Deacon King Kong(16)

Greed, he thought wryly as he dug into the earth. That’s the disease. I got it myself.

Two weeks before, in the dead of night, an elderly Irishman had wandered into his boxcar at the pier while he and his men were loading cigarettes onto a truck. Nighttime visitors and odd characters were not unusual given his line of work, which included moving hot goods off harbor boats, storing them, or moving them inland to wherever the customer wanted. But this visitor was odd even by his standards. He looked to be about seventy. He was clad in a tattered jacket and bow tie, with a full head of white hair. His face had so many lines and rivulets it reminded Elefante of an old subway map. One eye was swollen shut, apparently permanently. He was thin and sickly, and seemed to have trouble breathing. When he entered, Elefante motioned for him to sit. The visitor complied thankfully.

“I wonder if you could help a man in need,” the old man said. His Irish brogue was so thick Elefante had trouble understanding him. Despite his physical frailness, his voice was clear and he spoke with an air of solidity and bearing, as if walking into the boxcar of one of Brooklyn’s most unpredictable smugglers at three a.m. was as simple as walking into a bodega and ordering a pound of bologna.

“Depends on the need,” Elefante said.

“Salvy Doyle sent me,” the old fellow said. “He said you could help me out.”

“Don’t know a Salvy Doyle.”

The old Irishman smirked and tugged at his bow tie. “He said you can move things.”

Elefante shrugged. “I’m just a poor Italian who runs a trucking and storage company, mister. And we’re running late.”

“Construction?”

“A little construction. A little storage, some moving. Nothing heavy. Mostly I move peanuts and cigarettes.” Elefante nodded at several nearby crates labeled “Cigarettes.” “You wanna cigarette?”

“Naw. Bad for my throat. I’m a singer.”

“What kind of singing?”

“The best kind,” the old man said gaily.

Elefante stifled a smile. He couldn’t help himself. The old bugger barely seemed capable of drawing air. “Sing me a song then,” he said. He said it for amusement, and was surprised when the old man moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck muscles, cleared his throat, stood up, thrust his whiskered chin toward the ceiling, spread his thin arms, and burst into a gorgeous, clear tenor that filled the room with glorious, lilting song:

    I remember the day, ’twas wild and drear And night to the Hudson waves.

Our parson bore a corpse on a bier

To lie in the convict’s grave.

Venus lay covered and taut

She was the beauty of Willendorf

She rests at the bottom of a shallow grav—



He broke off in a fit of coughing. “Okay, okay,” Elefante said, before he could continue. Two of the Elephant’s men who were trooping in a steady line hauling crates back and forth through the boxcar to a waiting box truck paused to smile.

“I ain’t finished yet,” the old man said.

“That’s good enough,” Elefante said. “Don’t you know any Italian songs? Like a trallalero?”

“If I said I knew what that was, I’d be codding ya.”

“It’s a song from northern Italy. Only men sing it.”

“Get your own bulldogs to sing that one, mister. I got something better,” the Irishman said. He coughed again, a racking one this time, then regained himself and cleared his throat. “I take it you’re in need of money?”

“I look that bad?”

“I have a small shipment that needs to go to Kennedy airport,” he said.

Elefante glanced at the two men, who had stalled to watch. They quickly scurried back to work. This was business. Elefante motioned for the Irishman to sit in the chair next to his desk, out of the way of foot traffic.

“I don’t haul stuff to the airport,” Elefante said. “I do storage and light hauling. Mostly for grocery stores.”

“Save that for the government,” the Irishman said. “Salvy Doyle told me you could be trusted.”

Elefante was silent for a moment, then said, “Salvy, last I heard, was pushing up worms in Staten Island someplace.”

The Irishman chuckled. “Not when he knew me. Or your father. We were friends.”

“My father didn’t have friends.”

“Back when we was guests of the state your father had many friends, may God bless him in his eternal resting place.”

“If you want a wailing wall, use the desktop,” Elefante said. “Get the show on the road.”

“What?”

“What’s your point, mister?” Elefante said impatiently. “What do you want?”

“I already said it. I need something moved to Kennedy.”

“And past Kennedy?”

“That’s my business.”

“Is it a big shipment?”

“No. But it needs a trusted ride.”

“Get a cab.”

“Don’t trust a cab. I trusted Salvy—who said you could be trusted.”

“How did Salvy hear of me?”

“He knew your father. I told you.”

“Nobody knew my father. He was hard to know.”