The Boss of Hampton Beach, Page 3

  Chapter 3

  Dominic Carpucci was in the office of his Lynnfield, Massachusetts, home and he was none too happy. In fact, he was pissed off. Real pissed off. So pissed off he wanted to jump right over the big oak desk he was sitting behind and strangle Jorge Rivera, the man sitting on the other side of the desk. But he knew that didn't make any sense because it wasn't the kid's fault what had him so bullshit. No, it was just that Dominic wanted to take his pent-up anger out on someone. Anyone. Had to get hold of himself, though. After all, Jorge was his right-hand man. And besides, even though Dominic hated to admit it, the kid might be able to kick his ass. Still, even with the age difference, it'd probably be an interesting fight. Very bloody, for sure.

  Dominic was short, hard, and built like a beer barrel. When he got his hands on someone they were in serious trouble. He'd proven that countless times growing up on the streets. Still the kid was about twenty years younger and a good half foot taller than Dominic. Solid, too. Not like a barrel–more like a middleweight fighter. If they were just a little closer in age, it would be a good go. But even a hardhead like Dominic had to admit time took its toll. The kid didn't even have a gray hair in his head. All black, the lucky bastard. Dominic smiled for a second before starting back in again on the same thing he'd been railing about now for the last twenty-four hours.

  "I wanna know who ripped off those fuckin' hundred keys and I wanna know yesterday," Dominic bellowed. Jorge didn't even blink, just sat there cool and calm as ever. Why shouldn't the kid be calm? After all, it wasn't his stuff that'd been swiped. It was his, Dominic Carpucci's. Nobody took anything from Dominic Carpucci and got away with it. Never had, never would. Especially not now. Not when he was counting big on this load. "Whattaya dead? Ya gonna just sit there, or ya gonna tell me ya got something for me?"

  Jorge Rivera brushed his expensive slacks and spoke in perfect English. "I've got my people in Lawrence checking there. And in Lowell. And also the whole seacoast right up to Portland. I have feelers out in Boston too. Anyone tries to unload anything big, I'll hear about it."

  That didn't make Dominic feel much better. "What if they take it down the Apple? What if they do that? Take it down there or somewhere else? Then what? Huh? I wanna know where the fuck my product is. The longer that shit is out there, the harder it'll be to get it all back." He was shouting again and he could feel his face getting hot and he didn't give a shit. "When I get those motherfuckers I'm gonna pop their fuckin' heads off."

  Jorge, still cool, said, "We're going to have to find out first who did the rip."

  Dominic glared. That was another thing he and the kid had been throwing back and forth and they still weren't any closer to an idea. "Like I said already, who the hell could it have been? Not the Colombians. We give 'em too much business. Besides, I got a lot of it on the arm, so it wouldn't make any sense for them to rip off what's really still their load anyway. Not that they ain't gonna want their money, cause they are. Once that boat captain you recruited picked it up, it was my responsibility. That's the way it goes. You know that as good as me."

  Dominic drummed his thick fingers on the desk. "That leaves our end. And the only people that knew were me, you, and our dead Captain Gilligan. I didn't swipe it, and I'm pretty sure you didn't do it either. And our dead captain didn't off himself. What about his brother? Ya told me the captain was gonna use his brother. According to my sources, the other stiff on the scow was one of the captain's employees. I'm thinking maybe our Captain Gilligan was set up by his own damn brother. Whattaya think of that, kid? How's it sound?"

  For an instant Jorge looked like maybe he didn't like something Dominic had said, but then the expression was gone. "I don't know the brother. If he'd have the balls to whack two guys like that."

  Dominic let out a snort. "Where a few million bucks is concerned? Don't kid yourself. You and I both know people do it for a lot less. He saw a chance to make a big score and he took it, that's all. Don't take no genius to kill two sailor boys and make off with some duffel bags, especially when ya know where and when they're gonna be. Man, if that bastard boat captain wasn't already dead, I'd kill him myself."

  Jorge looked squarely back at Dominic. "Maybe you're right, Boss."

  "Bet your ass I'm right. Now go grab that asshole's brother. And while you're at it, get your people all over that fuckin' beach just in case we're missing the mark. Stay on top of it. I think we got a good chance of getting my product back, brother or not. If it turns out local amateurs pulled the heist, they won't have any good outs for that much stuff. They'll probably screw up trying to unload it. So I wanna know if anyone even moves a gram up there. Now get going. Shake some trees, break some heads if ya have to. I want that shit back yesterday."

  Jorge stood up. "We'll find it, Boss. Don't worry." He turned and walked out of the room.

  Don't worry. Right. Dominic slammed his fist on the desk. This whole fiasco was really bothering him. He didn't have a good feeling about this at all. And not even being called "Boss" was helping that. In fact, that was another thing that was starting to bother him lately–people calling him Boss. Kind of sounded like chalk on a blackboard all of a sudden. Like maybe they knew how he felt, and they were saying it now just to rub it in. Sure, he was the boss, the boss of his crew. No doubt about that. And yeah, that's what he'd always wanted be–a Boss. Mr. Big. The Man.

  But now, today, he had to ask himself what kind of a boss gets ripped off like this? And without a clue yet where the hell the product was? Of all the scams he'd done through the years it had to be this load they grabbed–the load. The load that was going to get him out of all this hustling, once and for all. Yeah, what kind of a boss loses that kind of load. No boss he'd ever known, that was for sure. And definitely not his old boss, the one he used to answer to, way back when he himself was called "Dom," "Dominic," or just plain "Kid."

  Twenty-five years ago, Filthy Phil Garrola had made the decision to jump on the cocaine express. It'd been just the two of them that day–just Dominic and Filthy Phil. He'd even had black hair back then, a full head of it. Not Phil though. Bald as a baby.

  Phil had spoken to him in that deep guttural voice he had. "Dom, you been workin' for me a long time now, no?" His thick hairy forearms rested on the brown table in front of him as he stared at Dominic sitting on the opposite side.

  "Five years, Boss," Dominic had answered, nodding his head proudly. It was 1970 and his hair was cut stylishly long. He wore jeans and a mod sport coat that was tailored to show off the muscles he'd worked so hard to build.

  "Five years," Phil said solemnly. "Five years and ya done a lot for me, kid. Ya watched over my books, handled some tough collections, and best of all ya kept your mouth shut. Ain't caused me no problems either. I like that, Dom, and I like you. Ya ain't like the other young punks out there. They either wanna get high all the time or they wanna move up too fast or both. These young guys today, they think they're too good to have to pay their dues like the rest of us. That makes 'em greedy, and worse, unreliable. But you, kid, you're different. You're old school. Ya been good. And I want ya to know I appreciate it."

  Dominic held up his hands in protest. "No need, Boss."

  "Ah, but there is a need, kid," Phil said, his voice turning graver. "I know you're ambitious. Ya’d like to make more money. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. Long as you're doin' it the right way. And you can, kid. You'd like that, wouldn't you? More money?"

  Dominic smiled. "Everybody'd like to be makin' more money, Boss. But I'm satisfied."

  "Sure ya are, kid. But I think ya deserve more money. And to tell ya the truth, so do I. I don't wanna be hustlin' forever. I wanna be able to afford to get outta this someday before I'm too old to enjoy it. And the only way I know to be able to do that is to make a lot of dough fast." Phil looked slyly across the table at Dominic. "And I got a way," he added softly
.

  "What's that, Boss?" Dominic asked, fighting to keep the excitement from registering in his voice. This could be it, he knew instinctively. What he'd been working for these past five years. Something big. Something that would make him.

  Filthy Phil gave Dominic a wide crocodile smile. "It's a way where your bein' reliable is gonna pay off. I know ya never tried to rip me off, and like I said, I like how ya always kept your mouth shut. And for what I got planned that's the type of person I need. Someone like you, kid."

  "Whattaya got planned, Boss?" Dominic asked, struggling to keep his voice calm. This was it. He wasn't sure what Phil was going to propose but he knew it was going to take him up the ladder. Make him a bigger man than he was. And that was what he wanted. What he'd been working for.

  Phil reached into the inside pocket of his gaudy sport coat and pulled out a clear plastic sandwich bag. He dropped the baggie on the table between them. "This, kid. This is what I got in mind."

  Dominic reached over, lifted the baggie, and let it roll open. He could feel his hand shaking slightly. He moved his nose over the open bag, sniffed twice, then looked up at Phil and said, "Coke?"

  Phil's voice hardened. "Yeah, coke, kid. And nothin'–and I mean nothin'–about this is to ever leave this room. Not only are the cops down on this stuff, some of the boys don't want anyone gettin' involved with it either. Say it brings too much heat, period. And a couple of others got their own little setups and they don't want any competition. Whatever, we can't step on any toes. So for these reasons, nobody can ever hear about this little talk of ours. I don't want it ever comin' back to haunt me. Ya got it? If ya understand this, then we can continue."

  Dominic placed the baggie back gently on the table. "I got it, Boss. You never have to worry about me."

  "Good," Phil said, nodding his big head. "Now here's what I'm gonna propose, kid. First of all, I know ya been movin' a little grass here and there." Dominic shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Phil continued. "And I don't mind that. Ya been makin' a little extra on the side. Grass? That's okay. 'Bout as serious as booze was back in the twenties. Besides, ya kept it away from my thing and that's good. And anyhow, I ain't interested in grass–too bulky. But this,” Phil nodded toward the baggie of coke on the table. "This stuff. It's gonna get big, believe me. I talked to some people who know the score. Gonna be a lot of money in it soon. A lot of heavy heat too. Ya follow me so far, kid?"

  "I follow you, Boss," Dominic answered. His gaze shifted back and forth between Phil and the coke on the table.

  "Okay," Phil said. He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands under his chin. "Now what I wanna know is–do ya think ya can get rid of any of this stuff?"

  Dominic had no idea, but he wasn't about to tell Phil that. Dominic's people–the few he had–were just small-time pot dealers. Could they move cocaine? Was there even any demand for the stuff? He wasn't sure. But what to tell Phil? This was his big chance; he could feel it. If he told the old man the wrong thing, he'd blow it. Phil'd just find someone else to move the coke for him. Maybe bullshit him? Tell him that he could sell a lot and hope that's how it turned out? Or tell him the truth–that his outs were just small-time pot people, a couple of burned-out hippies, some blacks, some spics. Either way, he had to take the shot. "I'll have to do a little research, Boss. Talk to my people."

  Phil waved the idea away. "Don't bother. I'll tell ya what they'd say. They'd say they can't do nothin' with it. You'd just be wastin' your time, kid. Here's what ya do. Take that bag and go see each of your people. Let 'em sniff a little. Go back a second and third time if ya have to, let 'em sniff more. Believe me, it won't take no longer than that and your phone'll be ringing off the hook with them wantin' more. I know guys in the Apple and guys on the West Coast went the same route. Now they're makin' more dough than they know what to do with. I'm tellin' ya, kid, it's the comin' thing. Lotta potential, but a lotta risk."

  How the hell could this old guinea know the coming thing in the drug business when he wouldn't know what end of a joint to put between his fat lips? Still. Dominic glanced at the coke again. Not many things made him nervous, but this stuff did. This was heavy. Real heavy.

  "They might be afraid of it, Boss," he said.

  "No might about it. They will be afraid of it. But not for long, believe me. The guys I know had the same problem. Their people were scared to death of it at first. Funny stuff though. After a while they couldn't get enough of it. Then they started movin' more and more. It snowballed. I'm tellin' ya, kid, their business took off like a rocket. And it can for us too. It's just gettin' going around here. We're right on the ground floor."

  "What's it gonna cost me?" Dominic asked, tipping his head toward the coke.

  "Zilch," Phil answered, palms up. "That's the best part for you, kid. I'll get it. I got a top connection. The best stuff. Like I said, in the beginning we'll give out some for free. Uncut. You don't put up a dime. I put up the money and get the product. You're gonna be in charge of distribution. Once it starts to move, we figure out a price structure and how much we're gonna cut it. Then we split the profits–seventy-five me, twenty-five you. How's that sound, kid?"

  Dominic wasn't sure how it sounded, but he wanted to move up and he wasn't going to refuse anything that might take him there. "Sounds good, Boss. I'll do the best I can."

  Phil reached over and patted the back of Dominic's hand. "I know ya will, kid. I know ya will."

  "When do we start?" Dominic asked, and he noticed there was a slight quiver in his voice. He hoped the old man didn't notice it too.

  "Today," Phil said. "There's your sample." He pushed the baggie closer to Dominic. "Ya take it around, do like I said. Give 'em a little on the house. Leave 'em a little even. Tell 'em ya can get all they want. I don't care if it's just a gram or an ounce. They'll build up; I'm tellin' ya." Phil was silent for a minute and Dominic could feel the older man's eyes burning into him. "This is the one, Dominic. It's gonna make us both rich. We just gotta play it cool and handle it right."

  The old man had been spot on. They'd caught the cocaine explosion when it hit Boston right on the ground floor. Rode that elevator to the top. And it had gotten both of them exactly what they'd wanted. So far.

  Filthy Phil Garrola was in his twilight years now, retired in Florida with a penthouse, a yacht, and lots of dough stashed. Not to mention the nice chunk of change Dominic sent him every month as his cut of the business he'd let Dominic take over when he retired. The split wasn't seventy-five/twenty-five anymore either. They'd long ago renegotiated that in Dominic's favor, but still, the old man got fat, steady envelopes for doing nothing. Yeah, the old man had had his turn. And what a turn. Dominic could picture the old fart on the bridge of his yacht, bald head, shades, and lime-green polyester Bermudas high up on his big belly, with some sweet young cupcake hanging all over him. Nobody in a million years would ever believe that old man had made his pile as one of the pioneers of the cocaine trade.

  But Dominic knew he'd gotten what he'd wanted too–to be the Boss. Just like Filthy Phil. And the money that came with the title wasn't anything to sneeze at either. Only problem, he had something Phil hadn't had back in the day–expenses. Not to say Phil hadn't had any expenses back then. But everything cost more today, now that the "War on Drugs" was in high gear. Christ, back then there had been few problems and the old man had just raked it in.

  Today everything was different. Just when it seemed to Dominic that he almost had enough to get out of the racket and live the high life like the old man, something would happen that cost him plenty. Either someone was getting popped and lawyers and bail had to be taken care of, or a load was stolen or seized. It was always something happening at the most inopportune times.

  That was part of the reason he was sick of the whole shebang. Every day the life Phil lived in Florida looked better and better
. Lying around in the warm sun all day, then relaxing to the sound of waves at night. Not having a care in the world. It sure had to be a lot better than the grief he was involved in.

  Even being called “Boss” didn't make him feel any better now. What kind of boss gets taken down by a bunch of stupid jerks? Especially at his age. Dominic needed this like he needed a hole in the head.

  Yes, it was definitely time to get out. The only thing standing between him and Phil in Florida was money–lots of it–and someone he could trust to send him his sweet little cut every month.

  The hundred keys, along with what he already had stashed, would've given him enough to retire very comfortably, thank you. And as far as someone taking over his action, he had his eye on someone for that too–the kid, Jorge Rivera. Sure, the kid was a spic and the boys might not like it, but he was honest, tough and loyal, and Dominic knew the kid could keep things together. Besides, having a spic running the operation would help keep it plugged into the Hispanic groups that were pushing out old Anglo organizations like his and Phil's.

  Yeah, letting Jorge take over was just smart business. Change with the times. Let the greasers stand up front; let them think they're running the show. As long as those fat envelopes kept flying south every month, why should he care if they were sent by a guy named Jorge or one named Tony? Either way the drinks would be just as cold, the sun just as warm, and the broads just as hot. Amen.

  But right now the laugh would be on him if he didn't get those damn duffel bags back. Dominic didn't doubt he'd get the bags back along with every last stinking football that was in them. He'd get the guys who swiped them too. Make himself sick watching what he did to those assholes.

  Good thing the doc wasn't taking his blood pressure right about now. And he'd been doing so good too.

  ~*~*~