The Last Cop Out

12

The explosion in Miami came within two hours of the arms shipment to Vigaro’s Outboard Motor Outlet. Neither Vig nor Herman the German bothered checking the source of their bounty, fully believing that Moe Piel had somehow arranged it all. They didn’t even bother to consider that the value of the arms they received was far greater than the cash Moe had carried. The mere sight of grenades, Army issue submachine guns still packed in cosmoline and cases of ammunition was so exhilarating that all they could think of was the power it brought and Herman the German had a sudden vision of a new order with himself in the seat of power being instituted in the peninsular state with an even more satisfying picture of at last having the means to wipe out a certain old Don named Papa Menes whose guts he hated so badly it made his bones ache.

Unfortunately for the two out-of-town soldiers the Big Board had sent in, they had figured anything outside their own city was Hicksville and, after making a hit on one of Herman’s men, didn’t cover their getaway trail well enough, never suspecting that a fifteen-year-old girl on a motor scooter was the one tracking them to their hideout. A grenade through the living room window of the cottage they occupied kept them from having any regrets.

Another group making a pass at a drive-in hamburger stand where one of Herman’s top lieutenants had been reported to be having lunch was chopped up in a crossfire of rapid bursts from three tommy guns and only the driver escaped alive, the other two in the car being cut to bloody pieces.

The shock wave that went through the organization that considered itself invincible took hours to subside, then they realized that the enemy they considered such an upstart was far more formidable than they had supposed. He was operating in his own territory, an area of absolute necessity to syndicate operations, he had all the equipment for defense and offense he would need, the manpower to handle it, and with the flush of success he’d be getting new recruits all the time. But more important than anything, he had the temerity to hit hard and the intelligence to remain obscure while he did it. Already he had decimated the brains of the organization with bold strikes across the country in a manner so unpredictable as to make a defense impossible.

What the Big Board could not quite understand was how they could have underestimated or overlooked a person like Herman the German. Anybody with any sense at all should have picked up his potential long ago and either alerted them or had him knocked off.

It was Florio Prince who remembered the incident of Papa Menes having him beaten up and kicked out of New York, and after a short consideration they determined that it was that indiscretion on the part of Menes that had terminated in the near-destruction of everything they had so carefully built up. So, even though Papa Menes was the head of the structure, the mental reservations were there on the part of the members and unless he fully redeemed himself, he would be invited to step down.

Taking no chances on having Papa Menes learn he was the instigator of his demise, Florio Prince informed him of the Board’s inclination, wondering, at the time, how the old man could be so calm when the others wanted his ass and his realm.

Papa Menes was far from calm. He chewed on the end of an unlit cigar, something he hadn’t done for years, his hot eyes roaming over the six capos assembled in the back room of The Red Dolphin Grill, boiling mad because a revolt like this should have been handled at the local level without having to bring in the head of the entire structure.

He didn’t admit it, even to himself, but the main reason for his anger was something else, a haunting fear that Miami wasn’t the answer to it at all, and someplace out there was a gun waiting for him to expose himself so it could go off inside his skull. He kept remembering Victor Petrocinni, Teddy Shu, Slick Kevin, Stanley Holland and all the others and a little trickle of sweat ran down his back and he was glad he wore his seersucker jacket so they couldn’t see the fear stain on his shirt.

They gave him the details of the layout, the number of men involved and certain possibilities of attack. It was going to have to be done completely within the organization because their political connections had all gone sour and there wasn’t a single official contact they could count on for cooperation. The police would hit them as quickly as they would Herman’s men and there was always the probability that the FBI would find a reason to enter the scene and reinforce the local department.

But Miami wasn’t new to Papa Menes. It had been his second home for half his life and he knew every street and business in it. Those things never changed. They expanded, or were renovated, but they never really changed. The only thing that changed were the people and that’s where the trouble always came from.

The meeting lasted a little over four hours, and when it was done, the assembled group murmured with pleasure at the sheer genius of Papa Menes and realized why he was the Boss, completely understanding how he got to that position, and already felt sorry for anyone who tried to challenge his authority.

Because of his age and position, Papa was not expected to have a direct hand in the operation, but it would proceed according to his detailed plans and he would remain in the background if any alteration of the scheme seemed necessary.

When they adjourned, Papa got in the car with Artie Meeker and started on the circuitous route back to the cottage in the Keys. His part of the job was over and he felt good. Those bastards in Chicago would see how it was when the real expert came in and he’d sure as hell lay them out at the next meeting. A few heads were going to roll just to set an example for the rest of the pricks who thought he was finished. Shit, there wasn’t a one of them he couldn’t outthink or outthink anyway.

He felt his belly stir at the latter thought and decided he’d have Artie pick up that little blonde that night for a celebration. Artie didn’t mind the driving at all as long as he had his own broad to bang. Poor Artie, he thought. No imagination at all. Just a mechanical piston going up and down exactly so many times before exhausting. A pause for cooling and refueling, then another energizing. He never bothered to notice the bored look on the broad’s face. Now with him, Papa, the dame always had an expression and it sure wasn’t boredom. It could range from pain to pleasure, but it was never boredom. He might be old, but he certainly was imaginative.

Back in New York, Mark Shelby had come out of his controlled rage because Little Richard Case had met him in an out-of-the-way bar on the West Side, and from his expression, the news was good. They had their drinks served at a table in the back and when the shoddy bartender had gone back to his post Mark said, “What did you get?”

Little Richard shifted his bulk in the chair and tasted his drink. It was lousy, but something he needed. “The cops have Shatzi located somewhere in a two block area uptown. They got the whole section cordoned off and are doing a house-to-house search.”

“How’d they find him?”

“The slob brought some dame into his room and you know what? He’s got the Frenchman’s belly button in a damn bottle. She spots it right away and cuts out because she’s terrified of weirdos. The broad’s only a five buck hooker, but she’s been rousted plenty, so she tries to make points and tips the cops.”

“Shit.”

“They don’t want to scare him off, so they moved in the plainclothes bunch. No lights, no sirens... just a lot of manpower.”

“Who we got in that area?”

Case gave him a small smile. “Marty and his cousin Mack. They’re in the next building. They’ve been living there four years.”

Shelby nodded, waiting.

“I told them to take him,” Case said.

“Good.”

“Neither one’s got a record and they both got jobs. The cops won’t shake them any.”

“You tell them to get him over to the place in Brooklyn.”

“Might take a while.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You know, Mark, that loony isn’t going to stand still and be taken. If the cops knock him off...”

“We don’t take any chances, you know that.”

“Hell, what could Shatzi know?”

Shelby made a sour face and shook his head. “Come off it, Case. They always know something and Verdun was close enough to the top so that things could rub off on even the punks. Supposing he always did have it in for Frank. Supposing he had been planning a shot like that and backed it up by grabbing some of Frank’s papers?”

“The Frenchman didn’t make notes, Mark.”

Over the drinks, Shelby’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the other. He was thinking of himself when he said, “You never can tell.”

“Guess you’re right.”

“Keep me informed. You going back downtown?”

“Yeah. Something else is stewing. That fucking Gill Burke is moving around after something and he’s got Lederer hopping mad. He put on pressure to get some people assigned to him and the D.A.’s office couldn’t stop it.”

“What for?”

“He won’t say, that’s what got Lederer boiling. That guy would do anything to dump Burke even though he brought him in in the first place.”

Shelby felt his fingers tighten around the glass and cursed inaudibly. Bill Burke was the only one he really feared. The bastard wouldn’t let go of anything. They gave him something really big to play with and instead he goes right back to the original bit. Not that he was worried. He had covered his tracks completely and the years had completed the job.

“Screw Burke,” he said.

“Don’t play him down.”

Shelby knew Case had more to say and waited for it. “Remember that cop Corrigan?”

“Yeah.”

“Burke’s been talking to him. He’s been back to that pawnshop too.”

“He was there before too, remember? What the hell can he find out after all this time? You think that shylock is going to talk?”

“Burke doesn’t give a shit about squeezing somebody. He’d never make the courtroom.”

“You think Burke would give a damn? Look what he did to Bennie and Colfaco eight years ago. He saved the state plenty of money and they couldn’t prove he tossed them over that rooftop.”

Shelby put his drink down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, you might have a point there. That guy’s the only weak point. Maybe we ought to get him out of the way.”

“Sure... and Burke would figure it out right away.”

“Not necessarily. He’s been robbed enough to make it look kosher. This time he gets hit.”

“Don’t stick your neck out, Mark.”

“When I want to order something done, don’t you tell me not to.”

Case finished the rest of his drink with disgust. “Okay, it’s your show for now, but Papa Menes isn’t going to like it.”

“Papa Menes is too busy with his own problems to worry about it.”

The quiet tone of his voice made Case feel uncomfortable and he squirmed in his chair. Shelby had his own kills behind him while he never had been called upon for any direct action. His position in the organization was undercover and so far, good enough so that nobody had ever suspected the liaison between the officialdom of the two governments.

He shrugged his big shoulders and said, “I better call Marty before Shatzi spots any of those cops. You coming over to Brooklyn when we take him?”

“Not if we have to question him, Little Richard.” Shelby grinned at the look of horror on Case’s face. He knew what was going to be done and the thought of it made him sick.

“That’s your job,” Case told him. “I’m just the delivery boy this time.”

“Every time, Little Richard,” Shelby said mockingly. He waited until Case had left, then picked up the phone and dialed Miami. For a full minute he listened, smiling slightly, a callous, bemused glint in his eyes, then said a curt, “Okay,” and hung up.

Papa Menes was having it rough. It wasn’t like the old days any more. The years had piled up on the old man and he just didn’t have it. Those punks would bust him down and if he didn’t fall easily the Big Board would give them an unwilling hand. They didn’t tolerate failure at all, even amongst their own.

And that was why the Big Board had to go too so that when the Primus Gladatori took over the helm there would be nobody to stand against him, at least no one who could command the troops. The power would be his alone, the rest would be easy.

Up there in Helga’s apartment, buried in the wax of the sacred candle, were the numbers, facts and details that would make it all simplistically possible. The numbers would open the Swiss accounts, the facts and details gave him the reins of influence over the areas of the establishment where control and corruption was needed. The surplus information, delivered to the proper authorities, would eliminate any opposition who chose to cross him.

There was just one loose end that had to be tied up first. It wasn’t something he could leave to somebody else. This time there would be no slip, no necessity for having to pull out all the stops to squeeze Burke out into the pastures of ineffectiveness. This time he’d walk him into a permanent comer with a six foot drop beneath his feet.

While Marcus Shelby was contemplating the scene with pleasure, another truck was pulling into Miami, approaching from the west. For half the trip the driver had been plagued with engine trouble, but because of the load he carried, he couldn’t trust anyone to make repairs, so he had to do everything himself. It wasn’t that he was a bad mechanic. Trouble was that he didn’t have the right tools and had to make do with crescent wrenches and an old pair of box-end jobs. He wasn’t sure how they had booby trapped the heap to blow and he didn’t want to trigger any mechanism accidentally. The old mill was gradually sputtering to a halt when he got to the area he was told to park it. He got out, walked back two blocks, out over to the highway and spotted an outdoor pay phone. He made the single call Frank Verdun had told him to make and one more to a taxi company. A half hour later he was on an interstate bus heading north and he was able to read the first news in four days. What he saw made him almost choke on his own spit. Verdun was dead and he didn’t have anybody to cover for him now at all. Son of a bitch, he’d have to move faster than he ever did before. When that truck went off...