Bubba, Nelson, and the Twoomey brothers came out from behind the garbage truck, each brandishing a weapon.
John started to open his mouth, and Nelson hit him dead in the face with a sawed-off hockey stick. Blood spurted from John’s broken nose, and he pitched forward and Nelson caught him and hoisted him over his shoulder. The Twoomey brothers came through the entrance-way with metal trash cans in their hands. They swung the cans in pinwheels over their shoulders and brought them down on the heads of Manny’s steroid cases, pile-drove the men into the cobblestone. I heard a loud crack as one of them shattered his kneecap on the stone, and then both crumpled and curled into the ground like dogs sleeping in the sun.
Manny had frozen. His arms out by his sides, he watched bewildered as the three men around him were knocked out cold in under four seconds.
Bubba stood behind him, a metal trash can lid raised like a gladiator’s shield. He tapped Manny on the shoulder and Manny got a sick look on his face.
When he turned around, Bubba’s free hand found the back of his head, grabbed it tight, and then the metal lid snapped down four times, each hit sounding like the wet splat of a watermelon dropped from the roof of a row house.
“Manny,” Bubba said as Manny sagged toward the ground. Bubba yanked at his hair and Manny’s body twisted in his grip, loose and elastic. “Manny,” Bubba repeated, “how’s it going, pal?”
They tossed Manny and John in the back of the van, then lifted the other two guys and threw them into the back of the garbage truck with the stewed tomotoes and black bananas and empty frozen-food trays.
For one scary moment, Nelson put his hand on the hydraulic line lever at the back of the truck and said, “Can I, Bubba? Can I?”
“Better not,” Bubba said. “Might make too much noise.”
Nelson nodded, but he looked sad.
They’d stolen the garbage truck from the BFI yard in Brighton this morning. They left it where it was and walked back to the van. Bubba looked up at the windows fronting the street. Nobody was looking out. But, even if they were, this was the North End, home of the Mafia, and one thing people knew around here from birth was no matter what they saw, they didn’t see it, Officer.
“Nice getup,” I said to Bubba as he climbed into the van.
“Yeah,” Angie said, “you look good dressed up as a garbageman.”
Bubba said, “That’s sanitation engineer to you.”
Bubba paced around the third floor of the warehouse he owned, sucking from a vodka bottle, smiling and occasionally looking over at John and Manny, who were tied tight to metal chairs, still unconscious.
The first floor of Bubba’s warehouse was gutted; the third was empty now that he’d liquidated his stock-in-trade. The second was his apartment, and it would have been more comfortable, I suppose, but he’d covered everything in quilts in anticipation of his yearlong departure, and besides, the place was mined with explosives. That’s right. Mined. Don’t ask.
“The little guy’s coming to,” Iggy Twoomey said. Iggy sat with his brother and Nelson on adjoining piles of old pallets, passing a bottle back and forth. Every now and then, one of them giggled for no apparent reason.
John opened his eyes as Bubba leaped across the floor and landed in front of him, hands on his knees like a sumo wrestler.
For a moment, I thought John would faint.
“Hi,” Bubba said.
“Hi,” John croaked.
Bubba leaned in close. “Here’s the deal, John. Is it John?”
“Yes,” John said.
“Okay. Well, John, my friends, Patrick and Angie, they’re going to ask you some questions. You understand?”
“I do. But I don’t know—”
Bubba put a finger to John’s lips. “Sssh. I’m not finished. If you don’t answer their questions, John, then my other friends? You see them over there?”
Bubba stepped aside and John got a look at the three head cases sitting back on the pallets in the
John started to open his mouth, and Nelson hit him dead in the face with a sawed-off hockey stick. Blood spurted from John’s broken nose, and he pitched forward and Nelson caught him and hoisted him over his shoulder. The Twoomey brothers came through the entrance-way with metal trash cans in their hands. They swung the cans in pinwheels over their shoulders and brought them down on the heads of Manny’s steroid cases, pile-drove the men into the cobblestone. I heard a loud crack as one of them shattered his kneecap on the stone, and then both crumpled and curled into the ground like dogs sleeping in the sun.
Manny had frozen. His arms out by his sides, he watched bewildered as the three men around him were knocked out cold in under four seconds.
Bubba stood behind him, a metal trash can lid raised like a gladiator’s shield. He tapped Manny on the shoulder and Manny got a sick look on his face.
When he turned around, Bubba’s free hand found the back of his head, grabbed it tight, and then the metal lid snapped down four times, each hit sounding like the wet splat of a watermelon dropped from the roof of a row house.
“Manny,” Bubba said as Manny sagged toward the ground. Bubba yanked at his hair and Manny’s body twisted in his grip, loose and elastic. “Manny,” Bubba repeated, “how’s it going, pal?”
They tossed Manny and John in the back of the van, then lifted the other two guys and threw them into the back of the garbage truck with the stewed tomotoes and black bananas and empty frozen-food trays.
For one scary moment, Nelson put his hand on the hydraulic line lever at the back of the truck and said, “Can I, Bubba? Can I?”
“Better not,” Bubba said. “Might make too much noise.”
Nelson nodded, but he looked sad.
They’d stolen the garbage truck from the BFI yard in Brighton this morning. They left it where it was and walked back to the van. Bubba looked up at the windows fronting the street. Nobody was looking out. But, even if they were, this was the North End, home of the Mafia, and one thing people knew around here from birth was no matter what they saw, they didn’t see it, Officer.
“Nice getup,” I said to Bubba as he climbed into the van.
“Yeah,” Angie said, “you look good dressed up as a garbageman.”
Bubba said, “That’s sanitation engineer to you.”
Bubba paced around the third floor of the warehouse he owned, sucking from a vodka bottle, smiling and occasionally looking over at John and Manny, who were tied tight to metal chairs, still unconscious.
The first floor of Bubba’s warehouse was gutted; the third was empty now that he’d liquidated his stock-in-trade. The second was his apartment, and it would have been more comfortable, I suppose, but he’d covered everything in quilts in anticipation of his yearlong departure, and besides, the place was mined with explosives. That’s right. Mined. Don’t ask.
“The little guy’s coming to,” Iggy Twoomey said. Iggy sat with his brother and Nelson on adjoining piles of old pallets, passing a bottle back and forth. Every now and then, one of them giggled for no apparent reason.
John opened his eyes as Bubba leaped across the floor and landed in front of him, hands on his knees like a sumo wrestler.
For a moment, I thought John would faint.
“Hi,” Bubba said.
“Hi,” John croaked.
Bubba leaned in close. “Here’s the deal, John. Is it John?”
“Yes,” John said.
“Okay. Well, John, my friends, Patrick and Angie, they’re going to ask you some questions. You understand?”
“I do. But I don’t know—”
Bubba put a finger to John’s lips. “Sssh. I’m not finished. If you don’t answer their questions, John, then my other friends? You see them over there?”
Bubba stepped aside and John got a look at the three head cases sitting back on the pallets in the
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