7.
Eddie Bones. Back from a prison jolt, defrosting in a halfway house. The life of a knock around guy. Up, down, hot luck, no luck. It was a nine year hitch, with marked cards being dealt. The Hoovers rampaged. Scooping up wise guys, offering fed med packages. Bones refused to squeal. Instead of reduced grease, the judge jacked him up with an extra three years. Nine years for popping a guy. The crime angels tweaked it. He lived.
The home was planted in the Astoria section of Queens.
Steinway Street. The tank bubbled with wannabe's, connected guys burning off the limbo. Big street, big traffic. Noise and cement crawlers. Bones swept the sidewalk in state issued duds.
Dungarees, black shoes, blue button down. Work-release detail.
Pitching in for room, board, and rehab. Bones was wrapping up dust patrol, when the sharkskin suit strolled up.
"Walkin’ the dog?" the suit asked.
"Hey Buster, how are things?"
"Carmine sent me."
"No shit, how is he?"
"Great. He’s a capo now. He sends his regards."
"I heard about it in the joint."
"You have time?"
"I don’t see why not."
They found a diner, lounging a deep corner. "It’s embarrassin’. Talkin’ to ya like this, in these clothes," Bones said.
"Forget it, Eddie--we all been here."
"What’s up?"
"Carmine wants to open up the books, and give you your button."
"You’re kiddin’?"
"Sound like I’m fuckin’ around here?"
"How did that happen? I mean, that’s a big thing."
"Eddie, c’mon now. You’re as stand up as they come.
Carmine appreciates what you did for him, the family, you know what I'm talkin' about here."
"What did I do?"
"You kept your mouth shut. You coulda sunk a lot a guys Eddie. Now, it’s payback."
Carmine beamed out the word: Bones is off-limits. The high alert ripped the city. Eddie Bones was being brought in, and straightened out. A made man. Legit, and full-fledged. Twenty-four seven. Every gangster’s dream.
"Once you get outta this shit hole set up, you call me, and we get things rollin’."
The sit down ended. Bones slid back to the holding pen.
Bones banked the free ride, wrapping his stint in Astoria.
He mapped his next move. Bones decided to punt. Fuck these guys, and their omerta's. Bones grew tired of the charade.
Go to prison, keep your mouth shut, while others roll. Then, you get out, and it's back to packing the boss’s vault. Bones had it with these guys. They want to sign a contract? Great. Have consigliere draw it up. When I forget to show up to sign it, wipe your ass with it.
Bones was always a loner-type. Odd, for his kind of work. His fear out-gunned loneliness. He knew it was one to a box, or barrel, if it should come to that. Bones wasn’t afraid of going it alone, he was just afraid of going. To escape it, he’d avoid sleeping, dreaming of scores. That whopper gig to blitz the tropics.
No more nuts, no more kicking the loot upstairs. He silently detested those wise guys that thought being made, was the jet-set. Bones had friends, stand up guys that wanted to be capos, and climb the ranks. Good for them. Not for the Bones.
What didn’t jibe, was the spider web that went with it. Fuck that. To Eddie Bones, being a G meant being free. Free to make scores, free to keep the cash. Mapping the job. Selecting a crew, grabbing hardware. Eddie chalked the exit strategy. The gremlin in his head, double-shifts. He’d bolt the halfway house, living on the hush.
The pipeline percolated. Something big, fat, and doable was cooking over in Jersey. It’s all Bones could think of. The final mission. Super duper. Cold, untraceable cash. Stuff the suitcases, split the scene. He dreamed of exotic beaches. Palm trees, sugar sand, bunny tail out the ears.
He wanted to be long gone. Any down time, if and when the grabbing started, he’d drill them good. Old school dumb-dumbs.
That would send a message to Buster and the boys. Loud, and crystal fuckin’ clear. Either way, he’d made up his mind. He knew who he was. No pricked finger to make it official.
Bones smoked Astoria. He grabbed a cheap pad on the quiet, mapping the Hackensack heist. He burned Buster, and the boss's offer, out of his mind.