Chapter 5
Buzz Craven, at the wheel of the little white Sentra, was driving north on Route 95 near Newburyport, Massachusetts, not far from the New Hampshire border. Beside him, riding shotgun, sat Skinny Halliday. They were headed to Hampton Beach to retrieve the hundred kilos of coke they'd lifted off the fishing boat before that same boat had mysteriously been found hung up on the jetty with two dead bodies inside.
"I still don't get it, Buzz," Skinny said. "Why we going back now? I thought you said we should leave the stuff there until things cooled down. So why we goin' back now, huh?"
For the umpteenth time since they'd gotten involved in this thing, Buzz had to fight the urge to put his big hands around Skinny's pencil-thin neck and squeeze real hard-like. Maybe never stop. Or better yet–beat the thin man's face in till it looked like used silly putty. Yeah, that'd feel real good. But he couldn't do it. Not yet. Whether he liked to admit it or not, he needed Skinny. For now.
"Listen, you stupid shit. For the last time–we left the stuff at that cottage the night we grabbed it because there’s only two ways out of that beach. If anything went wrong, no way was I going to get popped with it. My buddy said I could use the dump for a couple of weeks, so no problem there. As long as the weather didn't get too hot. Then we'd have to move real quick before the stuff got damaged. That's why I'm watching the weather. And yeah, I said we'd hang tight 'till things died down, but things have changed. I got somebody interested in the whole load. They want a showpiece and I'm going to give it to them. Dealing with one reliable person is a heck of a lot better than piecing it out to the fucking lowlifes you know. Now do you get it?"
Buzz realized he must have been talking real loud or something because Skinny was looking back at him with a terrified look on his puss, his fingers working a mile a minute on his pockmarked face.
"Well, do you get it?" Buzz said again, and damn, he was talking loud–very loud.
"I get it, Buzz," Skinny answered as he fidgeted around in his seat. "I get it."
"And speaking of lowlifes, don't forget to keep your trap shut with them like I told you. This isn't like the other things we been involved in before; this is serious shit. One hundred fucking keys. Remember?"
"I remember, Buzz," Skinny said, his ordinarily shrill voice going higher. "A hundred keys. Sweet Jesus, how could I forget that?"
As Buzz took the Route 286 exit off 95, he wondered if anyone, even dumbbell Skinny, could forget how serious one hundred keys were? Even he–a guy who'd seen his share of weight during all his years with the D.E.A.–couldn't forget. In fact, this particular little heist had been all he'd been able to think about for the past couple of months, ever since he'd first gotten wind of the load over that beautiful golden goose of an illegal wiretap he and Skinny had placed on Dominic Carpucci's Lynnfield home.
Buzz'd been hoping to get a line on one of Carpucci's distributors–take the guy down when he was holding– money preferably, although powder would've been cheerfully accepted. Buzz was figuring maybe ten or twenty grand, or if they got real lucky, hell, even fifty wouldn't have been impossible. He never even considered ripping off Dominic Carpucci himself. The man was too cautious, too ruthless. Anyone who tried would probably get their balls cut off–if they were lucky. All Buzz was hoping for was a nice little score. Easy in, easy out. Nothing more.
Until he heard about the boat scam. Then everything changed.
At first, he didn't think the tap was going to pay off. Carpucci kept yakking about this and that, but nothing that smelled like money. Then Carpucci mentioned "footballs" and Buzz's ears perked up. The creep had been talking in code, but that hadn't kept Buzz in the dark. Hell, he'd been deciphering dealer's chatter so long he was better at it than a C.I.A. cryptographer. Seemed Carpucci and his right-hand man, some spic–Jorge something or other–had a load of blow they were expecting. And what a load. One hundred keys! Shit, that was over 200 pounds. Buzz hadn't had to reach for a calculator to know that was talking millions. When he heard about that dream shipment, the idea of hitting one of Carpucci's distributors went right out the window.
Sure, it would be dangerous to try to rip a man like Carpucci–real dangerous as a matter of fact–but this wasn't a little flurry of cocaine. It was a fucking blizzard! So it was damn well worth the risk. Besides, it wasn't like him and Skinny hadn't done things like this before. Hell, they'd pulled lots of scams. Maybe not as big, but smooth and pretty profitable–ten, twenty, even thirty grand once. Some in cash, some in merchandise. Only one problem–there was never enough cash or merchandise in one score to quit. And that's what Buzz wanted most of all–enough dough to quit.
He didn't mean just the rip-offs either. Buzz was ready for a major career move–from D.E.A. to retirement. He'd had it up to his nose with that organization. All these years the idiots had kept him from moving up the ladder like he knew he deserved, keeping him hanging around with the promise of that stinking pension at the end of the slog. A pension he'd never see if they ever caught him in one of his little side enterprises with Skinny. All the time he'd given, the risks he'd taken, the scum he'd had to associate with, and at the end nothing but a paltry pension? Not likely.
And now he had a hundred kilos just waiting for him to presto chango it into dollars. He had to pat himself on the back–the heist had gone real smooth. Listening in on the tap had not only opened the door on the hundred keys, during that same conversation Carpucci had been kind enough to reveal what time the boat was coming into Hampton Harbor. Buzz would have to thank Carpucci for that someday. How easy the man had made it for him and Skinny. All they'd had to do was wait on that little motorboat. And then board that treasure ship like they'd been a couple of modern day pirates. It'd been that easy.
To add to the run of luck, the two fools on board weren't even armed. If you didn't count the fishhook one of them was waving. No matter. Buzz killed them both. There was no way he was going to leave those two alive. He and Skinny wore masks but that was more to keep Skinny in the dark about what he was going to do. This was the score; there could be no witnesses. Masks or no masks. So he did what he had to do.
And now he had the hundred keys. Not some greaseball guinea down in la-te-da Lynnfield. And boy, did that make him feel good as a hard-on as he drove along. Even had to shift his ass a bit on the seat.
"Buzz."
Damn. That shrill voice of Skinny's was enough to turn a sane man into a raving maniac. "What?" Buzz tried to keep the annoyance he felt out of his voice. One day soon he'd leave that grating voice behind. His nerves would definitely appreciate the reprieve.
"Can I ask ya something?" Skinny said, snapping his gum every second he wasn't talking.
Was it him, or was Skinny's voice really that bad? The moron's screeching jangled his central nervous system like a kid with his first electric guitar. Buzz almost wished the skinny little shit had ratted him out somewhere along the line, just so he wouldn't have to be here now listening to it. But he never had; had to give Skinny that much. All the rip-offs they'd pulled through the years and Skinny'd actually managed to keep his pie hole shut. Amazing. Could have something to do with Buzz's six-foot-two, 210-pound frame. Years ago, Buzz had used his size to scare the little weasel shitless. All it took was a glance and Buzz could see that nothing had changed in all the time they'd been working together–Skinny was still terrified of him. Anyone could see that.
"What?" Buzz asked, controlling his voice, not wanting Skinny to jump out of his skin. "But don't make it stupid. I'm cranky enough."
Skinny cleared his throat, and when he spoke it was with a slight quiver. "Whattaya gonna do with your share, Buzz?"
Despite his irritation, Buzz felt a grin spreading across his face at the thought of what he'd do with all that bread. "My share? Well, first of all I won't be hanging around with you anymore, that's for fucking sure."
Skinny's face collapsed like
a dynamited building.
Buzz sighed. What the hell. "Travel, that'll be the first thing."
"Yeah?" Skinny said, his eyes shining as much as someone like his could. "Where?"
"The islands. Caribbean," Buzz answered, really getting into it now, enjoying the pictures he was conjuring up in his mind. "Anytime, anywhere I want. Maybe have a nice place down in Jamaica. On the sand. West coast. Too much trouble over the other side."
"You gonna keep working?" Skinny asked, really working his gum now, bobbing his little head like he couldn't wait to hear more.
"Do you have rocks in your head?" Jesus, could this guy be that dumb? "Soon as we turn the stash into cash I'm gone. Quick as a MEGABUCKS winner."
Skinny furrowed his one eyebrow. "What about that pension you're always talkin' about?"
"This is a two or three million dollar score we got here, birdbrain. My seventy-five percent of that is–well, even you don't need a calculator to know that's a lot of money." Buzz could tell that he must be sounding real hot again by the frightened look that came over Skinny's face. But that didn't cool him down any. "All these fucking years I been busting my ass, taking dope dealers down, risking my life. And for what?"
Skinny cowered against the passenger door.
"So some suit in Boston or Washington can get all the glory. And me? What do I get? I'll tell you what I get. Bounced around to every two-bit, rinky-dink task force they feel like forming. Like the damn hemorrhoid I'm stuck in now." Buzz continued in a sing-songy voice, "Northern Massachusetts, Southern New Hampshire Drug Task Force . . . It's all bullshit. Nothin' but a bunch of staties and locals who know absolutely nothing. Stupid morons are chasing high school kids for joints when there's big shit like this going on. Right under their noses too. And why do I get stuck in something like this?"
Skinny looked real antsy now, like maybe he knew what was coming.
"Cause of that goddamn lousy ten grand missing from that crack bust. I'm risking my fucking life and they make a big deal out of that? And it was a Dominican's ten to boot. For Chrissake, the guy's lawyer would've got a judge to return it to him anyway, and the spic would've Federal Expressed it home to relatives faster than you can take a shit. Probably would’ve gone for chickens and goats." Buzz stomped on the accelerator and the puny car jumped from sixty-five to seventy-five.
Skinny let out a little screech. "You wanna know what I'm gonna do with my share, Buzz?"
Buzz could've given a rat's ass about Skinny's plans. But he needed to keep the little weasel in the game for a while longer. "What, Skinny? What are you going to do with your share?"
"Open a nightclub," Skinny said, raising himself up an inch or two in the seat.
"A nightclub?" Buzz had to fight to keep from laughing. He had a hard enough time picturing Skinny running a hotdog stand let alone a nightclub. Christ, he made one of those zit-faced, young geeks at McDonald's look like Donald Trump.
"Yeah, a nightclub. And maybe I'll have a restaurant to go along with it. With nice grub too, fried fish probably. Clams, maybe. There's a lot of money in clams. Not the chewy kind either that you gotta spit out. The sweet ones. Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do." Skinny's eyes glazed over and he let out an audible sigh.
All that fryolator grease'd probably rot the weasel's face off. At least the parts that weren't rotted already.
"Sounds good." But it didn't really because Buzz knew it was never going to happen.
They were crossing over the Hampton Bridge now–a green two-lane drawbridge spanning the water that led from the Atlantic Ocean to the harbor, separating Hampton Beach from Seabrook, New Hampshire. The sun above shone big and bright, reflecting off the dome of the nuclear power plant to his left and glittering on the rippling water. They cruised past the state park loaded with cars and a string of RV's along the water's edge.
Buzz banged a right onto Eaton Avenue. Halfway down the short street, he pulled the car into the driveway of a dilapidated one-story wood cottage and stopped.
Old lobster traps littered the crooked stairs that led to the front porch of the ramshackle building. A worn sign, which at one time probably announced the cottage's name, swung loosely from a single fastener. A rusted bike frame, absent tires, rested against the building. The entire structure was covered in cracked, multi-colored asphalt shingles. It was an eyesore.
Buzz didn't care about any of that. To him it might as well have been the Taj Mahal, all glittering gold. A beautiful sight. The answer to his prayers. This was it.
Skinny snapped his gum and Buzz turned to look at the thin man seated beside him. A thought crept into Buzz's mind–maybe this was as good a time as any. Let Skinny help load the car. Then go back inside with him, and lights out. Death by misadventure. Too much coke. Just another dead junkie found in a Hampton Beach hovel.
Buzz knew he'd have to do it sooner or later anyway. Skinny was a liability. He'd never be able to keep it together. The only reason he'd made it this far without getting shot in the head or thrown in the joint was that he had Buzz running interference for him. No other reason. The thin man couldn't hold onto a dime, let alone a bundle like this was going to be. He'd get his cut and it wouldn't two days before he'd be doing just a couple of lines, and then before you could say, "Pass me the pipe," he'd be a crazy, crack-smoking madman again.
And then the money'd be gone–real quick, crack-quick.
Buzz didn't have to wonder where that would put him. Skinny with no money and craving blow would start pulling all sorts of shitty little scores. Till the inevitable happened and he got popped and they jammed him up. They'd offer him the standard deal–who and what do you know? And wouldn't they be surprised with what the skinny little junkie came back with–a real interesting story about an ex-D.E.A. agent who ripped off 220 pounds of cocaine and was retired now in Jamaica. You could almost write a book about it. The cops would offer Skinny the moon.
Where would Buzz be then? After the thin man told them the whole story?
And that was the main reason the man now sitting beside Buzz would never have to worry about all the troublesome paperwork involved in running a business.
"Buzz," Skinny said. "We goin' in?”
"Yeah. Let's go."
They climbed out of the car and went up on the rickety front porch. Buzz unlocked the door and they went in. They walked through the main room with its two tattered easy chairs and ratty sofa and into the first bedroom on the right. The moment he stepped into the bedroom Buzz's stomach flip-flopped. There on the floor was the wooden cover he'd left secured over the opening in the ceiling that led to the tiny attic.
Buzz dashed to the only closet in the room, looked up, and sure enough there was the attic entrance–wide open. "Boost me up quick," he shouted.
Skinny squeezed in the closet and made a stirrup with his bony hands. Buzz stuck his foot in and raised himself up so his head was sticking through the opening in the ceiling. He peered around the tiny room. The only things in the attic now were spiders and webs.
Buzz jumped down and shoved Skinny out of his way. He headed back through the cottage.
"Are they all gone?" Skinny whined, running to keep up.
"No, you fucking nitwit. They left one as a present. Of course, they're all gone."
"Who do you think?" Skinny asked. "Kids?"
"Kids don't go searching around for a little trap door in the ceiling of a bedroom closet." Buzz jumped down the few porch stairs and hopped in the driver's seat of the car.
Skinny climbed in the other side. "Who then?"
"How the hell should I know?" Buzz peeled backward out of the driveway, reversed direction, and headed back down Eaton to Ocean Boulevard. He banged left and headed back over the bridge.
"Where we going?" Skinny asked.
"Back to Carpucci's in Lynnfield. Somehow the bastard must've found out where it was stashed." Buzz glanced hard at Skinny, then shook his head.
Skinny wasn't smart enough or desperate enough to deal with the big boys. Someone must've seen them and gone directly to Carpucci. That's the only way the stash could've disappeared far as he could tell. "One way or the other, I'm going to get that coke back."
Buzz slammed the wheel with the palm of his hand. His big dream had been this close and he'd be damned if he was going to see it all go up in smoke. He hit the gas hard and Skinny grabbed the dash with both hands, clinging tight as the car sped back across the Hampton Bridge.
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