Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“Okay.”

“Anything else?”

“If any problems come up, he don’t want me talkin’ to Grasso or Arena. He says you gotta handle that.”

“And?”

“He’s gonna have his accountant show me how to pad the store revenue.”

“To make it look like you’ve got a legitimate source of income?”

“Yeah. Oh, and I told Whoosh I’m gonna stop selling those illegal tax-free cigarettes he stocks behind the counter. I heard on the news the fuckin’ feds are cracking down on that shit. It only brings in a few grand a year, so it ain’t worth the risk.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “By the way, did Whoosh tell you which cops we gotta pay off?”

“He said to put five grand in a paper grocery sack the end of every month for a coupla bent dicks named Fatass and Widget.”

“You mean Freitas and Wargart?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“That’s odd. I heard they were on the pad, but those two pricks work homicide.”

“Whoosh said they started coming around with their fuckin’ hands out years ago when they was workin’ vice. The cash ain’t all for them. They just collect it and spread it around the department.”

“To whom, I wonder.”

“Whoosh didn’t say. So, Mulligan?”

“Yeah?”

“You never did tell me what my cut’s gonna be.”

“You’ll be working on commission, Joseph.”

“Commission? How’s that gonna work?”

“After expenses, Whoosh generally clears at least three hundred and fifty grand a year,” I said.

“He told me.”

“But some years are better than others.”

“He told me that, too.”

“Each month, I’ll be wiring half of the profits to Whoosh’s bank account in the Caymans.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll expect you to hand me six grand in cash the end of every month.”

“That’s all?”

“My needs are small.”

“That comes to, uh, seventy-two thou a year. What about the rest of it?”

“It’s yours.”

“Jesus! That could be over a hundred grand a year.”

“Maybe more,” I said, “if you run things right.”

“I get a bigger cut than you?”

“You do.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be doing all the work and taking most of the risk.”

“Holy shit! I’m fuckin’ rich.”

“Not really, but it’s a lot more than you’re used to.”

“What the hell am I gonna do with that much money?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Just don’t be conspicuous with it, okay?”

“Whadda ya mean?”

“Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. You don’t want the IRS to come sneaking around asking questions.”

“No Dodge Vipers. No diamond pinky rings. I get it. But can I get a new truck?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Probably need to pick up a gun for the office, too.”

“Ask Whoosh to get you one.”

Joseph flopped his head back against the booth cushion, stunned by his sudden good fortune. Then he bent over the table, finished his burger, and ordered another.

“I just thought of somethin’ else,” he said. “Whoosh ain’t gonna be around forever. What happens when he croaks?”

“We keep sending his share to the Caymans account as long as Maggie’s alive. That’s probably going to be a long time, Joseph. She’s in good health, and she’s ten years younger than he is.”

After Yolanda transferred the first twenty-five thousand from the settlement to my bank account, it had twenty-five thousand three hundred and sixteen dollars in it. But it didn’t stay there long.

The day dawned hot and humid, the temperature soaring to eighty-six degrees, by the time Joseph pulled Secretariat into a customer parking space at Tasca Automotive Group in Cranston. I climbed out, glanced across the vast lot of used cars, and burst out laughing. About a quarter of them were Honda Civics. And a lot of them were gray.

We’d just turned toward the showroom when a slim blond woman in a crisp tan business suit and a fat man in a white dress shirt with sweat stains at the armpits both broke into a run. The woman was faster but the fat man was closer, so he beat her to the new mark.

“Burt Silva,” he said. “Welcome to Tasca.”

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. Then he bent over, grabbed his knees, and took a moment to catch his breath.

“Thinkin’ of tradin’ this old gal in?” he asked.

“It’s a he,” I said, “and his name’s Secretariat.”

“Ha! Great name for a Bronco.”

“I think so.”

He took in my jeans and my faded Red Sox T-shirt, sizing me up.

“In the market for somethin’ used?”

“No,” I said. “We’re heading for the showroom. Stay the fuck out of our way, okay? When I need you, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay, okay. Just remember to ask for Burt.”

Stepping into the air-conditioned showroom felt like getting trapped inside a refrigerator. As we walked by the Fusion, the Focus, the Escape, and the Explorer, Burt kept an eye on us and tried not to hover. Joseph stopped dead beside a black F-150 pickup and tried not to drool. I left him there and headed for the Mustangs.

I gave the V6 coupes a quick once-over and then popped the hood of a red Mustang GT convertible. Aluminum block, 420 horsepower, five-liter V8 engine. Six-way power drivers. Stainless steel dual exhausts. Six-gear automatic transmission. I opened the door, slid the seat back, sank into the saddle-leather upholstery, and admired the eight-speaker Shaker sound system. Sticker price, $42,640.

After five minutes or so, I climbed out and gave Burt a wave.

“Wanna take this baby for a spin?” he asked.

“’S’what I’m here for.”

“Got one just like it in Ingot Silver out back,” he said.

Five minutes later, I was behind the wheel at the edge of the street, Burt squeezed into the passenger seat at my side. I pushed a button and powered the roof down.

“Zero to sixty in four-point-eight seconds,” he said.

“Let’s see,” I said.

Burt squealed like a girl when I floored it out of the lot. A moment later, he regained his composure and launched into his canned spiel about the car’s features.

“Burt?”

“Sir?”

“Do us both a favor and shut up.”

He did, but a couple of minutes later he started in again.

I punched on the sound system, flipped through the radio channels, caught the first few bars of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Crossfire,” and cranked the volume. Try talking over that.

A half hour later, I pulled back into the lot and parked beside the showroom doors.

“So, whaddaya think?” Burt said. “Is that a sweet ride or what?”

“Only two things I don’t like,” I said.

“What?”

“The sticker price and the color.”

“You want the red one in the showroom?”

“Does it come in a dark blue?”

“Deep Impact Metallic Blue,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something to me.

“Show me.”

He pointed out a Taurus in that color. I liked it fine.

When we stepped back into the showroom, Joseph was still lingering by the F-150.

“Ought to test-drive the Toyota Tundra before you decide,” I said.

“The Dodge Ram and the Chevy Silverado, too,” he said. “But I ain’t in no hurry. Gotta wait till I get title to the store first so I can write it off as a business expense.”

“Good thinking.”

A moment later I sat across Burt’s desk for the negotiation.

“Are you trading the Bronco?” he asked. “Cuz I can only give you scrap value for it.”

“No.”

“Well, I can give you a small break off the sticker price,” he said. “But you gotta understand, the new Mustangs are really moving.”