13.
Eddie Bones. Ex-con, gangster, and criminal pharaoh. Warm waves and neon sunsets. Palm trees. Sugar sand. Shag pad. The Hackensack hooch, stretched horizon wide. As long as the natives didn’t plan a coup, the spread would remain safe, fun, and boozy.
Bones dug the mystery angle. The island harbored a port of call for cruise lines. He’d buzz down there, vamping horny broads.
He also winged local tail, a young stable. He even quit smoking.
The tropics agreed with him. One of his friendly chicks nailed it,
"Salty air, great for lungs".
And that’s when Mr. Eddie’s chest started to howl. It began with the coughs. Heaving out brown stuff. Shots of prune juice and molasses. More heaves. The crash landing from smoking.
Years of it. Hell, he’d been whacking his lungs before whacking out of step wise guys.
His lungs blew out polluted phlegm. After the third round of dry heaves, he began to spit out the next batch of garbage.
Brown sludge. Filtered in the sludge, red lines. The bloodshot's gave Bones the shakes.
He puddle jumped for a chest x-ray. The tech advised him his lungs were pooled with nasty fluids. The red flag kind. Bones buzzed Doctor C up in Chelsea. Doctor C scoped the rays, and spammed the straight talk. What he saw was bad, really bad.
"Whatta we gotta do here?" asked Bones.
"One lung has to come out--without question."
"You’re kiddin' me," said Bones.
"I wish I was," responded C.
"What about the otha lung?" Bones followed up.
"I don’t know--it might have to be a surgery decision."
"Wait a minute, how the fuck do I go on if they're both that bad?"
"You don’t."
"How soon could ya get down here so we could take care a this thing?"
"I can’t perform this operation."
"Where the fuck do I go?"
"You could try Mexico, but I wouldn’t advise it."
"How much this thing gonna run me?"
"You have medical insurance?"
"No."
"You better get some."
"How the hell is that gonna work? I never had a social security card. I'm gonna have to pay cash."
"I could arrange the whole thing. I’ll set it up so that you come to New York. Is that possible?"
"What choice I got?"
"If you don’t do this operation, you’ll die…., very quickly."
"Do me this favor. Set it up, let me know what I gotta do, and I’ll take care a ya."
"I’ll arrange a car to pick you up at the airport. Will you have trouble getting back into the country?"
"I never planned on it. I got some fake shit I could use. It’s top a the line. I mean, we gotta pull this thing off here, wit’out anybody findin' out about it."
A stoolie shit dime on the Casella hit, and Doctor C’s spread.
C stitched up the slug holes. Tommy came to. The cops moved in the snitch theater. Modules of bug work in unmarked vans. Digital video, zoom lens popping glossy pix. They tapped his phone lines, satellites traced his cell calls. It was just an inquiry. Yeah, right.
And the Hackensack heist was just another hold-up. This info could weep Casella off the map. It did. Jersey troopers interloped with NYPD, hustling in.
Badge chilled. Bones went under. Eddie had one lung removed, and half the second one. Battered up, he awoke from the tank jobs. He eyeballed badge. They barked his rights.
"At least you guys ain’t priests", Bones said. Eddie Bones recovered, was charged, and peeled a deep stretch for the Hackensack heist. The pen spit him back on the streets. Broke, breathing heavy, and sniffing out his next score.