THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) (4 page)

CHAPTER 6 - MAGOO
’S

“It has catastrophe written all over it,” Dudley Mack said.

“With a capital ‘K’,” Bobo Sambuca added from the front seat of Mack’s latest “business office,” a black, six-door, 1998 Cadillac DeVille limousine. 

In the spacious rear compartment of the funeral car, Scarne and Mack looked at each other. They knew spelling was never Bobo’s long suit. The driver/bodyguard, sensing their confusion, looked in the rear mirror.

“What? ‘K’ for Kate, right?”

“Not bad, Bobo,” Mack said. He turned to Scarne. “When are you going to see her?”

Scarne had been filling Mack in on his new case after being picked up at the ferry terminal in St. George.

“A couple of days. Todd is going to set it up.”

“Do you think there’s anything to it? Never mind. I know you. You’re going to go through with it anyway.”

“I’m getting a hundred grand.”

“So what? It’s Kate Goddamn Ellenson. You’d do this for a cheeseburger and fries.”

“That reminds me,” Scarne said. “Where are we going to dinner, Duds?”

“Thought we’d shoot down to the Highlands and see how Bahr’s Landing is doing. I like to give the Jersey Shore restaurants some business after Sandy. They’ve had it tough. You can catch a Seastreak ferry from Connors Highland Terminal back to Manhattan. But first I have to make a short stop at Magoo’s.”

“Magoos? That dive in Mariners Harbor near the Bayonne Bridge?”

“Please. You’re talking about the future linchpin of my Staten Island tavern empire on the north shore.”

“You bought it?”

“Well, let’s just say I inherited it.”

Dudley Mack owned restaurants and bars throughout Staten Island. Many of the bars featured strippers and lap dancers, allowing the funeral home magnet to frequently brag that he got his customers “coming and going.” A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the bar on Morningstar Rd., a few blocks from the Bayonne Bridge in Mariners Harbor. The bar was in a one-story building nestled between a wholesale furniture outlet and a candy store. Compared to Magoo’s, all the other stores on the block looked recently renovated, although none had been. The sign above the door was missing a letter. It said “agoo’s.” The Budweiser beer sign in the single, and slightly cracked, window was not plugged in and the front door panels didn’t match up. There was a large black spot below the roof line that looked like fire damage.

“Nice acquisition, Dudley,” Scarne said. “I think you finally found a place we can’t be thrown out of.”   

“Bobo, wait here,” Mack said. “We won’t be long.”

“Your limo is about four blocks long,” Scarne commented. “It’s not a good sign for a business when you can park a boat like this right out front. By the way, how many corpses to the gallon does this thing get?”

They entered the dark gin mill, and were assaulted by a dank odor.

“Eau de beer,” Scarne said. “With a nice overlay of vomit.”

“Yeah. Place smelled a lot better before they banned smoking.”

“I take it back,” Scarne said. “I’d throw myself out of this joint.”

There were four men, of indeterminate age, sitting at the bar, spaced far apart. All had shot glasses and beers in front of them, and were staring at the smoky mirror behind the bottles that lined the wall in front of them. The only sound in the bar came from a 19-inch TV perched precariously on the far corner of the bar that was tuned to Judge Judy. No one was watching it. The linings on most of the bar stools were cracked and a couple of the swivel seats were unnaturally tilted. A series of Formica tables, with metal chairs, lined the other wall. On one side of the cash register were two large jars, one with pickled pigs’ feet and the other with hard-boiled eggs in a cloudy liquid.

“Oh, good,” Scarne said as they walked up to the bar, “we beat the dinner rush. Why don’t we skip Bahr’s?”

When he looked closely at the mirror that seemed to be fascinating everyone else he realized that it wasn’t made of smoked glass. It was just filthy. Its reflective qualities were nil, something that was probably an advantage in Magoo’s, he decided. The patrons staring into it wouldn’t have liked what they saw.

On the other side of the register stood a very fat bartender wearing a bulging t-shirt that said “McKee Technical Wrestling Team 1996.” It didn’t quite cover a navel that looked like an open clam. He visibly blanched when Mack walked behind the bar and checked the register.

“Slow day, Pete?”

The bartender swallowed, hard. He had undoubtedly heard what the new owner did to employees who skimmed.

“Yes, Mr. Mack. But these guys are running a tab.”

One of the men at the bar furrowed his brow in an attempt at concentration and looked at the pile of singles in front of him.

“Sure they are,” Mack said.

The man shrugged, stuck a cigarette in his mouth and went out the door to have a smoke.

“Shut the goddamn door,” one of the other drinkers said, “You’re gonna let the flies out.” 

Scarne walked up to the bar.

“Pete, I want to buy my friend Dudley a drink in his new establishment. How about the Johnny Walker Black, on the rocks?”

The bartender stammered, “Let me get you a fresh bottle from the back room.”

“Nonsense,” Mack said, “that bottle right there will do just fine.”

After the bartender poured, the men clinked glasses and Scarne took a swig, not noticing that his friend didn’t.

“Jesus,” Scarne said, spitting out the liquor. “What the hell is this!”

One of the drinkers said, “Fuckin’ pussy.”

Mack laughed.

“Who knows? Probably could take the camouflage off a Tiger tank. This is a funnel joint. Remember the old Red? Same routine.”

The Red Lantern was a Staten Island pub Scarne and Mack had frequented when in college. Scarne had occasionally even tended bar there. One night he accidentally dropped a bottle of Canadian Club and it smashed. The owner was distraught.

“I’ve had that bottle for five years,” the man wailed. “Now I have to buy another one.”

He then took Scarne down to the Red Lantern’s basement, where gallon jugs of what was basically artificially colored rotgut were lined up next to the funnels that the staff used to refill the venerable bottles upstairs.

“Three rules, kid,” the owner had told him. “Don’t clip too much from the register, only drink beer and never drop a fucking bottle.”

As words to live by, Scarne thought, not a bad philosophy.

“Those guys seem to be doing fine,” Scarne now said, nodding to the hard-core drinkers at the bar.

“Their livers could cut a diamond,” Mack said.

The door opened and four boys came in, noisily, and set themselves up at the bar between a couple of the drunks. They were big, all wearing Port Richmond football team jackets. One of them, a tall black kid with dreadlocks yelled to the bartender.

“Yo, Pete, fuckin’ booze is flowin’ like molasses. Get your fat white-bread ass down here.”

The other boys, all white, hooted. It was obvious Magoo’s wasn’t their first stop. Mack walked up to them.

“You guys want to keep it down a bit,” he said pleasantly. “And watch the language. This is a family place.”

The footballers looked at him as if he was from Mars. Even the resident drunks turned to stare at him.

“Family place,” one of the white kids said, looking around, “this shit hole?”

“Appearances are often deceiving. Why aren’t you boys home studying calculus?”

“Why ain’t you in a nursing home, bro?” the black kid said.

They all thought that was very funny. So did Scarne, who laughed. Mack gave him a withering look.

“I don’t suppose you geniuses have any I.D.?” Mack said. “Some of the bottles in here are older than you.”

“Hey, blow me, man,” a beefy kid, probably a tackle, said. He had arms like Virginia hams. “We drink in here all the time. Who the fuck are you?”

“I own this fine establishment. And I told you to watch your mouth.”

“Suck my two-pound dick. What happened to Magoo?”

“Health problems.”

“What was wrong with him
?”

“Me.”

Mack looked at Pete the bartender, who had drawn two beers and was standing by the cash register holding them with a frightened look on his face.

“Pete, pour those out and give my friends here some Diet Cokes before they leave. On the house.” He turned back to the boys. “Then, don’t come back until you’re old enough. And when you do, talk to my staff like the gentlemen I know you really are.”

The black kid took a swing at Mack, who knew it was coming and easily dodged it. He hit the kid two fast shots in the kidneys and watched him drop to the floor. Properly done, Scarne knew, kidney shots will do that. The tackle moved on Mack until he heard some squawks behind him. He turned to see his two other pals being held off the floor by their collars. Bobo Sambuca had one in each massive fist.

“Saw them come in, boss,” Bobo said. “Looked like trouble.”

“They wish,” Mack said. “But don’t hurt them. Port Richmond has a pretty good season going.”

He helped the black kid to his feet.

“You’ll be OK. Bar fights ain’t football, kid. Never start one with someone like me. You might have noticed that my friend over there never even made a move to help me. He knew I didn’t need any.”

“Who are you, man?”

The kid was still bent over slightly.

“Name is Dudley Mack.”

One of the kids whose feet were still dangling in the air, said, “Oh, shit.”

“Put them down, Bobo.”

By the time they left, they were calling Dudley “Mr. Mack” and apologizing profusely for their behavior.

Mack turned to Scarne.     

“It might have been nice if you did show some sign of support.”

“I knew you could handle it, Duds. Besides, I saw Bobo come in the door. I’m surprised those guys didn’t notice him. He was blocking the light from outside. At first I thought it was a solar eclipse.”

Pete the bartender walked over.

“Thanks, Mr. Mack.”

“Sure. Tomorrow when you come to work, I want you wear some decent clothes that fit. Good slacks, collared shirt and a dark vest. I don’t want to see your belly. You might want to try the salad bar occasionally. And get a shave and a haircut.” Mack pulled out a wad of cash and peeled off some hundred dollar bills. “This should get you started. You might mention to the other bartenders that there is a new sheriff in town.”

“You mean, I’m staying?”

“Yeah. I want to keep your loyal clientele.”

Pete looked confused.

“As long as you give me an honest day’s work,” Mack said, “you’ll have a job.” He looked hard at the man. “But this isn’t going to be a ‘tips and clips’ joint any more. My bartenders don’t clip the receipts. They don’t have to. People my places attract tend to be big tippers. Get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cleaning service and some contractors will be in and out next week. New shipment of liquors will be arriving right after they leave. Some wine, too. Start phasing out the swill and ditch the old bottles and the funnels in the basement. I’ll stock some low-end booze, but it won’t make anyone go blind. I hope the regulars don’t go into withdrawal, but we’ll have to chance it. Give the pigs feet and eggs to the Pentagon. They can use them against Iran. I’ll redo the kitchen so we can serve some burgers and sandwiches. Did you clean the bathrooms like I told you? Last time I took a whiz, there were Lucky Strike Greens in the urinals.”

“Yes, sir.”

“OK. Get back to work.”

After Pete walked away, Scarne said, “Loyal clientele?”

“Made him feel good.”

“Nice that you’re keeping him on.”

“Tough job market for guys like him.”

“About those high school kids, Duds. I seem to remember we drank underage for many years.”

“But we were always polite.”

“The first time we met in a bar, up in Providence, where I was working, you punched me in the face.”

“You were an asshole. Come on. Let’s go eat. It’s striped bass season.”

***

Four hours later, Dudley Mack and Bobo Sambuca stood on the dock and watched Scarne’s high-speed catamaran growl away from the Seastreak pier, located a few miles from Bahr’s Landing.

“What do you think, Boss?”

“I hope Jake doesn’t get his tit in a wringer. Again. She’s bad news.”

“I thought you introduced them.”

“I didn’t do him any favors.”

“If you didn’t like her, why’d you do it?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like her. She’s a fabulous broad. One of the best-looking women I’ve ever seen. If I wasn’t bopping her best friend at the time, I would have tried to give her a shot myself. Jake fell hard. I really thought they were going to get married.”

“What happened?”

“She took off. Always was a bit flighty. It’s hard to explain. Kate was one of those people that you want to be around. And they can make you feel like you’re the only important person in the world. When she turned those baby blues on you it was the ball game. But she could turn off the charm in a fucking instant. Withdraw. Do something crazy. But then just when you were fed up, she’d revert to her old self. Hell, if it was her old self. Maybe the crazy part was the real Kate.”