Chapter 14
Jorge had called and told Dominic he had a line on the captain's brother. Dominic had told Jorge to sit on the guy, he was on his way and wanted to handle it himself. And so Dominic was headed to Hampton Beach in his big, black Lincoln. Sal, Dominic’s driver and bodyguard, was behind the wheel, looking exactly how a bodyguard named Sal was expected to look.
Jorge's call wasn't the only reason Dominic wanted to travel to that damn beach. He wanted to check out the area where the rip-off went down. He'd been around for a long time and had a good sixth sense in this business. If he could get a look at the place, get a feel for it, he might be able to figure out who pulled the job, or at the very least, what direction he should be looking to find them.
What he didn't have to figure out was what he was going to do to whoever pulled the heist once he caught up with them. No, he didn't have to figure that out at all. And now, after telling Sal to speed it up, he stretched and tried to relax, daydreaming about what he would do to those poor pricks when he got his hands on them.
He wouldn't have the kid shoot them in the head, at least not right away. That'd be too easy. No, first he'd tie them to a goddamn tree. And he'd find a tree at the beach even if he had to plant one himself. Then he'd use a baseball bat–no bat?–then a fat limb from the tree would do just fine. God, it'd feel good whacking those cocksuckers. Wouldn't take long before they'd be begging him to let the kid put a bullet in their slimy skulls to put them out of their misery.
"No one's ever hit Dominic Carpucci and gotten away with it," he muttered.
Sal must have heard him because he said, "What'd you say?"
Dominic answered angrily, "I didn't say nothin'. Just keep driving. How close do you think we are?"
"Fifteen minutes maybe, Boss."
That word "boss" again. That's a fucking laugh, Dominic thought. Somehow through the years he'd stopped enjoying being called boss and started dreading it. Especially today. Today all the word "boss" did for Dominic was remind him that his stuff was running around loose somewhere with some goddamn punks. And because he was the boss, and it was his stuff, he couldn't just walk away. If he wasn't the boss–the big shot–he could just tell some other jamoke, "Go screw yourself. Get your own fuckin' stuff. " But he couldn't do that when it was his stuff, his trip. He was stuck. So much for the fun of being a boss.
He was supposed to be getting ready to head down to Florida, not sitting here in this damn car chasing down some sleazeball who thought he was better, smarter, tougher than Dominic Carpucci. Time to let someone else be the boss while he hit the beach like Filthy Phil, laying in the sun with the broads and the booze and not a care in the world. Not to mention the few million bucks he had stuffed in safe deposit boxes.
Dominic scowled. All the dough he'd made through the years should add up to more than a few million. Probably ten or twenty million easy. Except for the fact that what he did wasn't a secret to law enforcement anymore. And that'd meant extra expenses–big extra expenses–which made what he'd be retiring on smaller than what it should've been. But it'd have to do; he'd had enough. And to Dominic right now it felt like what he had stashed away would do just fine, thank you.
Unless he didn't get the load back, that lovely score that could make all his retirement dreams come true. Not only would losing that load throw a monkey wrench into his retirement plans, he'd have to come up with the dough to pay the Colombians for the load in the first place, seeing most of it was on the arm. Because the Colombians, they didn't want to hear any sob story about a supposedly ripped off load. No way. They'd want their money and Dominic would have to pay them whether he got the product back or not.
And that was real bad because it meant no retirement. Worse, it'd mean starting all over from square one, trying to get ahead again and put together a big enough stash to get the hell out of the business. It meant more scams, more hustling, more risks. Prison, maybe. Even death.
Sounded real bad to Dominic now. A lot worse than it had twenty-five years ago. He'd really be pushing the odds this time. And the odds were a lot less favorable now than they'd been back in the day. But even worse than the things he faced out there if he had to start all over again, was the way he felt inside–his heart just wasn't in it anymore. He didn't have the desire to do it all over again. He wasn't young enough or hungry enough anymore. And because he didn't have the drive, things would never work out. It'd only end up one way–bad.
On the other hand, if he could just get his product back, he'd be out of this shit and on his way to Florida. Just like Phil Garrola. No troubles, no worries. It'd be real nice–no, more than nice–it'd be a lifesaver. That's why he wasn't going to blow it, not after getting this close. He was going to get that product back and make his retirement a reality. He was sure of it.
He'd wondered off and on how he'd feel after retiring. Would he miss the action? Calling the shots? Probably not. If things worked out the way he planned–at least the way he'd planned before these slimeball thieves got into the act–he'd have the best of both worlds. Not out front with the headaches and danger, but behind the scenes. Bigger than a boss, still calling the shots with his own man in there and tribute sailing down south to him every month, just like it did to Filthy Phil. Wouldn't that be the balls.
And who'd be sending him those envelopes? Dominic smiled as he sat in the back seat of the Lincoln and pictured Jorge Rivera. A spic boss. Ha, the boys'd really love that. Since he and his late wife Esther hadn't had any children, there was no son to take over the family business. So fuck them all.
The kid would do just fine, Dominic was betting on it. Jorge had the look in his eye. He was hungry. He wanted to be a boss–the man. And Dominic was determined to make sure the kid got what he wanted. The kid was loyal and could be trusted, which was more than he could say for the young Italians Dominic had working for him. Those Guidos thought the world owed them a living. If the feds ever put any pressure on them to give up Dominic? They'd talk so much the cops would have to slap them to shut them up. No balls.
Jorge was different. The kid had a pair and he was stand up. Besides, he'd be so grateful to Dominic for giving him the chance to move up, that he'd never miss sending one of those beautiful fat envelopes south every month to keep Dominic living in the style he'd be accustomed to by then.
Dominic chuckled–a spic boss! Christ, that'd be something. Course he knew the kid'd have to get some fresh blood. Some of the goombahs would never work for a spic. Stupid shits would rather starve first and probably would. But recruiting new men would be no problem for the kid. There were a million wetbacks looking for a hustle and for somebody to tell them what to do. The kid'd have his pick of the best. Didn't bother Dominic at all, the thought of handing everything he'd built up over the years to Jorge and his people. Hadn't Luciano done the same thing seventy-odd years ago when he'd let Lansky and the Jews in on the action? Lucky had played it smart back then, and he, Dominic Carpucci, was going to play it smart now.
All he had to do was collect on this scam and maybe a couple of repeats, get his envelope every month, and Jorge's group could have the rest. Good luck to them.
The car screeched to a stop. Dominic sat up straight, frustrated by the sudden holdup. "What's the matter, Sal?"
"Friggin' bridge is up, Boss. They're lettin' some boats through."
Dominic squinted through the front window. Sure enough the Hampton Bridge was up and open. "Think it'll it be long?"
"Nah. I see the boats goin' under. Ain't they pretty."
Dominic shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Through his window he could see the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant. With the luck he'd had lately, odds were that place could blow any second. He turned back just in time to see the bridge finish its descent and click back into traffic position. He gave Sal a couple of taps on the shoulder. "Come on, come on. Let's get outta here."
As the Lincoln s
tarted to move forward with the other cars, Dominic glanced once again at the domed nuclear plant and tried to get his mind back on something he hoped he might have some control over.
Like getting his damn product back.
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