Boston Noir (21 page)

The dock doors on the building were pulled down and a sign read,
No Deliveries After 11 a.m
.

At the top of the cement steps there was an employee entrance door. Michael pressed a black button inside a brass ring and a shrill bell sounded. He backed down a couple of steps just before the door flew open. There stood a tall, young man. Michael had delivered here many times, and this receiver, Victor, always acted as if he'd never seen him before. Victor sported his usual Sha Na Na get-up: starched white T-shirt, new jeans, and an elaborate hairdo.

"What?"

"I've got a delivery."

"Can you read?" Victor jerked a thumb in the direction of the roll-up door and the
No Deliveries
sign.

"I sure can. Let me help you out." Michael squinted at the sign and moved his lips. "It says,
No Smoking
. Okay now, Bowzer, you do me a favor. Go tell Junior I have his delivery."

Victor shifted his weight to his left foot, reached up to grab the doorjamb with his left hand, and stretched his right out to grab the other jamb. Michael closed the distance between them and, using both hands, grabbed Victor high on his arms and pressed his thumbs into the nerves on the inside of Victor's biceps. Michael pushed him inside the darkened warehouse while Victor emitted a series of high-pitched yips.

"You gonna boot me in the kisser?" Michael said. He grabbed the front of Victor's T-shirt with two hands and twisted it hard to the right, and the man toppled to the side, almost to the floor. Michael held onto him, then lifted him back up and released his shirt. He pretended to smooth out Victor's tee and dust him off.

"Now, Victor," Michael smiled and patted him on the cheek, "go get Junior, or so help me God I'll muss up your swirly hairdo."

He shoved Victor backwards, just as another man came out into the warehouse from the office. This man had a confused and unhappy look on his face. "Hey, what's going on? Who is this guy?"

"I'm Michael Mosely and you're Junior. I have a delivery for you."

"Oh no. No. You didn't bring them here." He ran to the exit door and looked out. "Is that them? Tell me you didn't. Mr. T. is on his way here. We're all dead."

"Give me our money. I'll drop the trailer. You can give it back to Mr. T.," Michael said.

"No!" Junior raised his hands in the surrender pose. "No. I'll give you the hundred I promised your brother, I have the cash, but you gotta screw, with the truck."

"Okay. Get the money."

"No, get out of here and come back later."

"And what, you'll give me a check?" Michael said.

Junior walked over to a tall, gray metal desk against the wall, opened a drawer, and pulled a pistol out. He pointed it at Michael. "Get going. Move."

Michael walked down the steps, over to the tractor, with Junior right behind him. Michael opened the door to the tractor and turned. "Where do you want it?"

"Take off, or I'll shoot you where you stand," Junior said.

"Don't be hasty. I'll get the trailer out of here after I get the money. My pals in the van across the street there have guns pointed right back at you."

Junior kept his weapon on Michael and pivoted around in a half-circle. The back door of the van was open. TJ and Larry were inside on the floor with pistols aimed at Junior.

At that moment, a bright yellow Lincoln Continental came around the corner and rolled to a stop right beside Junior and Michael. The rear window on the driver's side slid down to display a very old man who looked as if he had been poured into the folds of the leather seat. He had an inert, baggy face, and the thin, wispy hair of a newborn.

"Junior, is that my driver you're menacing with a firearm?"

The Lincoln driver's tinted window stayed closed. The engine burbled, and Michael imagined a couple of slicked-down gorillas in the front seat pointing their guns at Larry and TJ.

"We're just kidding around, Mr. Tortello," Junior said. He bent down and looked in the backseat. "I didn't know until late last night these cigarettes were yours. I called Pop to ask him what I should do."

"Your father called me from Atlanta, Junior. He's green-lighted you, if I feel I've been insulted. You weren't trying to insult me by stealing from me, were you?"

"Goodness no, Mr. T." He put his hand on his collarbone and raised his eyes skyward. "I would never."

"Is that my load of cigarettes?"

"Yes sir, it is," Junior said.

"How much money do you have inside?" Mr. T. asked.

"I don't know exactly. Maybe two hundred thousand."

"How much were you going to pay this fella?"

"A hundred. But honestly, Mr. T., I had no idea--"

"A salesman from my company offers you a hot truck and you didn't ask yourself if it could be mine?" Mr. T. shook his head. "Sadly, Junior, I believe you. Do you know why? Because it's a well-known fact you're an imbecile. Your poor father is in prison because you're an imbecile, but why should I do his dirty work? He can kill you himself when he gets out. Go in and get my money, Junior."

"Absolutely. How much should I get?"

"All of it. Take whatever cash your employees have on them too. You can reimburse them later."

"You bet, Mr. T." Junior ran over, vaulted up the cement stairs, and passed by Victor, who was holding the door open.

Mr. T. looked at the driver in the front seat of his car. "Help me get out."

The driver's door opened and a skinny, older blond woman in a chauffeur suit hopped out and opened the back door. She helped Mr. T. peel himself off the seat and pulled him to his feet, then edged him toward her and closed the car door with her knee. She leaned him against the car like a board and fixed his tie. His trousers were pulled up so high that his belt practically bisected his shirt pocket. It didn't look like he was
wearing
a pair of pants, as much as it looked like they were devouring him. The blonde stood at his elbow.

"You're Mosely's brother? Your father worked for us too. The three of you were there when we bought the Boston operation from Blaney," Mr. T. said.

"Yeah, until your terminal manager fired him for poor production. A sixty-two-year-old guy."

"Well, that stinks. But in our defense, he's a drunk, right?" Mr. T. asked.

"He used to be. He's in AA now, so he's an alcoholic."

"Well, your brother never said this was about revenge."

"It is for me," Michael replied.

"I cannot respect suicidal stupidity for purposes of money," Mr. T. said. "But I can for revenge, especially on behalf of a father. Very much so. Tonya, tell Chuck and Brucie to pull the other Mosely out of the trunk."

Michael felt like he'd been bitten by an electric eel.

"Relax. He's fine," Mr. T. said. "He said he didn't know where the load was so he's been manhandled a little. He'll need to be delumped before he goes looking for a new job."

Two very large men got out on the passenger side of the Lincoln, front and rear. Over the roof of the car, Michael saw Larry and TJ get their toy weapons up, as if ready to squirt water at the two goons. Tonya keyed the trunk open and a bloody Paul, bound and gagged, was lifted out. He was conscious and he looked extremely pissed off.

The men set Paul on his feet and one produced a switchblade to cut the rope around his legs and wrists. The other guy peeled the tape off his face. Even the sound of it hurt, but Paul was silent.

"See, Paul," Mr. T. said, "this is why I have a rule. No cigarettes or liquor. They are just too tempting a target for shenanigans."

Paul said nothing, and Larry and TJ came over to help him back to the van. Paul got in, and the other two turned to keep an eye on Chuck and Brucie.

"In case you're wondering," Mr. T. said, "you're fired too."

"Okay, but now I
really
need that hundred thousand. Then I'll go quietly."

"Why would I pay you? We're going to deliver the cigarettes this afternoon," Mr. T. said.

"No, you're not. You'd have called the cops. Instead you switched the numbers so I got the wrong box. You're stealing it too. Your plan was to keep the smokes, file a claim with the insurance company. They'll pay Blue Ribbon for the missing butts."

"You're a shrewd one. When Raymond called last night, I thought this was a chance to make lemonade from lemons. Brucie was going to take the real cigarette trailer out of the yard after the 8 o'clock driver rush was over. But he couldn't find it, so we figured out where Paul was making a sales call and picked him up. But he didn't know anything, so he said. Now Brucie will take this truck down to Jersey. We'll sell the cigarettes there. Cigarettes are way too tempting. But I promised myself I'd just have one."

"Famous last words," Michael said.

"And I'm entitled to collect a fine from Junior. Sounds like it will be about two hundred thousand."

"May I suggest a way to make an additional fifty grand?" Michael asked.

"Please do."

"Keep the tractor and trailer down in Jersey, put new numbers on them, and file a claim for lost equipment."

"You are a smart kid. You'll go far, if someone doesn't kill you first."

"I know it won't be you," Michael said.

"How do you know that?"

"You need me to talk to the insurance company so you can get your claim paid. You don't want to have to pay Blue Ribbon out of your pocket. If I'm found dead right after talking to the FBI and the insurance men, that won't be good."

"I like the cut of your jib, mister."

"Aw shucks," Michael said. "I'm just helping you have a productive day."

"It is a good idea to stay busy at my age," Mr. T. said.

"Yeah? I figured a guy your age would rather be home praying for a peaceful death."

Mr. T. barked two sharp sounds to indicate mirth. "Ha! Ha! I like that."

"So don't I," Michael said.

"That sounds like a Boston thing." Mr. T. turned and looked at his three people. "Wait in the car." He gestured for Michael to come closer. "I feel bad about your father. I'm glad he's off the booze. I'll give you fifty thousand when Junior gets back. Give some to your pop."

When they got back to North Quincy, Larry dropped the brothers at their parents' house. Paul was going to clean up and they were going to borrow the old man's car to get back to the Triple-T parking lot to pick up Michael's GTO.

Michael started up the front stairs with the bag of money for his father under his left arm.

"Hey," Paul said, "my back is sore. Give me a hand going up the stairs."

Michael went back down, and Paul draped his arm over his shoulders. After a moment's thought, Michael handed Paul the bag of cash, reached up and took his brother's left hand in his, then slipped his right arm around Paul's waist and helped him up the stairs.

Their father came out of the house and held open the screen door. "What happened?" he asked.

The brothers made it up to the porch and the door clapped shut behind them.

"It got a little rough," Paul said, "but I got you some money from Tortello." Paul handed the bag to his father and smiled at his brother. "Mikey helped too."