Short raises his hand to strike with the blackjack. My left hand grabs his left wrist; I turn into him; bend my knees and pull. Short ends up on his back.
"Throat," I said. Kato releases Tall's broken wrist; opens his jaws as wide as they can go and grabs Short's neck.
Tall is in so much pain that he has no idea what is going on. I step over and kick the gun out of his reach. Return to Short; lean over; smile and said, "This is important. Pay close attention. Do Not Move or that dog will kill you. If you have any doubts whatsoever, well, you can find out first hand."
I stand back up. Grin from ear to ear. "Well boys. What can I do for you today?"
T amp;T was in too much pain to talk. S amp;S just looked terrified. "Look, son. Talk to me or I'll have him kill you just for giggles. Understand?"
"Yeah, yeah. I get it. Mr. Santucci. It was Mr. Santucci. He tell's us dis guy's looking for muscle."
"You're fucking kidding me. Uncle Carmine?"
"Yeah, yeah. We call this guy. He say's to rough up this guy, Picker. Ya know, put a scare into him. That's it, honest mister. Not personal, ya get me."
"Who's the guy, shitbrains?" Shitbrains? Did I really say that?
"Don't know. All done over the phone mister, honest. Dat's all I know."
"One last question. Did Carmine know?"
"No, Mr. Santucci knows nothing. He gave us the phone number. We made all the arrangements, honest."
I guess I would have to find out for myself. Two cop cars came racing down the street; lights flashing and sirens blaring. Damn neighbors. One cop in each car. Ever since the budget cuts some bean counter thought this would save taxpayer dollars. How is two cars cheaper than one?
The two police officers hop from their vehicles. One of them actually starts to go for his gun.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Officer One gives me a puzzled look. "Oh you wouldn't, would you?"
"Officer, you see that man there. The one with the broken wrist. The one that's bleeding profusely. My dog did that. Kato here is security trained. He has one mission in life, only one. To protect me. I guarantee, no shit, that if you even touch that gun, you will be dead before it clears the holster. Your buddy there might, and I say might, get off a shot. Doesn't matter. You'll be as dead as a doorknob." What does that even mean?
Officer One lowers his hand. Officer Two examines the scene, looks at me and said, "You're coming with us."
"With all due respect officer, fuck you. I'm the victim here. Look at the gun, look at the blackjack. For God's sake, look at these two morons. I've got things to do."
I slowly reach into my pocket and take out two business cards. "One card is mine, the other my lawyer's. Call him and set up a time for me to give a statement."
I consider giving them Santucci's name but decide against it. Don't need him as an enemy if it can be avoided.
"Kato, guard." The beast is eyeing Officer One. "Remember what I said. There is no need for anyone to get hurt. Don't make any sudden moves until I pull out."
Officer Two, "You're making a mistake mister."
"You know, everyone tells me that." I turn and head for the car. Start it up; pull out and start to cruise down the street. Let out a sharp whistle. Kato comes bounding towards the car; I stop; he jumps in. I reach into my pocket and give him one of those natural biscuits.
"Good boy."
Ball Two
"I don't suppose you ever read that book?"
"And what book might that be?" I asked.
The caller id read Margaret Moore. Moore is an Assistant District Attorney for the City of Philadelphia.
"Why, 'How to Win Friends and Influence People', of course.
"Can't say that I have Maggie."
Margaret Moore is a stunning five-foot seven inches. Mid-thirties, mousy brown hair cut shoulder length, striking green eyes hidden by black rimmed glasses; a wonderful package wrapped in designer clothes.
"Talked to a police Lieutenant in the 14th Precinct. Looks like you pissed off a couple of Philly's finest."
"I suppose that I did at that. Tell me, what else is new?"
"Well, big boy, I pulled your bacon out of the fire. Those lads wanted a warrant for your arrest. I quashed it for you. Have that stooge of a lawyer you use call the district captain."
"Much appreciated. How can I repay the favor?"
"Dinner."
Oh shit. "Sure. Get back to me with a time and place. Talk soon." I cut the connection. A date with Maggie Moore? Jeez. Kelly would kill me.
I was early for my meeting with Chucky.
Decided to make a quick stop. My meeting was for two o'clock. I still had an hour or so. Parked the car in front of an unremarkable building not far from 9th and Washington.
Standing guard at the front door was an overweight bovine wearing a powder blue sweat suit; white t-shirt accessorized with a heavy gold chain. He managed to squeak out a "Yeah".
"Mr. Picker to see Mr. Santucci."
Without muttering a syllable he turned and went inside; leaving Kato and I standing on the sidewalk. Two full minutes passed before he stepped back outside.
"Mr. Santucci says to com' in."
The Italian Social Club is an old brick structure dating to the turn of the previous century. It's basically a long narrow room with an ancient bar running down the left side of the room. On the right are scarred wooden booths and dark wood chairs and tables lining the center of the room. Completing this picturesque motif is a black and white tiled floor along with a pressed tin ceiling sporting old world rotating fans.
The moment we entered Kato sat near the door facing the men in the room. An oaf on a bar stool swiveled his head, saw my beast and said, "Not that damn dog again."
I made my way to the back. Uncle Carmine Santucci rose from the chair behind his desk and offered his hand. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the great antique's dealer himself. Take a seat Mr. Picker." To the bartender, "Due espresso Carlo." To me, "I enjoyed those cigars, Mr. Picker. I must thank you again. Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
Uncle Carmine is the acting head of the local mob. His territory, so to speak, covers Southeastern Pennsylvania and South Jersey. In the tradition of the legendary Angelo Bruno, many consider Carmine to be The Gentleman Godfather. He does not allow dealing in drugs; is well known for giving back to the community; and never or almost never kills outsiders.
Late sixties, tall and trim, Carmine gives the appearance of a self assured, elegant grandfatherly type businessman.
I pushed the red lacquered box across his desk. An extra box of Gran Habanos that are kept in the trunk. "It pleases me that you enjoyed the cigars. I hope that you enjoy these as well." Hint: Never visit the local mafia don without bringing some sort of tribute, no matter how small.
Carlo placed the espressos on the desk. Without asking, Carmine spooned some sugar into both cups. "Thank you, I'm sure that I will. Now, what is the purpose of this visit?"
"Two men attacked me a short while ago. Your name came up."
Uncle Carmine took a sip of his coffee. I did the same. Good stuff. "I trust that you were not hurt."
Not a word. I sat there and kept my yap shut.
"Dem guys." Despite the fine clothes; the regal bearing and other trappings of success, Uncle Carmine's speech left something to be desired. "Mr. Picker, I apologize for the inconvenience."
Huh? Inconvenience?
"The best that I can do is to tell ya what I know. And, also what I don't know. What I know is dat some guy calls the club here. He's looking for some muscle. Of course, he doesn't say what for. I don't ask. The job, I gives it to Sal and Tony. Two leg breakers. This voice on the phone, it gives a time and a place. I leave the details up to dem two mooks.”
Not a word. Just sitting there; listening.
"What I don't know is who, when, where or why."