Jimmy the Stick (18 page)

We drove it all the way, then I told Spence to turn around and go back the way we'd just come. That pissed him off. “The hell you say. It's hot, we've seen what Lansky wanted us to see. It'll add another goddamn hour to the trip back.”

“Look, we need to find exactly the right spot. I think I saw it, but we've got to be sure and we've got to mark it. We can't screw this up, Spence, it could be our big break.”

He grumbled, but he knew I was right and turned the Dodge around.

Five hours later, with wheels still turning in our heads, we made it back to Lansky's garage. Lucky and Siegel were still there, with a bunch of other guys I didn't know at the time. One was the flaming needledick Vincent Coll, and another was his watery-shit friend, Sammy Spats Spatola. Coll was a redhead and Spatola had greasy black hair. Except for that, they could've been brothers, both tall, lanky, and rough-featured.

I don't remember exactly how it happened but as we were walking past them, I bumped into Spatola and he said something like, “Watch where you're going, shorty,” and slapped my hat off. Instead of ignoring him, or telling him to fuck off like I should've done, I got mad and belted him in the kisser with my knucks. He fell flat on his ass, and I was about to split his head open when Coll laid into me. Then Spence waded in and went off on Coll and we all mixed it up until Siegel and Lansky broke things up. They didn't want anybody fighting there with a big deal in the works. When we finally shook hands as Lansky demanded, we knew it didn't mean a damn thing.

Lansky told me to show him what we'd found. I opened the notebook and explained how the road turned at this one place. “They won't be able to see us, and it won't be hard to make them stop.”

Lansky thought it over for a second and said, “Do you want to be in on this?”

Spence and I said yes together.

“We could use another gun. Know anybody who'd like to earn half a yard?”

“How about Oh Boy? He knows how to shoot. He'll be scared but he won't run.”

“All right. Be here at nine tonight. Bring masks.”

“You got pieces or should we bring our own?”

“We got guns.”

That night, Spence took a short-barreled pump, and I gave Oh Boy a sawed-off double-barreled like the one he carried at the shooting gallery. He was sweating when he took it. I said, “Don't worry. This'll be easy.”

Oh Boy didn't believe me for a second.

Around ten o'clock, Lansky said to Siegel, “OK, these guys”—he jerked a thumb toward Spence and me—“know where we're going. Stay close but not so close that any cops should think we're together. Don't speed. Don't give them any reason to look at us.”

We loaded guns, bats, clubs, and flashlights into the trunks of our cars and left. I remember how I could hardly contain my excitement during that second drive through Jersey. This was the greatest thing I'd ever done. At least, I hoped it would be. I was thrilled to be in on it and scared that I'd screw up.

It took three hours, with no wrong turns this time, to get to the place I'd marked with two branches that I'd leaned against the base of a tree in an
X
shape.

The autumn night was windy, thick with the smell of pine. There was some nervous laughter when we got out of the cars, and several guys went straight into the woods to piss, loud and long.

Lansky handed me a flashlight and said, “OK, kid, show me.”

I shined the light on the dogleg turn in front of us, where the sandy road curved around a briar thicket.

“They'll be coming the other way and they've got to slow down for this. If we cut down a tree or a big branch and put it across the road, they'll stop to move it. They won't try to drive around it.”

Lansky nodded. “Yeah, that's smart. But pull off more of these little branches and put them in the road on the other side of the curve, like they got blown down by the wind. Then they won't think it's a trap.”

He pulled out a pocket watch and said, “We've got time, but be fast anyway.”

I got sticky sap all over my hands pulling the boughs off and I was still trying to rub it off an hour later. Oh Boy, Spence, and I stayed beside the Dodge on one side of the road. One of the touring cars, the one with Coll and Spatola, was parked on the other side, angled toward the dogleg. Lansky's car stood in the middle of the road, pointed at the curve. Oh Boy was shivering, he was that scared. So was I, truth be told. Spence's hands were steady as he lit a tailor-made cigarette.

Oh Boy said, “I guess you saw worse stuff in the war.”

“Yeah.” Spence spit a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. “You know, it's funny, but the reason I met you guys is because I thought it'd help me over there to know how to shoot a pistol. Well, that was wrong. You can be the best shot in the world and it won't do you a damn bit of good when they're shooting cannon shells and mustard gas at you. Compared to that, this'll be easy as pie.”

Oh Boy muttered, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.” Then we saw a flicker of headlights from the oncoming trucks and heard the groaning engines.

I said to Oh Boy, “Just stay here. When the shooting starts, point the gun up and pull the trigger.”

He nodded, still shivering.

The sound of approaching engines became louder, with the lights brightening behind the briars as the trucks entered the turn. Lansky had ordered everyone to stay still until he hit his lights and fired the first shot. Spence tapped me on the arm and said, “Put on your mask.”

I hurriedly pulled the bandana over my nose and it stuck to my sweaty skin. I tried to force my breathing and heartbeat to normal and ordered myself not to act too fast. Make every movement smooth. See what you're shooting at. Don't hurry, don't hesitate.

Then we saw the first truck, a dark mass behind the headlights, as it rounded the turn and stopped. The lights of the second truck were behind it.

Lansky waited until the second vehicle came into view and skidded on the sand, nearly rear-ending the first as it stopped. The driver and his guard jumped out. Then somebody yelled, and fired a shot, and started running. It sounded like Siegel. Lansky hit his car's lights, and everything went crazy.

It was too dark to see where to shoot. I rested the pistol on the hood of our Dodge, trying to find something to aim at. I got a moving figure in my sights, fired, and missed. To my left, I could hear the sharp crack of pistols and the deeper boom of shotguns, and I caught muzzle flashes in the corner of my eye. I sensed movement close by and realized that Spence was running across the road where the other guys were. Without thinking about what I was doing, I edged around to the front of the Dodge and stepped forward slowly. I wanted to run but knew that was wrong. I couldn't run and shoot with any accuracy. I held my pistol in both hands as I watched guys fighting by the glare of headlights.

Clubs and bats were swinging, with men from the trucks on the ground as three others ran from the back. They had shotguns and clubs. A man in a derby raised his club, and I shot him in the chest. He crumpled to the ground. Still without thinking, I shot the guy behind him.

But he did not fall. Even as his white shirt turned red, he aimed his pistol at me. A full load of buckshot knocked him off his feet. He disappeared in the harsh light and shadows. Then Oh Boy stood by my right shoulder, and Siegel was showing why they called him Bugsy, going bat-shit crazy with fists and a short club.

As we got closer, the scene became clearer. There were half a dozen guys on the ground, some sprawled, others kneeling. Men still standing all wore masks. Except for Oh Boy. I grabbed his bandana and pulled it over his face. But he pushed it down and turned away to heave.

We were on the road when I sensed something beside me and turned to see Spats Spatola leveling a nickel-plated automatic at my face, and in the same moment, Spence jumped between us and smashed the butt of his shotgun into Spatola's jaw. The greasy-headed bastard went down like a tenpin. Spence turned and sprinted toward the trucks.

By then, things began to settle down. Lansky made sure everyone on our side was accounted for. None of our guys was seriously hurt, but two of the others were dead or dying and the rest were bleeding. I couldn't tell if the fellow in the derby I had shot was dead. There weren't any derbies on the ground. I probably should've been more upset than I was.

Spence climbed into the cab of the closest truck and yelled, “This one's ready to go!” He started the engine and was the first one to leave. Oh Boy and I followed in the Dodge.

We rode in silence for a long time as the adrenaline rush settled down. I savored the night, the wild wind blowing in through the open windows, the feel of the car on the road. I'd wanted to drive it ever since we saw it in Lansky's garage.

Oh Boy said, “This was bad, Jimmy. I feel sick.”

“What're you talking about?”

“I didn't do what you said. After Spence ran off, I followed you. When you shot that guy, I shot the guy behind him. I didn't mean to do it, I swear, but I did. I think I'm gonna puke again.”

“You're not gonna puke. Spence was looking out for us. I think he figured that Coll and Spatola would maybe shoot the wrong guys in the dark, he made sure they didn't hit us. I owe him one, and I guess I owe you, too. Thanks, man.”

In the dim light, I could see Oh Boy smiling weakly as he sat up a little straighter.

After that night, things changed. Lansky and Lucania knew they could trust us. Spence and I started delivering booze to speaks and parties, and we made pickups from the boats from time to time. Then when they partnered up with Longy Zwillman, we worked for him, too. In the years that followed, we all made a lot of money.

FRIDAY, MARCH 4, 1932

VALLEY GREEN, NEW JERSEY

I was yawning when I left Oh Boy's apartment over the garage and walked back to the house. I met Dietz on the way.

The fat man struck a kitchen match with a grimy thumbnail and fired up his briar. Squinting up at the slate-gray sky, he said, “Bad weather on the way, gunman. Best fasten the shutters and lock the windows. You never know what these spring storms will bring.”

I smelled the damp air and picked up something different, something that might have been snow but not the kind we got in the city. Everything smelled different here, looked different too, and sounded different in the cold gray wilderness. Why the hell anybody would want to live there when he could live in the city was a mystery to me.

“You're probably right, groundskeeper.” I turned up the collar of my overcoat and went back to my room. After the set-to with the Yale assholes and little Ethan's emergency, sleep came fast, and it took a long shower that afternoon to wake me up.

I turned on the radio as I dressed but there was no further news of the kidnapping. After I put on my charcoal double-breasted, I checked the load in the Detective Special and saw that it needed cleaning. Before leaving the room, I gathered my knucks, notepad and pen, and my indoor stick. From the balcony I could see that Flora's bedroom door was open, and clothes were strewn everywhere. It looked like she and Cameron Rivers had departed for another evening of high spirits. No surprise. After the scene at Dr. Cloninger's, she'd probably do just about anything to get away from her mother.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Conway and Connie Nix were working on dinner, a ham by the wonderful smell of it. The cook said I could have leftover mutton for my sandwich, or the ham if I wanted to wait. I asked for the mutton, with permission to get into the ham later. Newspapers were scattered about on the big table. I found the first section of the
Times.
The headlines proclaimed:

NO TRACE OF LINDBERGH KIDNAPPERS;

300 QUESTIONED, SERVANTS EXONERATED;

PARENTS BY RADIO ASK RETURN OF BOY

Kidnappers of Lindbergh Baby an Organized Gang

Mrs. Conway gestured at the paper. “You see, it says professional kidnappers.”

“Maybe so.” I shrugged. “But like I said, none of the guys I know would've done it.”

“And how can you be so sure of that?”

“Because last summer a redheaded son of a bitch, pardon my language, killed a kid by accident. His name was Vincent Coll, and the whole city went nuts.”

The cook's eyes widened. “The Mad Dog?”

“And you know what happened to him.”

She nodded, silenced for the moment.

“Some guys are crazy,” I said. “They enjoy hurting people. Guys like Vincent Coll and his pal Sammy Spatola, they'd rather beat up a guy and take his money than just take his money. I try to stay away from people like that.

“Now, the guys I used to work with, Meyer Lansky and his mob, they're nothing like Coll and Spatola. They'll hurt anybody who gets in their way but they're in the business of making money. There's a lot to be made in liquor, even more in drugs. But that's a different game, and the cops take it seriously. For me, the risk isn't worth the profits. I stick with booze.”

Connie Nix nodded. “My dad grows grapes. But instead of making wine, he turns it into something called Vine-Glo. People use it to make their own wine at home. He says the stuff's terrible. But it's legal and it's selling like crazy.”

I was intrigued.

After dinner, I went down to the gun room and took some target practice with the Detective Special. It had been a while since I'd fired one of the things, but the weeks and months of practice in Mother Moon's basement came back. I could still aim it comfortably with either hand and put the rounds close to the center of the target. When I'd finished, I cleaned the pistol and the Winchester that Connie Nix had used the night before.

Upstairs in the library, I called the Chelsea Hotel and learned from the deskman said that Connie Halloran had moved into my room. But she wasn't there, so I called the speak. Frenchy reported that Connie had been there, and she'd talked to Marie Therese for a long time before she left. But it was a busy Friday night and he didn't really have time to talk. I poured some of Spence's rye and wondered where the hell she was and why she wasn't at work.