Deacon King Kong(87)

One of the detectives fell in step with Potts, who was at the back of the group. “Potts, I don’t understand these people. They’re barbarians.”

Potts shrugged and kept walking. He knew there would be strategy meetings, and calls from the mayor’s office, and memos from the new drug task force down at the narcotics bureau in Manhattan. All a waste of time. And at the end of it, there would still be people who argued that housing projects cases weren’t worth spending any more money and manpower on. And now there were three other cops who’d just heard what he’d heard, which would only make his argument that they should pursue this case that much more difficult and inexplicable to the higher-ups, because what the three officers had heard from the boiler room was outrageous—impossible to anyone who hadn’t worked in the Cause Houses for twenty years like he had.

It was the sound of laughing.





19





DOUBLE-CROSSED



It was two a.m. when Joe Peck swung the big GTO right onto the dock of Elefante’s boxcar with his headlights on bright. As usual, Peck came at the wrong time. The Elephant was in the middle of an operation, standing near the doorway of his boxcar carefully counting the last of thirty-four brand-new Panasonic television sets that four of his men were hastily transferring from a small docked boat to the back of a Daily News delivery truck. The truck had been “borrowed” from the newspaper printing plant on Atlantic Avenue at eleven that night by one of his men, a newspaper truck driver. It was due back at four, when the morning papers rolled out.

Peck’s headlights swept across the dock and surprised two of Elefante’s crew who were holding a crate. The two men, struggling with the crate, hurriedly scampered into the shadows. Their frenzied movement caught the attention of the nervous boat captain, who had kept his diesel engine running. Before Elefante could say a word, the captain motioned to a deckhand, who yanked the slipknot tying the boat to the dock, and the boat motored quickly into the harbor without lights, disappearing into the night, the last two Panasonics still on board.

Peck emerged from the car mad, stomping over to Elefante, who stood at the door of the boxcar. “I’ve never seen that before,” Elefante said coolly. It would not do to get in a dustup with Joe right here, not while the truck was loading and had to go. There was still money to be made.

“Seen what?” Peck demanded.

“Seen somebody untie a boat that fast. He did it with one pull.”

“So?”

“He still got the last two TV sets on there,” he said. “I paid him for thirty-four. I only got thirty-two.”

“I’ll buy the last two,” Peck said. “I gotta talk to you.”

Elefante looked at the truck. The last TV was loaded and the cargo door closed. He motioned to his men to get the truck moving, then walked inside the boxcar to his desk and sat down. Peck followed and sat in the chair next to it, lighting a Winston cigarette.

“So what now?” Elefante said. He could see Peck was still angry. “I already told you I wasn’t doing that Lebanon thing.”

“I’m not here about that. Why you gotta monkey with my shipment?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You want me to shit eggs standing up, Tommy? I can’t move one hairy ball now. The cops are all over me.”

“What for?”

“For the thing over at the fishing harbor, at Vitali Pier.”

“What thing?”

“Stop bullshitting me, Tommy.”

“If you wanna talk in circles, Joe, join the circus. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your guy . . . the old guy, he cut loose over at Enzo Vitali’s pier last night. Shot three people.”

Elefante carefully considered his response. Years of practice feigning ignorance helped him to keep a tight, straight face when he needed it. In his world, where rigor mortis was a job hazard, it was always better to pretend you didn’t know even if you did. But in this case he had no idea what Joe was talking about.

“What old guy, Joe?”

“Stop fucking with me, Tommy!”

Elefante closed the door to the boxcar, then undid his tie, tossed it on the table, and reached into his drawer and drew out a bottle of Johnnie Walker scotch and two glasses.

“Have a drink, Joe. Tell me about it.”

“Don’t play bartender with me, Tommy. You think I’m a fuckin’ mind reader? What’s going on in your head? You losing your marbles?”

Elefante could feel his patience fading fast. Joe had a way of pushing his buttons. As he looked at Peck his face took on a calm grimness.

Peck saw the expression change and cooled quickly. When Elefante was mad, he was spookier than voodoo. “Easy, Tommy. I got a problem.”

“Once again, for mother Mary, what is it, Joe?” Elefante asked.

“The Lebanon shipment is nine days off, and I been screwed. I had to get Ray at Coney Island to make the picku—”

“I don’t wanna know about it.”

“Tommy, would you let me finish? You know the old paint factory, where we used to swim? Enzo Vitali’s old pier? Your old guy, your shooter, plugged three people down there yesterday.”

“I don’t have no old guy shooting for me,” Elefante said.