A few minutes before midnight, Clarence Samuel Gravitano carefully turned the Lincoln Mark IV down the dimly lighted alley. The windshield wipers, set to the lowest intermittent setting against the constant mist, moved to the right across the windshield, then back to the left.
Through the streaked windshield to the left lay a row of docks. Beyond them was the Atlantic Ocean, and it was raging, slamming against the massive upright timbers that marked the edge of the pier. Only the mist itself was visible as it splashed up and over the docks.
Before Gravitano was offered a chance to work with Frank Moretti, he had worked these docks. He’d been here around midnight before too, but he’d never seen them so devoid of life.
There ought’a be a few guys around. Bums scavenging, dealers and their marks making surreptitious deals, bored kids out looking for something to smash.
But there was nobody. Even the gulls that hung around most nights were somewhere else.
Something wasn’t right.
On the near side of each dock was a small square shack. They were all the same. A front door opened onto the dock. A four-pane window faced the alley. Inside was a counter, a stool and a small safe. All the windows were dark.
Midway between one shack and the next was a street lamp. There were eight shacks and seven street lamps in all, all marching away in a staggered column along the alley.
On the right side of the alley, the fronts of a solid line of off-white warehouses were dimly illuminated by the street lamps. Each had a broad bay door with a smaller door to one side. Above each broad door, at the end of a metal conduit, hung an overhead lamp in an inverted aluminum bowl. All of those were extinguished, having been shattered by local kids.
Sammy frowned and lightly touched the brake, then glanced in the rear-view mirror. His voice was somewhere in the tenor range, and it matched his appearance. At five six, he had a slight frame at around a hundred and fifty pounds. “Hey boss—you sure about this guy?”
In the back seat, Frank “Big Frankie” Moretti put down his newspaper and switched off the light above his head on the right. “Yeah, sure. Why?”
“I dunno, y’know? Somethin’ don’t feel right.” It was the first time he’d driven the boss, and he didn’t want anything to go wrong.
Big Frankie adjusted himself in the seat, then grabbed the back of the front seat and leaned forward. He peered through the front window. “Whadda you, seein’ somethin’ outta whack, or what?”
“Nah, nah. Nothin’ like that. Well, maybe, you know. I ain’t sure. It jus’ don’t feel right, y’know?”
Frank peered through the windshield for another moment, then released the back of the seat and sat back. Sammy was new. It was natural for him to be nervous. “Nah, go ahead, kid. It’s a’right. Hey, nobody’d try nothin’ this close to home, eh?”
But he left the newspaper on the seat and leaned slightly left, still peering through the windshield.
Gravitano nodded. “Sure thing, boss.” He edged the car forward, but he continued to watch the shacks on the left and the warehouses on the right. Something definitely was not right.
He glanced into the rear-view mirror again. “Hey boss, the fourth warehouse, right? That what the guy said?”
“Yeah, right.” The kid was definitely nervous.
Gravitano returned his attention to the shacks, then the warehouses.
He slowed the car near the end of the third warehouse, then stopped. He unbuckled his seat belt and tugged at the door handle. The overhead light in the car came on.
Moretti leaned forward in the seat again. “Hey, what’a you doin’? It’s the next place.” He pointed. “Up there.”
Sammy glanced back over his right shoulder. “Yeah. I thought I might go check it out, boss. Couldn’t hurt, am I right?” He swung his left leg out of the car.
“Hey, Sammy, look. I appreciate it, but trust is a big thing with these guys. If you stop here—”
And the stillness of the night was shattered as a couple of dozen bullets slapped into the front and passenger side of the car.
Moretti fell left and tried to squeeze himself into the space between the back seat and the back of the front seat. “Get us outta here!”
But Sammy was already out of the car. The driver’s side door was closed behind him, and he was crouched alongside the left front fender.
The curve of the end of the chrome bumper looked like a shiny little thumbnail moon there. He’d never noticed before. Just like a shiny little thumbnail moon.
Beads of sweat tickled as they popped out on his forehead beneath the sweatband of his fedora.
He glanced to the left, then to the left front. A crossfire would be bad news.
The shacks were still dark, the windows intact. It wasn’t like there was anywhere to hide over there except inside one. Or maybe alongside it. But the bullets had hit the front of the car. The front and the right. The passenger side. If there was a crossfire, the guy across the street would’ve already fired too.
That would be a sweet ambush. If you’re gonna ambush somebody, a crossfire was the way to go. Get ‘em flinchin’ one way and nail ‘em the other. But these guys, they obviously weren’t that smart. Trying to hit Frank Moretti in the first place proved that. And like he said, tryin’ it this close to home was just stupid.
But it wasn’t a crossfire. Nobody was across the street. Only at the warehouse. And plus, it was coming from the warehouse where they guy said they could meet. Was that stupid, or what?
A crossfire was the way to do it. And the warehouse-side shooter would be in the third warehouse if they were set to meet in the fourth. He wouldn’t be in the warehouse where they were gonna meet. That was just stupid.
But the boss was all right. He’d yelled, so he was all right. And when he yelled his voice was close, so he was on this side of the car somewhere. Inside, but on the driver’s side. So he was all right.
As if to verify his thoughts, to his right front, the gunman opened up again.
This time the front tire on the passenger side went flat and the passenger side windows on the car shattered.
On the edge of his mind, Sammy counted an approximation. The same thing. It was the same thing. A couple dozen bullets. The guy was swapping out thirty-round magazines.
A rivulet of sweat trickled from Sammy’s right sideburn down along the front of his ear.
He reached up to wipe it away, then took a deep breath and gripped his revolver tightly between both hands. A couple of weeks ago, No-Nose Giuliatti said maybe he ought’a consider carrying at least a pistol, like a nine millimeter or a forty-five or something. But the thing is, revolvers don’t jam. Plus he liked the old Smith & Wesson. He’d had it a long time and it was comfortable in his hand.
“But they got a lot more bullets you can shoot,” Giuliatti said. He pointed derisively at Sammy’s revolver. “You can’t keep up wid’ a Mac-10 wid’ one’a them things. You got six bullets, right? An’ ‘ey got like a hunnerd or somethin’.”
Sammy smirked. “Yeah, but when you know what you’re doin’, it only takes one. Am I right?”
Giuliatti shook his head and turned away to go bug somebody else. That was Johnny No-Nose Giuliatti all over again. Him and flies. Their main goal in life was to eat shit and bother people.
Sammy renewed his grip on his revolver and edged forward, the soles of his shoes twisting back and forth and scuffing softly on the asphalt. A thin line of sweat released over his right eyebrow and trickled down alongside his nose.
He twitched his nose and jaw, then peered around the front of the car.
A slightly darker shadow was framed in the small open door of the fourth warehouse. He was busy bringing another magazine up to what looked like a Mac-10.
But he looked up for a second and missed the magazine slot. Like he was nervous or somethin’.
As he looked back down at the gun to get his bearings, the magazine slipped out of his hand and clattered to the concrete.
Sammy stood up. He took a step past the front of the car, then leveled his Smith & Wesson. “Hey, asshole!”
Just as the guy looked up, his eyebrows arched, the revolver bucked in Sammy’s hand.
The bullet hit him in the abdomen.
As the Mac-10 clattered to the concrete, he slapped his hands over his gut and staggered backward. But he didn’t go down. Impressive.
The man turned, raised his right leg and disappeared into the warehouse.
Sammy crossed the brief bit of asphalt, then concrete, and strode through the door. He turned left.
With his left hand he felt for the light switch. He flicked it on, and the place was flooded with light.
Across a dirty concrete floor broken with oily brown spots, row of heavy wooden crates lined the back wall. Another, shorter row ran parallel to them, one row closer. To the right were several stacks of empty pallets. This side of the shorter row toward the far end was an old forklift.
And diagonally across the floor, the man he shot passed the forklift and then rounded the corner of the first row of crates.
Quietly, Sammy said, “Hey, that’s good. Corner your stupid self. Make my job easier.”
Unless there was a back door to this place. But Sammy had worked these docks for years. There were no back doors on any of the warehouses as far as he knew.
He started across the floor, angling slightly to the right to keep the forklift between him and the corner of the crates. “Nah, there ain’t no doors. He’s doin’ the wounded animal thing. Tryin’a hide so he can lick himself back to health.”
Sammy was halfway across the floor. Halfway to the far end of the front row of crates. Maybe he ought’a just go around the near end?
But he was already here. Going backward usually didn’t work out well. Besides, the forklift was only ten or fifteen feet away. It would provide a little cover at least.
A different man stepped out from behind the end of the front row of crates, holding a Mac-10 sideways in his hands. He leveled it and laughed. “Hey, who’s the asshole now, Clair-ence?”
How’d the damn guy know my name?
Sammy hit the concrete floor and rolled toward where he thought the forklift was. It was hard to tell while he was spinning.
The man squeezed the trigger, moving the barrel from left to right, spraying the entire far end of the warehouse. Again with something close to thirty rounds.
Three or four bullets ricocheted off or splatted against the forklift.
Then Sammy’s left shoulder hit the small rear tire on the forklift.
He shifted onto his face, then rose to one knee. He kept his revolver near his right leg out of sight.
The man was framed perfectly between the two hydraulic cylinders on the forklift.
Sammy grinned. He pointed with his left hand. “You are.” Then he brought up the revolver and squeezed the trigger
The bullet hit the man in the forehead just above and to the right of his nose. He slapped back against a chain-link wall, arms flailing, then slid down it to sit hard on the floor.
“Don’t shoot me no more!”
The voice came from beyond the pallets.
Sammy yelled, “Come out here.”
“No. No, don’t shoot me no more. I’m— I’m hurt bad.”
“Yeah, huh?” Under his breath, Sammy said, “Hey, a bullet in’a gut’ll do that.” More loudly, he said, “C’mon out. If I gotta come get you, I’m gonna hurt you a lot worse.” Sammy stopped and watched the corner of the pallets.
A moment later, the man he’d shot in the abdomen appeared around the end of the pallets. He stuck out one hand. “Hold on. Hold on. I’m comin’ out, okay?” Then his hand disappeared.
Another Mac-10 started chattering and another man leapt out from behind the crates. He was firing before he came out.
But Sammy was ready. He dropped to one knee and fired once.
The man jerked and spun away to the right, the Mac-10 emptying in the front wall as he fell.
The man he’d gut shot yelled again, “Hey, that wasn’t my idea, okay? I’m comin’ out. I’m comin’ out.”
Sammy nodded. “Yeah, I figured. So c’mon out already.” But there was another pair of shoes moving on the concrete back there. Sammy was almost certain.
He cocked his revolver and aimed at the edge of the bottom crate.
The barrel of the Mac-10 came first. Then the man’s right hand and forearm came into view.
Good. That pinpointed where his head would appear.
But what if he sprayed the room without looking?
Sammy grinned. Then I’ll be dead and it won’t matter.
He tensed his right index finger on the trigger and squeezed, waiting.
And as quickly as the man’s face appeared, he fired.
The Mac-10 clattered to the concrete floor and the man fell out across it, a neat red hole to the right of the bridge of his nose. To the right of that was a larger hole. The one where his eye used to be.
“Jesus Christ, Sammy!”
Sammy closed his eyes as his jaw clenched.
Still crouched, he spun around, the revolver still leveled, then breathed a sigh of relief. He stood on shaky legs. “Oh. Hey boss. You scared me.”
As Moretti crossed the floor, he said, “I never seen anything like that, Sammy, eh? You’re unbelievable, you are. From now on, you’re Sammy Balls. That okay with you?”
Sammy was still watching for the last man. He shrugged. “Yeah, you know. Whatever you want, boss. I got ‘em all, I think. Only there’s one more guy back there. But I got him in the gu—”
Sammy didn’t hear the explosion of Moretti’s pistol before the bullet turned him off.
He fell face down and never twitched.
Tony Mags Magliosi stepped out from behind the crates. He took off his jacket and laid it on the seat of the forklift. As he ripped at the Velcro closure up one side of the body armor, he said, “Hey Frank, what the hell? I thought this was supposed’a be like a trainin’ thing or somethin’. Scare the guy, you said. Make him get you outta here.” He glanced down at Sammy’s body and gestured with his Mac-10. “Hey, dis guy don’t scare.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s a’right. You got anybody left back there?”
Tony Mags nodded. “One guy.” He shook his head. “He nailed Plain Pauley and No-Nose like he was standin’ right next to ‘em. An’ with that ol’ piece’a crap.” He gestured toward the revolver.
“Yeah, well. I’ll drive myself back, eh? I’ll tell the boys we was ambushed an’ Sammy Balls here paid heavy. But we don’t talk about this no more, right?”
“Right, right.”
“I’m serious, Tony. Wouldn’t do for this to get out. An’ only you an’ me know.”
Tony Mags took his meaning. “So what about the ambush?”
“Hey, I’ll get a meetin’ next week. Maybe the week after. I’ll tell ‘em about it, but that I don’t hold no grudges, right? Only it can’t happen no more.”
Tony Mags nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, good move. But whadda we do with Sammy Balls here? That’s it, right? Sammy Balls?”
“Yeah. Earned his place fightin’ for his boss. An’ all he hadda do was drive out.” Moretti shrugged, then sighed. “Leave ‘im. Some’a the boys wanna volunteer, I’ll let ‘em go. Otherwise, hey, line’a duty, am I right?”
“Always, Frank. Hey, when you’re right, you’re right. See you back at the club, eh?”
* * * * * * *