“The withdrawal route should differ from that of the approach . . . ”
—US Marine Corps Scout/Sniper Training Manual
Jimmy O hung up the phone and ground his cigarette into the ashtray. Before it stopped smoldering, he lit another. He stared into the smoke for several seconds and then picked up the phone and banged a number. “Gordon? Get your ass out of bed and come over here. We’re going to rattle a few cages and see if we can’t stir up a rat.”
The Escalade turned the corner and crept up the street. The driver stayed on the dark side of the thoroughfare, staying close to the empty warehouses and avoiding the few lights in the abandoned industrial park. O’Leary stood back from the alley’s entrance—hidden in the shadows—and glanced at his watch. Right on time, he thought. Being predictable is a very stupid thing for a drug dealer; but what the hell, if they were smart they would be doctors or lawyers. Jimmy tossed his cigarette to the ground and watched the wind tumble it end over end deeper into the alley. He nodded to Gordon.
O’Leary and Winter watched the SUV until it reached the end of the block and coasted to the curb. A man stepped out of a dark doorway and looked both ways, checking for unwanted observers. Satisfied the street was empty, the pusher approached the car.
They waited until they were certain that the pushers felt safe and then walked out of the alley. Even though he saw no weapons, O’Leary knew the dealers had guns hidden from sight. The street pusher stood on the sidewalk and leaned so close to the Escalade’s tinted window that his face almost touched the glass. The driver lowered the window. A nickel-plated revolver appeared through the window, sparkling in the amber light of a nearby streetlamp. The pusher held his hands up so they were visible and backed up a step. Whoever was in the car appeared to be ready to shoot if the face belonged to anyone other than his expected contact. Their voices carried in the quiet early morning air.
“Whoa, motherfucker,” the street dealer said, “ain’t any call for the gun, man.”
“How yuh doin’, Jamal?” the man in the car asked. He had a Latino accent.
O’Leary and Winter closed with the SUV. At the last minute, the one named Jamal noticed them. O’Leary shoved him out of the way and grabbed the revolver. On the other side of the truck, Winter pushed a 9mm pistol against the driver’s temple before he could stomp on the accelerator.
O’Leary looked at Jamal. “Take a hike, douchebag. I got business with Ricky and it ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.
The pusher gave the gun O’Leary held a nervous look and, like a wraith, disappeared into the night.
“Let’s put the hardware aside, shall we?” O’Leary said. “I wouldn’t want anyone gettin’ hurt for no reason.”
The drug dealer knew he had no chance and held his weapon up. O’Leary took it.
“Hey, Jimmy, since when you ripping off bidnezzmen?”
“I got no interest in your cash or the goods you sell.” O’Leary opened the door, grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him onto the pavement.
“Damn, man, what’s with you?”
O’Leary grabbed the man called Ricky by the back of his shirt collar and lifted him until his tiptoes barely touched the ground. He kept a tight grip on him and high-stepped the Hispanic along the sidewalk and into the alley he and Winter had just left. Once they were safely in the shadows, O’Leary slammed him against the brick wall so hard that the dealer’s head bounced against it. “Talk to me, Ricky.”
“I been tryin’ but you actin’ all postal and shit . . . ”
Jimmy slammed the dealer’s shoulders and head against the bricks again.
“Okay, okay. What you want to know? Jeezus, that fuckin’ hurts—stop it, will ya?”
“The Common shooter . . . ”
“Hey, man, I got nothin’ to do with that. You know me Jimmy. I ain’t never offed nobody ’less it was bidnezz.”
“You know people who know people, Ricky. I want to know what you know about this guy.” He thumped Ricky’s head against the wall again.
“Okay, man. Shit, no reason for you goin’ all fuckin’ crazy about this. What happen, this dude do you wrong or sumptin?”
“Ricky, I’m getting tired of your bullshit act.”
“All right.” The ghetto dropped out of his voice. “The only thing I know about this shooter is that he’s one whacked-out motherfucker. I’ve been told he looks like he’s made of silly putty.”
Jimmy leaned closer to Ricky, his eyes shining in the ambient light. “Silly putty?”
“Yeah, that stuff we had when we were kids . . . ”
“I was never a kid . . . ”
“Anyhow, this guy is burned so bad that he looks like he walked out halfway through his cremation.”
O’Leary stepped away, released Ricky’s shirt and took out his cigarettes. He lit a smoke and offered the pack to Ricky. The dealer pulled one out and lit it from O’Leary’s lighter. He rubbed the back of his head. “Jesus, Jimmy, you like to busted my damn head.”
“You got a name for this cowboy?”
“Nope, but I hear he’s got a crib in Mattapan somewhere.”
“I want that address.”
“I don’t know where it is, man. Like I said, this dude isn’t put together normal. He’s not like you and me. We’re businessmen—we take people out only when it’s necessary. This guy does it because he likes it.”
O’Leary stepped out of the alley and motioned to Winter. He turned back to Ricky. “Put the word out, I want this guy. I’ll make it worthwhile to anyone who leads me to him. And Ricky . . . ”
“Yeah?”
“If you want to stay in bidnezz, you better stop being so goddamned predictable. You need to vary your routine a bit, know what I mean? Hell, I knew down to the minute when you’d be here.”
Ricky stared at him as if he had no idea that he was stuck in a routine. Jimmy shook his head; some people just never get the concept. “You know, Ricky . . . what you lack in intelligence, you more than make up for in stupidity . . . ”
When they were back in his Lincoln Navigator, Winter asked, “Where to next?”
“I want to hit a couple of places, one in Charlestown and another in Southie.”
“It’s four in the morning.”
“The places we’re going don’t close.”
Charlestown was a square mile in size and divided into two different and distinct cities. The title of Dickens’s novel A Tale of Two Cities would have been ideal for a book about the city. The south side, around the Bunker Hill Monument and extending to Rutherford Avenue was the domain of the upper-middle class—called Tunies by the longtime residents—complete with successful small businesses and exorbitantly priced condominiums. On the other hand, the north end was where the working and non-working poor, the people known as Townies, were crammed into triple-decker apartments and low-income housing projects. This was where Jimmy O and Gordon were headed.
O’Leary and Winter parked alongside a hydrant on a street so narrow that a single car could barely fit. They walked down an alley between two of the triple-decker apartment houses that lined the street. The passage was barely wide enough to hold the garbage cans that filled the air with a ripe aroma. In the absolute dark Jimmy stumbled into one of the metal cans and cursed.
“You okay, boss?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy circumvented the remaining obstacles, rounded the building, turned left and entered the back door of a seedy bar. To outsiders, the tavern was closed, but the Townies knew that the action had merely moved to the back room, which was in reality a private club.
O’Leary felt at home in Charlestown and was one of the few non-Townies with access to everywhere. He walked to the bar and slapped a heavyset man on the back. “How’s it goin’, Bobby?”
The man spun on his stool, ready to punch the interloper. When he recognized O’Leary, he smiled a broad smile that revealed a missing canine tooth. “Not bad, Jimmy. How ’bout you?”
“I’m doin’ okay.”
“You get the dough I sent?” Bobby asked.
O’Leary slid onto a bar stool beside Bobby and glanced around the room. He saw no one who was not known to him and felt secure enough to talk openly. “Yup, was that my cut from the armored car in Andover?”
“Yeah.”
“You want some advice, Bobby?”
Bobby downed his shot of whiskey. “Depends. What’s it gonna cost?”
“Nothin’ . . . you know me—I charge for information. Advice, on the other hand, is free. But I’m lookin’ for some info.”
“Okay,” Bobby said, “it’s your dime.”
“First, the advice: lay off the rolling banks for a while. I heard the Feebs have moved a task force into the city. They believe all the robberies are bein’ done by a gang of Townies.”
For a few seconds, Bobby pondered O’Leary’s advice. “How long you figure we should lay low?”
“Shit, I was you guys, I’d get into a whole new line of business. It’s hard to know who to trust anymore. Take Whitey, for instance. No way in hell anyone would have expected him to be a rat bastard informing to the Feds.” Once again, O’Leary scanned the room. “It’s getting to the point where you can only trust your blood relatives—and you better keep a close watch on them.”
Bobby nodded his agreement. “Ain’t like the old days, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”
“Nope, the whole friggin’ world has gone nuts. If the Feebs bust you, call me. I got a real good lawyer. It’ll be on my dime, no charge.”
“Thanks.”
“Shit, you’re almost family. Over the years you bin’ loyal and I appreciate that.”
“What can I do for you?” Bobby motioned for the bartender to bring him a refill. “And get Jimmy whatever he wants.”
“Coffee,” O’Leary ordered. He turned back to Bobby. “Talk to me about these shootin’s goin’ on all over the city.”
“Jesus, Jimmy, you don’t want to get in the middle of that. Street talk is that this guy’s a fuckin’ psycho with an agenda . . . ”
“You got any idea what that agenda might be?”
Bobby’s eyes widened as if he had just had an epiphany. “The woman that got popped over on Comm Ave. was . . . ”
“My sister.”
“Aw, damn it all to hell, Jimmy, I’m sorry. Pam was a good kid . . . that sucks big time.”
“Yeah. So you see, this is personal. That’s why I want anything and everything you know.”
Like O’Leary had done moments before, Bobby glanced over his shoulder. “There’s somethin’ fucked up about this . . . you didn’t get this from me, okay?”
“Sure. Now tell me what you got.”
“The shooter’s agenda is your former brother-in-law. He has a major hard-on for him, one that goes back years . . . ”