Long White Con: The Biggest Score of His Life (21 page)

“Well, whoever is chosen to hold the stakes will have charge of the key,” he said as he casually placed the key beside the valise.

Folks said, “Carl, since Mister Dolan is our referee, it seems logical that he should retain the stakes in his office safe until the bout is concluded. That is, if Mister Brice has no objections.”

Tango said stoutly, “Mister Hoffman, since we going with your referee, we gotta go with my stakes holder.”

Folks said, “Whom would you trust with that responsibility, Mister Brice?”

Tango looked at Speedy. “Carl is going to hold the stakes.”

“That’s impossible!” Folks said.

“No it ain’t, if we bet.”

Precious said, “Mister Hoffman, why is it impossible?”

Folks waved his arms in exasperation to explain the obvious. “Because, Carl is my employee. True, he’s honest to a fault, but the conflict of interest, with him as stakes holder, compromises Mister Brice unfairly. Let’s observe, at least, minimal protocol in this affair.”

Speedy said, “He’s right, Mister Brice. Looks like Mister Dolan should hold the stakes. He can’t judge a fight to the finish, so he’s conflict free.”

Folks said, “I need an aspirin. Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,” as he rose from the sofa and left the room.

Speedy leaned into Tango’s face and whispered angrily, “Brother Tango, what the hell you trying to do? Blow the deal?”

Tango answered, “I ain’t no fool. Might as well blow the deal now if those two peckerwoods freeze the stakes in that safe with some legal bullshit. Suppose when Upshaw’s wind gives out in round twenty-five, like we planned, and Hoffman claims he quit on purpose. Shit, a powerful peckerwood like Hoffman could deny there was a bout, or even that my hundred grand was in the safe. The police gonna take the peckerwood’s word. Gambling ain’t legal in Illinois, Carl. I’ll mash five grand on you. You got to hold the stakes!”

Speedy shook Tango’s hand. “Since you put it like that, brother, guess we’ll have to convince Junior to let me hold the stakes.”

Speedy sat down beside Tango and glanced at his watch. Forty-five seconds before Kid was scheduled to put through the call from New York as Dolan.

Folks entered the room, then seated himself on the sofa. “Well, let’s decide on the stakes holder and get to the gym.”

Tango said, “We done decided. Carl wants to hold the stakes.”

Folks glared at Speedy. “Carl, did you agree to do that against my wishes?”

Speedy sheepishly averted his eyes. “Yes, sir . . . but only because otherwise, I believe Mister Brice will cancel the bout.”

Folks lit a cigarette, puffed it in furious aggravation.

“All right, let’s go to the gym. I’ll have a word with you later, Carl,” Folks said as the phone jangled on the coffee table before him. He picked up the receiver. “Hello Mister Dolan, we were just leaving for the gym.” Folks listened for several moments, let disappointment blossom on his face. “Yes, I understand. All right, then you’re certain that tomorrow afternoon we can hold the bout? I wish her well. See you then.” Folks hung up.

“Gentlemen, the bout is reset until tomorrow afternoon, same time. Mister Dolan’s wife’s appendix burst two hours ago. He was calling from the hospital.” Folks sighed, “I need a drink. How about you, gentlemen?” as he stood and moved toward the bar across the room.

Folks said, over his shoulder, “Carl, perhaps you should give Mister Brice his wager, or take the valise to Mister Sheppard at my bank for safekeeping in the vault.”

The others stood.

Tango stared down at the valise. “Brother, give me my bread so I can lock it up in my own safe. I don’t want it outdoors in no peckerwood’s vault.”

Speedy jabbed an elbow into Tango’s ribs. “Dummy up, brother. I’ll put all the stakes in your safe,” he hissed as he picked up the valise and moved to the bar, followed by the others.

Speedy glanced at his watch. “Mister Hoffman, I better shag to the bank with the valise before it closes.”

Folks said, “I’m sure, Carl, the bank vault is the more convenient arrangement for the stakes. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mister Brice.”

Tango said, “Tomorrow, Mister Hoffman.”

Folks glanced at his watch. “Hurry, Carl!” Speedy led the way from the suite and they went to the limo.

Speedy laughed. “Precious, a stakes holder with two hundred grand can’t chauffeur. You drive.” He gave Precious the ignition key and got in the car on the cushion over the dummy valise beneath him.

As planned, Upshaw let Tango get in the back seat before he got in to crowd himself between Speedy and Tango. Samson got up front with Precious and Precious pulled the limo into heavy Loop traffic. Speedy clasped the valise on his lap, the valise magnetized Tango’s darting glances.

Several blocks away, Precious halted the limo at a stoplight. Speedy pointed at a uniformed guard unlocking a closed bank door to let out a customer. They all glanced at the closed bank as Precious pulled away on the green light.

Speedy laughed. “Tango, how could I leave the stakes in Junior’s bank vault when it was closed when we got here?”

They all laughed.

Precious said, “And you’ve got four witnesses!”

They laughed again.

As they neared the Outer Drive, Speedy caught Precious’ eyes in the rear view mirror and fluttered an eyelash. Seconds later, Precious shot the limo toward the rear of a truck, then stomped the shrieking brakes. The limo passengers were thrown forward with gut-wrenching violence as the big car halted inches from the truck.

The dummy valise shot from concealment like a missile, striking the back of Speedy’s ankles. He let the valise on his lap slip to the carpet as he hurtled forward with palms thrown against the back of the driver’s seat. Then he kicked the cash valise into concealment with the back of his foot as he retrieved the dummy valise from the floor. He leaned back and placed the dummy on his lap as the others recovered.

Precious glanced into the rear view mirror as he pulled around the truck. He stiffened at the sight of a Buick containing four of Tango’s hoods in the traffic behind.

S
hrill winds buffeted the limo and flogged Lake Michigan frothy as Precious drove the Outer Drive toward the southside.

Samson glanced at the speedometer and growled, “Damn, Precious, you doing seventy-five. Lighten up. I nearly went through the windshield in the Loop!”

Precious reduced the speed to sixty. Speedy’s bland face concealed the interior ecstasy of the score accomplished. He was unaware that the body shop cutter had electric-sawed into the seat springs and a hanging barb of steel had gouged a half inch puncture into the dummy valise near the top, on the blind side, exposing a flash of printed telephone book boodle.

They reached Tango’s house at three-forty-five. Precious parked and they all got out as the four hoods pulled the Buick in behind them and got out.

Speedy said, “Brother Tango, you’re the stakes holder until tomorrow,” as he gave Tango the valise.

Tango said, “Brother, I sure ain’t got the words to thank you for everything.”

“You a beautiful brother. It’s a pleasure to be in your corner,” and he shook Tango’s hand.

“How about a drink?”

Speedy’s hands shaped a voluptuous pattern in the air. “Got a date, brother.”

Tango turned to lead his group up the walkway toward the house.

“Brother Tango, I got us an appointment with a contract expert after the bout tomorrow,” Speedy said as he and Upshaw got into the limo’s front seat.

Tango made the A-OK circle with thumb and index finger over his shoulder and Speedy goosed the limo away.

Precious went behind the living room bar immediately. Samson, Tango and his four hoods followed to seat themselves on bar stools as Tango placed the black valise on the bar top before him. Precious served Samson ginger ale and the others their choice of whiskey before he served himself a double shot straight, and down the hatch.

Tango’s fingertips caressed the valise as he sipped whiskey and dipped his head frenetically to the beat of a disco hit blasting from the bar radio. A laser of late afternoon sun fired through open Venetian blinds to illuminate the seat spring puncture in the valise. A corner of printed paper protruded. Precious was hypnotized as he watched Tango’s shocked eyes as he snatched the valise off the bar and tremblingly held it near his face.

Then he leapt to his feet and rammed a finger into the hole as he shouted, “Gimme a knife!”

One of the hoods drew a switchblade, popped it open and gave it to Tango as Tango disemboweled the bag and its paper innards burst forth. Tango made a brutish sound of awful anguish in his throat and sailed the bag to the ceiling, contents fluttering to the carpet.

His face was totally deformed with maniacal rage as he screeched, “Them niggers and that peckerwood done ripped me off!” He turned to the ebonic hood leader. “Boston, we gonna catch ’em and waste ’em. They headed for the Outer Drive back to the peckerwood in the Loop with my hundred grand!”

He flung the door open, braked for an instant and seized the
lapels of a bantam hood. “Sparky, didn’t you crack, the other day, that you spotted that Carl cocksucker going in a hotel?”

The bantam gasped, “Yeah, off a Forty-seventh Street.”

The gang dashed into the street.

Precious went to the window. He watched them get into the Buick and roar away, then he scrambled to the phone and dialed Speedy’s southside hotel.

The switchboard woman answered and put him on hold before he could ask for Speedy’s suite.

He frantically dialed again. Immediately that he heard the woman’s voice, he shouted, “Please! It’s an emergency! Connect me to room four-sixteen.”

The woman said, after seeming eons, “Mister Griffin just checked out . . . just a moment.”

Precious heard a male voice say, “I think I saw him and his buddy having a drink with Pretty Helen in one of the joints down the street.”

He hung up, called Folks and sprinted to the street. He jumped into his jalopy and bombed it away for Speedy’s hotel. He spotted the parked limo in the middle of the block at the mouth of an alley. There was a bar at the other end of the block. He braked sharply at the end of the block and coasted into the curb to park, then got out and eye-swept both sides of the block for Tango, in the Buick.

He went down the sidewalk to within yards of the alley mouth when he froze and stared into a record shop plateglass at the alley that reflected the Tango Buick staked out twenty feet up the alley across the street. Then he turned back to his car, got in and was about to “U” turn and go around the block to warn Speedy, in the bar, when he saw Speedy, with valise, and Upshaw leave the bar and come down the sidewalk toward the limo with a high yellow stunner between them.

He hit the middle of the sidewalk and waved his arms as they came forward laughing, with eyes chained to the super fox. He shouted, “Speedy! Watch it! Run!” as they approached the limo.

Speedy’s eyes were phosphorescent as he halted and stared at Precious for a long moment. The Buick catapulted into the street and Speedy raced into the alley behind Upshaw. The super fox screamed and fled back toward the bar as the Buick roared into the alley in pursuit.

Precious sobbed as he ran down the crowded sidewalk to the mouth of the alley. He stared into it over the heads of a knot of horrified gawkers as the Buick smashed into Speedy with a terrible crunch sound. He and the valise flew through the air to bowl over Upshaw. The Buick’s transmission and brakes howled and squealed as Boston repeatedly backed up and shot the Buick’s wheels forward over the prostrate targets, crushed and crimsoned on the alley floor.

Three of the hoods got out and retrieved the valise. Then they stooped over the pair as Boston shot them repeatedly through the head. They tore off Speedy’s money belt and rifled their pockets, then almost casually got in the Buick. Boston stomped the Buick into traffic at the other end of the alley.

Precious leaned against a telephone post and vomited until his guts dry-locked. He staggered back to his car and fell inside as an ambulance squealed into the alley. Then he started the car and drove away toward the Loop in a trance.

Folks let him into the suite. “Where are Speedy and Upshaw!?”

Precious stumbled into the living room and crashed limply on the sofa with stricken eyes.

“For Christ sake! What happened!?”

Precious mumbled, “The cruel bastards killed them the dirtiest way . . . ran over them over and over until my heart almost burst. Robbed them! Valise, everything. They had the license plates bent double. I’ve never been copper-hearted, but they won’t get away with it. I’ll put the finger on those motherfuckers!” Precious’ eyes burst tears as he reached for the phone.

Folks snatched it away. “Get yourself together, Precious!”

Precious leapt to his feet. “I’ll make the call to the police somewhere!”

Folks grabbed his shoulders, shook him violently. “Don’t crack up like a pussy, Precious!” He flung him back on the sofa.

Precious said, “Gimme some whiskey . . . lots of whiskey.”

“Now we’re on the same wavelength,” Folks said as he went to the bar.

He brought back water glasses and two bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey. He sat down beside Precious and filled the glasses to the brim.

Two days later, at midnight, after arranging with an undertaker to claim and cremate the bodies of Speedy and Upshaw, they checked out. They went to the Eldorado, and Folks pulled it through the light Loop traffic for the highway to L.A.

At a stoplight, Folks gazed at a spectacular blonde beauty crossing before him. For the zillionth time he wondered if Trevor Buckmeister was indeed the most accomplished actor on the planet. He wondered if Christina Buckmeister had been playing castle stink finger, waiting for him when Trevor turned him away.

A preview of

THE NAKED SOUL OF ICEBERG SLIM

I
want to say at the outset that I have become ill, insane as an inmate of a torture chamber behind America’s fake facade of justice and democracy. But I am not as ill as I was, and I am getting better all the time. And also, I want to make clear that my reason for starting these notes at a point of personal anguish and suffering is that these experiences marked the end of a corrupt pimp life and were the prelude to a still mauled, but constructive new life. I am not “playing the con” for sympathy.