No Room for Mercy (6 page)

On top of that, his sneaking to boil a couple of wieners and eat hot
dogs while he played his Playstation would remain intact. This was a
typical day on the ranch for the Holland-Dawkins family, each day was
different, but it was always interesting.

CHAPTER THREE

OUT THE GATE

A black, stretched Mercedes Benz AMG limousine with mirror tint sat
beside a hangar off the runway of Loveland Municipal airport just,
south of Fort Collins, Colorado, as a black Gulfstream G200 Corporate
jet rolled to a halt. The door opened and forty-three year-old JunJie
Maruyama exited the plane followed by his son Phillip Tran, his
godson Grover Kobayashi, and his associate from Illinois. The men,
fresh off a flight from Seattle, were all dressed in $4,000 dollar
custom made silk suits and matching $2,500 dollar shoes and all were
holding either a briefcase or a duffel bag.

When he saw the men riding towards him in a golf cart, thirty-one
year-old Montoya Spencer, A.K.A. Asa Spade, stepped out the back of
the limousine with the cousins, Percy and Douglas ‘Dougie’
Hunt following his lead. Asa Spade and his crew were decked out in
the finest silk linens and leather shoes also; they waited patiently
beside the limousine for the men to arrive.

“Mister Spade,” JunJie said through a smile as he and his
clan exited the golf cart a couple of minutes later, “it’s
nice to meet you under much better circumstances. It wasn't long ago,
my friend, that you were under the care of my doctor.”

“The wounds are still healing, but I’m far better than I
was a few months ago.”

“I want you to meet someone,” JunJie said as he stepped
aside to let his associate come into view. “This is the man
that will be behind your transport. His name is Finland Xavier.”

Forty-six year-old Finland Xavier’s first impression of Asa
Spade was that of a petty criminal, but it wasn’t a slight
against the man. He’d just seen Asa’s kind too many times
to count inside Cook County Courthouse. Asa’s associates, who
appeared to be in their early twenties, seemed to be from the
streets, too; but it was what Fin was expecting to see because he
knew he would be encountering drug dealers who were at least three
levels beneath him and JunJie; but if he was being introduced to
these people by JunJie himself, Finland knew these men were to be
some major players in the trafficking operation that was beginning to
expand into Colorado.

“Mister Spade, I’ve heard nothing but good things about
you, sir.” Finland remarked as he extended his hand.

“Can’t say the same, but it’s good to meet you,”
Asa Spade responded in kind.

Asa’s first impression of Finland Xavier was that of a somewhat
shady character. He was a square in his eyes; a man that would
possibly cave under pressure. He was JunJie’s guy, though, so
Asa didn’t let on that he really didn’t like Finland
Xavier from the outset.

“Shall we ride and talk? Denver is about an hour’s drive
or so south of here.” Asa stated as he extended his hand
towards the limousine.

Once inside the car, the group immediately got down to business.
Twenty-five year-old Grover Kobayashi, a husky Japanese with a head
full of stringy black hair and a thin mustache, opened his briefcase
and turned it around and put ten kilograms of uncut white powder on
display. “One hundred percent pure,” he said sternly.
“Our suggested retail price is twenty-eight thousand dollars
per kilo with an even split for starters.”

“Twenty-eight is kinda high.” Asa remarked as he eyed the
product.

“We figured you would say that,” Phillip Tran, a short,
well-fit twenty-five year-old, smooth-faced Japanese spoke on
Grover's behalf. “We’ve done our homework, Asa. The going
rate is twenty-five in this area, but it’s stepped on. By all
accounts we should be charging no lower than thirty-two because our
merchandise is the best thing going. You can cut this shit two times
if you want and still compete. We’re giving you leeway for the
time being to allow you to establish yourself. We wanted to show just
how serious we are about this venture.”

JunJie leaned forward at that moment. “You want to open a night
club,” he told Asa. “You need wheels, and a place to
stay. This here is our gift to you to help you and your crew make the
necessary moves you all need to make.”

“I have a base set up in Shorter Arms Apartment near downtown,”
Asa remarked as he rubbed his chin. “We’re set to go on
this end. I just need more fire power. Two AK forty-sevens and a
couple of handguns ain’t gone cut it.”

Phillip unzipped the duffel bag between his feet at that moment and
pulled out a black Mini-14 submachine Uzi. “Will five of these
help?” he asked.

The Asians were dead serious in Asa's mind. They’d flown into
Colorado with ten kilograms of cocaine and six Ruger Mini-14 Uzis and
where ready to make a power move. It was an offer and a role Asa
Spade would gladly take on and ride for as long and as far as he
could.

“Logistics is your crew’s need, Asa,” Finland
stated, removing Asa from his thoughts. “We can make this kind
of trip maybe one or two more times, but after that we can’t
just fly into town with a suitcase full of cocaine and a bag full of
machine guns. I’m gonna set you up a small warehouse. A rental
space so my driver can have a place to drop off. The driver is out of
the loop by the way, so whoever unloads the merchandise should be
aware not to discuss shipment?”

“My guys never discuss business with outsiders,” Asa told
Finland as he turned towards JunJie. “I figure I can move these
in a week. How often you talking about dropping off and in what
amounts?”

“We’re looking at sending you forty kilograms a month for
starters on an even split with the anticipation that you will move
the merchandise in a month’s time,” JunJie answered. “You
stand to make over a half a million dollars a month out the gate, my
friend.”

“We got ourselves a deal.” Asa Spade said as he shook
JunJie's hand.

*******

“You don’t say? And now Spoonie and Tyke are vegetarians,
son?” DeeDee asked through laughter as he sat talking on his
cellphone inside a sparsely-filled
Eastside Bar
over in
Cicero, Illinois. “And this happened yesterday?” he asked
as Mendoza, Lucky, Coban Benito and Humphrey Gaggi entered the bar.
“That’s funny there. I wonder if they’ll still be
vegetarians come Thanksgiving. I’d put money on the fact that
they wouldn’t be come Thanksgiving. Look son, I have company.
We’ll talk later,” DeeDee said before he hung up the
phone with Doss, still laughing over Spoonie and Tyke's decision.

“These guys here are priceless let me tell ya’,”
Mendoza said as he led the men through the bar towards DeeDee’s
booth.

“What’s the deal?” DeeDee asked as he eyed the men
approaching the table.

“They wanted Eddie and his crew to wait on them while they come
inside and have a drink with us,” Lucky said as he eyed Benito
and Gaggi and shook his head in disbelief.

“With twenty-two?” DeeDee asked dumbfounded as he made a
small square with his hands.

“Twenty-two.” Mendoza said as he eyed DeeDee and through
his hands up like ‘
what
the hell’
.

“Where’s Eddie?” DeeDee questioned.

“Eddie looked at ‘em like they were wearing big red noses
before him and his brothers pulled off.” Mendoza answered as he
grabbed a bottle of scotch from behind the bar.

“I didn’t see the problem,” Gaggi said as he
removed his fedora and suit jacket and sat it on the back of the
chair. “We always have a drink before we leave Cicero. Eddie
knows that,” he added as he pulled out a comb and ran it
through his thinning white hair.

Lucky sat across from Gaggi staring him down, amazed that he and
Benito would actually sit and have a drink knowing they’d just
scored twenty-two kilograms of cocaine. “Not under the
circumstances. You two should not be having a drink under the
circumstances,” Lucky stressed the two aging mobsters before
leaning back in his chair. “The best thing to do is to get on
the road immediately after a score. You guys should know that all the
years you been around.”

“I know how you feel about it, Lucky but it’s an old
Italian tradition. If you can’t spend time with life long
friends in this business who can you spend time with?” Gaggi
asked as he lit a cigar.

“They is right about that I give the guys credit.”
Mendoza said as he approached the table with the bottle of scotch.
“Junior and a couple of guys from Saint Charles is tailing
Eddie so everything’s okay, son. I made sure of that. Somebody
has to make sure these two lushes are safe. How’s the streets
down there in the Gateway City, you guys,” he asked while
pouring drinks for Benito and Gaggi.

“It’s been amazingly quiet. A couple of homicides back in
the city, but nothing that affects us directly, though. Business is
good.” Gaggi said as he downed his shot of liquor.

“Anybody hear from Finland over in Colorado?” Lucky
asked.

DeeDee crossed his legs and said, “He called me an hour ago
just after our guy on the force had the bar swept for bugs. He’s
looking into some real estate is what he told me. Those Asians ain’t
fuckin’ around. They’re expanding into Colorado now,”
he ended as he dipped his hand into a bowl of pistachios.

“I tell ya’,” Mendoza said, “I never seen so
much money flowing through this place. If Zell were still alive I
think he’d have to change his thinking about not gettin’
involved in the business.”

“I beg to differ,” Lucky said. “Zell was every bit
like these two bums sitting across from me,” he chided. “Old
Mafioso ‘til the death of ‘em.”

“The Egan’s Rats made Twenty Third legendary, you know?”
Gaggi said as he slid his glass forward, signaling for another shot
of scotch. “They started out with baseball bats, you know?”

“Who?” Lucky asked as he eyed Gaggi.

“Twenty Third. They were playing baseball when my great
grandfather asked these four Italian guys who used to play baseball
together at the park up the street could they do him a favor. That
was back in the twenties.” Gaggi responded while Mendoza was
pouring him another drink.

“I heard that story,” Mendoza said, pointing at Gaggi and
nodding to confirm. “They beat a gun dealer to death with a
baseball bat and stole three guns he had stashed, and went and killed
their marks. Got paid five thousand dollars for that job. A lot of
money back then. That’s how this outfit got started in the
contracting business.”

“Frank Knitty, Tony Arlito and Sam Giancana all came later,”
Gaggi added. “After Capone died, those guys netted millions.
But the Egan’s Rats basically started this thing of ours in the
Midwest and were the first ones to go extinct.”

“That didn't have to be. The thing that keeps us afloat here in
Cicero is that we know how to recycle.” Mendoza said proudly.

“And we’re equal opportunity employers,” DeeDee
added as he laughed slightly.

“What does that mean, il mio amico? You all know how to
recycle?” Benito asked curiously as he slid his glass forth for
another drink.

“Recycling means we train the ones coming behind us and we
welcome all kinds.” Lucky answered as he poured Benito another
shot of scotch.

Benito gulped downed his drink. “We’re equal employment
opportunists ourselves,” he laughed. “Our guys just can’t
get made.”

“None of our associates who aren’t Italian get made
either,” Mendoza remarked, “but they hold positions of
power. The founders of the Egan’s Rats never did that. They ran
a lot of, damn near ran all others not their kind out of business.
Killed plenty of men in the process, too.”

“And they began feeding on themselves down in Saint Louis and
there went the demise of the Egan’s Rats,” Gaggi remarked
somberly.

“You know? Zell,” Mendoza said as he coughed slightly,
“Zell made sure everybody got to eat back in the day—no
matter their race. And that has been the key to our longevity here in
Cicero.”

Lucky was the youngest of the five men sitting at the table at age
forty-eight. Together these men had decades of mafia experience under
their belt and many homicides to coincide. Telling gangster tales and
reminiscing about days long passed was a time of bonding for the men,
who’d been putting in work since the early fifties. Nearly five
decades later, they were still in the business, only this time they
were making money hand over fist while literally sitting on their
asses. Twenty Third Street Mafia was now more affectionately called
the Chicago Gang because many of their old Mafioso ways had waned and
more and more non-Italians were taking on lead positions.

The one thing that remained intact, though, was the Chicago Gang’s
ability to go up against anyone who impeded upon their lucrative
cocaine venture, now their main source of income. That went without
saying as the men continued to reflect upon days of old, but the
unsaid truth would soon be tested to a degree no one sitting inside
Eastside Bar
on this day in August of 2001 had ever seen in
all their years of living life outside the law.

CHAPTER FOUR

SPILLED SANGRIA

“
Verla! Asegurese de que ve usted! Ella le ve a usted si! Si
ella te ve she’ll…”
(See her! Make sure she
sees you! She will take you if she sees you! If she sees you
she’ll…”) the bullet-riddled woman’s voice
went silent before she could finish her last remark as her daughter
lay crying on her chest, staring her directly in the eyes and begging
her to stay, but she slowly drifted off into eternal sleep anyways.