Killing time

One day, one of my regular laundromat customers, Pete, and I got to talking. He owned a bar- Domingo’s, just down the street and wondered if I would be interested in bartending a few days a week for him. He spoke of how he always saw me at the laundromat-he often brought tablecloths and napkins to wash and dry- and was impressed by my work ethic. We talked about job hours, responsibilities, and any fancy drinks to learn. He said they served nothing fancier than beer and straight liquor. If someone had the nerve to order a martini, or Pink Lady, unless they were female, they got escorted out with orders not to come back unless they ordered a man's drink. He mentioned that they had a cheat sheet on most drinks somewhere, but never used it. I told him I would think about it, and got a phone number. I just wanted a few hours to think about it, I called him back the next day, and accepted.

Bartending is a relatively easy job. Load coolers with ice and beer. Make sure the soda dispenser is loaded. Clean glasses, wipe the bar down. Sweep the floor late at night when little or no people are in the bar, mop after closing. There is no food served. The worst job problem is terminal pruney fingers. The occasional drunk isn't a problem, because of the normal clientele. Domingo’s is where a few small-time local mafia type soldiers hangout. They have another spot they frequent, the Trattoria. That’s where they meet with their bosses, settling their “business deals, AKA, crimes. There is a back room the group uses, keeping them out of sight. Otherwise, they like to be somewhere where the bosses can't interrupt their drinking, or their complaining. Several of the guys tell me the big boss just wants the results, read money. If details are spared, so much the better for deniability.

One night Marc was getting drunk. Sloppy, slurring words drunk. Marc kept repeating, with more force each time, ‘Someone should kill that guy”. I cautioned Marc to behave, or I would toss him. By the fifth time, he was practically yelling. By now his buddies knew something was wrong, and they settled him down.

The next time I saw Marc, I asked what he had been talking about. He said “I had a no-show job with a construction company, I just walked around with a clipboard twice a week, got a full week's pay. Then a new Supervisor came on board, and several people got axed, me included”. Marc went on to say the money was good, you know, union wages, and benefits. The big boss is going to kill me if I lose that job, because his mom and wife are on my family health plan. Why do you ask? Do you know anyone who could help me out? I can't trust any of the guys here to kill him, I mean, they will do it, but it will be held against me”. Someone called for a drink at the end of the bar, and I told Marc I would be back. Once near Marc, I said “tell me, will getting rid of this guy get your job back”? Marc paused, and said “If the supervisor goes away, he’ll get replaced by someone already at the job. I go back, ask politely, explain how I know the job, and if that doesn't work, force the issue by hinting at what happened to the supervisor”. “Sounds like a plan”, I said "I might know a guy, I’m a little busy, give me a few days. Let me know when you will be in next”.

The guy was me. I’ve used guns for years, starting when I was in the army. I was pretty good then, and I target practice a few times a year. Some guys hit golf balls to relieve stress, I shoot. When Marc showed up a few days later, I drew him a beer, told him to relax, I would get to him in a few. He usually drinks harder stuff, but I wanted him sober for this. Soon, I went back to him “OK, I know a guy. No names. The details are not negotiable. The price is $10,000, cash, half up front. I need a picture, and we-you and me, Marc, are going to the construction site so you can point him out, and then I do the same with my guy. He will be followed for a few days, to get his routine down, and work out how to fix your problem. It won't look like an accident, which should help you in asking for your job back. I will return with a picture of a dead guy, and you will pay the second half. I won't give you a song and dance about expenses, or danger, or how hard this will be. It's take it or leave it. If you want to think about it, or need some time to get the funds, no problem”.

Marc was actually surprised. “Steve, your words are wonderful to hear. I can have the money here tomorrow”. “Good”, I said.” Make sure you tell both your boss, and don't mention anything about me. It's my understanding he likes to know about these things, so nothing comes back to him. He might feel he has to give you his permission”. “That's already done”. He said. “I had to explain the job loss, and was told to do whatever it took to get it back, like yesterday, there is to be no loss of benefits”. We settled on a time and place.

Next morning, 6 am. Construction starts early. Marc handed me an envelope, which went under the seat. He didn't know where the supervisor, Rob Johnson, lived, so we waited near the construction site, and watched him arrive around 630. I took pictures of his car and license plate, and got a face picture. I asked Marc if anyone joined him in the construction trailer, and if any work was done on Saturday, the answer was no to both. I then told Marc we were done for now, and asked when the work day was over, explaining we were going to be back here then. Marc said that it usually ended at 3:00, but Johnson sometimes stayed later. At 230 pm, we parked nearby in a different car. We followed Johnson home, and got the address. Marc and I did this again two days later, same result, and I did it solo a few times. I told Marc I had it from here, and would let him know when the deed was done.

The next morning, I jimmied the trailer door. When Johnson came inside, I shot him twice, once in the chest, once in the face.

Unfortunately, I didn't plan for what happened later. I was at the bar a few days later when Marc came in, a big grin on his face. “Steve, I got my job back” he yelled, “benefits and all”. It wouldn't have happened without you. Here is”–I stopped him there. “Marc, quiet down, don't you dare give me anything now. Sometime tonight I will tell you how to get rid of it. And DO NOT mention this to anyone”. I hadn't thought past the killing, and knew I didn't want every swinging dick to come to me, at the bar, asking for the same kind of help. Later, I suggested to Marc that he hit the john, and leave the package in the vanity under the sink. When I went in, I got a surprise I didn't want. Along with the cash, there was a note: Thanks, Steve. I am in debt to you. It was signed “Marco Bustamonte”. I thought Italian? Marc is Italian? This wasn't good news. I thought these guys were just local hoods, I didn't want to be involved with the mobsters, except to sell them drinks.

Once back behind the bar, I asked Marc “what is this Italian name business”? Marc said, “we are all Italian to some degree. See Tony there? Antonio Gi-” Stop, I hissed. “No last names” He went on, “see those guys at that table? Luke? Try Luca. Nick? Nico. Dan? Dante. We discovered long ago that American sounding names are better than Italian ones. Helps the business”.

“So you guys act Italian, but are American”? “Yes”, he said, “it helps in our business. We can't help what our parents named us, but we can Americanize them”. Great. Now, I am tied to the mafia. Not good.

Marc became my cutout. If anyone had the kind of problem I could take care of, they confided in Marc, who, sometime during the night, would give me a sign. We never talked about jobs in the bar. We would meet for breakfast to discuss the jobs. Marc got all the details, and a picture, and gave them to me. I would check them out, give Marc some details someone might need to know, and a price. Some people were more expensive to get rid of. Clients were told I will not take care of wives, girlfriends, one night stands, and kids. If someone pressed for that, they were told it wasn't happening, and if they insisted, it was they who would be seen in the funeral home. I mean, you have to have standards.

Once word got out, there was a brisk bit of business, then slowed. Seems many of Marc's co-workers had grudges of some sort to settle. After about 4 months of every week action, it was just maybe one every two or three months. I wondered if the police were watching this group, since I am adverse to getting caught. I definitely didn't want the police involved, nor did I want any targets to figure out who I was and what I was doing.

One night, suddenly, the noise died down. I looked around to see what the trouble was, and saw an older, trim, nicely dressed guy walking into the bar. I also noticed that Marc and his group had disappeared. That was my clue that this guy might be important. “Hello”, he said. “I am Caleb Romero. I would like to discuss some business with you”. “I have an idea who you are”, I said, “and I don't talk business here. We can meet when the bar closes, it'll be late, or tomorrow for a meal”. Caleb did not give up easily. “If you know who I am, you will shut this pigsty down, and talk to me right now. Or, I will”.

“No one is shutting this place down. I thought you people dealt in civility”.

“We do, and you should know I am a busy man, and don't like to wait. And saying “you people” is racist. “I’m talking about it tomorrow," I said, “My treat, your choice of establishment”.

The next day, at the Trattoria, Caleb and I sat down and ate lunch. It was during coffee later that Caleb started. “I am the boss for the Italian guys who drink in your bar. It has come to my attention that you do some work for them from time to time. The first problem is, you should have been asking for my permission, and letting me decide if a person needs help leaving this earth. You also should have been paying me a percentage. Now, I have someone I would like for you to “handle”. I will not be charged for this, since you should have been paying me ten percent. By my calculations, you have made more than $150k.. Moving ahead, any future arrangements you make along this “business” come with those rules- permission, names, and money”. I responded with “My rule had been, before someone came to me asking for my service, they were supposed to get your permission. If that did not happen, it shows you have poor management skills”.

“Now, what happens if I refuse”?

“I have several men in the back, who, at my command, come out here and either convince you to comply, or beat you to death. Your choice”.

“How about this: I use Marc as a cutout. Thru him, if someone asks me. I will check with you, get permission, or not. If you nix the action, you handle notifying whoever asked for my specialty. Any job I take, I get paid for, by the asker, including you. I will give you $25,000, as a tribute, even though I was not part of your poorly managed organization before. If I agree to take jobs from you, we will negotiate a fee. Be warned I don't accept some jobs, including women and kids. I still want Marc to be my cutout for everyone else.

“You are insolent and rude. I should have my men come out here, and teach you a lesson, maybe even kill you. I had already removed my .38 l from my ankle holder, and held it to my chest so only Caleb could see it. “Go ahead. You will be dead sooner than I will. This is what I mean about poor management. You should have had someone pat me down, and someone out here to guard you. Things might have gone differently".

We negotiated the details a bit more, and I left with a new partnership, and a new assignment from Caleb. The person he wanted killed was another mob boss, who Caleb said was trying to take over his territory.

I got a picture from one of Caleb's underlings, along with some basic info about the mark. I followed him for a few days, and decided how to proceed.

Later that week, while at the laundromat, Pete came in with laundry to do. Once he got the wash going, I invited him into my office. After some business small talk, I said, “Pete, I want to tell you that Caleb- I assume you two are acquainted- wants me to Kill you. Pete reached for something in back of his pants. Before anything got out of hand, I said, Pete, I’m not going to do what Caleb wants. He is rude, and tried to step on me, making demands I feel he had no business making. I just want you to know, and see what you might want to do.

Pete thought for a moment, then said “Caleb is someone who reports to me. You are correct- he is rude and overbearing. He is trying to take over my position as Underboss. He is just a capo, but not for long. I will have him taken care of, you don't need to worry. But, please, tell me why you didn't carry out his wish”

“Pete” I said, “besides Caleb’s attitude, I respect a man who comes to the laundromat and takes such care of his laundry- I noticed how you use the irons to make the tablecloths just right. I never knew you, Caleb and the others were part of the same group”. “We are”, Pete said. “I have Domingo's, and the Trattoria, both of which I own, despite what Caleb says wired up thru the gazoo. I know what everyone there talks about, and I know some of the people under me are not trustworthy. I also knew Caleb was up to something, just not what and when. He will be taken care of. And thank you for seeing the quality in me.