Deep Cover (10 page)

"Let's
get back downstairs and fuckin'
party
!" exploded Iron Man, pounding the table with his fist. We returned to the party. At five the next morning, I returned to my apartment and went to sleep. The longest day of my life had finally come to an end.

Chapter
8

In four more hours, Angelo's Cocktail Lounge would open for its after-hours guests. Angelo Vinetti always arrived at ten o'clock to take his place at the rear table, close to the stage. He would conduct business with local associates while he ate, occasionally paying attention to the strippers warming up onstage.

Michael
"Zorro" Zoritella, the vice-president of The Henchmen's Philadelphia chapter, waited on the corner of Market and Second. He would not go in to see Vinetti alone. His instructions had come directly from the chapter president: Wait until he arrives, and then go in together. The Henchmen were always cautious when they dealt with the Mob. Zorro looked at his watch. Ten-twenty. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. "Shit," he said as he patted his pockets for matches. He let the unlit cigarette hang from the corner of his mouth as he continued to wait. Samuel "Whitey" Hilton rolled up in his blue BMW. Zorro got into the car and immediately pushed in the cigarette-lighter.

"Relax,
man," said Whitey. "We're only picking up cash."

"I
don't like dealing with this prick. He'd fuck us if he had the chance." Zorro took a drag of the cigarette and let the smoke out through gritted teeth.

"He
knows better than that, bro," said Whitey. "They hire us because we can get the job done when they can't. They never would have found Williams on their own."

Edwin
Williams was one of the wealthiest drug dealers in Philadelphia. He worked for Vinetti and the Toritelli family. The Toritellis controlled forty percent of the drug traffic in Philadelphia. The Henchmen controlled forty, with the remaining twenty percent divided between the Colombians, Jamaicans, and independents.

Williams
had committed one of the most serious offenses possible within that criminal organization. He had killed a law enforcement official without permission. When a judge who'd handled a case involving one of Williams' most profitable street-level dealers had refused to take a bribe, he'd had him shot outside his home in Malvern. Williams went underground, and the Toritellis hired The Henchmen to find and kill him. When someone disappeared into the labyrinthine city, there were no better stalkers than The Henchmen. They knew every alley, every dope dealer, and every flop house from Front Street to City Line Avenue.

It
took them only eight days to locate Williams in an apartment on Cleveland Street. When the body was discovered, it was too badly burned to be properly identified without dental records. Two hookers had also been shot and burned. One survived a few hours in the hospital.

The
police released a statement two days later stating that the male had been shot six times in the head before he was set on fire. The two hookers had each been shot once.

Zorro
walked into the bar ahead of Whitey. Neither Henchman was wearing his colors. Whitey was dressed in a blue three-piece suit. Earlier in the evening he'd been handling some legitimate club business and had needed to look the part. He looked distinguished, with his gray, well-coiffed hair and his trim mustache. Zorro wore a Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt and a pair of jeans.

Vinetti
barely looked up from his plate as the odd couple walked through the door and sat down at his table. He motioned with his head, and one of his people came over to the table with two stacks of cash. Each stack contained fifty one-hundred-dollar bills. Whitey picked up one of the stacks and flipped through it. He placed it back on the table and looked straight at Vinetti.

"It
looks light, Angelo," he said.

"Ten
thousand. Count it."

"We
get twenty. We always get twenty. Your man Famantia said you understood that." Whitey's voice was cool and steady. Zorro began thumping his burly fingers on the table.

"I
pay ten. I always pay ten," Vinetti said. He laughed and looked around the room. His men joined in the laughter, right on cue. They stopped when Vinetti did.

"What
the fuck is this shit?" fumed Zorro. "I told you we couldn't trust these scumbags!"

"Watch
your mouth, punk!" Vinetti ripped the napkin from his collar and threw it on the table. "You fucking creeps are in over your head if you think you're going to get tough with me! I'll have your fucking balls for dinner!"

"No,
I'll have
your
balls, motherfucker!" Zorro snapped, as he stood and reached behind him for his .38. A rapid succession of clicks stopped him cold. Two of Vinetti's lieutenants had their guns cocked and pressed against either side of Zorro's head. The bar-tender pointed a twelve-gauge shotgun, and a stripper aimed a .25-caliber semiautomatic that she had pulled from her boot. Vinetti leaned back in his chair, his pot belly supporting a poorly made necktie, and shrugged his shoulders.

"What
can I tell you? They love me." He grinned.

Whitey
calmly took the two stacks of money. He placed them in his jacket pocket and slowly rose to his feet. Vinetti's people kept their guns on Zorro, who had now lowered his hands to his sides.

"You
owe The Henchmen ten thousand dollars," said Whitey. He turned around and proceeded to leave the lounge. Zorro followed cautiously, almost walking backwards, never taking his eyes off Vinetti's people.

Once
outside, Whitey unlocked the passenger side of the car, as Zorro exploded.

"Shit!
God fuckin' damn it! Shit, Whitey! We fuckin' backed down in there, man! What the fuck is going on? Shit!"

"Get
in, man. I got it handled."

Zorro
got in, slamming the door shut. Whitey picked up the car phone and motioned it toward Zorro like a shaking finger. "Nobody pulls that shit on us." He dialed the number one on his speed-dialer. Counsel picked up on the second ring.

"Yeah,"
Counsel answered.

"It's
Whitey."

"What's
up, Whitey? How are things in the City of Brotherly Love?"

"Oh,
not bad. I'm just left feeling a little hungry after my meeting tonight."

A
long pause.

"I
see. What do you want to do about it?" asked Counsel.

"I'd
like to take my friend to dinner. He deserves a good meal."

Another
pause. Shorter this time.

"What's
on the menu?"

"Oh,
something hot. And very spicy."

"Who's
your friend?"

"I'll
spell it for you. H Y F R A A Y."

Another
long pause. Whitey could picture Counsel deciphering the code which, during the last meeting of chapter presidents, they had both agreed to use when discussing sensitive matters over the phone. He knew Counsel would have his doubts. Killing Vinetti could be bad for business. Not that Counsel would be afraid to take on the Mob. But an all-out war would gain nothing. He would have to allocate too many resources to the Philadelphia area, thus hurting business in New York and other East Coast territories. Yet he knew Counsel wouldn't let his Philadelphia chapter down.

"When
were you planning to go eat?" Counsel asked.

"Right
now," replied Whitey. "This motherfucking minute."

Whitey
immediately thought of The Henchmen's bylaw number seven, which states that no Henchman shall fail to retaliate fully when wronged. Counsel had little choice.

"Enjoy
your dinner," he said before he hung up the phone.

Whitey
smiled and placed the car phone back in its compartment. He removed a pair of gloves from the cradle and instructed Zorro to wait in the car. He then released the trunk lock. Inside the trunk was a set of golf clubs. He removed the red leather bag and reached inside, pulling out a disposable bazooka, standard army issue. He threw the weapon over his shoulder and took up his position behind a brown station wagon across from Angelo's. Inside he could see Vinetti, still sitting at the table with his two men. Vinetti was talking while he picked his teeth and gestured animatedly. Whitey squeezed the trigger slowly.

"Right
in your face, scumbag," he said, releasing the rocket with a powerful
swoosh
. A second later Angelo's exploded, sending glass and debris in all directions. Whitey fell to the concrete, trying to avoid the flying glass, wood, and metal. A fiery form came running through the smoke into the street. Whitey couldn't tell if it was Vinetti or one of his people. It fell about three feet from the station wagon. Whitey watched the figure burn.

"Whitey!
Whitey! Goddammit, man! Let's get the fuck out of here!" pleaded Zorro. Whitey dropped the smoking weapon to the ground and ran to the car. He hopped in, and the blue BMW sped down to Front Street and off toward the clubhouse in South Philadelphia.

The Bobby Jones concert was running an hour overtime. One of the most successful country-and-western singers, he sold out every city he played in. The crowd was roaring for a third encore. Barbara and Alice, two teenage fans, had become separated from their friends.

"Hey,
Barb. Lez go up fron' and get a bedder look at Bobby," said Alice, her speech slurred from one too many beers.

"I
don't know, Ally. Those motorcycle guys are keeping everyone away from the stage."

"Come
on. Doan be a wimp. Lizzen, we're on our own. I'm sposed to be sleeping over your house. Your sposed to be sleeping over mine. We agreed we were gonna make this the bez night ever, right?"

"Oh
all right, Ally," said Barbara hesitantly, "but I know I'm gonna regret this."

The
two teenagers began to make their
way
down to the stage. The outdoor, general-admission arena seated eleven thousand, and had standing room at stage level for five hundred. Six Henchmen bikes were parked near the stage with a sign draped across them: DON'T EVEN THINK OF TOUCHING THESE BIKES. The crowd was well aware of The Henchmen's reputation and kept a respectful distance from their motorcycles by standing behind the barriers.

Hiring
The Henchmen to guard the stage was something Bobby Jones did whenever he played a city near a Henchmen chapter. Using bikers as bodyguards used to be fashionable among the rock bands of the seventies. For a dozen cases of beer and free admission to the concert, any band could hire The Henchmen or any other outlaw club. After the incident at Saratoga in 1979, however, only a few old-time friends of the outlaw clubs would hire the bikers. In Saratoga The Henchmen's New York City chapter had been hired by The Losers, a hard-rock band, to keep people off the stage. One of The Henchmen got into an argument over a girl. The boyfriend pulled a gun and shot one of the bikers in the leg. What they finally scraped off the floor when the ambulance arrived was a boyfriend beaten badly enough to have killed ten people. Every bone in his body had been broken. They beat his head so severely with a ballpeen hammer that his brain was exposed. No one was arrested. There were no official witnesses.

"Hurry,
Barb! Thiz could be the laz song," said Alice, as she tugged on Barbara's arm. Alice, seventeen, was a bleached blonde who wore too much makeup. At five-foot-two and one hundred-fifteen pounds she was shapely and provocative. She was accustomed to using her looks to her advantage. At school, at home with her stepfather, and with her many boyfriends, Alice could always get what she wanted. Barbara, slightly taller at five-foot-five, had brown hair and brown eyes. She was more cautious than Alice, but was easily seduced by the excitement of a new challenge or experience.

The
girls started their descent toward the stage. Gerald "Beef" Macruder, the sergeant-at-arms of the San Pagano chapter, was standing between the bikes and the stage. He swayed to the music, while keeping a threatening eye on the crowd. A baseball bat was slung over his shoulder like a foot soldier's rifle. Two of the Henchmen were sitting on their bikes. Mario "Slip" Zatela, the chapter's vice-president, talked with some of the crowd. He shared some booze and some smoke with the people closest to the barriers.

Sanford
"Sandy" Collins, the chapter president, spoke to one of the stagehands. Sandy's brother, Lucky Joe, was the newest member. Lucky Joe had gotten his nickname because he'd been shot three times and survived. The remaining two members of the chapter were not at the concert. The San Pagano chapter had only the eight members required by charter. If one of the six members who were still on the street was killed or jailed, the club would have two weeks to find a worthy prospect or they would lose their charter.

Alice
pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She stood next to one of The Henchmen sitting on his bike. "Nice bike," she said.

"I
know it is," answered Frederick "Fred" Adams. "How ya doin', pretty girl?"

"Great,
man. Bobby Jones is dynamite. Juz look at him up there. Heezza best." Alice started jumping and shouting as Bobby Jones began what would be the final song of the night: "Highway Woman." It was a trademark of the Bobby Jones Band to end each concert with this double-platinum hit. Barbara made her way over to Alice. "Shit, Alice. I almost got fucking stomped trying to get up here," she said.