Find Big Fat Fanny Fast (19 page)

Tony B leaned forward and said in almost a whisper. “You have to cut off the head of a lion to make sure he's dead. That means Hung Far Low has got to be whacked.”

Junior shook his head. “This is serious business. I think it's time we call for a sit-down with the Chinese. Maybe we can negotiate a truce. That way we can avoid an all-out war that will kill many people on both sides.”

Tony B's face turned mean. “I strongly disagree. No sit-down now, or ever with the Chinks. The key is Hung Far Low. We erase him, our problem goes away. There's nobody else in charge. Without Hung Far Low, the gook gangs are dead.”

Skinny Benny leaned forwards. “I'm with Tony B. Let's kill the fat bastard Hung Far Low.”

Nicky Knuckles wiped his brow with a napkin. “Well I think........”

Tony B cut him off, “Who gives a crap what you think? You're just here to shut the fuck up.”

“Look Dad, think over what I just said,” Junior said. “Nobody wants an all-out war. Then we'll have the cops up our asses and all our money-making projects will ground to a halt. It's a lose-lose proposition for us.”

Tony B nodded. “OK, let me think it over.” He stuck his forefinger close to Nicky's nose. “But I want that dumb bastard Yuan Dum Fuk dead. Capeesh?”

“No problem,” Nicky said. “I'll take care of him.”

“And I want you to whack the ugly Chink broad with the flat nose and big boobs too. Understand?”

“Leave it to me. Peggy Soo's dead too,” Nicky said.

Tony B snapped his fingers for the waitress. She sashayed over to the table. “Anything else gentlemen?”

Tony B pointed to Nicky Knuckles. “No. Just give this guy the check and we're done.”

She added up a few numbers, handed the check to Nicky, then headed back to the kitchen.

Again, four sets of eyes followed her to the back.

“And leave her a big tip,” Tony B told Nicky.

Nicky covered the check with a ten dollar bill.

Tony B grabbed Nicky's arm. “Cheap bastard. Leave the broad a twenty.”

“For four cups of lousy coffee?” Nicky said.

“That's right. The girl's gotta earn. And she's half deaf to boot.”

Nicky replaced the ten spot with a twenty dollar bill.

The four men rose from the booth and exited Dave's Corner.

Seconds later, the waitress went back to the vacated table. She snatched the check and the twenty dollar bill and stuffed them into the front pocket of her apron. Then she picked up the coffee cups, sugar shaker and the coffee pot, put them on a tray and headed back towards the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, the waitress unscrewed the top of the sugar shaker. She fingered a tiny microphone attached to the inside top of the shaker and spoke into it, “Got all that Sergeant Molloy?”

Through her “hearing aid” she heard Sergeant Molloy say, “Yes Detective Jackson. Loud and clear. Ten-four. Over and out.”

*****

Keyshawn Blusterman sat at his desk at One Police Plaza and pondered the present situation. Being police commissioner of New York City was not the piece of cake he had thought it would be. Sure, he was collecting envelopes stuffed with cash from several precinct police captains throughout the city; money the precinct cops had extorted from various businesses, legal and not so legal. That money was for police protection, but for Blusterman it wasn't enough. Cocaine was damn expensive and with the dozen or so bimbos he was now balling, all having nose candy problems, Blusterman was presently into buying weight. Eight balls and sometimes even ounces of blow, just to keep his young ladies happy. And for that he needed more money.

Blusterman didn't like doing the happy dust himself. It made him all wired up, and after a few blows, his dick softened like overcooked spaghetti. Certainly not a condition a black man in New York City could tolerate.

The different bugs he had planted, maybe legally, maybe not so legally, in certain Lower East Side restaurants had confirmed one thing. The Chinks and the Dago's were ready for all out war, for control of the Lower East Side and all its rackets. And there was an internal problem with the Wops that could screw up everything Blusterman had planned.

Blusterman had to think hard about how he could make some serious cash playing the Chinks against the Wops and vice versa, while keeping the appearance of peace between the two factions. Snoring pure rock cocaine sure helped him do the heavy thinking.

He wiped his bald head with a sweaty palm, then rose from his desk, walked to the front door and locked it. Then he hurried back to his desk and sat down.

He opened the bottom right desk drawer with a key and took out a large rectangular pill box. He opened the pill box and removed a straw, the kind used in tall drinks, and a glassine envelope containing an eighth of an ounce of pure cocaine. He opened the top of the glassine envelope, stuck one end of the straw inside, the other end up his right nostril, and inhaled hard. He did the same thing with his left nostril. Then he repeated the process again.

Drums starting banging in his head. Then suddenly, he had complete clarity of mind. He knew exactly what he had to do and how he had to do it. He needed an accomplice. But could he trust that accomplice? Sergeant Molloy was a nice enough guy alright. But that was the problem. Too nice and too much of a guy.

Blusterman figured Detective Clarice Jackson was the perfect person to put his plan into motion. Maybe she was and maybe she wasn't, and maybe he was just looking to get laid, which wasn't such a bad idea anyway.

He dialed her beeper number and in less than a minute she called him back.

“Where are you?” he said.

“At my desk in Midtown South,” she said.

“Can anybody hear our conversation? Like Sergeant Molloy for instance?”

“No boss, there's no one in sight.”

“Still, I don't like talking on the phone. I'll meet you in an hour. At your place.”

“Make it an hour and a half. I have some paperwork to finish.”

“Ok, ninety minutes. If I get there first, I'll let myself in with my key.”

“Ten-four.”

“Over and out.”

*****

Police Commissioner Keyshawn Blusterman arrived first at Detective Jackson's Harlem apartment. It was located two blocks from the subway station at 148
th
Street and Lenox Avenue, which he had just departed, wearing a fake mustache and Afro wig, he had bought months ago in a novelty store on Times Square. This was his “riding the subways” disguise, he used when he wanted to go to one of his many lady friend's apartments. Usually he motored around the city in a chauffeured Lincoln Town Car, but then his driver would get wind of what he was doing and any number of things could happen to the police commissioner of New York City. None of them particularly good.

He let himself into her apartment with his own personal key, given to him by a woman who had the biggest pair of boobs Blusterman had ever seen that weren't hanging down to her knees.

He went into the living room and headed for the bar. He selected his favorite single malt scotch and poured himself a double shot, neat. He downed the glass in one large gulp. Then poured himself another double.

Blusterman felt now was the perfect time to do another one-on-one of the happy dust. He took out his wallet and removed a glassine envelope filled with pure rock cocaine. He spilled half the contents onto the bar, and using his pocket knife, he chopped the rock coke into dust. He assembled eight thick parallel lines of coke. Then took a straw from his inside jacket pocket and snorted up a quick blast into one nostril, then into the other.

Happy days are here again!

He heard the front door open and in walked Detective Clarice Jackson. She had a body that would give even the Cardinals in the Vatican a group erection.

She spotted the lines of coke on the bar. “I see you have a head start on me.” She came over and kissed him on the cheek.

He pulled her closer. “That's all you've got for me?” Then he gave her a big wet one on the lips.

“That's better,” he said.

She motioned to the coke. “Mind if I indulge?”

“No, go right ahead,” he said, handing her the straw.

She did up two quick blasts in one nostril, then two in the other. She handed the straw back to Blusterman.

“Boy, you must have been real hungry,” Blusterman said.

She smiled. “Working undercover does that to you. After dealing with all the lowlifes I have to deal with, you need an escape from reality.”

Blusterman did up the two remained lines. Then he poured the rest of the rock coke on the bar and handed Clarice his pocket knife. “Please do the honors.”

She took the knife and started chopping.

Blusterman sipped his single malt. “I need you to do something for me.”

She spoke without looking up. “And what may that be?”

“That tape you made a few days ago at Dave's Corner. I want you to deliver a copy to Hung Far Low. Tell him it's for free, as a show of good faith for all the business we'll do in the future.”

She looked up. “Don't you think that's a little risky?”

“Not at all. I want that Chink to know that the Wops are planning to take him out and that would not be good for our future business.”

Clarice smiled. “Ok, will do. First thing tomorrow morning.”

“That's not all. I also want you to give a copy to Charlie Crappola. I want him to know that Tony B is considering whacking him out too. I already have a deal in place with Crappola, after he takes care of Tony B.”

“So you're telling me Crappola is planning to kill Tony B.”

“Yes he is, but I need him to speed up the operation. Before Tony B gets to him first.”

“Why can't you just do business with Tony B?”

“I tried. But Tony B basically told me to go fuck myself. He said he don't deal with no rat bastard cops. So Crappola is plan B for me with the Wops.”

“Ok, I'll see if I can track down Crappola tomorrow. But he's not easy to find, like Hung Far Low is.”

“Try very hard to find him. I'm giving orders that you are on a special assignment for me. That means none of your superior officers, including Sergeant Molloy, can mess with you.” He took another sip of single malt. “I'm cutting Molloy out of this deal completely, so just keep it under your hat.”

Clarice put her arms around Blusterman's neck. “But you can still mess with
me
, can't you?”

Blusterman felt his
Johnson
expanding. “Oh absolutely. But we better hurry into the bedroom quick, before this coke starts playing tricks on me.”

She kissed him softly on the neck. “Don't worry about that. I know a few tricks of my own.”

“You certainly do,” Blusterman said. “I can attest to that.”

*****

Soldato “Sammy” L'Occhio dipped his fedora over his eyes, as he purchased a ticket at the Gay Paree Cinema on 8
th
Avenue, just north of Times Square. Louis J. Lombago had hired Sammy to follow Charlie “Crappy” Crappola, to find out if maybe Crappy sometimes wore his underwear on backwards. The titles of today's twin features were “Romancing the Bone” and “Blowjob Impossible.” Not exactly Academy Award material.

After three days of nothing unusual, today Sammy followed Crappy as he took the subway to the Times Square Station. A wiseguy like Crappy would never lower himself to take the sweaty subway, so Sammy knew something was up. After they exited the subway, Sammy followed Crappy from a safe distance, as Crappy winded down Seventh Avenue, across 45 St., then up Eighth Avenue. When Crappy entered the gay movie house, Sammy knew this was probably his last day on the job.

Sammy waiting a few minutes outside the movie house after he bought a ticket. When he finally entered, he took a seat in the back row hoping to spot Crappy right off the bat. And there he was, on the right side of the movie house, three rows from the screen, in the middle of the aisle. There were maybe only ten degenerates in the entire movie house, so fat Crappy was not hard to spot.

Sammy edged closer to Crappy, taking a seat on the right side, 4
th
row, on the aisle. From this vantage point, Sammy could see Crappy had a large box of popcorn on his lap and kernels of popcorn scattered all around his feet.

Sammy knew this was the old porno movie house “Popcorn Treat” routine, where a pervert would watch the movie, while whacking off with his hand inside the empty popcorn box, with the bottom of the box torn open to allow access to his joint. The popcorn scattered on the floor was a dead giveaway.

Sure enough, Crappy was reaching into the popcorn box and yanking upward with his right hand repeatedly, while staring at the screen.

Suddenly, a black dude almost seven feet tall, passed Sammy and entered Crappy's row. When he got to Crappy, Crappy stood and let the black dude pass. The black dude passed Crappy, then sat two seats down. Sammy slid down his row to the far right wall so he could have a better vantage point to watch the proceedings.

Sammy leaned forward in his seat and in seconds the black dude pulled out his huge pecker and twirled it up in the air.