The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (30 page)

"And it sounded too good to be true, so at first
we doubted it," said Kevin.

"I still do a little; I'm not convinced it's
him. But if it is . . . we'll get him sucked in and sealed up so
goddamn tight a mosquito can't get out."

Joe gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles were
white. Kevin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye with a
worried look. It was not like Joe to be so worked up. We were passing
through Everett now, toward Revere. There was the Teddy peanut-butter
factory on our left, with its steamy stack and a smell like a candy
bar, and a small GE plant. As we passed into Revere the scenery got
positively bleak, and I knew it would get worse. Shallow pools of
standing water lay on both sides of the roadway in places, and tired
gulls circled overhead. Smoke and smells drifted across the sky. We
went through Revere, and I could see the big red-and-white-checked
watertank that marks the Veteran's Hospital in Chelsea. Strobe lights
winked from tall stacks that spewed white steam clouds. All around
was that grayish, dusky coloration of industrialization. We turned
onto highway 1A and headed north toward Lynn.

Lynn is filled with nice working people, but it is
not a pretty city. In Lynn, even the dogs are ugly. They have mangy
coats, bloated bellies, and spindly legs. They have a black spot
around one eye and bobbed tails that wag too fast.

We swung along 1A, which was now called the Lynnway
and which took a straight shot over bleak marshy meadow after
crossing the Saugus River and headed back toward factories, railway
yards, and oil tanks. Joe was chain-smoking; Kevin drummed his
fingers fast on the dash. I stretched my legs out hard one at a time
to relieve the cramping. To our left loomed the General Electric
River Works plant, the largest factory in New England. It was here
that America's first jet engine was built during the Second World
War. Just opposite Lynn Gas and Electric on the harbor, we eased left
off the Lynnway, went three and a half blocks, and came to a stop
along a low and dirty curb. Joe turned to me.

"Put on a helmet, Doc, and one of those
jumpsuits."

"I can't; it hurts my head too much."

But we could find no alternative, and so I slipped on
the biggest hard hat there was in the van. After a few seconds I
forgot the ache. With my lineman's jumpsuit and dark glasses was one
of the crew. We opened the rear doors of the van and Joe set out a
few orange traffic cones and blinker lights. Hell, it even fooled me.

In accordance with state law, a cop was present at
the site to help direct traffic. Our cop was really a detective in a
local Lynn uniform. He ambled up and chatted with us and filled Joe
in on the other teams. There were three of them: another phone van up
the street and around the corner, an unmarked car a block up on our
street, and a milk truck in the alleyway opposite the unmarked car.

"Don't turn around fast," said Joe to me,
"but when you get a chance, look at that sub shop down the
street, just opposite the unmarked car. DeLucca's been holing up
right over it in rented rooms. The snitch is working in the shop; in
a few minutes we're going to go see him. Give me those cables, Kev;
here comes Powers."

O'Hearn uncoiled some wire in the back of the van and
fed it out to us. A lineman was walking up the street toward us
smoking a cigarette with a big coil over his left shoulder. It could
have fooled me. Frank Powers nodded hello to us and spoke under his
breath as he puffed on his smoke.

"We expect him just after four. It's the time
he's been showing up. I doubt if he's got a steady gig going, but
Rizzo says he's been showing up every day almost like clockwork. Joe,
can you call the rig? I'm about ready. Excuse me."

He stepped forward and hooked the big cable over his
shoulder to the ones Kev had snaked out of the little van. Almost as
soon as he was finished a big phone truck with a cherry-picker hoist
slid around the corner. Powers got into the crow's-nest and soon was
up above us all, hooking the big cable to the pole. In the van Joe
and Kevin put on earphones and I listened in on a phone extension
fastened with clip wires. Pretty soon both phone trucks could
communicate clearly and talk to the men in the unmarked car as well,
since they had a remote device. Powers swung down from the treetops
and said good-bye, adding that he'd station the hoist truck two
blocks away and keep the platform up so he could keep an eye on
everything and advise all parties what was happening from his vantage
point.

"That guy seems like a real pro," I told
Joe as Powers jumped into the truck.

"
He is. He's a real phone person we borrow when
the need arises. And that big cherry-picker rig is a real phone truck
too. Now come on. I hope you're hungry because we're going to go and
buy a sub from Johnny Rizzo, the snitch who's responsible for this
whole setup, bless his heart."

We left Kevin at the van, diligently twiddling with
wires and cable and looking very professional, while we ambled up the
street to the sub shop.

"This snitch— this Rizzo guy— he's in a
bind, isn't he?"

"Oh yeah, it's death if DeLucca ever finds out.
But what choice does the poor stupid bastard have? He's got those
robberies hanging over him that are worth the rest of his life in the
joint. We dropped in on him three weeks ago and he knows we're on to
him. The fact that he subsequently came forward with this tip all but
proves he's in on the robberies. Now if we get DeLucca, Rizzo can cop
a plea and get off light. It's not a perfect system, Doc. In fact,
sometimes it downright stinks, but it's all we've got that's workable
right now. Most of the busts we make are crooks ratting on other
crooks."

"Hmmm. And Kev once told me you've got to screw
up several times before they even hand you a jail term. It's
pathetic. It's as if these clowns can't stay out of the slammer."

"You're right. They can't stay out. And know
what? A lot of them don't want to. They like it inside."

"
That I don't believe. I've been with you on
enough visits to Concord, Walpole, and Deer Island to know that isn't
true. Nobody could like it in there."

"They do. They get used to it and they get to
like it. Know why? Because basically they're too screwed up to make
it outside. And that's the truth. Come on."

As we passed the beat-up car on the opposite side of
the street facing us, the driver gave Joe a quick nod. Both men in
the car were dressed shabbily in old, greasy work clothes. They
looked like two factory workers getting off work. The car was no
treat either. It was an ancient Plymouth, dented and scarred, with a
cracked side window. It was a dull, dirty brown color with patches of
gray primer paint. All in all, I thought it fitted into Lynn quite
well.

"Are you sure those guys are cops?" ·

"
Look at the tires," he said. I did, and
was surprised. The tires looked new, and wide.

"Those are racing slicks. Last week that car was
used in Fall River in a high-speed chase. We caught a drug dealer. On
the interstate that crate hit a hundred forty. That's Keller at the
wheel. Underneath those grimy clothes he's wearing a Kevlar vest.
So's his partner. And they've got a couple of pump guns on the floor.
Here we are."

We went in. The skinny, pockmarked man behind the
counter was dressed in old khakis and a clean undershirt with a white
apron around his waist. He was quick and nervous, like a ferret. His
hair was thin and greasy, his skin pale and shiny. He looked indeed
like a jailhouse punk. Joe glided over to the counter and laid his
big palms on it. He spoke softly, even though there was nobody else
in the shop.

"Hiya Johnny. How things?"

The man's eyes didn't meet ours. He looked nervously
down at the counter and wiped it back and forth, back and forth, with
a damp rag.

"Who's he?" Johnny finally asked, not
looking up at me.

"
A friend. Don't sweat it. Now look, when he
gets here and goes up the stairs, we just want you to come outside
and fool with the awning crank, okay? just give it a couple of spins,
then back inside to get the two-wheeler."

He nodded and began kneading the rag on the
countertop as if it were a hunk of pizza dough.

"If he finds out, I'm cooked. I think he knows,
Joe."

"Nah. No way. And in an hour we'll have him put
away. just put those empty bottles on the two-wheeler and march them
outside and around the side of the building. Stack 'em up like you
always do there, then just keep walking around the building and down
the alley. Simple."

"He knows. I know he knows," said Rizzo in
a thin, reedy voice. He looked like a cornered animal. He smelled of
fear. I saw the look of death about his eyes. He gave me the creeps.
"You got no idea what'll happen to me if you don't get him. You
got no idea—"

"Shut up, Johnny. Be cool. I gotta good idea of
what's gonna happen to you when we put the wrap on this string of
armed robberies."

"Look, I got nothin'—"

"Yeah sure, Johnny, you got nothing to do with
'em. You're just being a good citizen."

"
I don't care no more. I'll go back to the
joint. I don't give a shit."

"That's your problem, Rizzo. It's your problem
and all those punks like you. You just don't give a shit. Wash your
hands and get us two large Italians. And two coffee regulars."

Johnny made the sandwiches with the same quick and
jumpy movements, and kept twitching his shiny pale head around to
look out the front window to the street. The old battered car with
the racing slicks was still there. Joe asked Johnny what he was going
to do when DeLucca showed. He wanted to be sure Johnny had it right.
Rizzo repeated the plan and shoved our sandwiches at us. I took the
coffee and sipped but let the sandwich stay on the paper plate.
Johnny looked up past us and his eyes widened.

"Jesus Christ! It was him," he wailed.

"
Who?" said Joe, turning around with one
elbow resting on the counter.

"
DeLucca. I swear to Christ it's him in that
cab." Rizzo was past trembling now, and there was a line of
dampness on his brow and above his lip. I smelled again the sweet,
sickly odor of fear and decay about him. I wasn't going to touch my
sub; I was sure of it. Joe looked at the departing cab as it vanished
up the street, and turned languidly back to his meal. He shook his
big head slowly.

"For Chrissake, Johnny, you're scared shitless.
Willya calm down, eh? You got any booze back there? Take a shot and
have a smoke. Settle down; it'l1 be over before you know it."

Joe had finished his sandwich. He can demolish a sub
faster than anyone I know. He drained his coffee and winked at me
under his New England Telephone hard hat.

"Let's go, Doc."

On our way out a girl came into the shop and called
for a pizza. Johnny skittered back around the corner and we saw him
pull open the big Blodgett oven and take out the pizza and pan with a
flat wooden paddle. Engaged in serving the customer, he seemed a bit
more relaxed. But as he was making change he glanced quickly up at us
again, and he seemed to come apart.

"Don't leave. Don't leave me, please."

"Take it easy. Remember what I said and take it
easy."

We got out of there, followed by the girl. Joe looked
at his watch, swore, and kicked little stones as we walked down the
street. We weren't heading to our van, but in the other direction.

"Stupid little shit; he'll blow the whole
thing."

"Where are we going?"

"Just to check the other teams. I guess I better
warn everyone that Rizzo's clutched. Look over there; there's Powers
up in his crow's-nest."

I was sure he saw us. From up alongside the high pole
he could see everything. But he never seemed to take his eyes from
the box on the pole that he was fiddling with. Around the corner was
another van just like ours. We stopped by and hefted cables for a
minute, talking to the men all the time and warning them about the
snitch's mental state. It was twenty past three, and Joe and I ambled
back toward our van, taking an alley route.

"There's the milk truck," said Joe. It was
backed up to a convenience store. The driver, dressed in a blue
cotton uniform, lounged on the loading dock with a cup of coffee. We
walked over near him. He spoke to us softly, scarcely moving his
mouth.

"Anything?" he said.

"Nah. About forty minutes more. How are the
little toddlers? They behaving themselves?" Joe walked closer to
the milk truck and glanced in the partially opened rear door. I was
right behind him and looked over his shoulder. Inside, sitting on two
benches reading skin magazines, were four of the meanest-looking
dudes I'd ever seen. The SWAT team. They were wearing flak vests,
funny-looking headgear, and blackface. Neatly laid out on the floor
of the truck were shotguns, tommy guns, and sniper rifles. They
didn't even look up at us.

"just be ready when we holler," said Joe,
and we walked on.

"Hope we don't have to use the goon squad,"
he added as we drew within sight of our van. "It'd mess up this
nice neighborhood."