Birthday Party

Fiction

Word went out that Stoney was the guy spilling his guts out to the feds. Planting the story about Stoney was a dangerous move because we didn’t want anyone getting itchy and doing something rash, like arranging a beating or worse, so, a few of us hung close to Stoney to discourage any vigilante action against him while we set up the real stooge, Georgie Palmetta.

Georgie didn’t know we were onto him, and he didn’t know about the surprise birthday party we had arranged for him. He was to think we were going to take him to Curly’s club to set up a poker table in the empty rooms upstairs, where the party would happen. The poker game moves every week to a room, a suite, a basement, or a back room of one of the clubs we control around town. The games are a hit with gamblers for miles around and a lot of money moves across the felt tops and we get a nice cut for our troubles. Hamilton city police busted one of the games a couple of months ago, even though we had peppered the department with Benjamins every month, right on time. Some muscle led by Mike Michalovic and accompanied by my friend Bruiser Madden visited Tim Connors, our head contact in the city police department.

We will be warned about any police action against us in the future, Tim said.

“You will share a grave with Georgie Palmetta if it happens again,” Bruiser warned him.

Georgie was working the floor at a floating casino down in the South Side industrial district. Me, Mike, and Bruiser loaded up Mike’s Caddy with shovels and pickaxes and some Glocks and drove over to the casino to take Georgie to his “birthday party.” The son of a bitch would not be talking to the feds again. Not ever.

Georgie was not there, and neither was the day’s take-up to the time he disappeared. He had walked out with thirty big ones, according to the cashier’s estimate. I called Vance Halloran, head of the South Side gang’s operations.

“Call Sal de Luca,” he said, “And burn Georgie.”

I got Sal on the phone.

“Georgie disappeared with the money from the Henderson Drive casino. Bring a couple of the guys and get over here,” I said.

The five of us grilled casino employees through the night. Turns out, Georgie talked a lot about Barbados.

“Where the fuck is Barbados?” I asked Alroy “Red” O’Shea. Red is the smartest guy in the South Side organization.

“It’s an island between Puerto Rico and Venezuela,” he said.

Wherever the hell that is.

Me, Vance, Sal, and Bruiser flew down to Barbados. We found Georgie but found that he was protected. It seems the Venezuelans — ‘Zuelandos,” as they are called there — have their own operations on the island, and Georgie was an important operator in the Venezuelan cartel. One of their English-speaking members met us at our hotel bar

“Go back to your Kentucky,” he said with an accent so thick that, for a moment, I wasn’t sure what or where a “Kaintookay” was. “You have no business here.”

We were damn sure not going back to our “Kaintookay” without leaving Georgie in a grave.

The Zuelando handed a card to Vance. “Call me when you are ready to leave Barbados,” he said. “We will arrange for your transportation.”

Bruiser was the first to go. We found him in his room with his throat slashed. A white-hot rage swept through me. Bruiser was my friend. He was the one who brought me into the South End operations. After his murder, we played the dumbstruck tourist role for the local police, then we tightened security. The remaining three of us stayed in the same room and we stayed within sight of each other in anticipation of a hit at any moment.

Our English-speaking friend called for another meeting.

On Vance’s orders, I arranged the meeting. A Zuelan señor — Guillermo Torres — with three snarling sidekicks showed up at Vance’s hotel room. The head man spoke American.

“We hold no hard feelings toward you,” he said, but you must know that we, my friends and I, control this island and you are not welcome. We can, however, grant an extended visit on the condition that we be permitted to buy into your operations in America, We give you one million dollars American, you give us twenty-five percent of your profits.”

“Actually,” Vance said, “We want that percent of your profits here in Barbados. It’s a beautiful place and I want to invest in it. By the 1960s This place will be flooded with American tourists, once we make it known to them. And you will enjoy enormous profits which you will share with us out of gratitude.”

The two men and their associates glared at each other across Vance’s hotel room coffee table.

“You will hear from us,” the head señor said.

At that, the group turned and left without waiting for Vance’s reply.

Within days, a sniper took out Sal de Luca. That left me and Vance. “We’re on their turf and we’re outnumbered,” Vance said to me. “Let’s get out of here. We will come back when we are ready to set up operations.”

That meant paying off the local police and politicos, hiring some local talent, and smuggling in some firepower.

“Why would these South Americans monkeys want to set up in a Podunk town like Hamilton, Kentucky?” I asked Vance

“Hamilton operations are connected to Louisville, which is connected to Chicago, and Chicago is the hub of a network that runs from New York City to Las Vegas. This Podunk town is a training ground for The Show, the big game,” he answered.

We wasn’t back three days when Joe Mills, our contact man with operations in Louisville. He was accompanied by a Zuelando, Javier Marquez.

“Vance, I want you to work with Javier,” Joe said. He and his associates are going to plug us into operations in South America. We’re going global.”

At that moment, I knew that Vance was going to die and that I was going to do everything in my power to snuff Javier fucking Marquez.

Vance’s Caddy ran off the road on one of the hills around here that make flatlanders car sick. Javier was then the manager of Hamilton operations. I couldn’t get a bead on him — he was too well protected. I went about my job like nothing was wrong but then, out of a lust for revenge, I started singing to the FBI and the state police. No one suspected anything was going on with me. I kept a low profile, ran errands for Javier and his inner circle, and I thought about revenge and retirement.

One day, Javier sent me to pick up the take at a casino upriver, just outside of town. Then, he said, “It’s your birthday. We’ll have a party when you get back.”

He sent two of his guys with me. We loaded up fifty-thousand dollars in the trunk of my Oldsmobile, then, I shot the first Zuelando in the chest as he stood waiting to get into the locked car and the second one in the top of his head as he bent down to get into the shotgun seat. I sped away with fifty thousand dollars of Javier’s money.

I had been thinking a lot about retirement lately, and I hear Quebec is nice.