The Dealer

The Dealer

  Richard Quinn

  Copyright © Richard Quinn, 2014

  No reproduction without permission.

  The right of Richard Quinn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs, and Patients Act, 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product

  Of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual living people or dead of locales is

  entirely coincidental

  San Francisco – May 1972

  Tommy Brown, aged twenty-eight, and with no convictions, was sat on the bench over-looking the bay.  Wearing new Levis and a stonewashed blue, short-sleeved denim shirt, he looked like any other contented young man that was enjoying the sunshine and the view. In his hands was an ice-cold bottle of 7-Up.  At intervals, he would drink and rest the bottle against his forehead, sighing at the soothing coolness of the bottle against his skin.  A cool breeze blew in from the Pacific. It was one hell of a warm day.

  For a native of Boston, the Californian weather took some acclimatizing to. But he liked it over here.  Liked the action, the city, and business was on the up.  But he also had other reasons – personal reasons – for being here.  And it had taken him two years to arrange and plan what he intended to do.  It had taken a few bribes to get here, in this position, sat here on this bench and waiting for a client.  It had also taken a lot of guts, too.  And if his contact had been right and on the button, then there was no reason why today wouldn’t go smooth.

  Tommy drank his soda.  The cold drink was soothing, refreshing.  He was dying to light up a cigarette but was trying to quit.  A cold beer would have worsened the craving, so he avoided it, being wise to choose the soda.  And it looked more professional to a client just drinking soda.  Drinking beer would have made him look like a lush, a bum; perhaps unreliable. And it was true in this game that first impressions count.

  The time was closing in on 2 p.m. when the whale-like Eldorado appeared and made its way up the Boulevard.  It approached slowly, drove by, then turned and came back facing the opposite way.  Tommy put it down to caution.  Maybe his client was extra careful, which in this game, was understandable. 

  Tommy drained his bottle and got up.  He paced over to his ’71 Roadrunner and popped the trunk.  He tugged out a case, slammed the lid, and then walked casually over to the stationary Eldorado.  

  Tommy got in beside the driver and said a simple ‘hi’.  He didn’t get a greeting in return. The Cadillac’s owner was a tall, middle-aged man with thinning hair.  He wore a good suit and a silk tie.  A heavy gold signet ring graced his pinkie.  To the casual onlooker, Markie looked like any other well-heeled businessman that was having it good.  The car and the clothes hinted at opulence and status.  But that’s as far as the whole image went.  The laughable paradox being that Markie Phelps had never done an honest day’s work in his life - nor intended to. 

  Tommy Brown scratched his nose and made conversation.  “Nice wheels you have.  I’ll bet she was expensive?”

  Markie nodded.  “She didn’t come cheap and she’s only two weeks old.  I always wanted a coupe.  And after my last job, I thought I’d treat myself and I went round to the dealership and bust their balls to get a good deal.”

  Markie was proud of his ’72 Caddy.  He was also proud of the fear he could put on people where it mattered.  It was a skill that came natural to him, as if it was in his genes. Sadistic and often callous, he enjoyed his work.  He had a good reputation for violence and was in demand as a hitter.  And it paid well.

  “I got what you asked for.  And she’s a cherry of a piece,” said Tommy Brown as he flipped the clasps of his case.  “I got the extra order, too.”

  Tommy popped the lid of the attaché case and the big man looked over and checked out the dealer’s hardware.  Tommy had brought two Remington .45’s.  Both were nickel-plated.  Both perfectly crafted and with a fat silencer fitted on each. 

  “Sweet,” said Markie Phelps as a broad grin spread across his equally broad face. “Real sweet.”

  He hefted one of them, snapped the slide and looked it over.  He handled it skilfully, as an artisan would a favourite tool. 

  “You like?” asked Tommy.

  The big man nodded. His expressionless face didn’t give delight easy. “I like.”

  “The rate is the usual one,” said Tommy.  “Plus ammo.”

  “And the source they’re from is reliable?”

  Tommy nodded.  “No sweat there. They’ve never been used on the street, and never been fired since being tested at the factory.  Also, I only buy from reliable sources and from people I know.  I trust the people I buy from. Those two came from a heist on a factory transporter a few weeks back in Denver.  So they’re as virgin as a fucking nun.”

  The big man let out a gruff snort.   Tommy guessed it was his appreciation of the joke.

  “I’ll take them,” said Markie Phelps and he passed over a manila of cash. “It’s all there, as agreed.”

  Tommy smiled.  “I trust you.” He pulled out a box of Federal Premium .45 ACP ammo. “They’re hollow points, as ordered.” 

  Markie lay the heavy Remingtons and the ammo out on the rear seat.  He covered his purchase with a plaid travel rug. 

  “Nice doing business with you,” said Tommy Brown. 

  Markie nodded and then reached over and opened Tommy’s door.  It was a silent way of saying ‘fuck off’.

  “Well, thanks again,” said Tommy, then got out of the Eldorado.  He watched the big car glide away from the kerbside and nose down the hill.  When it had gone, he smiled thinly, and then walked back to his Roadrunner. 

  He wanted to laugh out loud when he thought about what he’d set in motion for Markie.  But he didn’t.  He controlled himself.  The gloat could wait, and if Dennis the Rat’s info was as good as he said it was, then he knew when and where Markie would be making his hit.  And he would certainly be there.

  Tommy Brown, with no expression on his young, clean shaven face, got into the car and drove away.

  *

  It was 10 p.m. 

  Tommy brought the Roadrunner to a halt beside a phone booth.  It was a quiet, residential area; part of the city where the muggers didn’t feel at home. But that was mainly due to the fact that people drove out of their expensive fortress homes and seldom walked about.   So, divested of criminal opportunities, they usually stayed clear of this place.  And no mugger was going to spend money on travelling to a place with no one to rob.  It wasn’t economically viable.

  Tommy stood and leaned by the phone booth.  He checked his watch and made a sour face.  The Rat was late with his call.  The road was quiet but well lit by a myriad of fancy street lights.  It was a real up-market area, and Tommy was sure that everyone who lived here was certainly in the millionaire bracket. A single car drove by: a Mercedes.  But Tommy stood and waited.  It was about 10:10p.m.when the phone finally rang.

  Tommy snapped up the phone.  “Fuck, I thought you weren’t gonna call. I thought, fuck, am I going to be stood here all night like a dick?”

  A weak and almost apologetic voice mumbled its excuse.  “I was in this queue in the bar and this big bastard was hogging the phone and talking to his girl and I didn’t want to push the gorilla in case he got sore and I just had to wait, was all I could do.” Dennis whined another apology so Tommy changed the subject.

  Tommy sighed and gave the weasel a break.  “Okay, okay – no foul done. So, what’s the word?”

  “Markie has a contract.  His mark is going to be some drugs boss that’s been pushin
g dope on the wrong streets.  Someone got sore.  Markie took the contract so it’s on.”

  “Sweet,” said Tommy.  “I gotta pen and a pad.  So fire away. Gimme the address.”

  And Dennis gave Tommy the address and the time. 

  “And that’s where and when it’s going to be,” said Dennis carefully, obviously being cautious as he spoke.  “And if the guy is who I think he is, then Markie may have bitten off more than he can chew.”

  Tommy Brown laughed.  “If that’s the case, it looks like I gotta ringside seat then, doesn’t it?” 

  “Grandstand view, man,” said Dennis. “You could be in for a treat.”

  “Cool. I’ll flip you some cash before I leave tomorrow,” said Tommy. “You know I’m good for it.”

  “You’ve always been fair with me,” said Dennis. “You just watch out for the fireworks.”

  Tommy grinned then killed the call. And as he stepped out of the booth, he sensed the night was filled with promise.

  *

  Tommy drove fast yet carefully.  The big 440 rumbled like an angry god as he tore down the highway.  Being watchful of cops, he slowed and then accelerated when clear, but drove cautiously.   He was determined to make that place on time. It was a date he was determined to keep.  Neon and lights blurred and their reflections danced across his windshield. The city was alive and everything seemed beautiful.  

  Not far now. Not much further to go, he thought, and eased his way neatly into the city traffic. It was lanes and lanes of flaring rear lights and oncoming dazzlers. But it didn’t matter. Catching up with Markie was all that mattered, and had mattered for the last two years.

  *

  Markie wore black.  He wore black trousers, a black shirt and an expensive, black leather reefer jacket.  Black was what bad guys wore.  It was the mark of what he thought he was: a badass, a hitter, and a man that got respect.  The bosses liked him because he was good and got the job done.  He wasn’t a psycho or a junkie like some of them in this profession were.  He was simply methodical, trained, and left no loose ends.  No witnesses ever lived to testify.  In fact, no one lived to testify. 

  Markie was driving a dark green ’69 Charger.  Stolen to order and re-plated professionally by a team that supplied cars for robberies, Markie felt good and confident about tonight.  The Charger drove like a dream, and it was always a good choice for a getaway. Smooth and tuned, the V8 howled its song. 

  The two silenced Remingtons lay by his side, on the passenger seat.  Loaded and deadly, he smirked as he thought about the job.  The .45s were great guns.  Heavy and dependable, he had used them before for close hits.  The hefty hollow-points made big holes and no matter where they hit you, it was a foregone conclusion, that you dropped unconscious no matter what.  The heavy slugs expended their energy out with devastating consequences on a human body.  And Markie had seen men lifted off their feet when hit by these monsters.

  Tonight it was three men: a drug boss and his two goons.  They had to die.  They were pushing bad stuff on the street, and when that happened, the cops got nosy and started harassing everyone.  And that was the big no-no.  So they had to die.  They had offended the big men of the city, and no one offended them – ever. For Markie, the contract had been too juicy to pass up on. 

  An inside man had told him that his target loved to hit Chinatown on Saturday nights.  He liked the food and the girls.  And that’s where he would be tonight: filling his face at one of the Chinatown restaurants.  

  Markie felt he was on a high.  He usually did just before a job.  And it was good that he still did have that feeling.  It kept him alert, on edge.  And as he drove he planned his move.  It would be simple enough.  Take out the goons first then the boss.  When the goons died, the boss would feel naked, vulnerable.  Some of them usually panicked and ran.  Some tried to tough it out and play the role of a hardman right up to the end, even though their eyes screamed fear.  And some, the more psychotic ones, would just laugh and wait for the inevitable slug that would blow their head apart.

  It was true, Markie had seen it all.  And for a moment, he wondered if he could get someone – a ghost writer - to write his memoirs when he was older and retired.  Most of the criminals did that.  Stuff like that sold books.  And the audacious thought of it made him chuckle.  But it was just a thought.

  Chinatown was brightly coloured lights and neon.  Stores and restaurants opened until late and the place was alive.  It was the oldest Chinatown district outside Asia. It was all ornate banners and golden-lit globes and lines of parked cars.  It was popular, welcoming: a great place for a hit. You could vanish into the crowds easy.

  Markie cruised the green Charger down the street and looked round.  And then he saw what he was looking for. 

  A dark blue Lincoln Continental was parked up outside the guy’s favourite restaurant.  Bright lights reflected from the windshield and as Markie eased by, he caught sight of the first bodyguard.  He was a stereotype underworld thug and looked like a former football player turned bad: a fat head and a crew cut and heavy set shoulders.  Markie sensed he was there for show, just pure muscle. The other bodyguard would have been inside, dining with the boss.  But Markie was early, so he expected them to still be dining.

  Markie drove to the end of the street, then swung the Charger round, then parked up a few cars back.  He slipped into a space behind a beat-up Ford sedan then killed the engine and the lights.  He kept an eye on the restaurant door, and then lit up a cigarette.  The window open, he blew out a stream of smoke.  He’d already jacked the .45’s slide, but dropped the hammers.  Now it was all about waiting.  Just waiting for the target to appear.

  Tommy Brown drove into Chinatown and parked up away from the restaurant.  He killed the engine then got out and walked down the street, looking for a green ’69 Charger.  Dennis the Rat’s info was always top-notch, and he knew that when he found the restaurant, the ’69 Charger wouldn’t be too far away.

  Tommy Brown walked down the street and caught the sight of the bulky Lincoln.   He dodged into a shop doorway and waited.  The night was warm and breezeless.  He cast a glance at some of the parked cars and then saw the Charger.

  Tommy Brown smiled.  The stage was set.  He reached into his pocket and felt the contents: all there.  And now it was just a question of waiting and watching.

  *

  Markie checked his Rolex and made a face.   It was getting late.  But it didn’t matter.  Sometimes it took a while for a target to appear.  He had once even spent half-a-day waiting for a target.  But his patience was well-rewarded as the target appeared with his bodyguard at the door.  They seemed to be talking and Markie reached for the two .45’s and got out of the Charger slowly and calmly.  Keeping to the shadows, he dodged round the parked cars and advanced, thumbing back the hammers.   He would take the two men down first and then hit the driver of the Lincoln.  Then he’d be gone and his job done.  It wouldn’t take much to do.  Just speed and accuracy, then get out fast.

  The bodyguard was standing beside the Lincoln, scanning the area as bodyguards do. From the peripheries of his vision, he noticed a man moving purposely towards him. He swing his head round and saw Markie, the two cannons in his hand. He swore and reached for his weapon, swinging his jacket aside.

  In that split second, the bodyguard knew that the gunman had the advantage and he was going to die. It was a lousy, final thought. But he was going out, doing his job until the end.

  Markie swung the big guns up.  The bodyguard reached into his shoulder holster, fingers curling round the butt of his gun. He pulled out a .38 snub.  Just at that moment Markie pulled the trigger of his .45.

  Click. Click.

  Nothing happened.  Markie cursed as the bodyguard fired once, then twice.  Markie felt the bullets hit him, punching him back against a parked car.  The hot, sledgehammer blow of the .38s took him to his knees as the bodyguard quickly ushered his boss
to the Lincoln.

  Markie cursed as the agony tore through him.  Had the Remington’s jammed?  Both of them?  That was Impossible. He had checked them over before the hit. 

  The Lincoln tore out of the parking space and raced down the street, absorbed into the night.  Markie clutched his wounds and flopped onto his back.  Some woman screamed.  Some people froze.  It was all over so quickly.

  In the light of the neon, Markie saw a man walk up towards him.  It was the man who had sold him the guns.  The guy that had the good reputation. The guy who’d come highly recommended. The guy who had sold him two duds. 

  He recognised Tommy Brown as he bent over him.

  “The guns, you bastard,” said Markie through bloodied lips.  “They jammed.”

  Tommy Brown shook his head.  “The guns are fine.  Nothing wrong with them, Markie. I just fucked around with the bullets.  I deactivated them. It wasn’t a hard job to do. I’d like to tell you but I don’t think you’ve got that long left to live.”

  Markie closed his eyes as the pain worsened.  “You killed me.  You fucking killed me, you bastard. But why? Why?”

  Tommy Brown reached into his pocket and thrust a photo in front of Markie’s fading eyes.  It was the photo of a young woman in her early twenties, attractive, and blonde. “Boston, 1970. That was my wife, Diana.  You hit a Bookie and she was a witness who had just happened to be walking by, so you took her down. She died in my arms at the hospital two days later.  I’ve spent two years planning this and now I’ve finished you. Now it’s your turn to die. Your turn, Markie.”

  Markie’s head flopped back as Tommy Brown stood up and backed away into the crowd.  Markie watched him meld into a sea of faces and then it all turned black forever.

  Tommy Brown walked casually back to the Roadrunner as the sounds of sirens grew nearer.  People where rushing across the street, getting honked by cars. Crowds were gathering at where Markie lay dead.  But it didn’t concern Tommy Brown.  His work was done, over.  And he could now get back to his hotel and get some sleep.  Tomorrow was going to be a long haul, and Boston was a long drive. A really long drive.