CHAPTER 2

LESS THAN A BLOCK AWAY FROM BOLO’S DIGS, A WELL-DRESSED FIGURE stepped out of the car and into the dark, brisk, cold night, tugging up the collar of his topcoat – black, velvet collar, the same kind you’d see the characters wearing in the Godfather movies. But this one was playing no movie role. This guy was real. Deadly real.

He moved slightly away from of the car, but did not close the door. His raspy voice as frosty as the air, he whispered to the driver, “Meet you later.” Then he slammed shut the door, turned and slowly walked away, trying hard to keep his black, pointy wing-tips out of Erie’s filthy street slush.

The driver breathed deeply for a few moments, smiled, then jammed his right foot hard on the accelerator, the wheels spinning in the snow and slush, and quickly sped away, headed in the direction of a nearby Erie sports bar. After all, it was Monday night and there was football to watch. But football this night was the last thing on this driver’s mind. There was an alibi to establish.

Meanwhile, the ominous figure in the black overcoat was already familiar with West 21st Street, even in the dark. For a week he’d scoped out and cased the street – and the house numbered 1634. He buttoned his coat over the black suit and tie, then jammed his gloveless hands into the overcoat’s deep pockets. In his right pocket, his fingers surrounded a familiar object, a .32 caliber Italian Beretta semi-automatic pistol. The metal was still warm to the cold touch of his fingers. He relaxed, almost comfortable. He had done this before. This won’t take that long, he thought, already fantasizing over how he might spend the blood money.

In front of 1634 West 21st Street, the figure with the menacing aura paused for only a second. Even in the mostly dark neighborhood, the nearby streetlight illuminated his steamy breath in the cold night air. The Caddy was in the driveway. Inside the house, the lights were on. It looked welcoming. Warm and cheery on a cold night. He checked his watch. 6:15 p.m. Then he smirked. The professional hit man climbed the three unshoveled front steps, kicked the snow from his shoes, took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

Several minutes earlier, having dropped off his book-making partner at the partner’s home, Bolo had arrived at his own West 21st Street house an even three hours before kick-off. His “clients” were already starting to phone in their bets, and Bolo knew he’d only have a few minutes at most to devour the sub before Monday Night Football’s pre-game betting got so fast and furious that he’d be able to do little else than take those bets until just before kick-off.

It had been a good weekend for college football gambling, given the holiday bowl games and propensity of Erie’s bettors to try to score big at the end of the season to make up for their earlier, sometimes massive, seasonal gambling losses.

This night’s pro game between the Cowboys and Vikings, the last regular season game, meant nothing in the standings, but it would be a great warm-up for the coming weekend’s NFL playoffs, Dovishaw thought. The off-the-field action would be good, very good. His take this night could be in the thousands, even after pay-outs to the winners. First, though, there was Al’s meatball sub to enjoy, but not savor. Like everything else he did, Dovishaw savored little, exploring life through crude gulps, belches and gross flatulence.

The phone rang.

Bolo didn’t answer. His mouth was stuffed with a half-chewed mush of bread, ground beef, provolone cheese and Al’s tangy marinara sauce. But that was okay. He knew he wasn’t losing money by not answering. He knew that on the fourth ring, the call automatically would transfer to a house several blocks away. That kid, Victor, would take the bet. What a perfect set-up! The phone was on a relay system, high-tech for the time. The General Telephone Company only charged him an extra couple of bucks a month for the service. Ha. If they only knew, Dovishaw thought with typical greedy satisfaction.

He also chuckled over his set-up with Ray. Who would have thought, or even believed it? Bolo Dovishaw in partnership with Erie’s most notorious hit man – the ice-blooded Raymond Ferritto. It was why Bolo could afford to feel so brave. With Ray as his bookie partner, who’d mess with Bolo? Who would ever fuck with Ray? No one. That’s who.

Bolo’s noisy chomping, an idyllic reverie to him, was broken, however, not by the ringing phone, but by the intruding door bell. What the hell, Dovishaw thought. Now what?

Still wearing the rubber overshoes from his earlier outing with Ray Ferritto, Bolo padded to the front door. Through the window he could see it was a well-dressed man wearing an expensive topcoat. It could not have been a new client. Bolo never allowed clients at his home. They were to make book by phone, not in person. Dovishaw was not pleased. And, if this was a shill or salesperson, well, he’ll send this meatball sub intruder packing quickly.

Bolo opened the door a crack.

“Yeah?”

“You Frank Dovishaw?”

In typical fashion, he responded, “Who the fuck wants to know?”

Frank “Bolo” Dovishaw would never find out.

Kenneth Wisinski dropped off the boys at the church, told them he’d be back at 8 o’clock, then swung his car north from West 26th Street to West 21st Street – Bolo Dovishaw’s street. Wisinski was both confident and determined. As he drove, he thought about just how pleased Michele would be when he forked over the money Dovishaw owed her. Just the thought of his daughter’s smile made him drive faster.