Chapter 10
Tony Peralta didn't waste any time making a move after the visit from the two state cops; he couldn't afford to. They'd been right about how much he loved his ocean front home and he wasn't about to jeopardize it just because some assholes had whacked two nobodies down at the harbor.
They'd threatened his business, too. He had a sweet operation going and it was very profitable. Nobody ever bothered him. Of course, the statie had been right–he did give the feds a name or two every so often to insure that things kept chugging along nice like. But hey, the drug business was a tough business and you had to do what you had to do. Working with the feds had paid off big for Tony. Any time local or state cops came snooping around, he'd just made a call to a certain federal agent and the pests had backed off.
But that same agent had called him first this time, picking his brain about a large load of coke being shopped around. When Tony admitted being in the dark about this particular matter, that same agent told Tony he better start beating the bushes and find something out, or he could pack his bags for Club Fed. And it hadn't even been an hour after that call before he received another call. This one from one of his connections–a heavyweight Hispanic by the name of Jorge Rivera. And guess what he wanted for Christmas?
Hard to say what was worse: Bartolo, the state cop, threatening to take Tony's house and let everyone on the seacoast know he was an informer, not to mention throwing him off the cliff for good measure; the fed saying he'd send him away to college for who knew how long; or his Hispanic connection who . . . well, he didn't have to threaten anything, that's how real he was. Just the thought of that multiple choice question gave Tony the heebie-jeebies.
There was one thing in all this that didn't give him the shakes. Instead, it made him feel kind of excited. And that was when he thought about the likely size of this load everyone was after. It had to be one king-size mountain of snow to get all these heavy people's pants in an uproar. Kind of made him thankful he hadn't slipped and told anyone what he had heard recently from one of his own customers–that someone on the beach was trying to move a good amount of coke, cheap. When he'd heard who the so-called seller was, Tony'd just laughed and said, "Yeah, right."
But now, with what the staties had said and the two telephone calls, it didn't seem so funny anymore. Instead, it gave him ideas. Possible problems too. Even if he located the coke, no way could he keep everyone who wanted it happy. That left just one alternative–maybe, just maybe, he could grab the coke for himself and play dumb with the whole bunch of them. After all, he was a real slick guy, wasn't he? It was dangerous, no lie there, and he'd have to move quick if he hoped to pull it off. None of these characters who were trying to strong-arm him were the type who'd wait long.
So the first thing he did was call Wayne and tell him to get his ass over to Boar's Head, fast. Wayne came, of course, all 250 pounds of him. Wayne had slapped around a lot of people for Tony through the years, people who dragged their feet on paying or tried to move in on his outs. The six-foot-four-inch giant was damn good at his work and he enjoyed it.
Right now Wayne was enjoying his work again. This time at the High Tide Restaurant. It was six in the morning and the only people inside were Wayne, Tony, and Shamrock Kelly, Shamrock currently serving as the recipient of all Wayne's "enjoyment."
Wayne gave the little guy another slap upside the head. "You heard him. Answer the fucking question."
"I don't know what yer talking about," Shamrock said, his voice shaky and his brogue so thick Tony could barely understand him.
They were in the restaurant's kitchen, the Irishman backed up flat against a walk-in fridge.
"Word on the street is you have some snow that needs shoveling." Tony ran a finger across the walk-in's shiny surface, then slammed that same surface hard with his fist.
"I was only joking around," Shamrock answered, gazing around the kitchen as if looking for help. "Taking advantage of the situation with the ladies, if you know what I mean. I know nothing about the cocaine."
"Lying little harp," Tony said. "Give him another slap."
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Wayne hit the cowering Irishman hard with the palms of both of his huge hands, alternating one after the other, over and over again, a few of the slaps connecting hard.
Shamrock yelped like a wounded seal. When Wayne stopped the little man peeked up at him from between his fingers. "Stop! I'll tell you. I'll tell you. It was down there, that's where it was." Shamrock pointed.
"Where?" Tony said. "The other end of the beach?"
"That's it. Near the bridge."
"What side?" Tony asked.
"This side," Shamrock said.
"I know that, you stupid shit," Tony snapped. "I mean which side of Ocean Boulevard?"
"Near the water."
"Must be down near the old White Rock store," Tony muttered. He glared at Shamrock. "What street? Atlantic? Boston? Huh, what street?"
"Eaton."
Eaton. Tony knew where that was. He remembered who lived near there too–Dan Marlowe, the bartender, ex-owner of the High Tide. Lost the place when he couldn't keep his nose clean. Everybody on the beach knew that.
Marlowe'd turned his life around or so he claimed. But the man was smart. Smart enough to put together something like this little scam. This dishwasher sure as hell couldn't. Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Tony just needed some verification; shouldn't be too hard. The little Irishman looked so scared now he'd probably give up his mother. Time to see what he'd do about someone who wasn't his mother.
"So Marlowe's mixed up in this, huh? He's the man who took the coke. Am I right?"
Shamrock's eyes grew wide as balloons. "Dan Marlowe? He's got nothing to do with it. I swear to God."
Wayne pulled down a metal kitchen pot the size of a volleyball from the pans hanging overhead. He held the pot by the handle, waved it menacingly in front of Shamrock's face.
"Should I see if these pots are any good, Boss?" Wayne asked, a maniacal leer on his face. "Maybe see if they're dent proof?"
"Where's Marlowe hiding the coke?" Tony demanded.
"I don't know anything about that," Shamrock said, pleading now. He had big red welts on both sides of his face from Wayne's slaps, and his eyes were glued to the pot in the big man's hand. "I dunno. Sweet Mother of Mary, I'm telling you the truth."
Judging by the sound of his voice and the look of him, Tony was pretty sure the Irishman was telling the truth. After all, Marlowe wouldn't be stupid enough to let this guy know where the stuff was stashed. Still, it wouldn't hurt to be certain. "Go ahead, Wayne. See if that pot'll dent."
Shamrock howled as the first blow from the pot bounced hard off his arm, breaking the bone with an audible crack. "I swear . . ."
Wayne swung the pot fast and hard, over and over, like he was trying to eradicate a cockroach infestation. The attack was so quick and ruthless it even caught Tony by surprise. He jumped back out of the way, narrowly avoiding a wild swing.
Shamrock howled–the desperate sound of a dying animal–and crumpled to the floor, his bloodied arms raised to protect his head. "I'll tell . . ."
The air hissed as Wayne swung the pot directly at the Irishman's head. Shamrock ducked, then looked up at Tony with pleading eyes.
"Wayne, you ignoramus, stop. Stop. He's ready to talk."
Wayne took one last swing. The pot connected with Shamrock's head in a sickening thud that made Tony's stomach do flip-flops.
"Jesus Christ, Wayne. Stop it." Tony slammed his fist hard into Wayne's back.
Wayne stopped and stood panting, the big pot dented and dangling loose in his right hand. Shamrock lay face up on the floor, not moving, blood everywhere.
Tony pushed around Wayne and looked down at the bloody mess. "This is just fucking great," he said softly.
"Did I hit him too hard, Boss?"
"Are you serious?" Tony had to l
ook back over his shoulder at the big man to see if he was serious. He was.
Wayne shrugged, "Well, at least we found out one good thing."
"What's that?" Tony asked, already dreading the answer.
Wayne held up the blood-stained kitchen pot. "These pans ain't worth shit," he said with a stupid grin on his puss. "They dent."
Tony just shook his head and groaned.
~*~*~