Killers (7 page)

“To be blunt, I want to offer them cash to declare a truce, or armistice, or whatever, until the casino bill is signed into law by the governor.” He looked over at Clay Westridge. “I know you can't say anything, you represent a publicly traded corporation, but this is what your firm has hired me to handle discreetly.”

Westridge stared straight ahead. How would he ever be able to explain this to his board?

I said to Caulfield, very respectfully, “Do you really think it's wise, sir, to offer to pay them off before you've even gotten the bill passed, let alone broken ground on the casino? I mean, the only possible conclusion they can draw from such an offer is that they can shake you down at will whenever they want.”

The old man nodded. He was calling the shots now, not Westridge. “Of course you're correct, but we'll just have to deal with that problem when it arises. I know you spend a lot of time up here on the Hill, but do you have any idea how long we've been trying to get this casino bill passed? We can't let some penny-ante racketeers sabotage the deal at the last moment.”

The lobbyists always say “the Hill,” and everybody else says “the State House.” They seem to think saying “the Hill” makes them sound more connected. I think it makes them sound like poseurs, like if you're from D.C. saying “this town.” I looked over at the three of them.

“You have to understand, if this really is a ‘war,' I'm not sure you could stop it with any amount of money, but even if you could, who would you pay it to? Sally Curto's people got killed, and he's got Bench McCarthy out looking for who did it. If there really is a third party here, and I'm guessing maybe there is, then they can't quit until they find out who's doing this, because otherwise, they could be next.” I paused and looked at Westridge. “Do you know what the word ‘capable' means?”

“Why of course, it's—”

“No, I mean the wiseguys' definition. Capable means people who are able—capable—of killing somebody else, and getting away with it. Guys like Sally and Bench, they have to figure out who's ‘capable' of doing this to them. They can't let this go on, because any crew this capable, they could kill them too.”

Caulfield cleared his ancient raspy throat. “So what you're telling me, Mr. Reilly, is that you don't believe this really is a gang war?”

“Not at all, Mr. Caulfield. I just suspect, and that's all it is at this point, a suspicion, that this is not exactly the gang war you may think it is. Somebody else may be involved here, we just don't know who it is, and obviously Sally Curto and Bench McCarthy don't know either, or they wouldn't be beating the bushes like they are.”

“Whoever's involved,” Caulfield said, “we need this so-called war stopped. Do you want the job, Mr. Reilly?”

“I do,” I said. “I'm just telling you up front, I'm not sure anything can stop this right now, until Bench figures out who's doing this and deals with it.”

Kevin Caulfield took a puff on his cigar and glanced over at Taylor.

“What's your considered opinion, Mr. Taylor?”

“I think Reilly is possibly on to something. There's no record of any recent bad blood between these two organizations.”

“That's my whole point,” I said. “And that may be why it does have something to do with your casino bill. Apparently somebody's trying to sink this thing, I have no idea who, and neither do you, or you wouldn't have asked me to come here.”

Terry Caulfield reappeared in the office doorway with one of the decanters and asked if anyone needed a refill. After we all shook our heads, Caulfield turned again to me.

“Mr. Reilly, it strikes me that you seem to think that figuring out this conundrum comes down not so much to Mr. Curto, but to his younger Irish associate. Am I correct?”

“Let me put it this way,” I said. “I only know these people because of my brother, or mostly because of my brother.” I glanced over at Westridge. “He's a half-assed wiseguy, a hanger-on. Lotta guys like my brother around. Most of the time they're just burping and farting, that and bragging. Taking credit for shit, pardon my French, that they know absolutely nothing about except what they read in the newspapers. There are guys in the can, believe it or not, doing time for crimes they didn't commit, but wanted everybody to think they did, so they bragged about it when they were drunk or high, and got picked up on a wire.”

I paused to give them time to feel superior to ham-and-eggers like my brother.

“The point is,” I finally said, “Bench isn't like that. As I said, he's a throwback. The reason he was in Norfolk when he stabbed that black guy for Sally is because even when he was a teenager, the cops knew he was trouble. When he was seventeen he shot a bookie in Medford. A contract hit at seventeen. The cops never could pin that one on him, so they ‘liked' him for a hijacking and lugged him.”

“He didn't kill him, though, did he?” said Taylor, glancing down at Bench's file. “The bookie, I mean.”

“Bookie was wearing a Kevlar vest,” I said. “Bench was shooting like they teach you in firearms class. Aim for the body, easier to hit. He's never made that mistake again. He learned that in the can, from Sally and the boys. Now he's a head man.”

I smiled at my little pun. But Clay Westridge, the casino vice president, no longer seemed amused by my stories. “Now I know how your brother knows him, but how do you know this ‘Bench'? Please, be specific.”

But before I could answer, Kevin Caulfield spoke up. “I believe I can explain, Mr. Westridge, and please correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Reilly. Mr. Reilly here used to work for the mayor of Boston, Mr. Westridge. The former mayor. As did my own son, Terry, whom you just met. And one of Mr. Reilly's duties was serving as a liaison, shall we say—”

“Mr. Caulfield is being diplomatic,” I said, looking at Westridge. “What I was, in addition to being the mayor's driver, was a bagman, and his go-to guy at the State House, among other things. Point is, guys like Bench and Sally, if they don't want any trouble from City Hall, they have to pay all up and down the line. From the district police captain all the way up to the man in Parkman House. That's who I represented, the mayor. It's just overhead to these guys, like hiring a lobbyist in the state capital of whatever state you're trying to put a casino in.”

Caulfield felt compelled to cut in again, lest his mark think he'd brought some kind of crooked cop to the table. “Mr. Westridge, what Mr. Reilly is saying is that he's more familiar with collecting money from Mr. McCarthy than giving it to him.”

“So you do know him, you're not just somebody's brother?” The vice president didn't care how I knew him. He just wanted someone to make the connection. He wanted to protect his $2 million investment. Who could blame him?

He said: “You've spoken to him?”

I nodded. “Would he recognize me if I walked into his bar? Maybe. It's been five years. He wouldn't ask me how my family was, but he might know who I am. Might.”

“Then I think you're the guy we want to make the approach, Mr. Reilly,” Westridge said.

“Mr. Westridge,” I said, “I don't know how things work anywhere else, but around here, you don't just walk into a wiseguy's barroom with $100,000 in cash. Let me see if I can make some kind of approach to Bench—I'm not promising you anything, but first let me see if I can get the lay of the land. I mean, for all we know, he could have already found the guys who did this, and if he did, then there won't be any more trouble, at least from them.”

“You think that's possible?” the vice president said.

“Probably not, but it's worth a drive to Somerville. Now let's talk about my rates. I charge three thousand dollars a day.”

I held my breath, but they didn't bat an eye.

Caulfield said dryly, “Your price has gone up.”

I left soon after, with my instructions to reach out to Bench McCarthy. Terry Caulfield, who'd been listening in, walked me to the door while the others continued their deliberations.

“Three grand!” he whispered. “You've come a long way from City Hall.”

“Not far enough,” I said.

 

5

WHAT'S YOURS IS OURS

I bought the Alibi about five years ago. I'd worked there off and on since I was a kid. That's where I met my first wiseguys, selling six-packs of cold long-neck Narragansetts out the side door for six dollars on Sundays, back when Massachusetts still had blue laws. On Sundays, the Paul Revere Liquor Mart up the hill was closed. They had the coldest beer in town, that's what their neon sign said.

The Gaelic Club, as the Alibi was then called, was right around the corner from the old Brinks armored-car barn. They'd moved it out of the North End after the original Brinks job back in 1950. The guards were always dropping in after their shifts, getting bombed and swapping stories. The old owner never took advantage of the situation; he was just into reading Irish history and shit like that. By the time he decided to return to the Auld Sod, I was moving up in the element, and I fronted the money to a local wannabe to buy it. Even in Somerville, convicted felons aren't allowed to own barrooms, or at least they can't be the owners of record.

Once I took over, I made sure a few of my guys were always around, buying drinks for the armored-car drivers. We had broads for them too, if they were interested. And they could bet all they wanted, but unlike the women, they had to pay if they lost on their bets. We collected on those tabs. And if they didn't have the dough to pay off, well, we could always work something out.

Open under new management, the Alibi was the friendliest damn bar in town—at least if you drove an armored car for Brinks.

Some cops believe we use guards inside on armored-car robberies, but that gets messy, because they always fold under pressure. So you have to take them out. Maybe you shoot 'em in the head as you're leaving the scene, in which case you have to clip the second guard too. And shooting civilians—which is what guards are, because they sure as hell aren't cops—is not good policy.

But if you don't cap them on the way out, the feds immediately like 'em for the job, as well they should, and they start squeezing. Most of the crooked guards end up going straight into the Witness Security Program, and if that happens, you never see them again until they take the witness stand against you at trial.

Cutting guards in on a job just isn't worth the jeopardy when you can buy a few rounds of drinks and over the course of a few weeks the drivers themselves will spill every weakness in a route. It makes them feel like big shots. And after you've milked them dry, the guards who talked can't even remember what they said because they were so loaded. A hundred bucks worth of beer for a quarter-million-dollar job. Talk about buying an orchard for an apple.

Anyway, I had this guy in as my straw owner of the Alibi. Everything was fine until the guy decided he wanted to graduate from half-assed wiseguy to full-fledged wiseguy. I hate it when that happens. He began selling coke out of the bar. I let it slide until he started dealing keys. Then I thought he owed me a visit at the garage. He had to come clean and come with cash, and he came with neither. First he played Mickey the Dunce, and when I called him on that, he tried to stare me down. He was acting like he owned the joint.

Soon thereafter, one night after closing, a couple of guys wearing masks came in and ripped off five keys and $50,000 cash. They were my guys, of course.

I got a call from him the next day. He was wondering what had happened to his protection. I told him I was wondering what had happened to my end.

By then he was into the coke himself, and he decided to go along on one of the armored-car robberies. The cops were waiting for them. I just can't afford to have partners who are looking at heavy time, especially if they've never done time before. They found his body in the trunk of a rented car in the long-term parking lot at Logan Airport—two in the hat, as the old-timers say.

The Alibi's current owner of record is the wife of my older brother, who's been doing odd jobs for me, all legit, since he went into AA a few years back. He's the manager of record. He has a gun permit too. I see 'em twice a year, every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Their kids love me. Like Whitey used to say, Christmas is for cops and kids.

This day I made it into the Alibi around 3:00 p.m., after parking the Escalade in the back alley. I had business to conduct, so I went out onto the sidewalk to speak with everybody as they stopped by. A guy with a hijacking crew from Malden mentioned something about a load of flat-screen TVs; I told him to see my guy at a warehouse I lease in Everett. I never say anything incriminating, or at least I try as best I can not to. I always talk one-on-one, his word against mine, but just in case he's wearing a wire, everything is indirect. Nobody's name is ever mentioned. Out on the street I cup my mouth, like Cheech or an NFL coach on the sidelines, just in case the cops have got some lip-readers working with binoculars across Broadway.

The feds follow me everywhere, at least when they've got a hair across their ass. As a felon, I can't carry a gun in the car. A lot of the time I have a car that follows me, with two guys with clean records. They have the guns. I only drive the Escalade in times of emergency, like now.

I was basking in the early spring sunshine outside the Alibi when one of the local bookies showed up. I'd asked him to come by when he had some time. I never order anybody to do anything. But most times, the people I need to see do the right thing. This guy's name was Barry Weinstein and he operated out of an “insurance agency” on Broad Street in the financial district. He'd stopped paying “rent” to Sally, which was a mistake, because Sally asked me to speak to Barry for him. Sally didn't like Jews very much, and he was always worried he'd lose his temper and slap them around, or worse.