Piece Work

 

By David Grace

 

 

It was a late December night, bitter and black, when Eddie Montefusco made his last transaction of the dying year.  Joe "The Crow" DiSalvo was the boss of a crew that specialized in hijacking trucks leaving theJersey City piers.  A few days before they had grabbed a semi that contained two crates of H&K nine millimeter semi-autos, a total of 48 pieces, and a box of extra clips.

Eddie loved guns. He loved the feel of them, the way the steel slid under his palm, the faint smell of lubricating oil, the refined "snick-snick" when the mechanism was engaged. In another time and place Eddie might have been have been a gunsmith or an armorer, but in the middle twentieth century in the New York City he had found his niche as the principal supplier of weapons to the Abruzzi Family and their favored associates.

Now Eddie crouched behind the wheel of his midnight blue DeVille and watched the distant lights of the Brooklyn Bridge blur into yellow smears as the windshield fogged with his exhalations. Air tinged with the scent of rusty iron crept in past the closed doors. The Caddy was parked behind a sagging five story brick and wood factory that had made sewing machine parts sometime around the turn of the century and now was the partitioned headquarters of a number of marginal enterprises -- an importer and distributor of Taiwanese toys; a wholesale meat packer; a bootleg tape and record duplicator; a fake charity boiler-room, and half a dozen more.

A little after nine DiSalvo arrived in his old Buick and pulled up pointing the other way, driver's window to driver's window. Motors hummed as both men rolled down the glass. The moonless sky made Joe's dark skin even duskier, his eyes barely more than round black disks.

"Any problems?" Joe asked, glancing around the deserted lot.

"Only that I'm gonna freeze my ass off if we don't do this thing."

Joe took another quick look into the corners of the lot. "Right," he grunted, then pulled forward until the two trunks were side by side with the cars pointed in opposite directions. They called him Joe The Crow because of his dark skin, blacker even that lots of colored people. Eddie thought of that actor, George Hamilton, and smiled. Joe would have been happy if they had called him "Joe the Actor" instead of "Joe the Crow." All those jokes, "Hey, Joe, you sure your family didn't take a detour to Africa on the way over from Sicily?" drove him nuts, and after a lifetime of fighting, rage now simmered in Joe's heart at a constant low boil. It was something that made him a good guy to boss a crew.

Nobody was going to cross Joe the Crow or hold out on his share. No trucker with a wife and a couple of kids was going to say no to him or disbelieve him when Joe said that if the truck wasn't parked at a certain place at a certain time that the guy was going to have a really painful accident. But one of these days Joe was going to go off on a made guy or a guy with connections, or he'd be on the wrong side of a war, and the cops were going to find Joe the Crow with his brains on his shoes.

The Crow had removed the pistols from their original shipping containers and re-packed them in two Ken-L-Ration dog food cartons, six flat boxes per layer, four layers per carton. The clips were stashed inside a couple of boxes labeled "Milk Bone Dog Biscuits - Large."  Eddie checked a couple of the pieces, verified that they were brand new in their original plastic wrapping, and nodded to The Crow as he handed over an envelope containing twenty-five hundred dollars, fifty per gun and an extra hundred for the clips.

"You know, you're gettin' a hell of deal on these," The Crow complained as he dropped the boxes into the DeVille's big trunk.

"Yeah, they look like they're in good shape," Eddie said in a flat voice, directing his breath into his cupped hands.

"Good shape? These pieces are brand new! They're worth two, three hundred easy."

Eddie breathed into his palms again then closed the trunk with a solid thunk.

"If it wasn't for Jimmy D standin' up for ya, I'd take these to Brooklyn and sell 'em myself to the Spics, get a hundred, hundred fifty a piece for 'em, no sweat." Joe the Crow glared at Eddie, daring him to disagree. It was all bullshit, Eddie knew. Joe might have a line into a freight forwarder who tipped him off about shipments. He might know how to bribe a teamster to give up his load, but he didn't know shit about selling guns, who wanted them, what they would pay, who would turn you in and who wouldn't, who you could trust to take them five at time and not roll over on you and who you couldn't. Three days after Joe sold his first piece to some junkie asshole, the guy would be rolling around in his cell, screaming out Joe's name for a little rhythm and a dose of Methadone.

"Yeah, Joe, it's a good deal. I'll tell Jimmy D. we did some good business."

"Fuckin' A!" Joe swore as Eddie got back behind the wheel.

As Eddie drifted the big Caddy silently out of the lot, Joe, hands on his hips, glared after him, as if Eddie had just cheated him of his life savings. Eddie turned left on Sprague and headed toward the bridge with Joe a diminishing silhouette in the mirror. But even Joe the Crow wouldn't screw with Eddie. Eddie was useful, necessary, and protected. Anyone who screwed with Eddie would have Jimmy D and the Old Man himself on his ass and Joe knew it. Still, he was still half a whack job and Eddie was careful to treat him with respect. People acted stupid, after all, and they did things that got themselves killed all the time.

Only one light was on when Eddie pulled into his garage, a big one, two cars wide, unusual in Brooklyn, not like the fancy houses in Connecticut or on the Island. This was an old house from the turn or the century or before. Eddie had bought it cheap and spend a fortune fixing it up, tearing out walls, demolishing the old single car garage, adding extra features no normal house would have, like the hidden room between the garage wall and the back of the kitchen.

Eddie unlocked the tool cabinet and turned a couple of ordinary looking screws to the three and twelve o'clock positions. A sharp snap sounded as a bolt withdrew and Eddie swung a section of the wall back on concealed hinges. The H&K's soon joined the model 1911 .45s, the Ruger .22's, the sawed off twelve gauges, even a couple of old Thompson machine guns and some newer Sten guns with the crazy clip coming out the side. Eddie closed the door, turned the screws back to their original two and eleven o'clock positions, then let himself into the house through the kitchen door.

Elaine was in the bedroom her face washed in flickering light.

"Objection -- incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial."

"Sustained. Mr. Mason, please confine your questions to the witness's direct knowledge."

That DA was always making those same stupid objections, but Mason would still get the killer to confess on the stand by the end of the show. Shit, Eddie thought, as if that ever happened. Eddie frowned but didn't say anything aloud. Elaine loved that dumb show.

"The kids give you any trouble?" he asked automatically as he unbuttoned his shirt.

"They're fine," Elaine said in a rush that made it clear she didn't want to miss Mason's cross examination. "Oh," she said a few moments later when the commercials came on, "you got a call. I wrote it down on the pad."

"Only Kent has the Micronite Filter," The man on the TV said.

"Paulie," the note said in Elaine's precise hand, followed by a Manhattan number. Eddie didn't ask what Paulie wanted. No one ever discussed business with wives.

"Yeah, this is Eddie," he said when the phone picked up. "I'm at home. You called me?"

"Eddie, listen we need--"

"I said I was at home!" Eddie repeated harshly. Jeeze, the feds tapped phones all the time.

"Yeah, sure. Willie wants to talk to you -- now. He'll expect you at the Top in half an hour."

The Top was the Tip Top Lounge on 25^th in the City, one of half a dozen places the guys hung out where they figured they would know if the Feds tried to put in any mikes.

"Tell him it'll be forty-five minutes in case there's some tie-up on the bridge." Eddie hung up and turned to Elaine. "I've got to go out. Business."

"But you didn't know about the second will, did you Mr. Jenkins?" Mason's voice called from the TV. "That's why you lured Robert Martell to the stables. That's why you picked up that pitchfork. That's why you killed him, isn't it Mr. Jenkins!"

"I didn't mean to kill him. It was an accident," Jenkins whined.

Eddie couldn't see the TV, just the wash of light across Elaine's face, the tilt of her head, the soft smile on her lips as the villain confessed his crime, the swell of her breasts within her silk pajamas, the dimples her nipples made in the fabric, how young she still looked even after having two kids, his kids, sleeping peacefully down the hall in their big, comfortable, paid-for house. Eddie marveled how good his life was and how lucky he was. Hurriedly, he walked over to the bed, bent, and kissed Elaine passionately. After an instant's surprise she relaxed and opened her mouth. Eddie cupped her breast and felt her nipple harden against his palm.

"Wow, what's gotten into you?" she asked softly after he had pulled away, his hand still messaging her breast.

"Nothing," Eddie said, "just thinking . . . nothing." He removed his palm and stepped back. "I don't know how long this will take." Elaine didn't have to speak. Her face displayed her thoughts as if printed on a page. "Nothing like that," Eddie said, more harshly than he had intended. "It's just business," he continued in a softer tone. "I've got to meet a guy, a guy Elaine. . . . Can I wake you up when I get back?" Slowly, the doubt slipped from her face.

"You know, Eddie, I wasn't--"

"When I get back." Eddie kissed her again, grabbed his overcoat from the straight-backed chair by the door, and hurried down the stairs.

 

*    *     *

 

The Top was jammed but the patrons moved aside for Eddie as he headed for Willie's customary table in the back, a horseshoe-shaped burgundy leather booth. Willie Bats, one of the Old Man's Capos, sat deep inside with Bobby Metrano, his right-hand guy, to one side and Paulie Lozano, his gofer on the other. When Eddie appeared Paulie slid out and headed for the bar.

"You ever heard about some kind of gun called an M-16?" Willie asked as soon as Eddie slid into Paulie's seat.

"Yeah, the Army's been testing it. There's talk they're going to use it instead of the M-18." Eddie didn't ask why Willie wanted to know. Only a fool asked Willie Bats unnecessary questions.

"Can we make any money on it, I mean if he had a lot of them?"

Eddie frowned and shook his head.

"Not unless we're equipping an army. It's a military weapon."

"But it can go full auto, right, like a machine gun? There should be people who'll pay a lot for that."

"Only if you're taking down a police station or Fort Knox. It takes special bullets too, so ammunition would be a problem."

"You're telling me," Willie growled, "that nobody would buy these things?"

"I didn't say nobody." Eddie lifted his palms and half shrugged. "Sure, there'll be some crazy who wants to take down the First National Bank and thinks he needs a lot of fire power. Maybe some foreign nuts like those guys in Ireland, the IRA? I guess if we could deliver them to Belfast or someplace like that they'd pay pretty good for them."

"So, you could sell them?" Shit! Now Eddie knew where this was going. Willie had some deal where he was getting paid in these damn guns. Some jerk in an army camp owed the Outfit money and this was how he was going to pay off his debt and Willie wanted someone to turn the damn things into cash, somehow, some way. This was a ticket to disaster. The goddamn Feds would go nuts if one of their brand new army guns turned up on the floor of some knocked-over liquor store.

"Look, Willie, this isn't going to work. It isn't going to make near enough money for the trouble it's going to cause. The damn things'll stand out like a sore thumb. They'll attract too much attention, too much heat to be worth the trouble."

"So, you're not gonna to help me?" Willie said in a dead quiet voice.

"I am going to help you. You asked for my expert advice. I'm giving it to you. Forget these damn guns. We start selling them, we're gonna to end up with shit on our hands."

"Even if I've got a buyer?"

"What kind of buyer?"

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing, nothing. It's just that, look, Willie, most people can't use these things. Anyone who can, he's probably big trouble. My advice is, let it go. Give this one a pass."

"Who the hell are you to tell me my business! 'Give it pass'? Screw that! I'm a business man and I don't turn my back on money because some candy ass is running scared."

Willie already had the guns, Eddie realized. He probably thought they were such a great deal that he had grabbed them right off and figured he'd get Eddie to sell them for a cut. Now if Eddie wanted no part of them, Willie was stuck with them, screwed royally, all because Eddie wouldn't do what Willie wanted him to. Shit, I'm screwed, Eddie thought.

"So, how long is it gonna take you to sell these for me?"

"I don't know."

"You've got a week."

Eddie knew things weren't going to get any better in a week.

"Willie, I don't know how to sell these guns. A week, a month, a year, it's all the same. I can't sell them for you."

"You're telling me you won't even try?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Now I've got to tell you your business?  Make some calls. Look 'em over. Make a damn effort!"

"Okay, I'll take a look at them, make sure they're in good condition, check 'em out.

"Good, because--"

"Then we'll see what we see."

Willie opened his mouth but Eddie cut him off, "But I'm not making you any promises. How do I get a look at them?"

"Paulie'll take you," Willie growled, not even looking in Eddie's direction. He waved at Paulie who stood at the bar, watching.

"It's late, Willie, how about--"

"Take Eddie over to see the stuff," Willie told Paulie as if Eddie didn't exist. Eddie frowned but kept his mouth shut. Willie did not like to be disagreed with, and when disappointed someone generally ended up in a lot of pain.

Once outside Paulie popped the locks on his gold T-Bird -- pimpmobile, Eddie thought to himself -- and headed for the warehouse district along the East River. Paulie pulled thirty feet down an alley between two gray concrete warehouses and unlocked a new deadbolt on a steel door. The power switch made a loud "thunk" and lights in the rafters blazed. The floor was a maze of wooden crates. Paulie led them to the far corner. Under a tarp was a pile of twenty boxes each about four feet long, a foot high and two feet wide. Paulie grabbed a crowbar and levered up one of the lids. Six new M-16s were racked into frames inside.

"Them two are the bullets," Paulie said pointing to a pair of square crates at the end of the row.

"Shit, shit shit!"

"What's wrong?"

"How the hell is the army going to lose these things and not notice they're missing? Crap, you might as well steal a tank or a god damn atomic bomb!"

"Don't worry about it. Willie, he's got it covered."

"Yeah, sure he does. Let's get the hell out of here."

"Which one do you want?"

"What?"

"Willie wants you to check 'em out, make sure they work right. He don't know nothin' about guns, 'cept how to grease a guy." Paulie cackled at his own joke. Eddie scowled and looked longingly at the door, then reluctantly pulled one of the weapons from the case. "Better take some bullets if you're gonna test it out."

"Shit!"

Taking Eddie's curse for agreement, Paulie pried open one of the ammo crates and handed Eddie a box of fifty cartridges.

Twenty minutes later Paulie pulled up next to the DeVille and waited while Eddie put the gun and ammo into the Caddy's trunk, then he floored it, screeching off into the night. Eddie slammed the trunk lid, then kicked the driver's rear tire and shouted "Damn! Damn! Damn!" with each blow. This is not gonna turn out well, Eddie told himself over and over as he headed down the half-deserted streets toward the bridge. Three blocks on the Brooklyn side Eddie proved himself a prophet when a red light appeared in his rear view mirror.

Oh shit.

Eddie pulled over and a dirty blue and white NYPD cruiser parked behind him. Eddie rolled down the window but the cop stood back with his palm resting on the butt of his gun. A second patrolman took a position at the Caddy's rear with an angle on the driver's door.

"Step out the car please," the cop ordered.

Eddie carefully exited and kept his hands, palms up, and in plain sight. "What's the problem, Officer?" he asked politely.

"Step to the rear of the vehicle, please." Walking slowing and carefully, Eddie complied.

The second cop turned a flashlight on Eddie's face. "License, please."

Eddie slowly removed his wallet and handed over his license.

"We've had a report of a car like this one used in a robbery," the cop explained in a more polite tone.

"I understand. I appreciate the job you do."

"Is this your current address?"

"Yes, it is."

"Is this car registered to you?"

"Yes, it's my car."

The cop looked Eddie up and down, his gabardine slacks, white shirt, sport coat, then at the year old Cadillac, nodded and returned Eddie's license. The flashlight beam flicked off and Eddie's vision began to return. For a moment Eddie relaxed and exhaled a long breath, then he noticed the black Ford parked fifty feet behind the cruiser and the two silhouettes outlined against the glass.

Right on cue, the second cop pointed to a dead passenger side tail light.

"What happened to your tail light?"

Eddie stared at it, not even surprised. "Jeeze, I don't know. I guess it burned out."

"We'll have to give you an equipment violation ticket."

Shit, here it comes.

"Would you mind opening the trunk, Mr. Montefusco?"

"What for?"

"We need to check the wiring on the light, make sure it's not shorted out. It could cause a fire."

"I'm sure it's just a burned-out bulb. I'll replace it tomorrow and come into the precinct and get it signed off."

"We had a bad trunk fire a couple of weeks ago, set off the gas tank. Destroyed a couple of parked cars, a real mess. We'd better check this out, just to be safe." The cop nodded to his partner who leaned into the car and retrieved the keys.

"I don't agree to my car being searched," Eddie said as the first cop headed for the trunk.

"We're not searching your car, Mr. Montefusco. We're just making a safety check."

The first cop turned the key and the trunk light gleamed dully from the M-16's matte black plastic stock.

"Whoa, what's this?" the cop said in mock surprise as he picked up the weapon. The second cop lifted the box of shells. "Fifty .223 cartridges? What were you planning to do with these, Mr. Montefusco?"

"This is an illegal search. I want to talk with an attorney."

"Hands on the car, please," the first cop said in an almost bored voice. After patting Eddie down and cuffing his hands behind him, they turned off the Caddy's lights and led him to the black Ford parked down the street.

"Where are you taking me?"

"You can sit down in that car while we wait for instructions. Maybe we need to take you to the Feds, ATF or something. It's going to take us a little while to figure this out."

You say your damn lines so well you must've had the lead in your high school play, Eddie thought to himself.

The guy in the driver's seat immediately got out and lit up a cigarette. The cops put him into the Ford's back seat. A big guy in a white shirt and dark gray suit turned toward him from the front passenger seat.

"Mr. Montefusco, I'm FBI Special Agent Harold Bolger."

"I want to talk to a lawyer."

"Mr. Montefusco, how about I treat you like an intelligent person cut out all the bullshit?"

Eddie glared at Bolger, then nodded.

"In order to do that, we have to have a little agreement. Nothing I say to you and nothing you say to me gets repeated to lawyers or judges. That okay with you?"

"Everything's off the record?"

"On both sides. Do we have a deal?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Turn around and I'll take off the cuffs."

Eddie rubbed his wrists and turned them toward the Fed. Bolger was broad-shouldered, getting a gut, and with thinning sandy brown hair. It was too dark to make out the color of his eyes.

"Okay, Eddie, here's the deal. You're screwed."

"Look, if you're--"

"Eddie, I said no bullshit. You're screwed. I know it. You know it. I've got you with a fully automatic weapon and ammunition both stolen from a U.S. Army arsenal. I've got your prints on the gun. We both know I'm going to find your prints on the crate it came out of. And yeah, we know about the warehouse. I've also got a tape recording of you discussing the guns with Willie Battaglia."

"You've got a tape--"

"Willie should know better than to always use the same booth. That's just not smart. Now with all that evidence I can get a warrant to take your house apart board by board. I know you think you've hidden your inventory but I promise you that we will either find it or you'll be left with noting but a piling of kindling. Then your lawyer can sue the government for the next ten years trying to collect for the damage and you know what, he never will. And even if you did win, by the time you paid the attorney's fees, you'd still lose. Of course, by that time, it wouldn't matter to you because you'd be doing seven to ten federal time. Don't look so surprised. I told you I wasn't going to give you any bullshit. But, let's say that your lawyer is really good and you spend yourself broke paying him and he gets you out in only three or four years. Your kids are what, seven and ten?"

"You leave my kids out of this, you son of bitch!"

"I'm telling you how it's going to go down, Eddie, unless we make a deal."

"A few years in the joint is better than dead forever."

"Eddie, listen to me. We don't have much time. Those cops can only keep this off the books for a few more minutes. This can go two ways: One, you're a collar, we take your house apart and find your inventory, you go to the joint first on federal charges, then you get prosecuted again on state charges and take trip up to Ossening for whatever we find in your house. In the meantime your wife goes on welfare, your kids grow up with a jailbird father, and you get out in time, maybe, to see your oldest graduate from high school, if he hasn't dropped out to get a job to support your wife, unless she's divorced you and married somebody else who's their new daddy. It's not a pretty story. But you've got an advantage here, see, because I don't want to do it. I don't want to wreck your life. I don't want to ruin your marriage. I don't want to destroy your family. Hell, I don't even want to put you in jail. You're not the guy I'm after, Eddie. I'm perfectly happy with you not doing one day in the joint, never even seeing the inside of a courtroom. I don't even want to put you out of business.

"So that's the second way it could go. You could go home, right now. No arrest, no record, no charges, no search warrant."

"If . . . ?"

"Come on, Eddie, no bullshit, remember?"

"If I cooperate."

"No, not if you cooperate. If you give me everything. Every gun you ever sold. Everybody you ever sold one to. Every job they were used in. Every job you ever heard about. A heads-up on every job that's going to happen, everything you're going to do, everything you hear, everything. You're going to be a human tape recorder on everything, on everyone, no exceptions."

"Human tape recorder -- human rat you mean!"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean. You get immunity for what you're doing. You get to keep the money you make selling guns, so long as you pay your income taxes." Bolger's teeth glowed white with a quick smile. "And--" he continued in the face of Eddie's scowl, "you get to keep your house, your bank accounts, your wife and your kids. Kids who'll never see their father's picture with a number around his neck. Kids who'll never see their father in a jail cell. A wife who'll never be on welfare or hitting the bars to find some jerk to take your place and pay the bills while you rot up in Leavenworth or Sing Sing. That's your choice.

"You put the finger on murderers, sadists, stick-up artists, and thieves and save your family, or you let them go on killing and robbing and stealing and you destroy your entire lifeB No!" Bolger said, holding up his hand as Eddie was about to speak. "No bullshit, Eddie. You chose this life. You chose these guys. You chose this job. You chose to put your wife and kids in this position. Don't blame me. I caught you fair and square. You knew the odds. You knew the risks. You knew what could happen and now it has. So, don't call me any names. Don't blame me. This is the life you've chosen. It's on you now to make another choice. Freedom," Bolger held up his right hand, "or prison." He raised his left. "Family or dirt bag killers. Which one is it going to be?"

"If they find out. . . ." And that's when Bolger knew he had him.

"They might. You're surprised I didn't give you the 'no one will ever know' speech. Come on, we're both grownups here. Somebody might put two and two together. Some clerk might get bribed and go rummaging through the files. Some asshole Assistant U.S. Attorney might figure he's got to put you on the stand if the case is big enough and he can't make it any other way. If that happens, we'll give you and your family new identities, a new home in another city, a new job, a new life. Can I guarantee your safety? Who's kidding whom? There are no god damn guarantees in life, Eddie. You know that.

"You could be sitting in the deli drinking a cup of coffee and eating a prune Danish and some asshole hits the gas instead of the brake and punches your ticket right there. Life isn't perfect and I'm not going to tell you it is. What I will tell you is that I won't lie to you, that I will keep you out of jail if you play it straight with me, and that I'll do my damnedest to protect you and your family. And that's a lot. So, do you want to go home or do you want to go to jail?"

Eddie looked through the windshield at the two cops. "If either of them talk.. . "

"The tall one, his older brother's an agent. I've known the kid since he was fourteen. I helped him get on the force. I'm going to get him into the bureau in a couple of years. He's as straight as they come. His partner is Jerry Amici. His father and his mother and his older brother were killed when the mob blew up their dry cleaning shop when they went to the cops rather than pay protection. He'd rather have his tongue ripped out than give your friends the time of day. I picked them very carefully. You never have to worry about either of them."

Eddie paused a long heartbeat then looked Bolger in the eye.

"So how will this work?"

"I'll call you tomorrow. We'll set up a meet and go over the rules. We'll get together from time to time with a tape recorder. You'll give me a complete history of everything you've ever done and I'll get you full immunity. I'll give you an emergency number if you hear anything I need to know about. We'll work out all the details tomorrow. Any other questions?"

"No."

"You're clear about the rules? You change your mind, you're toast."

"I'm not stupid. Once I do this, once I talk to you, I can never go back. They find out I ever talked to you, it doesn't matter what you charge me with. They find out and I do one day in the joint, I don't come out alive."

"Okay, we have a deal," Bolger said, and did something that surprised Eddie. He held out his hand. Eddie stared at it for a long moment, shivered, knowing that his life had irrevocably changed, then, slowly, reached out his own hand.

 

*    *     *

 

The house was dark when Eddie pulled into the garage, well past two. The middle tread in the stairs squeaked louder than usual it seemed to him. The kids were asleep, the little whines of their breathing barely audible in the long upstairs hall. Eddie undressed in the dark and left his clothes in a pile just inside the bedroom door. As he slipped into bed he charted Elaine's even breaths, a pattern he knew so well after all these years. He stared at her, the faint outline of her face in the dark and was amazed at how desperately he loved her, as if she, or he, had recently died and come back to life to discover that what had been lost had magically been restored.