5.
Billy Irish brewed home invasions with a tight, three man team.
Lance, an ex-corporal in the military, his go to guy. Lance worked the forced entries with Billy, and Neal, an extra driver. Billy dimed Tony to work the wheel on his current spin. A cash and carry gig.
Battery wheels to haul the merch and tools. That’s how Billy ran his jobs. One car hauls freight, the other crew. Tony reached a wall of baby blue bricks. Red neon tubes: GO-GO BAR. The mill had as much mystery as a can of Raid. Tony hit the front door, entering a dark, seedy dive.
Two booty Latina's in day glow bikinis, twirled the main stage. Hot lime, hot orange, glow stick stiletto's. Trash stamps, and counterfeit tits, grinding out the lunch hour. Guys in trucker caps and torn Tees shot pool. A third wheel, in paint-pocked clothes, leaned against a broken jukebox. Tony couldn't figure a beer buzz or the warped floor slanting gravity.
They huddled in a corner booth. The team peeled burglary, safe cracking, and home invasions, specializing in gemstones. Leo endorsed the inquiry, passing Scram's number.
"We heard all about you--you were recommended," Billy said.
"What did you hear?" asked Tony.
"You're like a fuckin' cockroach. It don't matter where you go, man--you get in, and you're getting out," said Lance, digging Tony's rep.
"Without a scratch, but I never heard it like that."
"Don't sweat the analogy--it's a compliment." Billy beamed.
In a place like this, if you say so. They dug into biz. Big spread in the hills. The gamut of cash, diamonds, colored stones. Top shelf.
Platinum settings paved with Internally Flawless, VVS, colorless to near colorless diamonds. The colored stone collection, just as impressive. Burmese rubies, Colombian emeralds. Star sapphires.
They didn’t expect a mother lode. The six figure stuff, vaulted in safety deposit. Others, she brought with her. The minor league, four and five figure batch, left behind. Sweet grab. If they wanted stones, they were raiding the right hive. Everything to be removed, and fenced. All precious metal, the jeweler’s catch.
"You know, rich people crack me up. They shell out five, six figures on a piece of jewelry, and don't even buy a decent safe, let alone a Doberman," Billy said, lighting a Marlboro.
"Where is she?" asked Tony.
"California," answered Lance. The tip filtered into the bar. A dancer has a sister that maided the joint. Scram pondered if she got canned for going clepto.
"What's my end?" asked Tony
"We'll give you ten large," Billy said.
"I get my split in cash, in full, before we part ways after the job. I'm not in the fencing game. You want to grab jewels, that's your business."
"That's cool."
"I'll also need some expense money up front. I'll have to get a work car, and plan out the escape routes. That takes time."
Tony grooved ten grand. A nice round number. Another three grand, per diem, house money. One g for the car connection, two for time and refurbishing wheels.
"We‘re ready when you are. She leaves next week."
"For how long?"
"Three weeks."
"What about her old man?"
"Overseas. On business. China, then Hong Kong. He won’t be back anytime soon," Billy said.
They shot Scram the dope. A married daughter in Sonoma Valley. The lonely broad, living lushville. Hubby ran a bat line with local jewelers, all high end. Give her what she wants, fax the damages.
Irish slid a padded envelope across the table. Tony snagged it. Billy smiled, smudging his filter. They were in business. The wheels came via Leo. A friend ran a garage for work cars. Tony picked a Lincoln Continental, and forked over a g.
"Don’t forget to fill it up before you bring her back," the old bird said. Rehab time. New tires, shocks, lights, and fuses. Can’t begin to tell you how many crews get pinched over cracked windshields, and burnt headlights. Oil change, shocks, tune up.
Radiator and trans, flushed, and topped. New belts, hoses, a battery, and alternator. Tony had no idea how long the car sat.
Scram scoped a patch of nebulas splotching the driveway. At least one per vehicle. He passed on the quiz, and rebound bullshit.
All cars need to ace inspection. Rear windows, tinted. Wash, wax, detailed. Tony wheeled the Lincoln, decked in Hugo Boss.
They grabbed Janice, a dancer from the main stage. Tony argued.
Billy shot it down. They wrapped her in a cocktail dress. Scram sported specs. The dinner party look.
"I'm tellin' ya right now, I'm not into this husband and wife shit," she said.
"It's just an act."
"You're a creep, I could tell. And another thing, keep your fuckin' hands to yourself. I'm only doin' this bullshit for Billy."
"There won’t be any problems. Take it easy."
"Don't tell me to take it easy, you take it easy, jerk off." Billy and Lance, jamming show time. The plan was to hang back, and cruise up when dispatched. No loitering. Tony and Janice docked in a Bennigan’s facing Route 17. Saddle River the target. A rich, secluded hood. Pro athletes, and big shot CEO’s. Richard Nixon cribbed around the corner. A few blocks from the prez, another break in. Tony handled a walkie-talkie. Irish riffed the air waves.
"Tony?"
"Go ahead."
"Rock and roll time. Let's go."
"Check."
Tony hovered in. Irish creeped from the shadows. Scram popped the trunk. Billy dumped goodies into the well. He also placed a Craftsmen tool box, drill, and sleeve of bits alongside. A blow torch, and mallet. Encore. Hot stones, burglar tools, bootleg tits. Tony launched.
Neal pulled up. Billy and Lance hopped in, splitting in the opposite direction. They'd relay, switch wheels, and rebound the highway.
Tony steamed for 17, a bee line mile. Out came the cherries.
Rack lights whirled, grill lights flashed. Tony looked ahead. The jug handle for 17, a quarter mile out. A floored pedal, he could reach the highway. 17 was a problem. A string of municipal cops. Young yahoos living for chase. 17 slashed twelve towns. A dozen heats to win. Throw in the county and troopers, that‘s a busy night. Not to mention the lottery odds of an escape.
Janice freaked. Tony kept it steady, waiting for the fuzz to blow past. The prowler zoomed up, a siren zipped. Tony did something he never done: He pulled over.
"Keep your mouth shut, I'll handle it," Tony said.
"What? Like, I don't speak American, or somethin'?"
The badge hopped up, and suspicious. He claimed Tony failed to signal, and crossed a double line. Bullshit. The usual grill. Any drinking? A glass of wine at dinner, well out of system by now.
What’s a Mc–wop couple doing up here? Badge eyeballed the hasty lap, perched in a wooded speed trap. Scram told him he was coming from a dinner party in Rockland County, and dropped a couple off. Where? Tony wasn‘t sure.
"They’re friends of yours, and you don’t know their address?"
The patrolman quizzed.
"They’re not friends. Friends of friends. We just met them tonight. A nice elderly couple. They said he has trouble driving at night, so they took a cab. I told them we’d take them home, since it was on the way." The officer leaned into the story. The tinted windows would hide older folks nicely.
Boss wanted to run Tony‘s digits. Scram pushed the paperwork. Scram hived down by the George. The towns that way stocked Vitalis. He went back to the squad car. Another cop piled in, rack lights flashing. The officer ran the paisan info, and began back.
Tony remained cool. Janice snapped her gum. Since he never agreed to pull over in the past, he hoped the new identity would pass the computer test. The patrol officer fed Tony his papers, and wished them a good, safe night. He acknowledged Janice.
Janice didn’t answer. Tony scoped the side view, watching the patrolman return to his squad car.
Tony dodged the bullets. It was a back up plan he’d been cranking over. His new age religion. In case of a search, seizure, and pinch, why add fraud to the mix? That's where they'd gaff him. Been there, done that.
"Oh yeah, that was fuckin' smooth," Janice said.
"You did good, real good. I'll make sure I tell Billy all about it."
"Fuck you, you hard on. Get me outta this fuckin' place. I need a fuckin' cigarette." Tony dumped Janice at the go go bar.
Irish, jacked up.
"Where the hell were you?" Irish said.
"I dropped by Nixon, and told him he got a bum rap." Scram exchanged goods for payment, and returned a refurbed ride to Leo’s friend. The old bird bitched over low fuel. Tony threw him a twenty. Once Scram left Irish, he had no intention of stopping.
Even five minutes for the old bird's gas.
"Your boy fucked up," Billy leaned on Leo.
"What happened to the stones?" asked a cool skipper.
"They’re fenced."
"What about the money?"
"It’s in my off-shore account. What's with the questions?"
"If you want another driver, I could provide one. But don’t ever call me to say my kid fucked up when he got your ass to the bank."
"Don’t get so defensive."
"Don’t ever tell me how to run my business, or handle my men."
"Forget it." Billy fumed. The old man hot-tubbed.
Scram would never wheel for Billy Irish again. The stop spooked Billy, but he got over it. Irish planned a bigger, bolder move. Too risky for Tony’s taste. He passed. Leo scratched Irish, relieved when Scram bailed.
"I’m glad you passed on it," the old man said.
"I didn’t like it. Had a bad vibe to it."
"Either way, it‘s a smart move. Had you signed on, it would have put me in a bad position," Leo left it at that. Tony didn't. The old man's rebound stewed him up.
"What do you mean?" Tony baited the crime father.
"Look. I have a business to run. If the guys I'm dealing with fail to use good judgment, on their own, it could pull me down. I can't afford to go there. And neither should you." Leo laid law.
Tony groped good advice. A generous bone, and didn't dare get the last word.
Team Irish shot more dope, breaking them down. The job baked, and so did Billy. There were live bodies in the house. Team Irish decided to tie them up, and start a pistol-whip party. It's one thing to fleece the famiglia. It's another when you fuck with legit paisan's and mama Mia's .
Cops found Irish in the trunk of a car. Bound, gagged, brains blown out. Vice found Neal hacked to death in a heroin den. When Lance learned he mugged the Corleone's, he moved off the map.
After his partners popped up, he turned himself in. Lance knew he’d face some serious time. Better in a cell, than a drum.
The fuzz had no idea what the hell he was talking about. The Corleone's never called the cops. Lance rolled. Badge sat back.
This job, that job. This name, that name.
The cops tapped the streets armed with info. Setting up scopes and bug work. Tailing some guys, picking up others. Who they stuck too, where they moved. More info. More pix. More moves, more perps. Stuffing the jackets, waiting for something hot.