re off the map and these be the monsters.”

“Okay, Ahab.”

“I’m fucking serious, Spears.” The silence between us kills the banter and drives home his point. Thankfully, he continues. I’m not sure I could keep my voice steady.

“Here’s how you get inside.”

He tells me about a key and a couple of codes, then I’m inside, up the stairs, and through his office, and inside his hidden vault. Inside is enough hardware to make Eric Holder soil his panties. Salamanca talks to me the whole way.

“From now on, set your cell phone on vibrate if you have it on at all. You don’t want to be somewhere covertly and have the thing go off. Be careful who you call with it. If you can memorize numbers, do so and delete all your contacts off it.

“Take what you want from the arsenal,” he continues, “but travel light. Keeping aware and mobile is better than trying to hide behind a lot of guns and armor. You can stay at my office, too, if you need to. I don’t know if they tracked down your home address yet. Maybe, if they checked the hospital where you stayed.”

“I don’t think so. The cop I know kept a lid on everything.”

“Call him. I’m not saying turn yourself in, but he might know something about what’s going on.”

“You read my mind on that one.”

“Watch your six, Spears,” he says before breaking the connection.

I call Rocky.

“Rocky, I was driving by the car wash on West Liberty Street and there was some sort of commotion going on. You hear anything about that?”

“Funny you ask, Spearsy. I was gonna call you with the good news. Looks like someone shoved Lenny Krastewski into the trunk of his car.”

“They know who did it?”

“Not yet. There’s a security camera on premises though. Might be a tape.”

Security camera. Crap.

“Why’nt you come in. You could finger Lenny as the guy that assaulted you.”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

The police station is the last place I want to be if they identify the assailant. I was wearing a hoody at the time to be safe, but if the camera caught my truck or license plate, I’d be walking into to my own arrest.

“Krastewski’s a funny guy,” Rocky continues. “He’s pissed off, ranting and raving. Sounds like Joe Pesci’s retarded cousin. Keeps going on about getting shoved in the trunk twice.”

“Twice?”

“You bet. I’ll explain when you get down here.”

I still don’t want to go down there, but who else would have found him besides his employers? A good Samaritan wouldn’t have shoved him back in. Maybe it’s the way gang bangers gave termination notices.

Someone has a message for me. Maybe they are on the security camera footage. It’s a gamble but I need to know.

I put Salamanca’s guns back in his vault, arm the security measures, and head down to the police station.

Ten point Three: Counterpunch

Bulldog, his neck healed, told Muerto the bad news. The gold toothed man named Lenny was not answering his phone, and he was overdue with the weekly shakedown money.

Muerto’s first instinct was to delegate it to Bulldog. His patience with Lenny had worn thin after he and Tank Daddy had bungled their bracing of the fireman. He had paid good money for doctors to put them back together again. If Lenny had gotten himself into a jam again, he didn’t much care.

He did care about the money. It was pequeño, really, but the principle of the thing gnawed at him. Lose a few thousand here and there, it added up. He was trying to get this gang back on track, after all.

Muerto would have preferred to direct his attention back to the fighting fireman, his leading suspect in Colón’s death. He wasn’t sure why he liked him for the murder—a hunch really. A lifetime ago, he had made a living off following hunches for the Policía Nacional of Colombia. But that choice was far behind him.

Most of the local gangs had been too small time to try to bump off Colón. Only one gang leader might have been capable of the hit, but Muerto had exhausted that possibility. Permanently.

The disappearance of his bag man had to be something he handled personally. He’d brought Bulldog to heel, but couldn’t count on any form of tact from the bodybuilder. More likely, relying on Bulldog would prove fatal to one or both of them. No, he had to do the thinking.

“Drive me to the collection route of Lenny,” Muerto said at last. Bulldog grumbled. Muerto knew that the thick bodied man wanted to get out on his own again, as he had been in the brief period between Colón’s death and Muerto’s arrival. A trip down the stairs and subsequent neck brace had collared the dog and he no longer appeared to have designs on running the gang himself.

In the car, Bulldog changed hits tone.

“You can’t give a dumbass like Lenny this kind of job. I freakin’ told Luís that.”

Muerto said nothing. He seemed focused entirely on the passing scenery, committing it to memory, and learning the route.

“Dumbass couldn’t even roll that fireman right. Send me next time, Angel.”

“Are you criticizing my decisions, Señor?”

“Ah, uh, no. Just sayin’ I can help…”

“Yes, you can help. I will tell you how and when in each case.”

Bulldog’s jaw clamped shut, muscles flexing.

“Right now, Bulldog, you will help us by driving the route of Lenny.”

Bulldog snapped on the car radio and glared at the road. He did keep his mouth shut, though.

Their first stop, a pizzeria, verified that Lenny had been in. Muerto let Bulldog perform the interview while he stayed in the car. Intimidation and bluntness worked fine in this case. Plus, Muerto wanted to stay as low profile as possible. As they drove to the other pickup spots, he saw how easy and open Lenny’s route had been. If something had happened to him, it wouldn’t have been hard to follow and intercept him at various points.

Still, they had no sign of the bag man by their last stop. The would have had none at all if Muerto hadn’t noticed a line of cars awkwardly backing up and changing stalls at the carwash next to their last “client”. He pointed Bulldog in the right direction.

“Sonofavbitch,” Bulldog said as they pulled up. “That’s Lenny’s car all right.”

Muerto had Bulldog wait until the line finished. Bulldog pulled in tight behind the car. Banging and yelling came from the trunk. Muerto and Bulldog got out and closed the stall’s garage door. Muerto found the trunk release inside the unlocked cabin, and sprung the lid. Lenny, bedraggled by sweat, crawled his way from inside. He was a mess from the bandages he still wore from the firehouse fight and the confinement in the trunk.

“Water,” he croaked. Bulldog got a gallon jug from his car and gave it to him. When he had revived himself somewhat, Muerto helped him to his feet.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

“Dunno, man. Guy ripped me out of the car in the middle of the wash cycle. Had a hoodie on.”

“And the money?” Muerto asked, his voice suggesting that he already knew the answer.

“He, uh. He took it.”

Muerto nodded, clapped Lenny on the back to comfort him.

“We’ll get the money back, amigo,” he said.

“How?” Bulldog asked

“We’re going to set a trap, draw this man out.”

“What kind of trap?” Lenny asked.

“One with you as the bait.” He punched Lenny hard enough in the solar plexus to drive the air from him. It wasn’t hard to double-up the already weakened man. Then, he picked him up by the belt and collar and heaved him back into the trunk.

“C’mon…man,” Lenny gasped. “It’s hot in here!”

Muerto picked up the water jug and threw it inside. It bounced off Lenny’s head. When Lenny grabbed at it, Muerto grabbed the finger he had in a cast from the botched firehouse job. Lenny stifled a scream.

“If I did not have so few men,” he said, his voice seething, “you would now be dead. But I have one more use for you. Do not fail me in this.” He slammed the lid shut.

“What’re we gonna do?” Bulldog said.

“Call the police,” Muerto said. He lifted the garage door and walked to the pay phone by the change machine. He found the business card he wanted, dropped some coins into the slot and dialed.

“Hello, Officer Luciano?” he said with no trace of an accent. “I’d like to report a crime.”

“What the hell you doin’?” Bulldog hissed through clenched teeth.

“Returning a message,” Muerto said.