Desperate (17 page)

I needed that folder, and it looked like meeting with Nicky Stacks was the only way that was going to happen. Roy ruminated on my offer. The difference in price didn’t seem to bother him any.

Roy tucked the folder behind his back and reached out to shake my hand. “Understood,” he said.

I
nstead of returning to work, getting back to the business of battery testing, I was riding shotgun in the passenger seat of a red 2000 Chevy Camaro Z28 coupe, driving through a neighborhood of East Boston I knew existed but had never seen.

Roy was doing the driving. I didn’t even realize the Camaro parked on our street was his until he put the key in the ignition and fired the engine. Until then, I was thinking Roy could be stealing the car. Drug dealer, car thief—in for a penny, in for a pound, as the old saying goes. He wore dark shades and never glanced down at the stick shift when he changed gears. The toothpick in his mouth switched from the right side to the left synchronously, it seemed, with each turn he took. I hadn’t seen him pop in a dip of chewing tobacco since the first night we met. Maybe he was trying to kick the habit.

Roy took great pleasure in driving and enjoyed showing off his skills. He’d speed up to the car in front of him, braking hard only when I thought we were going to crash. Then he’d tailgate like a true urban asshole, accelerate around every turn, and hug the corners with his wheels screeching. The air freshener dangling from his rearview mirror swayed to the chaotic rhythm of his driving.

“Do you have any questions?” Roy asked.

He had briefed me on Nicky Stacks, so I knew the rules. Roy had been very specific. It was a laundry list of “don’ts” that we’d gone over multiple times already.

If I had to make eye contact, don’t make it last long.

Don’t fidget. If I fidget, it’ll make Nicky nervous.

Don’t ask any questions.

Don’t order anything. If Nicky wants us to eat, he’ll order for us.

Don’t rush. If I eat too fast, he’ll think I’m being rude.

Don’t get anything alcoholic to drink unless he’s the one to suggest it.

I could use my first name, but not my last.

“Let’s go over our story again,” Roy said.

We’d just made the turn off Cambridge Street onto the Longfellow Bridge. It wouldn’t be long now until we were at Nicky’s restaurant. The closer we got, the edgier Roy became. We didn’t know each other well, but judging by Roy’s behavior, I guessed Nicky Stacks could put the fear into the fearless.

“We’re cousins,” I said. “I live in Key West. You got a place down there. We hang out sometimes. You wanted someone you can trust on this job and I was your first choice. I got a clean record, never did time, but I can handle myself.”

“Good,” Roy said, nodding. “Good job.” I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t convinced.

I wasn’t with Roy when he had called Nicky Stacks. I was downstairs changing my clothes at Roy’s request, because he had anticipated correctly how Nicky would want a meeting right away. Evidently, the deal had to go down soon. Roy had me wearing a black T-shirt and the darkest jeans I owned. I didn’t have boots like his, and my work shoes didn’t exactly scream “tough guy,” but we made do with what we had.

Guess I didn’t look quite like Gage the quality assurance manager anymore, but I didn’t look nearly as tough as Roy, either. Roy kept eyeing me, like he wanted to tussle my hair, fix me with a fresh scar, something to harden my exterior. I used to say to Max, “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.” I thought about saying the same to Roy, but instead posed a more practical question. “What if he asks me about us? Personal details or something.”

“If I say you’re a cousin, Nicky will think you’re a cousin,” Roy said. “He trusts me. I worked for his crew when I was on the inside. And I’ve been working for him on and off ever since I got out.”

“But you didn’t want to do this job,” I said.

Roy kept his eyes on me long enough for me to think they should be watching the road.

“I was trying to come up with another way to get the cash I needed so I wouldn’t have to do what I have to do, but you screwed up that plan. And now here we are. Working together.”

“Here we are,” I repeated, staring out my window. “But we aren’t working together. I get Anna’s folder after we finish the meeting. That’s the deal.”

Roy didn’t respond.

“Say it,” I demanded.

“You get the folder after we finish the meeting.”

I went back to looking out the window, silent, until Roy pulled up in front of a restaurant called Nicky’s.

N
icky’s was not a classy joint. A tired-looking roof sat atop a battered red brick exterior. I saw a dilapidated satellite dish held to the roof by a pair of rusty-looking brackets. Closer to street level, a blue awning was suspended above the entrance, and the signage on the front read N
ICKY’S
R
ESTAURANT
F
INE
I
TALIAN
C
UISINE
, with a phone number below the words.

The location itself wasn’t all too appealing, which could explain Nicky’s worn aesthetic. It wasn’t a “lock ’em up” hood—as in, roll up the car windows and lock the doors—but it was close. Maybe there had been a time when this section of town was a city jewel, but I’m pretty sure prohibition was the law back then. The two- and three-family homes were nestled close together and not lovingly maintained. The lawns were the size of postage stamps, and several had more rusty junk than plants. Shades were drawn in most of the windows I could see. There was trash in the gutter, trash overflowing from the wastebaskets, and the street itself looked like it had gone fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed. The sickly hum of air conditioners could barely be heard above the rumbling noise of cars and buses.

Across from Nicky’s was a Laundromat called Dollar-A-Wash, but the way the stencils were displayed in the windows it read: D
OLLA
R A W
ASH
. I wouldn’t want to live here, and I sure as heck didn’t want to be here.

Roy, by contrast, appeared to be in his element. He’d fortified his shell. Nicky Stacks wouldn’t see any of the nervousness I’d witnessed on the ride over. To quell my nerves, I repeated a mantra in my head: it’s just a meeting . . . it’s only a meeting.

It was dark inside the restaurant. The bar area was somewhat crowded, but the seating areas were not. A few patrons were being served by a single waitress who was tall and thin and as weathered as the neighborhood where she worked.

What Nicky’s lacked in ambience, it more than made up in aroma. All the sweet smells and familiar spices of Italian cooking were on full display. Nicky’s had to have something that kept it in business.

I followed Roy to the back of the restaurant. I could tell I was being watched. I didn’t belong here. I belonged at work. I was a stranger in a strange land, and everyone eyeing me knew it, too. Something made me glance over at the bar. The bartender, a stocky guy with hunched shoulders wearing a tweed cap, gave me a long stare. It was like he knew where I was headed and felt sorry for me.

We ascended a short flight of stairs to another seating area. It was a smaller space, perfect for a private dinner party or function. Cast iron wall sconces with low-wattage bulbs lit the room with a yellowish glow. A row of booths with red vinyl seats lined one wood-paneled wall. A few tables were scattered throughout, each covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. I noticed candles tucked inside small glass jars centered on each table, but none were lit, as if to say this section of the restaurant was reserved for Nicky and his business and nobody else. Framed color photos of Tuscany tried to fancy up the joint, but I wasn’t fooled: we were still in East Boston.

A husky man with broad shoulders sat in the dining area’s last booth. He looked up from his
Herald
, saw us approach, but didn’t wave. We went over to the booth and sat across from him. Nicky Stacks, I assumed. Roy made me go in first. No getting out. No slinking away. I was there and there I’d stay.

Eventually Stacks lowered his paper, giving me my first proper glimpse. Stacks had a disconcertingly pale complexion, as if he were allergic to the sun, or the sun to him. He kept his fine, straw-colored hair cut short and combed back. He had the thick neck of a football player and the round head of a battering ram, and I figured his forehead was massive enough to be branded a lethal weapon.

As for his eyes, those were slits, set close together and deep in the sockets, and probably accustomed to seeing violence. The right nostril of his prominent nose appeared misshapen, set that way by a fist or a bat, most likely—and if that weren’t tough enough, his lips were fixed in a permanent sneer. Just his presence made me shudder. I imagined most every picture of him came out looking like a mug shot.

“Who the fuck is this?” Stacks asked Roy. He was looking right through me with those slits for eyes, like I didn’t exist, like it didn’t matter if I ever existed.

“Nicky, this is my cousin, Gage,” Roy said. “He’s going to help me with the Moreno brothers job.”

No, I’m not,
I thought.

Stacks shifted his eyes over to Roy. He might have been looking through me, but Stacks was definitely seeing Roy, and he did not seem pleased.

“What are you talking about?” Stacks said. “What cousin? What the fuck is this?”

“I’m not bringing Johnny on this job,” Roy said.

I didn’t know who Johnny was, but apparently Stacks did.

“Before you called, I didn’t even think you were even doing this job,” Stacks said. “You said you were out. Then you call me and you say you want back in. Now you’re telling me you’re bringing in a new guy. Someone I don’t know. Someone I ain’t never met. You’re telling me Johnny is out. This is all very unusual.”

Stacks’s manner, the tone of his speech, walked the line between peremptory and bellicose. One wrong word or misinterpreted gesture could tip the scale toward his more volatile side. I had a strong suspicion it was a side of him few people saw without next seeing their blood.

“I
need
to do the job,” Roy said, his tone almost apologetic. “At first I thought I didn’t, but now I do.”

“Who do you owe?” Stacks asked.

Roy popped a toothpick into his mouth. His whole demeanor shifted slightly, like he was disappointed to admit his failings to Stacks.

“Some guys in D.C. You don’t know them.”

“I doubt that,” Stacks said matter-of-factly. “But either way, I can’t help you down there. How much?”

“A hundred grand,” Roy said, fully shamefaced. Before I met Nicky Stacks I never imagined Roy toadying to anybody. Couldn’t very well blame him, though. If Brad were here, he’d see an aura around Nicky blacker than any ink.

“You’re into some guys for a hundred grand?” Stacks said, shaking his head. “What were you thinking? What the hell were you dealing?”

Roy grimaced.

“Cigarettes,” he said.

Stacks did not look surprised. I wasn’t either. I also wasn’t about to say that I’d read an article in the
Wall Street Journal
not too long ago about an increase in cigarette smuggling. We weren’t drinking beers and swapping stories, but still I knew something about the topic.

Cigarette trafficking is one of the most lucrative businesses for organized crime and drug smugglers. The profit margin on illegally trafficked cigarettes exceeds that of heroin, cocaine, and most guns, and it’s all because of the discrepancy in state tax rates. Thanks to my weird memory for useless numbers I recalled from the article that Virginia had one of the lowest tax rates in the country, at thirty cents per pack. Every state to the north has a higher tax per pack, especially New York, where the tax runs over four dollars.

Again the numbers: 1,500 cartons could net a profit of a hundred grand. A car could hold six hundred cartons. Rent a U-Haul and you’re moving hundreds of cases, worth more than half a million dollars. Something like 30 percent of all cigarettes in New York City are sold on the black market, and more than 70 percent of those come from Virginia. No fancy equipment needed. No laboratory required. All it took for a criminal to make a few hundred grand in a day was a supply chain, the smokes, and a working vehicle.

“Who’s smurfing the smokes?” Stacks asked.

I knew from the article that Stacks wasn’t talking about diminutive blue people rolling smokes in their mushroom houses. Smurfing is the criminal practice of buying large quantities of cigarettes legally to then sell illegally on the black market for a hefty profit. Sad to think that newspapers are struggling to stay in business when you can learn so much from reading them.

“Like I said, some guys from D.C.,” Roy said. “You don’t know them.”

“You had to ditch your ride?”

“I got jumped when I stopped for gas,” Roy explained, sounding disgusted with himself, embarrassed by his failure. “These three guys must have been following me for miles. Pulled a gun on me soon as I got out of the U-Haul. One guy drove the truck and the other two put me in the car. I had a gun on me the whole time. They brought me to some neighborhood miles away and just left me there. Cops found the U-Haul, but the product was gone. Now I’m in for a hundred grand of missing smokes and if I don’t get the money to my boys in D.C. soon, I’m going to be a dead man. I’d do some more smoke smuggling, but I’m shut off now. Unreliable, they say. So I need the cash and I need it soon.”

“You haven’t done a job for me in a while, and now you’re bringing me a new guy?” Stacks said, looking over at me, seeing me the way Brad sees spirits. Something was there, but not anything concrete—nothing important, anyway.

“You can trust Gage. I’m vouching for him.”

“So you’re cutting Johnny out because you need the extra cash to pay off your smoke buddies, is that it?”

“Something like that,” Roy said, snapping the toothpick in half with his tongue and replacing it with a fresh one.

“Okay,” Stacks said. “We’ll do it. But just remember this. If my deal goes south like your smoke run, I ain’t gonna wait weeks to take your fucking head off.” Stacks was looking at me, seeing me for the first time as a physical presence in the room. “And I’ll fuckin’ take your head off too,” he said, pointing his index finger at me like it was the barrel of a loaded gun.