shoulder, as if expecting cops to smash in the doors with sledge hammers any second. His heart churned like the diesel engine of a ship accelerating out of harbor.
54 JAMES
BRUNO
"You can trust me, always, Mr. Laguzza. Why should I tell anybody? I'd only be doing myself in."
"I don't know, Eddie. You micks talk up a big storm when you pour a couple of beers down your gullet."
Outrage momentarily displaced O'Meara's fright. He instantly recalled his fireman father knocking the front teeth out of an Italian shopkeeper when the latter blamed the elder O'Meara and his fellow firefighters for letting the man's store go up in flames. The Italian had called the brigade "a bunch of lazy Irish drunks." Ed O'Meara, however, knew better than to try to live up to his old man's reputation.
"Like I told you, nobody. I'd like to leave now."
"Hey. Go," Ricky replied easily, one arm crossed over his chest, the other gesturing toward the door. "I'll be in touch."
O'Meara scampered away, his head rotating wildly for any sign of danger. He clutched the duffle close to his chest.
From the front of the warehouse, a hundred feet away, Ricky heard a commotion -- loud voices and scuffling. It was too late to bolt and take action.
"Whoa! Nobody leaves!"
A fat man in an ill-fitting gray suit and felt hat two sizes too small came sauntering toward Ricky with two other men in tow. The larger one, a neckless giant, dragged O'Meara by the collar. Ricky froze.
In big clumsy strides, the fat one ambled up to Ricky as if he were about to try to walk straight through him. He halted three inches from Ricky's nose. The goons were right behind.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" the interloper exclaimed, looking around him. The menace emanating from this artless baboon was accentuated by PERMANENT INTERESTS
55
round colorless eyes set too close together atop a potato nose. "Looks like we caught somebody red-handed doin'
somethin' that's most likely against the law. What do youse guys t'ink?" he motioned to his cohorts, his eyes locked onto Ricky's face. The goons were expressionless. The huge one holding O'Meara by his collar gaped stupidly from a dullard's face.
"Who the hell are you?" Ricky demanded. "You're no cops. I know all the cops in this area. And you're not Feds either. Feds dress better and don't drool."
"Who
am
I ?" the fat guy bellowed. He snickered, made like he was about to throw a look at his henchmen, then crashed his right fist into Ricky's groin. Ricky doubled over, grabbing hold of the desk to keep from falling.
"You guineas are all alike. Think you can bust in here, do business without going through the union."
Ricky coughed into his handkerchief. "What're you talking about? What union?"
Fatso pulled a billfold from his inside jacket pocket, opened it and shoved it into Ricky's face. It displayed an I.D.
"Brotherhood of Teamsters, pal! You do anything on this pier, you gotta go t'rough the Teamsters."
"What the fuck you talking about?"
"Hey, keep talkin' like that, and I'll have to invite the Longshoremen in too. I'm sure they'd be real interested in what kinda deals are goin' down in their warehouses. Let's get down to business fast. No tellin' who else is goin' to stumble in here. All these lychee nut cans. I hear that junkies are really getting off shootin' up lychee nut juice.
We know that you have a nice cozy relationship with customs here. We know that some of our finest customs officers get a nice share of the pie. Since the Teamsters transport everything in these warehouses to the distributors, 56 JAMES
BRUNO
the Teamsters gotta have their cut too. Just look at it as your contribution to the pension fund."
"Does Al Malandrino mean anything to you, buddy?"
Ricky demanded as he regained his composure.
Fatso rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. He pointed a finger upward and raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Malandrino…Oh yeah, ain't he that dumb guinea who just barely escaped serious
54 JAMES
BRUNO
"You can trust me, always, Mr. Laguzza. Why should I tell anybody? I'd only be doing myself in."
"I don't know, Eddie. You micks talk up a big storm when you pour a couple of beers down your gullet."
Outrage momentarily displaced O'Meara's fright. He instantly recalled his fireman father knocking the front teeth out of an Italian shopkeeper when the latter blamed the elder O'Meara and his fellow firefighters for letting the man's store go up in flames. The Italian had called the brigade "a bunch of lazy Irish drunks." Ed O'Meara, however, knew better than to try to live up to his old man's reputation.
"Like I told you, nobody. I'd like to leave now."
"Hey. Go," Ricky replied easily, one arm crossed over his chest, the other gesturing toward the door. "I'll be in touch."
O'Meara scampered away, his head rotating wildly for any sign of danger. He clutched the duffle close to his chest.
From the front of the warehouse, a hundred feet away, Ricky heard a commotion -- loud voices and scuffling. It was too late to bolt and take action.
"Whoa! Nobody leaves!"
A fat man in an ill-fitting gray suit and felt hat two sizes too small came sauntering toward Ricky with two other men in tow. The larger one, a neckless giant, dragged O'Meara by the collar. Ricky froze.
In big clumsy strides, the fat one ambled up to Ricky as if he were about to try to walk straight through him. He halted three inches from Ricky's nose. The goons were right behind.
"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" the interloper exclaimed, looking around him. The menace emanating from this artless baboon was accentuated by PERMANENT INTERESTS
55
round colorless eyes set too close together atop a potato nose. "Looks like we caught somebody red-handed doin'
somethin' that's most likely against the law. What do youse guys t'ink?" he motioned to his cohorts, his eyes locked onto Ricky's face. The goons were expressionless. The huge one holding O'Meara by his collar gaped stupidly from a dullard's face.
"Who the hell are you?" Ricky demanded. "You're no cops. I know all the cops in this area. And you're not Feds either. Feds dress better and don't drool."
"Who
am
I ?" the fat guy bellowed. He snickered, made like he was about to throw a look at his henchmen, then crashed his right fist into Ricky's groin. Ricky doubled over, grabbing hold of the desk to keep from falling.
"You guineas are all alike. Think you can bust in here, do business without going through the union."
Ricky coughed into his handkerchief. "What're you talking about? What union?"
Fatso pulled a billfold from his inside jacket pocket, opened it and shoved it into Ricky's face. It displayed an I.D.
"Brotherhood of Teamsters, pal! You do anything on this pier, you gotta go t'rough the Teamsters."
"What the fuck you talking about?"
"Hey, keep talkin' like that, and I'll have to invite the Longshoremen in too. I'm sure they'd be real interested in what kinda deals are goin' down in their warehouses. Let's get down to business fast. No tellin' who else is goin' to stumble in here. All these lychee nut cans. I hear that junkies are really getting off shootin' up lychee nut juice.
We know that you have a nice cozy relationship with customs here. We know that some of our finest customs officers get a nice share of the pie. Since the Teamsters transport everything in these warehouses to the distributors, 56 JAMES
BRUNO
the Teamsters gotta have their cut too. Just look at it as your contribution to the pension fund."
"Does Al Malandrino mean anything to you, buddy?"
Ricky demanded as he regained his composure.
Fatso rubbed his chin in mock contemplation. He pointed a finger upward and raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise. "Malandrino…Oh yeah, ain't he that dumb guinea who just barely escaped serious
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