Killers by Howie Carr Page A

more.
    â€œWell?” she said.
    â€œWell what? As you pointed out, we’re not married, never have been. Ain’t no spousal privilege here. I just don’t like my business bein’ spread all over the street.”
    â€œDid you talk to him, Bench I mean?”
    â€œI would ask, are we off the record, but I know the answer to that is always no, no matter what you say.”
    â€œSpare me the lectures on journalism ethics. Just answer the question. Did you talk to him?”
    â€œIn a manner of speaking, yes. I talked to him, and he … well, he answered. In a manner of speaking.”
    â€œAnd the subject of the conversation?”
    â€œI walked in, and he was behind the bar, and I looked over the draft selections, and then I said, ‘I’ll have a Harpoon IPA,’ and he drew one for me, and I said, ‘Much obliged, pardner,’ and he said, ‘That’ll be four bucks.’”
    There was a pause on the other end, and then she said, “Very funny. I guess you want your name and picture in the paper tomorrow as having visited the Alibi.”
    â€œI’d prefer you didn’t do that, but you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do.”
    It went on like that for a while. I was trying to think if she could do any legwork for me, but right now I couldn’t think of anything. I finally told I’d see her around the campus and hung up.

 
    7
    DITTO’S DILEMMA
    I own a commercial building off Warren Street in Roxbury, bought it cheap off an old-line wiseguy who was retiring and moving to Florida. There was a $12,000 lien on it for unpaid city taxes, and $3,500 in overdue water and sewerage bills, all of which I paid, and the guy threw in three silencers to sweeten the pot. The price was $5,000. Setting up the real estate trust that owns it, since I can’t very well have it in my own name, cost me another $1,500.
    The old-timer ran a half-ass garage out of there, and the word is that during the Irish gang wars, he’d settled up a few scores there, with acetylene torches and the like. That was before my time. But I kept the garage going, with the old mechanic, a guy named Rocco. He was used to having the element around, and we do a steady business. A lot of our work is insurance—we don’t fix the cars, we wreck ’em. I used to run that racket on consignment—if you got $5,000 in claims, I’d take ten percent, $500. But I was working with too many cops, and you just can’t trust them guys on insurance fraud any more than you can trust ’em on anything else.
    Now I charge a flat rate. Five hundred bucks. Getting the accident report is up to them. If they need an appraiser, I’ll provide one for them. That’s another $500, which I whack up with the appraiser. If that seems high to you, you haven’t been to a new-car showroom lately. Think sticker shock.
    But the garage is short money. What I like is having a place in the city. It’s not what you’d call prime real estate, obviously, but I’m not in it to turn a quick buck. It’s a half-acre, a good-sized lot in Roxbury. There’s always been a four-foot-high brick wall around the lot, and up above that I’ve got eight feet of barbed wire with razors all around the top. You’d have to be an Olympic pole vaulter to get in. I used to have dogs patrolling the property, pit bulls, rottweilers, etc., but the locals shot them for sport through the front gate.
    Now I have two new ones, Tyson and Atomic Dog. Neighborhood names for neighborhood dogs. I keep them inside nights. Rocco cleans up their shit every morning when he comes in at 6:30.
    I called a meeting for 4:00 p.m. of all the Boston and South Shore guys except the dealers. I like to give them a wide berth. They report to Salt and Peppa. I have a piece of a couple of bars in Quincy, and some independent layoff guys who pay me for “protection” just like the bookies.