Collision Course (A Josh Williams Novel) (14 page)

Hamlin
and Josh drove along Taunton Avenue near Grove Avenue.

“So how was the trial yesterday?” Hamlin asked. “Did you manage to avoid committing perjury or any other such transgressions?”

Josh glanced at Hamlin and said, “Ah, nothing unusual, went really well.” Ending the discussion.

“There’s the motherfucker.” Josh said and pulled behind the Chinese market.

A lone figure was walking toward the dumpsters. Josh jumped out of the car, grabbed the guy, threw him against the dumpster, and kicked out his legs, dropping him to the ground.

"Come on Josh, I was trying to help," the guy yelled, trying to avoid the punches and kicks as he lay on the ground, curled into the fetal position.

"Listen you fucking rat motherfucker; you were talking about my wife. I should fucking rip your head off and shit down your neck for even thinking you can talk about her." Josh was incensed and no amount of pleading by Hamlin could get him under control.

"Come on man, I thought you'd want to know I saw her with the other dude, what the fuck man, if you like strange dudes banging your ole lady I am cool with that, I used to watch them banging Orange...."

"You low-life motherfucker, I am going fucking chop you up and feed you to the fucking rats at the landfill, you are talking about my wire you asshole, not some fucking nineteen year-old heroin smoking gash you pimp out."

"Hey, hey, man I know, I know, I am just saying I saw the dude and he was dry humping her on the Beamer man, I don't lie to you man, you helped me, come on man, I knew you wouldn't like it, why the fuck would I make this up?"

"Josh, Josh!” Hamlin yelled, pulling him away from the whimpering informant. "Enough already, somebody's gonna see this and call it in."

Argio ‘Beansie’ DiBenedictis was born in Johnston, RI on October 31, 1968.

His mother, Caroline Ross DiBenedictis, was a good, but naive young woman, who believed that Beansie’s father, William ‘Woody’ Woodside, a draftee in the US Army, did in fact love her and held no ulterior motivations in seducing her.

On leave from Vietnam due to the passing of his father, yet not intending to attend the funeral, he sought out, and achieved, a sexual liaison with Caroline. The two having known each other for the entire time it takes to consume three drinks at the bar.

She could not have asked for a more satisfying, or fruitful, sexual experience. Given the choice, "Woody" would have concurred with the satisfying part and preferred a less fruitful one.

He would have preferred redirecting that positive energy to surviving the remaining part of his Vietnam tour.

He did not.

Argio was a creative and inquisitive youth. He developed a fascination with chemistry primarily because, given a few simple ingredients, mixed in the proper combination, he could blow things up.

It began innocently, with one of his mother's many "friends" bringing him a chemistry set. Giving him free rein to do whatever he liked so long as he remained in the basement and did not come upstairs to ‘bother’ his mother.

Well, Argio for the most part stuck to the bargain. Except that one time, he heard something like screaming.

He hesitated to go look, he did not want to lose his chemistry set, but the sounds were intriguing. Guttural, unnatural, and interesting. As he made his way up the stairs, they became louder, took on a certain level of familiarity, they sounded like commands, imperatives, demands, and pleadings.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he could see the door to his mother's room was ajar. He heard the familiar creak of his mother's bed, familiar from all the times she let him sleep there, but the sound was different, more driven, more rhythmical, more pronounced.

He peered in.

He had never seen this activity before, but he intuitively understood it.

His mother was face down on the pillow, her back arched due to her being propped up on her knees. A guy he knew as Uncle Johnny, or Jimmy, he couldn’t remember which one, was on top, making the guttural noise.

His mother's muffled voice was both plaintive and pleasurable.

He did not know what he was seeing but he knew he was not supposed to be seeing it. As he stood there, watching, it happened.

He never knew why it made him so excited, but oh my God, it got him so excited. He never tired of it.

He never could decide if it was the fact he was seeing things he wasn’t meant to, or the fact that they did not know they were being watched.

It became his obsession, his entertainment, and one of his sources of income.

He was caught once.

He lost focus, paying more attention to his own pleasure, when the door opened and the less aroused, intoxicated, older Uncle Johnny made a beeline for the bathroom.

Surprised by the 12 year-old lying on the floor wearing just shorts, he let out a "What the fuck are you doin' you little prick?"

Which caused his mother to grab a sheet, run to him, and yell at Uncle Johnny to leave him alone.

Uncle Johnny slapped Argio's mother, grabbed his clothes, and left the house but not before calling Argio a "retarded pervert son of a cunt whore."

Argio was not sure of the meaning of that description, but he knew it made his mother cry.

Argio would not let that go unpunished.

He resolved there and then to exact revenge upon ‘Uncle Johnny.’

Someday.

Uncle Johnny used to drive on Argio's street each morning on the way downtown.

It took time for Argio's ability to measure up to the task, but Argio was a patient person. His anger never faded.

Argio improved with chemistry over the years and with his ability to sneak into places unobserved and uncaught.

One of his breaking and entering exploits resulted his stealing two sticks of fused dynamite.

Now, mathematically speaking, one part 18 year-old pissed off psychologically scarred, sexually deviant, idiot savant plus one part penchant for detail plus one part willing assistant plus two parts fused dynamite equals a simple, workable, and dangerous plan.

Pop up the sewer cover in the middle of the street, tape the sticks to the underside with the fuse fed through the access points for the pry tool.

Stop Uncle Johnny's car by means of a diversion. Faked bicycle accident, ball rolling across the road, something.

Time the fuse, which he figured to be 25 seconds. Equal to the time it took for Uncle Johnny to back out of his driveway and drive past the house, allowing a 10-15 second window of opportunity.

Argio enlisted the services of his best friend Kenny, whose mother was a victim of Uncle Johnny’s attentions. They did several trial runs by forcing a random car to stop as they counted 25 seconds. Measure how long they could delay the car, light the fuse, and run. They refined the plan, learning each time from their mistakes.

They did not allow for chance.

On the day they decided to initiate their plan of revenge, they were unaware of several factors that would alter the course of their efforts. The curse of many a well-made plan.

While Argio and Kenny refined their plan, Uncle Johnny was also busy advancing his position within the gambling empire of the mob. For the sixty days preceding this fateful day, the FBI, RI State Police, and Johnston PD were monitoring a wiretap on several telephones, one of which was Uncle Johnny's.

So, in a rather prescient manner of predicting Argio's future, at the exact moment that Uncle Johnny backed out of his driveway, fate intervened.

Uncle Johnny started up the road.

Argio lit the fuse.

Kenny rode his bike into the side of Uncle Johnny’s car with impeccable timing.

Uncle Johnny stopped.

Perfect.

Not quite.

The marked Johnston police car came up from behind Uncle Johnny.

Uncle Johnny decided that the kid lying on the side of the road, having fallen from the bike or hit by his car, was the least of his problems, started to drive off.

Irony fails in describing the next few moments.

The Rhode Island State Police marked car pulled from the next intersecting street, blocking Uncle Johnny’s escape and placing the Johnston marked unit precisely where the plan called for Uncle Johnny to be.

The Johnston officer got out of the cruiser and ran to the driver's side of Uncle Johnny’s car.

Kenny ran.

Argio ran.

The fuse burn timed perfectly.

Fortunately, for all concerned, the physics of blast dynamics took over. The sewer dispersed much of the blast. The Johnston police car momentarily became airborne and then returned to earth.

It took the investigators about 30 minutes to figure out what occurred, twenty-eight of that being spent convincing the commander of the State Police Intelligence unit that this was not a mob "hit."

Kenny gave up Argio.

Argio learned a valuable lesson.

They charged him with Malicious Destruction of Property, Unlawful Possession of an Explosive Device, and Disorderly Conduct.

Uncle Johnny never drove that way again.

Argio's mom retained the services of a very effective criminal lawyer who did a masterful job of minimizing the damage to Argio.

He became a frequent visitor to Argio's mother. However, none of that could alter the path Argio followed.

Argio went down the often-unrecoverable road of probation, suspended sentences, time served, violation hearings, and actual jail time.

Argio was many things, but he was not stupid. He learned the "coin of the realm." Knowing something about someone that they did not want anyone to know and, most importantly, knowing who could best use that information.

In this, Argio was a veritable genius.

Which explains why, as Josh pinned to the wall, almost chocked out, Beansie was comfortable in the knowledge that he would live until tomorrow.

Josh let him go.

Argio slid down onto the ground. His breath was sporadic, wheezy. He wiped his face with his t-shirt and smiled, showing off his missing front teeth. At least missing was easier to take than the shades of yellow and green on the remaining ones.

Due to a most unusual set of circumstances, he owed Josh his life.

Beansie was a ‘C I’, confidential informant in the formal terms, and a rarity as C I's go.

He existed as more than words in an affidavit.

Many a search warrant contains references to a confidential and reliable informant. They are the key ingredient to a plausible affidavit and often the product of creative writing. Probable cause is such a nebulous, unquantifiable subject.

One Assistant US Attorney in Rhode Island often said that when cops started talking about informants, he thought of the movie "Harvey" starring Jimmy Stewart. It was about a 6-foot tall rabbit that Stewart alone could see.

Argio always wore sunglasses on his head and a cigarette, the same one, tucked behind his ear. He said they were part of his charm. He never changed them. The same went for his attire.

When he spoke, people backed away as he sounded like he was ready to puke. In addition, he never shut up. The oddest part of Argio was that women, well women with somewhat limited opportunities, loved him. These women were admittedly heroin and cocaine users, but many retained remnants of their showroom quality. They would do anything, anyway, to anyone that Argio asked them or, more precisely, rented them.

It was one of these former beauties, nineteen years old, pretty, addicted, misused, and crazy that almost got Argio killed and placed him in lifetime indebtedness to Josh.

Her name was Melinda "Orange" Johnson. Amazing body, sparkling eyes despite the fog of abuse diming them, red hair, carpeting matching the drapes, still pretty in spite of the ravages of her love for snorting cocaine and heroin. Her perennially erect nipples always pointing up, even under sweaters.

Argio would send her into the local bars to hustle the afternoon drunks. Many of whom only achieved self-induced erections. Their best friend was their right hand, and their navigator, the one eyed monster.

She would figure out who had money and, three or four blowjobs later, be set for the night to party.

Every once in a while a truck driver, recent winner from Foxwoods, or just some local that hit Keno would get the invitation back to the apartment for the full treatment.

This was Argio's idea of the perfect night.

Once they identified the target, Argio would head back to the apartment, set up the camera, and wait in the closet.

Orange would come dancing in; doing the full Foxy Lady ballet she once excelled at, and proceed to fuck the living daylights out of the guy. It consisted of a lot of screaming, lots of "slap me, man, fuck me hard, fuck me harder, do it, do it."

Most finished in the first 20 seconds.

She did not.

Some of them cried, some of them bled, some never managed an erection again.