“How much will he pay?”
Dom says, “Half now, and $1,000 a week until the debt disappears.”
“Cool. We split the first $20,000, and then $500 a week each until he’s square. When?”
Dom says, “I’m meeting him at 8 p.m. Friday in a Westchester park.”
I feel like a football bet I’d given up on just pulled off a Hail Mary pass.
The risks of sending Dom were plain.
If a deadbeat can’t pay, Dom might panic him to scream, “Help, police!”
Karl can pay.
Karl’s beaten us for $50 large in two weeks. He has our $40,000.
Dominick’s volatility presents another danger.
Like the Kraken, once loose, God knows how much havoc accompanies him.
This mission requires forceful diplomacy.
If he harms Karl, or worse, we become accessories to murder — jackpot: game, set, and match.
But he has to get the money.
I wore blinders when it came to Dom’s collection methods. With the lights on, I’d see the roaches.
The office has bugs. I don’t need to know their habits.
*****
One collection method “wise guys” use is good thug, bad thug. One brute spews hardball.
“The boss don’t care about the money no more. This guy’s a thief. Let’s just shoot this prick and go home.”
The reasonable monster says, “Don’t shoot him right away. Let’s talk. Maybe it’s not too late.”
They throw the deadbeat into the trunk of their car and drive around for an hour or so.
Meanwhile, the poor bastard in the trunk is dying.
They stop for coffee.
Once the car parks, the deadbeat thinks his fate’s decided — death by anticipation.
Twenty minutes later, the car restarts. The process repeats. When the car stops, he dies again.
After opening the trunk an hour later, the victim’s soiled pants say he’s ready to talk business.
The squabble continues.
“I say we just kill him.”
“I don’t want to kill another guy this month.”
Honest concern accompanies the ensuing plea:
“Hey pal, why don’t you just pay the money?”
*****
Friday night, the reckoning comes. No word from Dominick as 8 p.m. comes and goes; 9 and 10 p.m. pass, still silence.
At 11 p.m., Dominick’s clear concise voice carries catastrophic news, “I’m in jail on $100,000 bond. Come get me out.”
I’m frantic. One hundred large, where do I get it? My main partner, Blinky, is vacationing in Italy. My other partner, Red, is broke. He’s an insane gambler. My cash has been wisely invested in booze, broads and drugs.
If Dominick talks, my partner and I lose everything.
Friday night presents another problem.
The court system in New York shuts down on weekends.
I have to get him out before he gets pissed. He’s a stand-up guy and won’t rollover, but I have to do the right thing.
I have $50 large from the business. I can bang out $30 large in credit cards. Maybe I can reach out to a shylock for the other $20,000.
But the standard street rate is three points.
That translates to $30 weekly in vig for every $1,000 you borrow.
Twenty large means juice is $600 per week with nothing coming off the top.
I can’t worry about juice.
I have to get Dominick out.
*****
Saturday morning, I grab the Westchester papers.
The headline reads, “Westchester D.A. busts multi-million dollar gambling ring. Suspect driving convicted cop killer’s car.”
“F***ing lovely, Jesus Christ, multi-million-dollar-gambling ring, cop killer. Where do they get this shit?”
Dominick’s buddy from the neighborhood went with him. The buddy borrowed his uncle’s car.
Because this is a Bronx Italian ghetto, percentages are high that somebody’s relative is doing a “bit.”
It turns out Dom’s buddy’s uncle is doing a stretch for the worst crime of all — killing a cop.
Complicating the disaster is the political ambitions of the Westchester D.A. She wants to be a Senator.
If the press makes this look like she just captured the Loch Ness Monster...
Saturday night and Sunday during the day, I’m working a 24-hour shift at the firehouse.
I’m screwed.
I can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t keep my mind on the job.
I’m alone in the cellar’s weight room, pumping iron while turning it over in my mind.
Will Dom stand up?
Can I get that much money by Monday morning?
Do I go to the jail to bail him out?
Do I send someone else?
Many issues, no answers.
I wish Blinky was back.
*****
Sunday morning at the firehouse, I’m ready to go downstairs to write the dayshift roll call.
As I put on my uniform shirt, I hear the short blast of a police siren.
The cops pull up outside quarters.
Jesus Christ, they’re coming for me at work.
My heart sinks to my knees.
A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach. In my mind, a week passes.
A voice generates loudly over the firehouse squawk box, “Lieutenant O’Connor, please report to the house watch booth.”
I’m dead.
Downstairs, two uniformed cops look all business as they await my pale-faced, knee-knocking presence.
One is about 25 years older than the other. As I approach them, I almost extend my two wrists to make it easier for them to apply the handcuffs.
I think about leading with, “I know why you’re here.”
But just before I confess, the older one barks, “You Lieutenant O’Connor?”
Sullen, I bow my head, a nod accompanies my weak whisper, “Yeah.”
He extends his hand.
“I’m Sergeant Molloy from the precinct around the corner.
"Can you bring your fire truck by some time this morning and hang a new American flag on our flagpole? Last time we replaced it, you guys used your tower ladder bucket.”
My knees collapse as I reach for his extended palm. Not to shake hands, but to grab it for support to prevent me from collapsing at his feet.
“You OK, Lieutenant?
"You don’t look so good.”
Bill O’Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. He is currently a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The highly irreverent and acerbic O’Connor performs free standup in various locations around Gainesville.
