Деннис Лихэйн - Boston Noir [редактор Деннис Лихэйн]

“Why do you think the load is here?” Larry asked.

“What’s a better place to hide a forty-five-foot Triple-T trailer?” Michael said. “They’re on 4570. Not the real one, but one here with that number on it. Look, you want to, go home, I’ll keep you guys out of it.”

“Screw you,” Larry said. “We stick together.”

Larry looked at TJ, who closed his eyes and nodded. “It’s what we do.”

The receiving department for Pat’s Vending was around the back on a side street. Although cars were parked on both sides of the road, there were No Parking signs posted near the receiving doors so Michael had plenty of room to draw the trailer up along the curb. He pulled out the plunger on the dash and the engine shuddered and died. He turned the key off and jumped out.

The dock doors on the building were pulled down and a sign read, No Deliveries After 11 a.m.

At the top of the cement steps there was an employee entrance door. Michael pressed a black button inside a brass ring and a shrill bell sounded. He backed down a couple of steps just before the door flew open. There stood a tall, young man. Michael had delivered here many times, and this receiver, Victor, always acted as if he’d never seen him before. Victor sported his usual Sha Na Na get-up: starched white T-shirt, new jeans, and an elaborate hairdo.

“What?”

“I’ve got a delivery.”

“Can you read?” Victor jerked a thumb in the direction of the roll-up door and the No Deliveries sign.

“I sure can. Let me help you out.” Michael squinted at the sign and moved his lips. “It says, No Smoking . Okay now, Bowzer, you do me a favor. Go tell Junior I have his delivery.”

Victor shifted his weight to his left foot, reached up to grab the doorjamb with his left hand, and stretched his right out to grab the other jamb. Michael closed the distance between them and, using both hands, grabbed Victor high on his arms and pressed his thumbs into the nerves on the inside of Victor’s biceps. Michael pushed him inside the darkened warehouse while Victor emitted a series of high-pitched yips.

“You gonna boot me in the kisser?” Michael said. He grabbed the front of Victor’s T-shirt with two hands and twisted it hard to the right, and the man toppled to the side, almost to the floor. Michael held onto him, then lifted him back up and released his shirt. He pretended to smooth out Victor’s tee and dust him off.

“Now, Victor,” Michael smiled and patted him on the cheek, “go get Junior, or so help me God I’ll muss up your swirly hairdo.”

He shoved Victor backwards, just as another man came out into the warehouse from the office. This man had a confused and unhappy look on his face. “Hey, what’s going on? Who is this guy?”

“I’m Michael Mosely and you’re Junior. I have a delivery for you.”

“Oh no. No. You didn’t bring them here.” He ran to the exit door and looked out. “Is that them? Tell me you didn’t. Mr. T. is on his way here. We’re all dead.”

“Give me our money. I’ll drop the trailer. You can give it back to Mr. T.,” Michael said.

“No!” Junior raised his hands in the surrender pose. “No. I’ll give you the hundred I promised your brother, I have the cash, but you gotta screw, with the truck.”

“Okay. Get the money.”

“No, get out of here and come back later.”

“And what, you’ll give me a check?” Michael said.

Junior walked over to a tall, gray metal desk against the wall, opened a drawer, and pulled a pistol out. He pointed it at Michael. “Get going. Move.”

Michael walked down the steps, over to the tractor, with Junior right behind him. Michael opened the door to the tractor and turned. “Where do you want it?”

“Take off, or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Junior said.

“Don’t be hasty. I’ll get the trailer out of here after I get the money. My pals in the van across the street there have guns pointed right back at you.”

Junior kept his weapon on Michael and pivoted around in a half-circle. The back door of the van was open. TJ and Larry were inside on the floor with pistols aimed at Junior.

At that moment, a bright yellow Lincoln Continental came around the corner and rolled to a stop right beside Junior and Michael. The rear window on the driver’s side slid down to display a very old man who looked as if he had been poured into the folds of the leather seat. He had an inert, baggy face, and the thin, wispy hair of a newborn.

“Junior, is that my driver you’re menacing with a firearm?”

The Lincoln driver’s tinted window stayed closed. The engine burbled, and Michael imagined a couple of slicked-down gorillas in the front seat pointing their guns at Larry and TJ.

“We’re just kidding around, Mr. Tortello,” Junior said. He bent down and looked in the backseat. “I didn’t know until late last night these cigarettes were yours. I called Pop to ask him what I should do.”

“Your father called me from Atlanta, Junior. He’s green-lighted you, if I feel I’ve been insulted. You weren’t trying to insult me by stealing from me, were you?”

“Goodness no, Mr. T.” He put his hand on his collarbone and raised his eyes skyward. “I would never.”

“Is that my load of cigarettes?”

“Yes sir, it is,” Junior said.

“How much money do you have inside?” Mr. T. asked.

“I don’t know exactly. Maybe two hundred thousand.”

“How much were you going to pay this fella?”

“A hundred. But honestly, Mr. T., I had no idea-”

“A salesman from my company offers you a hot truck and you didn’t ask yourself if it could be mine?” Mr. T. shook his head. “Sadly, Junior, I believe you. Do you know why? Because it’s a well-known fact you’re an imbecile. Your poor father is in prison because you’re an imbecile, but why should I do his dirty work? He can kill you himself when he gets out. Go in and get my money, Junior.”

“Absolutely. How much should I get?”

“All of it. Take whatever cash your employees have on them too. You can reimburse them later.”

“You bet, Mr. T.” Junior ran over, vaulted up the cement stairs, and passed by Victor, who was holding the door open.

Mr. T. looked at the driver in the front seat of his car. “Help me get out.”

The driver’s door opened and a skinny, older blond woman in a chauffeur suit hopped out and opened the back door. She helped Mr. T. peel himself off the seat and pulled him to his feet, then edged him toward her and closed the car door with her knee. She leaned him against the car like a board and fixed his tie. His trousers were pulled up so high that his belt practically bisected his shirt pocket. It didn’t look like he was wearing a pair of pants, as much as it looked like they were devouring him. The blonde stood at his elbow.

“You’re Mosely’s brother? Your father worked for us too. The three of you were there when we bought the Boston operation from Blaney,” Mr. T. said.

“Yeah, until your terminal manager fired him for poor production. A sixty-two-year-old guy.”

“Well, that stinks. But in our defense, he’s a drunk, right?” Mr. T. asked.

“He used to be. He’s in AA now, so he’s an alcoholic.”

“Well, your brother never said this was about revenge.”

“It is for me,” Michael replied.

“I cannot respect suicidal stupidity for purposes of money,” Mr. T. said. “But I can for revenge, especially on behalf of a father. Very much so. Tonya, tell Chuck and Brucie to pull the other Mosely out of the trunk.”

Michael felt like he’d been bitten by an electric eel.

“Relax. He’s fine,” Mr. T. said. “He said he didn’t know where the load was so he’s been manhandled a little. He’ll need to be delumped before he goes looking for a new job.”