Onion Street (23 page)

There are months I love and months I hate. March, for instance. I have always loved March. October too. I love October because its still-warm days beg you to play basketball in the park: no sweatshirts, no gloves, no shovels necessary to scrape away the snow and ice. I love it because while its waning heat invites you to play ball, October throws leaves on the court, leaves so much more beautiful in death than in life; leaves to remind you to savor those last moments, to savor what you have and what you have left. I hate January for its endless cold and sense of hopelessness, New Year’s notwithstanding. I’d never given much thought to February, not until that February.

On that Monday in that February, late in the afternoon, the sky was already darkening, but not quite as quickly as it had darkened the week before nor as slowly as it would the week after. That day, the sky had reneged on its promise of snow, delivering only panic in its stead. I remember that the stores were overrun by shoppers buying out milk and bread and eggs. To this day, I wonder why it is that snow makes people hungry for just those three things. That day, not all promises of white delivery were reneged on. At 4:35
P.M
., in the parking lot closest to the Eastern Airlines terminal at Kennedy airport, a van pulled up behind Bobby Friedman’s Olds 88. A big guy got out of the van, keyed the lock, and popped the trunk lid. He moved three two-kilo bricks of heroin into the trunk. According to Bobby, the bricks, like the ones he’d moved before, were covered in blue plastic and brown packing tape. The big man shut the trunk, got back into the van, and drove away. Ten minutes later, Bobby made a call from the Eastern Airlines terminal.

“It’s done,” he said. “I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing.”

“For the first time in my life, I think I do.”

“I hope it’s not the only time in your life.”

“If you can come up with a better option that doesn’t end up with the three of us dead, Bobby, let me know. Get moving, I’m going to make the call.”

Click
.

• • •

There were few benefits from my father’s litany of failures. More often than not, my dad’s going in the tank did not happen with a resounding clap of thunder but with a meek, pitiable sigh. His failures tended to play out like long, sad songs with only tears and debt collectors at the end. Although there was the occasional perk, like the time he thought he would capture the market on the next kid’s fad and bought a thousand star-shaped Hula Hoops from a Japanese importer. They were about as popular as square eggs and kosher bacon, but Aaron, Miriam, and I had a lot of fun with them. It took him about five years to sell them off, and the loss was minimal. Then there was the time he invested some money in a scheme hatched by the sons of two guys he worked with. They were going to build household computers smaller than a TV set. Sure they were.

But one of his ridiculous investments was hopefully going to pay off for me if not for him. About two years ago, he had put money into a personal storage warehouse out in Suffolk County on Long Island in someplace called Lake Ronkonkoma. Only my dad could invest in a business in a place he couldn’t even pronounce. The idea was to compete with the big cold storage warehouses by renting small lockers and garage-sized compartments to people who could come and go as they pleased. Aaron and I went with my dad for the grand opening. We knew it would fail when we saw that almost no one lived in Suffolk County, and that those who did all had big private houses with garages, backyards, and sheds. If it had been built in the city, it might’ve had a chance.
If
, now there’s a dangerous word. The building had sat empty for a year now. Technically, my dad didn’t own any part of it anymore, but I still had a set of keys. And while it might not have been the perfect place for storage, it seemed like the perfect venue for our showdown with Tony Pizza and Jimmy Ding Dong.

Among the first things I learned about sports was that there were advantages, both obvious and subtle, to playing home games. Knowing which way a ball bounces when it hits a dead spot on the court, or at what time of day the wind comes up, or at what hour the sun drops beneath the bottom ledge of the backboard to shine in your opponents’ eyes, can mean the difference between winning and losing. And since playing ball was the only thing in the world I really knew anything about, I let it guide me. Another thing I knew was that we couldn’t afford to play this game on Tony Pizza’s home court. Bobby explained that he was supposed to drop the heroin off at a body shop Tony Pizza owned on Flatlands Avenue in Canarsie, as he had previously. Scared, inexperienced, and outgunned, we were already at too much of a disadvantage. Flatlands Avenue at night was deserted, and Tony and Jimmy probably knew every inch of the place and the surrounding area. There was no way we could walk in there and have any hope of walking back out. That’s why I dropped the money down the slot of the pay phone across the street from the warehouse and dialed the number Bobby had given me.

“Body shop,” someone said at the other end.

“Let me talk to Tony or Jimmy.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Tell him it’s the delivery man. He’ll understand.”

“Hold on.”

“Yeah, Bobby, what?” Tony barked into the phone. “Get over here. I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

“For one thing, Tony, this isn’t Bobby. For another, you’re gonna have to make time.”

“Moe? Moe, I thought you split to Mexico or — ”

“I guess Bobby musta got that wrong, Tony.”

“Listen, kid, don’t let that tough Jew thing I said about you the other day go to your head. I’m not some shithead cop.”

“Don’t worry, Tony, I’m plenty scared. Me and Bobby, we both are. But we’re smarter than we are scared and we’ve gotta use the only leverage we got.”

“Leverage, huh? It’s harder to use than you think.”

“I guess we’ll find out. Meantime, Tony, write this down.”

“You know, Moe, that sounded a lot like an order. I never liked orders much.”

“Okay, sorry, Tony. Let me put it to you like this: If you want your three bricks of heroin, I would politely suggest you write this down.”

There was a second or two of confused silence, then, “Put Bobby on the phone.”

“Can’t do that, Tony. He’s not here. As a matter of fact, you won’t know where he is until we talk. I’m gonna give you a number to call and a place to call it from. When you let Lids go at that phone booth, I’ll give you an address where I’m at. I just want to have a conversation. You get your drugs, and Bobby, Lids, and me, we get to keep breathing. After we talk and reach an agreement, I’ll give you the location of the bricks. Someone will be watching you and Jimmy when you show up at the phone booth. If you don’t have Lids with you, or if you don’t let him go after we talk on the phone, or if you bring anyone with you other than Jimmy, I’ll know it. And don’t bother looking for the spotter. You won’t see him.”

“You’re takin’ big chances here, kid,” he said, trying to sound calm.

I didn’t take the bait. I was barely holding it together as it was, and I didn’t want to give him the chance to shake me any more than I already was. “Write this down,” I said, and dictated to him. “Got it?”

“Yeah.”

I hung up the phone almost before I heard it.

Almost forty-five minutes passed before the phone rang again. I’d spent the time getting the warehouse ready and trying not to freeze to death. It was Tony on the line.

“Gimme the address, kid.”

“Put Lids on the phone.”

“Okay, but I’m also gonna teach you a little lesson about usin’ leverage. You ready, Moe?” Before I could answer, I heard Tony say, “Jimmy, break the little prick’s arm.”

I shouted into the phone, but it was no good. I heard a snap and Lids screamed like he was on fire. I was sick to my stomach. The only thing that prevented me from totally losing it was the fear of what they might do next.

Tony got back on the line. “Listen to me, kid. Jimmy’s cast has some nice benefits. You don’t gimme that address right now, I’m gonna have Jimmy break every bone in this asshole’s body and then he’ll start gettin’ really nasty. Understand?”

“I’ll dump your drugs out into a sewer or I’ll call the cops.”

“You sound scared there, kid. You dump my drugs and you have no leverage, and Jimmy will kill you as slow and painful as he’s gonna kill your little piece a shit friend here. And you won’t call the cops, because I will see your friend Bobby fries with me. How long you think he’ll stay alive inside? That’s if he stays alive long enough to get inside. See, kid, leverage ain’t always what you thought it was. Now gimme the fuckin’ address and let’s talk.”

“Not until you agree to let Lids go.”

“Gimme the address and I’ll think about it.”

“No. I may not be able to make your heroin scream, but I do have matches here and I’ll make a nice toasty fire using your six kilos for kindling.”

“Fuck you. Here’s the deal. We’re taking this little prick with us, but I promise I won’t hurt him no more. Take it or leave it.”

“Here’s the address.”

I knew Tony and Jimmy were now no more than half an hour away, and I could see that my plan was going to shit.

The next twenty-eight minutes passed more slowly than the previous twenty years of my life. I tried to convince myself that that was a good thing, because they were bound to be among my last. Problem was, I was too scared to focus enough to see any value in the passage of those long, excruciating moments. And then I heard a car pull up. Two doors slammed —
bang, bang
— and then, a moment later, a third. Feet shuffled. Grit crunched and scraped beneath hard soles of men’s shoes. A metal gate swung open with a squeal like the cry of a gull. Faint voices echoed in the hallways of the vacant warehouse. As fiercely as my heart was already thumping, it thumped harder still when I noticed that there were only two sets of footfalls and that there were other sounds: the soft steady
shhhhh
of something being dragged along a dusty concrete floor, and a hushed, ghostly moaning. The roll-up steel gate that was the last solid thing standing between me and my fate was pulled up.

“The kid’s fuckin’ us around,” Jimmy said, staring into the blackness of the unit. Something crashed to the floor with a sickening thud. “Lemme go look for — ”

I switched on the Coleman lantern, shredding the veil of darkness that hid me from their view. I was seated in the far left corner of the unit, maybe thirty feet from them. As soon as I switched on the lantern, I saw exactly what I was afraid I was going to see. Lids was sprawled out on the floor before Tony P and Jimmy. He was groaning in pain. The groan was feeble and constant. His face was a pulpy, bloodied, barely human mess, his limbs bent and twisted. If I wasn’t already in knots and sick, one look at what was left of Lids would have had the same effect. At that moment, I wished the body I’d seen in the Fountain Avenue dump
had
been Lids, because that guy’s pain was over. But seeing Lids that way did something to me. It hardened me, turned me cold inside. It made me realize that I couldn’t surrender to my better instincts, that these guys meant deadly business.

I heard myself say, “You said you weren’t gonna — ”

“I kept my word, Moe. I didn’t hurt the little prick after we talked, but I didn’t say nothin’ about what Jimmy would do to him.” And he had the nerve to laugh after he said it.

Jimmy smiled his crocodile smile.

“You guys think it’s funny, huh? I’ll show you funny.”

I shined the flashlight in my left hand at the front right and front left corners of the storage unit so they could clearly see what was there: a brick of plastic explosive in each corner. Once I was sure they had gotten a good look at the plastique on either side of them, I moved the beam of the flashlight so they could see the wires running from the blasting caps to two large batteries at my feet. I turned the flash along the wires leading from the batteries to my right hand. Then I showed them what was in my hand.

“You know what this is, don’t you, Jimmy?”

“A detonator.”

“Correct. And why don’t you tell your boss what those silvery things are sticking out of the plastique.”

“Blasting caps.”

“Again, correct. You know a lot about explosives, don’t you, Jimmy Double D?”

He didn’t say anything, but smiled his chilly smile.

Then I talked directly to Tony, keeping an eye on Jimmy. “See how my thumb is pressing the button down, Tony? Anything that releases the pressure of my thumb from the switch and
baboom
! You, Jimmy, Lids, and me will get blown all to hell. See, I’d rather go this way than have Jimmy work his kinda magic on me.”

Tony said, “You’re bluffin’. Anyways, the shit Bobby was deliverin’ to those asshole bombers was fake stuff.”

I could tell by the look on Jimmy’s face that he wasn’t as sure as his boss.

“Not all of it, Tony. Remember, Bobby had to prove to them that he could deliver the goods. So the detective who was running the show gave him a few bricks to prove he was the real deal.”

Tony P pumped up his chest and smirked. “Bullshit!”

“Come on, Tony, this is Bobby Friedman we’re talking about here. Bobby, who sees all the angles in things. Wasn’t it Bobby who saw that he could use his police cover to smuggle shit for you? Detective Casey gave him three bricks for demonstration purposes, but Bobby used only one. He kept the other two just in case. And I’d have to say, this would rate as a ‘just in case.’”

“Bullshit!” he repeated. Only this time, there were cracks in the façade.

“Ask Jimmy if he thinks I’m full of shit.”

Tony P didn’t ask, but he did take a sideways glance at Jimmy. Somehow, Tony saw something in Jimmy’s reptilian face and turned back to me. The thing was, Tony P, as ridiculous as his Santa Claus physique and magic tricks had always made him seem, proved himself even more cruel than Jimmy.

“Okay, kid, you’re serious. I give you that, but what’s the deal? If my merchandise ain’t here, what’s with all the drama?”

“I needed to buy some time, so that you wouldn’t just walk in here and blow us all away. I wanna talk, to work something out. And don’t even bullshit me, Tony P. If Bobby was here with the drugs right now, only you and Jimmy would be walking outta here alive, no?”

“Bobby, he’s smart, he knows money, but you, kid, you understand people. That’s more dangerous, and it’s worth more. So you wanna talk, talk.”

“Here’s the deal: we just wanna keep on breathing.”

“I kinda figured that out already. I’m smart that way. But what’s my reason for lettin’ you?”

“Well,” I said, looking at my watch, “if I don’t call Bobby up in ten minutes from now, you’ll never see your six kilos and you’ll be out for all the money you owe the supplier. My guess is you don’t wanna be dipping into your cash to pay him for drugs you’ll never sell. You take a double hit that way. Second, Bobby will give you back the money he made off the original deal between you two, plus a little something on top as a sign of good faith.”

“How much good faith?” Tony P wanted to know.

“Twenty-five grand worth.”

“I’m still listenin’.”

“Once Bobby drops the drugs off in a safe place for you to collect them, we’re all through. There’s nothing to tie you to Bobby. He’s got nothing to tie you to anything. Me, I never had any real connection to you except the quarters you used to pull outta my ears. I don’t know anything about your operation. And even though I know it was Jimmy that killed Samantha Hope, I can’t hurt you. I got no proof.”

“Here’s the problem with that, Moe,” Tony said, holding his palms up to the ceiling. “You, I trust. I swear.” His expression was as sincere as a first kiss. “I’m sure you mean what you say and I could sleep safe at night knowing you would keep your word. Problem is, I don’t trust Bobby as far as I could t’row him, not where money’s involved. And what I’m thinkin’ is maybe you shouldn’t’ve trusted him neither. What makes you so sure he’s even gonna be on the other end of that phone when you call him up? He’s probably got the stuff stashed somewheres and he’s halfway to California by now, or maybe he’s already got a buyer for it and they’re making the swap as we speak. See, the thing is here that I know Bobby like you don’t. Bobby would never pay me back the money he made and there’s no way he’d put extra on top. Sorry, kid, I think your pal fucked you and left you holdin’ the bag.”

“But — ”

“And you know what else I think, kid? I think those explosives really are bullshit.”

“You wanna find out?”

Tony P’s face turned hard. “Maybe I do. Yeah, in fact, I’m sure I do. Jimmy,” Tony said without looking at his muscle, “this little weasel’s moanin’ and groanin’ is annoyin’ the shit outta me. Do me a favor, shut him up.”

With that, Jimmy reached underneath his coat and pulled out a .45.

“Wait a second,” I shouted, thrusting my detonator hand forward. “You’re forgetting something.”

“No, Moe, I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’. I just wanna see how serious you really are. Are you gonna blow us all up to save this drug-pushin’ piece a shit? You realize he works for me, right? Who do you think supplies him with his product, the welfare office?” Tony P smiled. “Fact is, Moe, seems like all your friends work for me.”

“Wait! Wait!” I shouted again. “I’ll let go of the — ”

Then the world changed speeds. Instead of things happening in a smooth flow of actions, one second spilling into the next, space fractured. Movement is a series of rapid still photos, a series of blackness and bright strobing flashes; sound lags sadly behind. Jimmy Ding Dong racks the slide of the automatic, a chambered bullet ejects into space. I swear I can see each individual tumble as the shell spins in midair and arcs to the ground, bouncing as it hits. Jimmy turns to look at me, his face coming in and out of focus. Then, in an eternal second, his face frozen in that cruel, icy smile of the crocodile, he has placed the muzzle of the .45 behind Lids’s left ear.

I shout again, “Wait!” but there seems to be no sound. I release my thumb from the detonator switch. Tony P is only half right. The plastic explosives are fake. The blasting caps are not. There are two bright flashes. Smoke, lightning, but no thunder. Shocked faces, panicked faces lit by the flashes emerge out of the dark background. Jimmy jerks his gun arm away from Lids and raises it at me. Another figure strobes into the frame. Bobby! Something’s in his hand. Something metal. Something I’ve seen before.

Sound returns to the world in a dizzying rush. I hear everything all at once: the racking of the .45’s slide, the pinging of the ejected bullet shell against the concrete floor, my scream, Lids moaning, the blasting caps exploding, Bobby’s footfalls. Then there is a distinct sound, a new sound:
cha-ching
. And suddenly I know what it is in Bobby’s hand. This time when lightning comes, it comes with thunder. Jimmy Ding Dong’s neck and shoulder explode in a spray of flesh and blood and bits of bone, some of it splashing onto the skin of my face. It’s warm, I think, almost like human blood. Jimmy falls forward, his .45 skittering along the cement floor to my feet.
Cha-ching!
Thunder and lightning again. Tony P goes down in a heap, his abdomen and groin a bloody red mess.

“You fuckin’ bastard!” he’s screaming in anger and agony, but paradoxical tears stream down his swollen cheeks. “You fuckin’ little bastard. I’m gonna kill you.”

Bobby, his permanent smile gone forever, puts the sole of his boot against Tony’s face, pressing it against the floor. He pumps the shotgun one last time —
cha-ching
— and places the muzzle against the soft flesh of Tony’s fat neck.

“What’s the matter, Tony Pepperoni, you fat, ugly fuck, nothing to say to me now? No fucking threats? Beg and maybe I won’t kill you slow.”

“Stop it, Bobby,” I said, voice cool.

“No, this asshole’s gonna pay for having Sam killed.”

“Put the shotgun down, Bobby,” I said, realizing that I had Jimmy’s .45 in my hand and that it was pointed at Bobby Friedman’s chest.

“Look what he did to Lids. He was gonna kill us all. He — ”

“Put it down, Bobby. C’mon, just leave him for the cops. He’s probably gonna just die here anyway.”

Then, as if what he’d just done hit him in the gut, the air and fight went out of Bobby. He laid the shotgun, the one he’d stolen from Detective Casey’s white van, on the floor behind Tony. Bobby dropped to his knees and began sobbing uncontrollably. Killing, I guess, isn’t as easy as it seems, even if the victim deserves it. What happened next is not what I thought would happen, because I found myself kneeling not over Lids but over Tony P. I was kneeling over him and pushing the barrel of Jimmy’s .45 against Tony’s cheek.

“You wanna live, Tony? Gimme the name of the cop who ratted out Samantha,” I heard myself say.

“Fuck you!”

I pressed the muzzle harder to Tony’s cheek and counted, “One … two … thr — ”

“Fitzhugh!” he shouted, his eyes getting big. “Detective Patrick Fitzhugh. He’s on the Luchese family pad. We share info sometimes and they get a taste of my profits. Now get me some fuckin’ help. Jeez, this fuckin’ hurts, man. It hurts bad.”

“Okay, when we get outta here, I’ll call you an ambulance.” I turned to Bobby. “Get Lids into the car. I’ll clean up in here.”

But almost as soon as I got those last words out of my mouth, Tony P’s body started jerking like crazy. He gasped for air, clawing at his throat. Then he stiffened. His body just kind of shook like a jolt of electricity was shot through it. And suddenly it was over. This was no sleight of hand, no illusion. Tony Pizza, or Pepperoni, or whoever the fuck he had been, was no more. There was no rabbit, no hat to pull it out of, no quarter, no ear from which to make it appear. There was nothing left of him but his fat carcass and his beloved car. I looked away from Tony to Bobby, and away from Bobby to Lids, and wondered just how different they really were from one another. It struck me that I was glad there was no mirror in the room, and I stopped wondering.