Bourbon & Blood: A Crime Fiction Novel (Bill Conlin Thriller) Page 2

  “I guess it’s a special place,” I said. “I’ve never been to Texas but I hear it's supposed to be real hot, with big stretches of flat farmland.” People started to enter the restaurant’s patio area. She watched them get seated, then turned back to me. “It’s special enough if you have family that you love living there. Things are fixing to get busy here,” she said, walking away. “Nice talking to you.”

  I laughed to myself. “Fixing?” I blurted. I’d never heard anyone use the term “fixing” that way before. It was unique and refreshing. I was amused.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Dana. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Bill. Maybe I'll come by to see you again.”

  “You do that,” she said, smiling.

  I sat there for a while and watched her work. Her face lit up with excitement every time a customer came in. She focused on each person as she diligently took their orders.

  At some point later, I headed back home. As I walked, the smell of street food reminded me I hadn’t eaten, so I bought a Mediterranean chicken shish-kabob on pita from a Halal street vendor.

  Walking west past a group of brownstone buildings, I tried to find a good place to eat and settled on one of the stoops. An old homeless man was going through the garbage a few stoops down. He looked in his late sixties, with a white beard, dirty clothes, and a shopping cart. He reached into the garbage, pulled out a couple of empty soda cans, and put them in his cart, along with what probably were all his belongings, packed up dark green plastic bags. Watching him made me feel too ashamed to eat, so I wrapped up my lunch and headed over to him.

  “Would you like some chicken?” I asked.

  “Sure. Thanks,” he said, and I handed him my lunch.

  “Excuse me, sir, what's your name?” I asked.

  “Ronald Warkowski. Friends call me Ronnie.”

  “Can I ask you something? Did you serve?”

  “I did. Army, 1st Infantry. Vietnam. You?”

  I nodded. “Did folks treat you alright when you came back?”

  “Yeah,” he said, with an ironic laugh. “No, they treated me like I was some kind of freak and I didn't belong here. I thought about going back to the Army, but my guardian angels told me not to. I ran out of money, it didn't last. Then I couldn't keep a job for more than a few weeks at a time.”

  “You still get flashbacks?”

  “Yeah, when I drink or party too much.”

  “How long you been on the street?”

  “A long, long time son.”

  “You ever get help from the shelters?”

  “Yeah, but I always get in trouble when I'm there. I have a little anger management problem. I don't like when people try to take my things. I've worked hard to hold onto this stuff and they're always testing me.”

  “It must be hard to keep your stuff out on the street with no way to lock your door.”

  “There's always some tough guy who wants to look through my stuff. Nobody touches my stuff. They think cause I'm old and dirty I ain't gonna do anything. I beat those mother's down every time. I don't take shit from anyone, especially some dirt bag thieves who try to...” he trailed off and looked around.

  “Try to what, Ronnie?” I asked

  “Shhh... They're watching us.”

  “Who’s watching?”

  “The government. They're always watching and listening in on me. I know too much, gotta keep moving or they'll find me.”

  I felt bad for the guy. He didn’t come back the same from his tour. I’d seen it so many times before. “Hey, if you ever need a place to stay take a shower, come to my place. Here’s my number and address.”

  I wrote the information on a piece of paper I found in my wallet and gave it to him. I didn’t expect to ever hear from him, but I wanted to do something.

  He studied the writing for several seconds. “I'll let you know what I find out. He said, looking up and down the street to see if anyone was watching.

  “About what?”

  “Your place, but don't worry, I'll keep an eye on everything.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of singles and a five--eighteen dollars. I gave him the money. “Maybe this will help,” I said.

  “Bless you, son,” he replied, staring down at the money in his hand.

  Halfway back up the block, I stopped walking and turned around. Ronnie was now sitting on the stoop, eating and smiling.

  At least one of us would have a good day.

  Digging through my wallet, I found a ten buried between some receipts and headed to Ray’s for a couple of slices. I sat by the window and ate like an animal, barely chewing my food. When I finished up the pizza I headed back to the apartment.

  Back home, I crashed for a while. When I opened my eyes again it was dark. The clock read ten thirty. Trying to shake off the sleep, I changed, took a quick look in the mirror, and headed over to Healy’s.

  Donnie was working behind the bar. A nice guy in his early forties, he was thin with a full beard and a shaved head. I guess he shaved his head because he was going bald. It was a good look for him.

  “What can I get you?” Donnie asked.

  I took a quick survey of the bar. The same old hard-drinking crowd, and of course no girls.

  “Ever get any attractive women in this place?” I asked Donnie.

  He stopped cleaning a beer mug. “Not a chance with this crowd.”

  A couple of greasy old regulars sat to my right, laughing loudly. I needed a new hang out.

  “Black and Tan and a shot of Knob Creek, please.”

  The bourbon was strong and burned all the way down, warming my chest. The heat and flavor lingered on my breath. I chased it down with the other half of my beer, nice and cold. I wiped the foam from my lips.

  “Double me up?”

  “Sure, be right back.”

  I sat there drinking for a while, my edginess melted away and I became one with the stool and the bar. I didn’t want Jimmy to show up and drag me off somewhere, so I left Donnie two twenties and headed outside. The air felt cool on my face and suddenly I felt more buzzed. I decided a walk would help sober me up.

  The road was wet and shiny. The glare from streetlights and passing cars reflected off the wet pavement, mesmerizing me as the misty rain woke me up.

  Recently someone had told me about a bar over by the West Side Highway. I figured it must be for bikers and never bothered with it, but for some reason, it seemed like a good idea to go check it out. It was called Hogs and Heifers Saloon and it looked like a dump, but it was packed. People were standing out front, laughing and smoking. I moved inside, and wove my way through the crowd to the bar. I was surprised to see girl bartenders.

  Now that’s more like it.

  The atmosphere was dark and musty. Bras hung from the walls and ceiling. A slight stench from the bathrooms offended my nose so I moved to the other side of the bar. A jukebox played loud heavy metal music, I think it was a Rob Zombie song, but the crowd was just as loud as the music.

  I finally made my way to the far side of the bar to find a cute bartender working hard. She had straight red hair, rosy cheeks, and a big smile. She wasn’t as cute as the waitress at Bryant Park, but she was attractive and I watched her for a while. Finally she came over. “What can I get you?”

  “A Black and Tan would be great.”

  “The Tan is kind of flat,” she shouted.

  “Then I’ll just have some Black.”

  “You got it.”

  She came back with a cold Guinness, and I gave her a ten. “Keep it,” I said, with a slight smile.

  She gave me a little smile back. No way was she from this city. I drank the Guinness, and people-watched but soon the noise started to get under my skin.

  I wondered how many times a night these cute bartenders got hit on. The owner was smart to hire girls from out of town. New York girls have too much attitude to be friendly. Guys probably fall in love every night, drink too much, and ove
r tip. I watched as guy after guy gave it a go, trying to be clever. The music was too loud for her to hear what they were saying, but she would get close each time, smile and nod.

  Becoming frustrated, I let out a big sigh and maneuvered my way through the crowd. I pushed my way outside, the music thumping in my ears. The fresh air, if you could call New York City air fresh, was a welcome relief. I leaned against the wall of the bar for a smoke while I waited for a cab to pass, but it didn’t look like there were going to be any so I started walking uptown.

  The streets were desolate and quiet. Not much going on around the meatpacking district at three in the morning. Cars sped by as I continued walking east towards Ninth Avenue. Up ahead I saw someone coming up the block towards me. I moved to the left to let him pass.

  “Hey bud, you got a light?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, a little buzzed from the beer.

  I looked down and dug into my pocket. I took out my lighter.

  “Give me your fucking wallet!” he snapped.

  A nearby streetlight reflected off his knife. I stepped back, my hands up.

  “Okay, take it easy. I don’t want any trouble.”

  Then in a flash, I grabbed his forearm, twisting it into an arm bar, and slammed him into the wall. A loud crack echoed on the quiet street. He groaned as all the air left his lungs. The knife dropped to the pavement making a clinking sound. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. Lowering him to the ground I realized he was out cold but still breathing.

  I looked around to see if anyone was around before leaving him there. “I’ll give you a light next time pal,” I said.

  I picked up his knife with my hand tucked into my sleeve and threw it into the drain. I didn’t want him bothering anyone else when he woke up.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next morning, I made coffee and was reading a new crime fiction novel when my cell phone started buzzing. Seeing Jimmy’s name on the caller I.D., I ignored it. Yes, I desperately needed the work, but didn’t want to join Mr. Sullivan’s group of thugs. The buzzing stopped, and then a few seconds later it started up again. Figuring he wasn’t going to give up until he got me, this time I answered. “You’re up early. Special day?”

  I heard him sigh into the phone, then take a big drag on a cig before he spoke. “What the fuck are you doing, Bill? I got a job for you, stop being such a fucking pussy.”

  “Stop hounding me Jimmy or I'll do a fucking job on you!” I snapped.

  He backed off. “Okay, Bill sorry, I'm just trying to help you. It’s just that I told Mr. Sullivan you didn't take any shit and kept yourself alive in a tough place.”

  I didn’t want to think about my war days and I didn’t want anyone else thinking about them either. “You promised not to tell anyone what I went through.”

  “I know, I know. But ignoring this ground-floor opportunity is insane. I stuck my neck out for you. Now that he wants to meet you, there’s no taking it back.”

  “Jimmy, you know what?” I asked.

  “Can I come by and get you now?” He asked cutting me off.

  “I won’t be home. I'm heading out to find my future love.”

  I hung up before he had a chance to reply. I grabbed my keys and left. My cell phone started to vibrate like crazy, a half dozen text messages came roaring in. Jimmy was relentless. I didn't look at the messages. He'd only just draw me in. Jimmy meant well, but I had to be smart. A wrong move with this bunch and my life would completely go down the drain. Anyway, he’d likely track me down. Jimmy had a real knack for finding things and people.

  As I walked out of the building I took a deep breath of city air. Lighting a Marlboro Red, I took a deep drag and blew out the smoke. The first drag smelled of burnt paper and tobacco.

  It was a beautiful day, much cooler, dry, and bright. I started walking west, weaving through the crowds on Broadway, tourists looking up at the skyscrapers and business people trying to get around them and get to work. I was headed up to 40th when a navy Crown Victoria screeched to the curb and someone pushed open the door.

  Was I being arrested? No. It was just Jimmy and a friend. He spat on the road. “Get the fuck in Bill. It’s time to go.”

  “Can't make out what you’re saying,” I said, trying to avoid him.

  I leaned into the car to see who was driving. It was Kenny Shea, a nasty, heartless goon who I knew growing up. He had quite a reputation for being mean and tricky.

  This should be interesting, I thought to myself.

  I didn’t want to go anywhere with Kenny, but he had different ideas about me.

  “We got work for you,” Kenny said. “We’re going to make you one of the boys.”

  I looked around. “Can't you boys find anyone to join your club?”

  “Ask your fucking questions later,” he countered. “I don’t care if you’re conscious when you get there.”

  I got the threat and I slid into the back seat.

  “Okay, where we going?” I asked. Neither Kenny nor Jimmy answered as Kenny peeled into the street and started driving.

  Kenny Shea had made his name through brawling, stealing, and murdering. I always tried to avoid him. Having a dad in the FBI made him a slippery guy to pin a charge on. Even when arrested, his jail time was short and whatever damage he did was repaired through his old man’s connections.

  The violence that emanated from Kenny engulfed anyone in his presence. He could smack or rob someone as simply as drinking a glass of water. One time in high school, he was hanging out on the street when a young couple in their twenties walked by, holding hands. Kenny got in the guy’s face and demanded his wallet. When the guy refused, he hit him with a wild right hook and knocked him out cold. He then rummaged through the unconscious guy’s pockets while his date begged for help, holding her boyfriend's head. People walked by, but people knew Kenny. No one wanted to get involved. He showed the cash to his crew like a trophy, sneering all the while.

  Kenny was not tall, but he was wide and solid. His brown hair in a crew cut, he had a stubbly goatee and wore a navy blazer, white button down shirt, and gray pants with a dark gray newsboy cap, which made him look more like a college professor than a hood--a good disguise for his marks. His condescending sneer was the closest he'd ever come to a smile.

  On the drive I considered the danger of getting involved with these people. Of course, once I started, they would never let me leave. My employment would only end in jail or death. Yet here I was with them.

  We pulled in front of McKenzie's Quality Dining, Inc., the main base of operations for all of Sullivan’s ruthless crews. Located in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, a few blocks downtown from the Port Authority, it had easy access to mass transit, taxis, and the tunnel for a quick “out” of the city. From the front it looked like a nice place to take your girl to lunch or dinner, but if you had any sense, the second you walked inside you’d know something wasn’t right. It was a social club for a group of Irish gangsters. The place was filled with rough-looking men dressed in blazers, sitting at small tables, having quiet chats. When I entered, conversations stopped and all eyes turned to see who had just walked in. It was unsettling.

  I was led past a long cherry wood bar. Behind the bar was a large mirror fronted by rows of top-shelf alcohol. Mr. Sullivan sat at a table in the back. He was in his early sixties and slightly overweight with a clean-shaven face. He was dressed in a dark suit and his gray hair was slicked back. He looked like any other senior executive of a large corporation.

  As we approached, Jimmy tried to introduce me but was waved off.

  “Introductions are not necessary.” Mr. Sullivan studied me for a few beats, rubbed his chin, then said, “William, please sit. Have some tea.”

  I sat down across from him and waited quietly. He brought a cup to his lips and sipped slowly. The air was filled with the pleasant aroma of tea and honey.

  “I’ve heard some impressive stories about you, William.” He placed the teacup down slowly and brought his hands
together on the table in front of him. “It has been brought to my attention that you handle yourself well.”

  A waiter brought a new pot of tea plus honey, milk, and biscuits to the table. Sullivan poured the hot tea into my cup; I added honey and milk and sipped carefully.

  He examined me as I drank. “I have a problem and need your assistance. One of my associates has been relieved of his responsibilities. I would appreciate you filling his role.”

  I started to open my mouth, but he put up his hand to stop me.

  “Here is a down payment toward our arrangement.”

  Someone to my right placed an envelope and keys in front of me. He was wearing too much cologne and it was so overwhelming I could taste it.

  “Please, don't be too hasty,” he said. “Give this opportunity some thought. Come back tomorrow at this time with your decision and we will proceed.”

  I took the envelope and keys and shoved them into my pocket. I took another sip of tea.

  A tall thin man dressed in all black approached the table from the right. I was immediately smothered in cologne again. Trying to identify the scent, spiced, citrus, I recognized it as Polo.

  “This is Morgan. He will bring you up to speed about our organization. Please go with him and we will speak tomorrow.”

  I stood. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

  He studied me for a few seconds, then said, “Don't thank me yet, William. I know you'll make the right choice.”

  I followed Morgan further back into the bar and down a flight of stairs into a large basement. It was dark, but had a clean dry smell. Morgan hit a switch on the wall and fluorescent lights came on.

  I followed him through boxes and cases of alcohol piled neatly against the walls to a door on the far end of the room. He took out a set of keys and unlocked it. We walked down steep stairs to another level. It smelled of old damp stone and dirt; the mustiness made me cough. There were other odors but I couldn't place them yet.

  What I could place was a low moan and an animal panting; it sounded like a big dog. It wasn't a dog, it was a man. He was strapped to a chair in the middle of a large plastic tarp. Blood was coming from his nose, mouth, and fingertips. A stench filled the room, excrement, urine, and the metallic smell of blood. My stomach tightened and teeth clenched as I realized what was going on here. I recognized this method of interrogation. It was a torture room.