Barely five seconds had passed between Wheeler deciding to fight, and the end of it. He caught his breath. Nolan had dropped behind the counter. Wheeler called for him to get up and help him move Floyd. Wheeler was running on automatic. The soldier in him had the reigns, and he spoke with the authority needed for Nolan to get up and do as he was told.
Floyd’s corpse was dragged to the freezer. Wheeler turned the door sign to read ‘Closed’. There was a mop and bucket and Nolan made work on what had spilled on the floor. Wheeler helped Wally to his feet and then thrust Wally’s pistol into Wally’s armpit. He was pushed into the freezer. Nolan was called in too. The store front was left deserted.
Wally was bound at the wrists by his own tie and then thrust into the corner where his partner lay broken. Wheeler slapped him twice in the face, hard, and told him to pay attention. Pocketing the pistol, Wheeler turned to Nolan. “Earlier you were shocked to see me. Thought I was here for your money. With them, maybe.” Wheeler waved his hand at the corpse and the captive.
“No, no.” Nolan began.
“You did. You’re not in trouble for it. I know you thought I was here for your money. Why?”
“Because you’re still here. You survived.”
“Survived what?”
There was a cough from Wally that became a laugh and then stopped. “Survived what?” asked Wheeler again.
“I don’t know what to call it. You don’t know?”
“I’ve been out of town a few days,” Wheeler stated.
Nolan went out front again, and sorted through some papers under the counter. He had to wave away a customer looking through the window. When he found what he was after he went out back again and showed Wheeler the front page.
MASSACRE ON MANHATTAN ISLAND
Gang violence claims 46 lives in one day.
Wheeler read on.
Wheeler worked for the Finns, a family with a lot of businesses to their name but very little prestige. They had money in some stores, a few garages, an undertakers and a hotel. Wheeler worked for them. He solved problems for them when someone slighted the family and their reputation was threatened. Like Jerry on the West Coast just now, who had taken photos of the daughter of a friend and then pimped her out to hop heads and junkies. They were a mob, sure. And when bootlegging was in full swing, the Finns did whiskey runs down from Canada for themselves and a few other families. Since the war, they’d diminished. Their name didn’t draw as many young bucks off the street any more, mainly because their name didn’t go with girls or drugs – only gambling and legitimate enterprises. There was some gun-running for a few years, which was how Wheeler came to know them, but that came to an end soon enough.
Nowadays there was little about them that bothered the law. However, there was a lot about them the other outfits didn’t like.
Now it seemed someone had made their move. In a single day the Finn’s and most of their associates had been rubbed out. Two machine-gun ambushes, one at the hotel and the other at Marshall’s had destroyed the three of the four Finn brothers, their sons, their wives and their guards. A further 16 murders, by rifle, knife, pistol, poison and a sabotaged elevator carriage took the death toll to 37. The evening was quiet from the sound of things, with the City’s police on high alert, now that they’d seen a pattern to the deaths, and the press waiting on tenterhooks. Two bombs killed eight more outside the DA’s office – only three of the people killed seemed to be affiliated with the Finns. Then finally, at 11.59pm, Joe Finn – who ran a cab company in Miami and was estranged from his brothers in New York – was thrown from a moving car and killed just outside the offices of the New York Times. Not since prohibition had the city been wracked by so many high-profile slayings.
The next day – nothing. There was no one left to retaliate. Anyone outraged stayed quiet, they didn’t want to get mixed up with whoever could operate on this scale. The press speculated a new outfit was in town, or perhaps a few families had joined forces and were flexing muscle against the rest. Join us or die, was the guess in the papers.
And now Wheeler was masterless.
Nolan filled in the rest.
Only yesterday did these two turn up demanding protection. It seemed the Cimo’s had either forfeited their hold over Nolan’s, or they had merged with whoever was making these power plays. That was all the butcher knew. So Wheeler thought to press Wally for a bigger picture.
Wally was already boasting he wouldn’t say a word when Wheeler folded the newspaper up and walked over to him. Wheeler sent Nolan out front. He didn’t have to see this. Wheeler followed, looking for a knife.
And then the guns went off.
Sunday 22 November 2009
The Devil His Due. Chapter Four. The Butcher.
Wheeler broke routine in New York and it saved his life.
What he should have done was reported to Marshall’s Auto Repair. He should have gone straight there and told them the job was done. People were counting on him doing that. Instead, Wheeler took himself to Nolan’s, a butcher, where he hoped to buy a sirloin. He knew he was doing things in the wrong order. He’d have a bloody wrap of paper sitting on the passenger seat when he went into Marshall’s, and when they were done counting out bills and joking about Jerry the hard way, and maybe handing him more work right there...when they were done he’d go back to his car and it would smell like copper and leather.
Wheeler took the kerb and then three long strides that took him under the bell of Nolan’s and one more that took him to the counter. Nolan watched all of this and did not move. Normally Nolan was happy and ready for custom, or if he was not, he was singing, his head down and pleased that he’s been caught hard at work. Now, Nolan was none of these things. He looked like he’d been waiting, and with Wheeler there he was terrified.
Wheeler backed away from the counter, his head tilted like a dog that doesn’t understand. They were friends of sorts, but Wheeler didn’t take to familiarity with Nolan. He simply asked. “There a problem?”
“You work for them, now? They send you?”
“I’m not here on work, if that’s what you mean. Why would we...?”
Wheeler was cut short. The bell behind him rang and Nolan’s expression changed to worse than before.
Two men snuck in. Wheeler, on instinct ducked his head to the side and balled up a little. He’d found he could pass off his bulk as fat if he just shrank into himself. Fat was never threatening to these men. He didn’t look at them directly, but he made sure he knew where they were and what they were doing. First through the door made straight to Nolan. Second through the door came and leant next to Wheeler. Were they here for him?
Wheeler recognised the voice of Wally Washington and got the gist. Wally was a mouth. “Okee. Nolan. Whaddaya got for me? Sing it.”
“Look fellas...”
“Sing it.”
“Mr. Washington. These new terms...this change-over...” Wheeler caught Nolan looking at him as he said this. Something accusatory in his eyes. “I’ve not had time for this.”
“Floyd? Do you hear singing?”
“If I do, aint much. Wouldn’t go to carny-gee hall to hear it,” said the man next to Wheeler. Wheeler afforded himself the opportunity to get a better look at the room. This Floyd guy he didn’t know, but he was muscle, and a danger. Wally he knew, and Wally should have recognised him if he’d known his job.
The thing Wheeler was struggling with was Wally didn’t have this job. He did not collect protection. He did not work rackets. He played cards and craps and ran up tabs. He was not a part of any firm. Why the sudden promotion? Wheeler left that thought turning as Wally spoke up again. Wally told Floyd to grab Nolan’s hand, which he did with incredible speed.
“Going to cut the one with your wedding band on it. How you like that? We sell the ring back to you. Then mebbe you’ve got the money after all?” Wally by now had hefted a cleaver off the counter. “Big thing, this. Big knife. Gonna be a trick getting just one finger out of five.”
Nolan was pulling at his hand. He wasn’t saying much, but his breath came out in long rasps. Floyd had him like a vice. His arms barely twisted to Nolan’s frenzied tugs. Floyd turned to Wheeler. “You might wanna bust out of here, fatso.” As he spoke he gave Wheeler a closer look. It was clear Wheeler was not fat. And his face betrayed none of the fear Floyd was used to seeing on these tours. Floyd took all his attention off the butcher. Stopped listening to Wally. He tilted his shoulders so he was as close to facing Wheeler as he could get.
Wheeler thought about moving out. He thought about what this trouble was worth to him. He could handle seeing Nolan get cut. He could just about handle having to find a new butcher. Wheeler couldn’t think enough moves into the future to see what fires he’d start by stopping these two. Wheeler didn’t like or need fire. But this Floyd guy was watching him now. Getting the measure of him.
Wally saw that Floyd was distracted and took his first real look at the other customer. The man he’d so wanted to impress with his intimidation of Nolan. Wally loved an audience. He’d thought some paper-reading sap was about to see something that scared him good. And years from now, when this sap is refusing a cut of ham at his father in-law’s retirement dinner, something like that, the sap will tell the story about the time he saw the real Wally Washington, the legendary New York City mobster. Only by then Wally hoped they’d be calling him Walter.
All of this came crashing down around Wally when he saw the steely eyes of Wheeler.
Wheeler saw the flash of recognition on Wally’s face and his mouth try and find an ‘O’ shape to yell out of. Floyd was a moment behind, but he knew enough was going on to warrant letting go of Nolan. He felt he’d need two hands free for this.
Two hands, three hands, four. Whatever Floyd was bringing to the fight had to be fast. Faster than Wheeler. Floyd threw one fist up for cover, and the other back to aim. He leant back on his right leg, pivoting at the hip. Wally had dipped behind Floyd, using him as a literal shield while he fished a snub-nosed automatic out of his pocket. As Floyd spun back to release the fist he’d stretched behind him, Wheeler’s leg flashed out. The very point of his shoe struck Floyd in the groin and seemed to bury itself deep into the joint of his right leg. Floyd bent. A sickness spread fast in his stomach and the punch he was now half-way through now just lent momentum to his sudden fall.
As Floyd collapsed in on himself, Wheeler turned his outstretched leg up, bending at the knee so it crashed into Floyd’s exposed face. Floyd rushed to meet it almost as fast as Wheeler brought it up. There was the report of broken bone. Behind his damaged opponent, Wheeler could see Wally and a flash of black in his hands. Wheeler pushed forwards, he tipped Floyd back, and the limp figure went over like a felled tree, flattening Wally. There was a single, haphazard shot from Wally’s pistol, that made crimson ruin of Floyd’s face, before Wheeler could stamp on the extortionist’s chest, blasting the air and fight out of him.
What he should have done was reported to Marshall’s Auto Repair. He should have gone straight there and told them the job was done. People were counting on him doing that. Instead, Wheeler took himself to Nolan’s, a butcher, where he hoped to buy a sirloin. He knew he was doing things in the wrong order. He’d have a bloody wrap of paper sitting on the passenger seat when he went into Marshall’s, and when they were done counting out bills and joking about Jerry the hard way, and maybe handing him more work right there...when they were done he’d go back to his car and it would smell like copper and leather.
Wheeler took the kerb and then three long strides that took him under the bell of Nolan’s and one more that took him to the counter. Nolan watched all of this and did not move. Normally Nolan was happy and ready for custom, or if he was not, he was singing, his head down and pleased that he’s been caught hard at work. Now, Nolan was none of these things. He looked like he’d been waiting, and with Wheeler there he was terrified.
Wheeler backed away from the counter, his head tilted like a dog that doesn’t understand. They were friends of sorts, but Wheeler didn’t take to familiarity with Nolan. He simply asked. “There a problem?”
“You work for them, now? They send you?”
“I’m not here on work, if that’s what you mean. Why would we...?”
Wheeler was cut short. The bell behind him rang and Nolan’s expression changed to worse than before.
Two men snuck in. Wheeler, on instinct ducked his head to the side and balled up a little. He’d found he could pass off his bulk as fat if he just shrank into himself. Fat was never threatening to these men. He didn’t look at them directly, but he made sure he knew where they were and what they were doing. First through the door made straight to Nolan. Second through the door came and leant next to Wheeler. Were they here for him?
Wheeler recognised the voice of Wally Washington and got the gist. Wally was a mouth. “Okee. Nolan. Whaddaya got for me? Sing it.”
“Look fellas...”
“Sing it.”
“Mr. Washington. These new terms...this change-over...” Wheeler caught Nolan looking at him as he said this. Something accusatory in his eyes. “I’ve not had time for this.”
“Floyd? Do you hear singing?”
“If I do, aint much. Wouldn’t go to carny-gee hall to hear it,” said the man next to Wheeler. Wheeler afforded himself the opportunity to get a better look at the room. This Floyd guy he didn’t know, but he was muscle, and a danger. Wally he knew, and Wally should have recognised him if he’d known his job.
The thing Wheeler was struggling with was Wally didn’t have this job. He did not collect protection. He did not work rackets. He played cards and craps and ran up tabs. He was not a part of any firm. Why the sudden promotion? Wheeler left that thought turning as Wally spoke up again. Wally told Floyd to grab Nolan’s hand, which he did with incredible speed.
“Going to cut the one with your wedding band on it. How you like that? We sell the ring back to you. Then mebbe you’ve got the money after all?” Wally by now had hefted a cleaver off the counter. “Big thing, this. Big knife. Gonna be a trick getting just one finger out of five.”
Nolan was pulling at his hand. He wasn’t saying much, but his breath came out in long rasps. Floyd had him like a vice. His arms barely twisted to Nolan’s frenzied tugs. Floyd turned to Wheeler. “You might wanna bust out of here, fatso.” As he spoke he gave Wheeler a closer look. It was clear Wheeler was not fat. And his face betrayed none of the fear Floyd was used to seeing on these tours. Floyd took all his attention off the butcher. Stopped listening to Wally. He tilted his shoulders so he was as close to facing Wheeler as he could get.
Wheeler thought about moving out. He thought about what this trouble was worth to him. He could handle seeing Nolan get cut. He could just about handle having to find a new butcher. Wheeler couldn’t think enough moves into the future to see what fires he’d start by stopping these two. Wheeler didn’t like or need fire. But this Floyd guy was watching him now. Getting the measure of him.
Wally saw that Floyd was distracted and took his first real look at the other customer. The man he’d so wanted to impress with his intimidation of Nolan. Wally loved an audience. He’d thought some paper-reading sap was about to see something that scared him good. And years from now, when this sap is refusing a cut of ham at his father in-law’s retirement dinner, something like that, the sap will tell the story about the time he saw the real Wally Washington, the legendary New York City mobster. Only by then Wally hoped they’d be calling him Walter.
All of this came crashing down around Wally when he saw the steely eyes of Wheeler.
Wheeler saw the flash of recognition on Wally’s face and his mouth try and find an ‘O’ shape to yell out of. Floyd was a moment behind, but he knew enough was going on to warrant letting go of Nolan. He felt he’d need two hands free for this.
Two hands, three hands, four. Whatever Floyd was bringing to the fight had to be fast. Faster than Wheeler. Floyd threw one fist up for cover, and the other back to aim. He leant back on his right leg, pivoting at the hip. Wally had dipped behind Floyd, using him as a literal shield while he fished a snub-nosed automatic out of his pocket. As Floyd spun back to release the fist he’d stretched behind him, Wheeler’s leg flashed out. The very point of his shoe struck Floyd in the groin and seemed to bury itself deep into the joint of his right leg. Floyd bent. A sickness spread fast in his stomach and the punch he was now half-way through now just lent momentum to his sudden fall.
As Floyd collapsed in on himself, Wheeler turned his outstretched leg up, bending at the knee so it crashed into Floyd’s exposed face. Floyd rushed to meet it almost as fast as Wheeler brought it up. There was the report of broken bone. Behind his damaged opponent, Wheeler could see Wally and a flash of black in his hands. Wheeler pushed forwards, he tipped Floyd back, and the limp figure went over like a felled tree, flattening Wally. There was a single, haphazard shot from Wally’s pistol, that made crimson ruin of Floyd’s face, before Wheeler could stamp on the extortionist’s chest, blasting the air and fight out of him.
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