Murder Takes Time (23 page)

Tito met him at a small cafe in the Bronx. Few people knew Johnny, and Tito preferred to keep it that way. He didn’t even know where Johnny lived. By nature hit men were secretive, and they kept it that way with everyone. The trouble was worth it; having a top-notch hit man was profitable, but, more importantly, it gave Tito power. He didn’t have enough work to keep Johnny busy, so he rented him out to other mob bosses. They paid his exorbitant fee, and, they owed Tito a favor—that was the real clincher. It gave Tito an edge, and it kept Johnny happy.

Tito sat facing the door. He raised his head when Johnny came in. It was 7:00 AM, precisely when Tito had asked Johnny to meet him. If he had said 7:02, he felt certain that he would have been staring at his watch for exactly two more minutes.

Muck didn’t have his fedora on today—a good thing. He only wore his hat when doing a job. And he wasn’t wearing gloves—another good sign. Tito raised a hand to draw his attention.

The waiter brought an espresso for Johnny, then, when he saw Tito’s cappuccino was empty, he took the cup, promising a replacement.

“Good to see you, Johnny.”

“I always liked this place,” Johnny said. “Great pastries.”

Tito jumped right in. “I need some help.”

“What can I do?”

“Got a kid that needs testing.”

Johnny Muck sipped his espresso then nibbled on the biscotto placed on the saucer beside the cup. All the while he looked around, always aware of his surroundings. “What kind of testing?”

“Your kind.”

Johnny’s eyes shot to the other tables while his right hand drifted toward his lap.

“Relax, Johnny. There’s nobody here but you and me.”

“You think I’m getting old?”

“We’re all getting old, Johnny, but that’s not the problem. Let’s just say I like what you and I have done together, and I want you to train your successor.”

The cappuccino came for Tito. Johnny waited. “Who is he?”

“Young kid from down by Philly.”

“Sicilian?”

Tito shook his head. “Father came over from Napoli.”

“Prison?”

“Ten years, but—”

Johnny was already shaking his head. “You know I don’t do that.”

Tito leaned in close. People were passing the table. “This kid is different. Trust me.”

He finished his espresso in silence, then, “What did you have in mind?”

“See what he can do. If he pisses his pants or fucks up—kill him.”

Muck thought it over. “Who? When?”

Tito shrugged. “Soon. Don’t know what targets yet.” He pointed his finger at Johnny. “And I’m not telling him what he’s in for. Let’s see how he thinks on his own.”

A nod came with Johnny’s response. “Call me.”

Tito left a twenty on the table. They walked out together. When they got outside, Johnny looked both ways, then stared straight at Tito. “If he fucks up, I’ll kill him.”

“If he fucks up, I don’t want him.”

CHAPTER 35

JOHNNY MUCK TAKES AN APPRENTICE

Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

T
ony told me Tito wanted to see me on Wednesday. I had almost given up hope. “Did he tell you anything?”

“Nothing. Just said be there Wednesday at noon. I’ll drop you off.”

I got to the union hall early and waited for Tito. He came out thirty minutes later, walking fast. “Nicky. Sorry I’m late. Come with me.”

I followed him, climbing into a silver Lincoln parked by the front door. “What have you got for me?”

“There’s a guy named Johnny Muck who works for me. He needs an apprentice.”

“What’s he do?”

Tito took a left turn, drove maybe half a block, then looked over at me. “None of your business.”

My first reaction was to be pissed off, but that would likely get me killed. “Can I assume I won’t be needing my carpenter’s hammer or saw, or shit like that? Because I’m not too good with tools.”

The five seconds it took him to respond seemed like five minutes, but then he roared. “That’s good, Nicky. I like that.” He laughed all the way down the next block. He never told me what Johnny Muck did, but that was okay. I knew these people didn’t deliver flowers.

Johnny Muck was tall for an Italian, a hair over six feet—more if you counted his fedora, a slick looking black one with a silver band that he wore cocked toward the left, maybe to show the gray streak on the right side of his head. The first thing I noticed when I met him were his hands. They were huge, and covered with gloves so thin I could see the ridges in his knuckles. His real name was Gianni Mucchiatto. People said that
Muck
was a natural shortening of his last name. Lots of Southern Italians, Neopolitans, in particular, loved to shorten names. Salvatore became Toto; Giuseppe became Zeppe or Beppe. Other people said that Johnny was the guy you called when you got into a mucky situation. I looked it up in a dictionary. One of the definitions was “anything filthy or vile.” I preferred to think that that’s where his name came from.

He wasn’t dirty or vile, as in
unclean
, not in that sense. But he was the meanest, coldest, most ruthless fuck I’d ever seen. As far as I was concerned, “filthy and vile” fit Johnny Muck like the gloves he wore.

When I first met him, he wasn’t about to tell me what he did. “You’ll be working for me” was all he said.

Johnny had me get his car. He climbed in, cautious. “Where to?” I asked.

“Queens.”

“You’re going to have to help me out. I don’t know my way around.”

He gave me directions a few turns at a time. Fortunately, traffic wasn’t bad this time of day, so I remembered where to go. He had me stop so we could get our windshield washed. Seemed odd, but I didn’t question it. And he watched me as I drove, but did it without trying to look like he was. We went over a bridge, took a few more turns, then parked in a garage on the third floor.

Johnny Muck turned the car off but made no move to get out. I sat still. After a moment of silence, Johnny looked over. “Three guys in this investment firm owe Tito money.”

I thought I knew what that meant, but didn’t jump to conclusions. “Why send us?”

“Tito sent his regular guy a few weeks ago. These three guys beat Tito’s man half to death. One held a gun on him while the other two did the work. They dumped him in front of family.”

I nodded. This happened from time to time, people who thought the old mob was gone, just a few figureheads hanging around trying to collect on past glory. When it did happen, though, it was Johnny Muck’s job to prove them wrong. Johnny Muck’s, and now mine. I learned that these three guys were scum. Not only did they beat the guy, they let his wife and kid see it happen. Tito might have forgiven them one time, if it was just about money, but an insult—no way.

Johnny Muck asked if I was okay doing a job with no practice. I knew this was a test. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Wipe the car down. We’ll wait until they get back from lunch.”

“So you know their schedule?”

Johnny Muck looked over at me, his eyes hard and probing. “Murder takes time, Nicky. That’s the first rule of our business.”

I tensed up. Gulped. I had killed people. Nobody innocent, and all in self-defense, but this would be different. On the other hand, these weren’t babes in the woods. These were guys stealing from the mob. They knew
exactly
what they were risking. I looked over at Johnny. A bond had suddenly developed between us. “So we’re going to kill these guys?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I was just telling you the first rule—murder takes time. That means you need to be prepared. Need to study your targets. Know everything about them.”

“How long have you been watching?”

“A few weeks.” Johnny eyed me again. This time it was more like a teacher. “Don’t use the same places to watch from, but if you have to, don’t do it at the same time of day. Don’t use the same cars or wear the same clothes. Remember that.
Sameness
is your enemy. People remember things they see over and over, but they also remember uniqueness. Never be unique.”

I listened, surprised that Johnny could say all that in one sitting. “Okay,” I said, then wiped down the car, making sure that everything I touched got wiped—handles, door, roof, everything. I looked across the hood at Johnny. “It’s done.”

Johnny opened the trunk, pulled out two briefcases, and handed me one. “This is yours,” he said and popped it open. “The gun is clean. The case is clean. Make sure it comes out with you.”

He had worn gloves, so there was nothing to wipe down on his side; besides, the car itself was nothing. If we left it, it would just be a stolen car left in a garage. Johnny put shades on and shut the trunk. “Let’s go.”

I kept up with him, walking side by side. I was shaking. I doubted Johnny was. I glanced at my hands. They looked calm, but I felt them trembling. This was not going to be as easy as I thought.

“
W
ALK WITH YOUR HEAD
down,” Johnny said. “There are cameras everywhere.”

We took an elevator to the fourth floor. He turned right and walked to #410, a large double-door with “Krivske, Pollard and Smythe” etched in script on the glass. Johnny went to the receptionist and leaned toward her. I learned later that this would make her shy away. Typically, the closer you got to people, the less likely they were to look at your face—really look at it.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Mr. Temple,” Johnny said. “I have an appointment.”

A quick check brought up the appointment he prearranged, apparently claiming to be a wealthy investor moving to New York.

She looked up and gave the welcoming smile all receptionists master. “They will be with you shortly, Mr. Temple. Would you care for something to drink?”

“No thanks.” Johnny sat in the chair next to me. “Remember to touch nothing,” he whispered.

Within minutes, a long-legged assistant led us to a conference room; all good assistants seemed to have long legs. I took note of the way we came in, assuming we might need a fast exit. She opened the door to a conference room, which had a long table in the center. Windows surrounded us, looking over the city.

The three men in the room greeted us, introducing themselves with even better fake smiles than the receptionist. Johnny asked if they minded shutting the blinds, as he had sensitive eyes. Two of the men quickly met his demands, their greed inspiring graciousness.

Johnny took his seat, opened his briefcase and pointed to the gun. Then he turned to me and said, “I believe you have something to show these gentlemen?”

A deep breath calmed me. I took another to be safe, wishing I could close my eyes too. Killing a person who was trying to hurt you was different than this. But I knew this was a test, and I knew if I didn’t do it, that long-legged assistant would find four bodies in this conference room instead of three. I laid my case on the table, opened it, took one more breath…then reached for the gun. It had a silencer.

Adrenaline raced through my body, charging me. In one fluid move, I lifted the gun, and shot each of them in the head. They didn’t have time to scream, just gasped and fell to the table. I put an extra bullet into each of them before putting the gun away.

Johnny packed up his case, threw me a cloth to clean off the blood, then started for the door. Not running, just moving. I latched my case and followed him, closing the door behind us.

As we walked down the hall, the assistant looked strangely at us. “Meeting over so soon, gentlemen?” I didn’t trust myself to talk without my voice cracking, so I was glad Johnny spoke for us.

“I’m afraid it is,” Johnny said.

We made it out of the building before anyone was alerted. We took the elevator to the subway. Before long, we were on our way to safety.

After that, Johnny and I did a lot of jobs. A guy in the Bronx who whacked someone without permission. Another one in Manhattan who was caught skimming dope from his boss. And two guys in Brooklyn who were selling heroin to elementary school kids. I relished every part of
that
job—made it particularly painful for them.

Before long, Tito had me doing jobs myself. The risk was greater, but the money was better. I reminded him again that I was going to quit once I got enough.

“Yeah, me too, kid,” was all he said.

O
VER THE NEXT FEW
months, I did more work with Johnny, mostly perfecting my craft. I was a quick learner, and Johnny made sure to teach me his rules:

1. Murder takes time—Never rush. Know what you are going to do before, during, and after the job. Know your victim. Their face. Routines. Neighborhood. Family.

2. Murder has consequences—When doing a job you can never,
ever
, let it get personal. Each assignment is just a job. If you let it get personal, it
will
have consequences.

3. Murder takes patience—If someone has a routine, trust it. Wait them out, and it
will
pay off. As for yourself, never be predictable. Don’t shop at the same place. Don’t eat at the same place. Don’t do
anything
at the same place or at the same time or on the same days.