Martin Mick Abruzzo: The Second Wire

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-4835-3349-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 83 Seiten

Mick Abruzzo is trying to go straight after a life of crime. But it's complicated.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Martin, Nancy

Leseproben

Against his better judgment, Mick Abruzzo agreed to meet his idiot brother at a noisy South Philadelphia college hangout where Little Frankie swore they’d blend in. But when Mick showed up, Frankie was wearing a pinky ring straight out of The Sopranos and flashing a wad of cash the size of a baseball. He had staked out a pair of stools right in front of the March Madness opener on the big screen. A swarm of girls hung around the nearby pool table. One of them had a finger stuck in her mouth as she lifted her sweater to show Frankie a rose tattoo on the soft baby fat of her belly. Frankie finally gave her some cash and she trotted off to the jukebox. Frankie drained his glass and turned companionably to Mick. “I hear you need money, and it just so happens I know where to get some.” Even though the bar noise was enough to keep their conversation private, Mick waited until the bartender set down his draft and eased away. Then he said, “You couldn’t have made yourself more obvious in this place?” “What? You mean, with the chick?” “You gonna help her with her algebra homework later? That girl is jailbait.” Frankie grinned. “Lucky me.” The older Little Frankie got, the more he took to pretending he was Big Frankie—talking like he owned most of the rackets in Jersey. He tried to imitate Big Frankie’s half-friendly, half-threatening smile, too, which on Little Frankie ended up looking like the big, loose grin of a patsy who’d buy another round without too much convincing. Little Frankie still hadn’t grasped the fundamentals. But Little Frankie wasn’t stupid. He was a lazy crocodile—floating around in the swampy river until a thirsty gazelle came down for a drink. Then all of a sudden he was the smart one, scoring with hardly any effort. Mick had the uncomfortable feeling he had just been pegged for a gazelle. Frankie said, “Since when did you get to be such an old man when it comes to jailbait? Since you shacked up with the redhead I’ve heard so much about? Pop says she’s the swanky type. You have to buy her jewelry to get her to put out? What does a diamond necklace get you in the sack, bro? Or maybe now you’re broke, you’re not getting any good action?” Punching his brother in the mouth always felt like a good idea. Growing up, they had fought like wolverines. Even with Frankie satisfyingly bleeding from his nose and mouth, though, Mick had usually been the one who ended up in handcuffs. The first night Mick had successfully stopped himself from trying to beat the crap out of his brother, he’d slammed out of the house and stolen a motorcycle to get far away from the whole damn family. A day later he’d been picked up by a particularly vigilant cop, and his years of hard time began. So maybe he had learned to hold back when it came to Frankie. But holding back had its consequences, too. Now, though, Little Frankie only seemed to call when he was in trouble. Trouble that could spread to the rest of the family if Mick didn’t throw water on whatever fire Little Frankie had lit a match to. “What’s the matter?” Frankie asked while Mick considered the situation. “You worried about busting your parole to make some money? Or do you want to hear the particulars?” “Whatever it is, as long as it’s coming from you, I don’t want anything to do with it.” “Suit yourself.” Frankie put his elbows on the bar, both hands around his beer. He pretended to watch the game for a minute before leaning over again. “I just thought I could do you a favor, Mick, get you out of the jam you’re in. I heard about the accountant stealing all your dough while you were inside. Tough break. But that’s what happens when you start trusting geeks instead of family, am I right? A couple of years ago, you’d have buried most of the accountant in a ditch and spread the rest of him along the Jersey turnpike.” Mick ground his teeth and didn’t answer. Maybe it was good that Frankie believed he was capable of taking care of business the family way. Maybe it wasn’t so far from the truth. He sipped his beer. To be honest, he hated that he’d been ripped off. Months after it happened, he still itched to inflict serious retribution. Sure, some of the guys in his old crew had found the accountant and scared the shit out of him, but that hadn’t gotten Mick’s money back. These days, Mick was scraping to keep his legit businesses open. At home, Nora appeared to be cool with the fact that they couldn’t afford the pay the electric bill on that derelict house of hers. But to her, being poor was some kind of romantic notion. She cuddled up in bed to stay warm, which had its advantages, but Mick had been cold before and knew how much work it took to get the heat turned back on again. And accomplishing that while sticking to a code of good behavior he didn’t quite have a grasp on yet—that was harder than he’d figured. Now here was Frankie offering a way out. With a warning going off in his head, Mick set his glass back down on the bar. “Who’s the mark?” Frankie’s face broadened into a grin. “Mexican dude. Does business under the name Damian Sanchez.” “Drugs?” “Nope. Washing coin.” “Laundering money for drug dealers.” “What does it matter? Cash is cash.” That was Frankie. A walking Darwin Award. “Sanchez is low on the food chain, no bodyguards, so he’s easy pickings,” Frankie said. “Here’s the beautiful part. He has a regular, like, routine. He collects money all week, then parks his car on the street while he visits his girlfriend. After the fun and games, he drives over the bridge to Camden where he hands over the cash to his boss—a bad dude you’d want to avoid. So I figure you steal the car while Sanchez is doing the girl. We split the money.” “That’s all you get? Half?” As if the answer was obvious, Frankie said, “I want the car, too.” Mick’s radar kicked in. “Why?” “It’s a vintage Jag. A 1972 E-Type, twelve cylinders. British racing green, but I can have it re-painted. I want that ride, bro. It’s a chick magnet for sure.” What a bonehead. “You’d get picked up ten minutes after you turn the key in a car like that. Better to ship it overseas.” “Hell, no, I want it. I want to drive it around after we do the deed. It’s a trophy car.” A trophy for having bested a bad dude. Looking up at the TV screen, Frankie said, “It’s not just the car. I could use the dough, too.” Mick waited. Frankie drank some beer and said, “I’ve got some debts. Nothing big. But, you know, I need to settle up.” “What kind of debts?” Frankie shook his head. “Just a little trouble I need to take care of. I want to get in on the Final Four action, but I can’t unless—you know, until I’ve made good on some bad bets.” Mick felt a throb start behind his eyes. Here was the real story. “Hell, Frank, we own the fucking rackets. You’re betting against the family?” “No, no, just private stuff.” Private stuff. Not a casino, but maybe side bets with a small time betting parlor in the back of a barber shop or some suburbanite’s man cave. In the area, there were half a dozen low-level bookies who ran gambling operations so small it wasn’t worth the effort of putting them out of business. One of them must have hooked Frankie like a trout. Frankie was talking about the job again. “It’ll be easy. Nobody can boost a car like you, Mick. You’re like a ghost. A magician. The best. Am I right? You can get the car, no problem.” “Save the snow job,” Mick said. “I don’t do felonies anymore.” “A felony? Sanchez is so bad at his job, it’d be like, you know, vocational training to show him the error of his ways.” Vocational training for Frankie, too. But Mick found himself saying, “How much are we talking?” “The money? That’s the other good part. Half a mil, for sure. Maybe more.” It was kinda cute, Frankie thinking half a million dollars was worth going to jail for. It was probably enough to get him out of trouble with his bookie friend, though. And it would pay the electric bill at Blackbird Farm. Help make the payroll at the gas stations Mick was trying to get back off the ground, too. The gig was starting to feel irresistible, a notion he could squelch down if he worked at it. But there was instinct at play, too. Frankie wasn’t the only crocodile in the family. Mick asked, “If this gig is so easy, why aren’t you doing it yourself? Taking the car and the cash both?” “I don’t have your skills. Besides, there’s a thing,” Frankie said. “Not a problem, but—let’s call it an issue I thought maybe you should know about. This is kind of a brotherly heads-up.” “You think you’re doing me a favor?” “Maybe. Sanchez’s girlfriend? The one he visits every Saturday? It’s Liz.” “Liz? Liz Trillo?” “Yeah. Your ex-girlfriend. And you know where her place is. And how she...