Hipster Holocaust

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty

The old man sat silently in the car as Fat Louie drove him from the bakery back to the club. He sat in the back seat like it was an Uber because he never let anyone sit behind him in a car. Nobody was going to Paulie Gatto his ass if he could help it.

Fat Louie just sat and drove and sweated through his purple silk shirt. He thought being the old man's driver would lead to a promotion. More scratch. At least some shy customers. Something.  It had for Geno but so far, he hadn't seen ugotz. That might be because Frankie always seemed to be his wingman when he went to pick up the boss. Frankie was always pushing his way in there kissing the old man's ass. Fat Louie thought that was a mistake. The old man didn't care about that shit. He was long past the place where empty flattery meant something to him. They all kissed his ass and had for fifty years. That's what you do with a killer. You certainly didn't want to piss the old man off. Frankie was just too brash. He acted like he was respectful but there was always an underlying layer of contempt that Fat Louie could feel. And if Fat Louie could feel it, you know the old man could. Fat Louie was so fat he couldn't even feel his dick under his stomach, but he sure could feel the oleaginous bullshit that Frankie ladled on the boss. Now that he didn't show up today, he thought that Fast Frankie might have finally stepped in it. Fat Louie played the long game.

They pulled up in front of the club on Carroll Street to see Geno standing outside. He went and opened the door and the old man got out on to the sidewalk as Geno slammed the door shut. The old man looked at the door as if it made that slamming sound by itself. "What?" the old man said out of the side of his mouth as he looked away. "I need to talk to you about something boss," Geno said as he rushed to open the door of the club.

They walked in silence to the "safe" room and closed the door. The old man sat in his chair and waited for the problem. There was always a problem. Geno was a fuckin' problem. Because he was not a problem solver. 

"That scumbag McCarthy and his Rican sidekick scooped up Frankie and drove off with him," Geno blurted. "I wasn't able to stop it without violence and they took him in their piece of shit car and drove away. That dumb shit admitted he knew one of the whores that got killed. When he admitted that I knew they had to take him in. I went into the club to call the lawyer and they were gone when I got back. I called the precinct, and they didn't know anything about it. McCarthy didn't answer the phone, so I called that other mook. You know. The guy. He said they hadn't seen those two numbnuts all day. So, I don't know what the fuck you know?"

The old man sat silently and looked at Geno like he was an idiot child. "Did you do what you were supposed to do?" he said. Geno nodded affirmatively. "Yeah, I just swept for bugs an hour ago. We are fine. Nobody else came in the room. We're clean." The old man sat and thought for a moment. This all sounded fugazy. Was Frankie talking to the cops? No that wasn't happening. They wouldn't make a big show of picking him up at the club if that was the case. Was he really a suspect in one of the killings or the disappearance of that girl Lydia? Did they actually think he did or did they have something that tied him to the bodies.

"Did you talk to him like I told you about the broads?" "No boss I didn't get a chance before those two scumbags showed up.  They didn't say anything. They just grabbed him up and took him before I had a chance to brace him about his bullshit. You think they really like him for these broads that got killed?" The old man grunted. "Yeah, I think that would be it. Especially if that chootch told them he knew one of them.  He had to since we do since she worked down the block. They had to take him in to sweat him for information at the very least. That scumbag McCarthy asked for our help, but they got their own shit they do. That DNA shit. All kinds of bullshit. Maybe they are coming at him for some reason we don't know. Like a witness. McCarthy knows he's with us. He wouldn't grab him up just to roust him. There had to be some reason.  Tell the lawyer to go to the precinct and demand to see Frankie. In the meantime, go out and find him and tell him I want to see him. McCarthy I mean. Don't take no for an answer. But no rough stuff. He might be bent but he is still a copper."

Geno hesitated. "McCarthy is a major league prick. He ain't gonna listen to reason boss. I don't know how I am gonna get him here without threatening him." The old man grunted again. Geno would never learn. He was getting tired of him. "I said no rough stuff but of course you can set him straight. You need to remind him of what he owes. And what happens if he doesn't pay. If he still holds out on you come and see me and I will tell you what to do. Now go and do it." 

Geno turned and left without another word.

Aiello sat and thought about the whole mess. He was getting tired of Geno and his limitations. The kid had his heart in the right place, but he just didn't have what it takes. Maybe he should think about bringing up somebody from the minors. It was late in the game for him to change it up but needs must. He gripped his chair and pushed himself up. It was getting harder and harder to maneuver these days. He just couldn't let anybody see it. His weakness. Because if he did then the hyenas would pounce. He walked over to the door and called out. "Get Louie here I want to talk to him." One of the wannabees sitting at the bar said, "Which Louie boss?" There was at least four Louie's in the crew.  "Fat Louie. He might be out with the car. Tell him I want to see him."

Five long minutes later there was a knock on the door. It must have taken that fat fuck that long to waddle in from the car. "Come in," the old man said loud enough for him to hear through the door. The door opened and Fat Louie came in. The old man looked him up and down. He was a fat fuck. But the thing was he had a brain. The old man had noticed that. He hadn't commented on it, but he knew it just the same.

"Siddown kid I wanna talk to you.  Use the straight chair so you don't sweat onna the upholstery." Fat Louie made a noise as he gingerly lowered himself into the chair. Like a lot of fat guys, he had a strange grace about him. Like Jackie Gleason or something. "Where's your shadow?" the old man spit out like he was pissed. He wanted to keep this mook on his toes. No complacency in his crew.

"Who Frankie?" Fat Louie said. "I don't know. He usually jumps in the car if he knows I am picking you up, but he wasn't around today. Maybe Geno has him doing something." Smart. Pushing it onto Geno. The old man had noticed the unspoken rivalry between them. Even more he noticed that Geno was oblivious to it. Another reason that it might be time for a change. The problem is that Geno was a made guy and Fatso was just an associate. There were only two made guys left in his crew. Him and Geno. The whole crew knew that somebody was due to get straightened out soon but they didn't know who. This situation might tell the tale.

"Geno said that McCarthy and the spic picked him up in front of the club while we were on Court Street at the bakery. I assume somebody filled you in." "Yeah, I heard. He must be in the hoosegow, no?" "Hoosegow? Who the fuck are you Roy Rodgers for fucks sake. He ain't in the jug on Union Street. The guy said he didn't come in. Find him. Or McCarthy. And tell him I want to see him. Now. Capice?"  "Sure boss no problem."

Fat Louie hoisted himself up out of the chair and left the room. It was like the fucking Hindenburg had just left the building. The room got twenty degrees colder when his fat carcass left. It was good. He had set up a sort of half ass competition. Let's see who got to that Irish prick first. More importantly who will get him here the quickest. 

Fat Louie went out the street. He had to figure out where to go to find Frankie. He knew his usual haunts so he could eliminate them first. If he wasn't in the jug at Union Street, then he might hold up in one of his locals to nurse his sores. He would come back tomorrow full of bluster and bullshit. If that is what happened. But Fat Louie didn't think so. Still, he would cover all of his bases. 

He stuck his head back into the club. 'Hey, I want three of youse out here now." Three of the wannabees at the bar came out on the street. They were poor imitations of the mob associates of the Seventies and Eighties. They wore designer jeans and silk shirts like they were auditioning for an extra role on the Sopranos.  You might as well have called them Huey, Dewey and Louie.  Their actual names were Nino, Enzo and Louie. 

"Boys we are looking for Frankie. And that Irish prick McCarthy. They might be together they might not. Enzo you go check that strip joint the Foxy Den. Nino you check out the bars down Atlantic. I know he hangs out at Monteros sometimes so he might be drowning his sorrows. It is also a haunt of McCarthy so go slow. If you see him tell him the old man wants him. Or better yet call me. Louie, you get that Spanish place in Sunset Park. You know the one. With the cheap semi-pros. Check it out and then come back here. Remember grab up Frankie. If he gives you any shit call me and sit on him. In fact, if he says he ain't coming in then sit and drink with him and call me and wait. If you see McCarthy tell him the old man wants to talk to him. Now. Got it?"

"Yeah sure Louie," the three chorused. They went off to their individual cars that were parked on Hicks Street. 

Fat Louie was going to do his own search. He took the big car. The SUV. This way if the old man needed a ride, he would call him. He didn't want anybody else to bogart his spot. He drove off the block and headed deeper into Red Hook. There was a bar in an out of the way corner that McCarthy could often be found at when he wanted to lay low. It was where he had found him when he was in deep with the bookies. He had floated him enough escarole to get straight and put the word out that nobody should take his action. That was how they got their hooks into him. 

He turned down Lorraine and off to a side street and pulled in front of the bar. It was a nondescript hole in the wall. He had definitely found McCarthy. His car was outside. Fat Louie sighed. This was not going to be fun.

He slowly lumbered out of the car and waddled into the bar. McCarthy and Torrez were seated in the back at a table against the wall. Various shades of hipsters were strewn around the bar busy staring at their phones. Fat Louie waddled up to the table as the two detectives stared into their drinks. 

"Hey McCarthy. The old man wants to see you. Now." McCarthy looked up blearily and laughed. "He does? Good for him. Look Fatso I don't work for him so he can go fuck himself. I'm tired of sucking guinea dick you hear me you miserable fat rice ball? Go fuck yourself."

Fat Louie took it. He didn't get upset at the invective. He was fat. He knew that. Calling him fat didn't make him blink. But blowing off the old man was a bad choice. For both of them.

"Look Dummy, can I call you Dummy? I know all of your friends do. It ain't smart for you to get on the wrong side of the old man. I am telling you this so you don't fuck up. Look I'm on your side. Didn't I get you out of those gambling debts? Now I want to help you again. Lets just go talk to the old man."

"I already told you I ain't gonna play your game anymore you shit. So just fuck off and die all right you fat fuck."

"Hey I can't help you if you don't want to help yourself. But here's the thing. Where's Frankie? He left with you and now he is in the wind. He ain't in the jug we know that. So where is he Dummy?"

"That piece of human garbage. Where do find garbage Fatso? You know they found that girl in the garbage. In the dump on Staten Island. She got all chewed up from the truck. Frankie said he knew her. So maybe he is in the garbage. It's where the elite meet you know what I'm talking about. I mean where do you find garbage in Red Hook? Riddle me that Fat Man?"

Fat Louie stopped to think for a minute. He knew that the girl had gone in a dumpster. He knew all about it. He knew about all the crime that happened in the neighborhood. The clerk in the precinct was his cousin. She fed him all the details of what was going on. Especially murders. So he knew about the girl from the nursery. In fact he knew her. He had bought some plants for his Mom from her. She was a nice girl. He was upset at her murder. If he thought Frankie had done it he would have whacked him then and there. So what was this drunken Irish prick telling him. That Frankie was garbage. Where would he put him. Then it hit him.

In a dumpster.

He turned and left them without another word. If the dumb Irish prick was going to blow off the old man it was on him. He went back to the car and got in and drove off. He started driving up and down the streets in a grid pattern. Stopping at every dumpster he found. He would get out of the car and look in each one. It was amazing how many of them there were in Red Hook. Gentrification led to a lot of refurbishing. Refurbishing lead to a lot of dumpsters. There seemed to be one on every block. 

The first five came up empty. The sixth one not so much. It was an old rusty dirty one. He looked inside and there was nothing but rotting garbage. 

Behind it there was more garbage.

Frankie was lying in the street covered in blood.  He bent down to check his pulse. There was a steady strong beat.  He was alive. Just unconscious. For now.

That could change if the old man got his balls twisted.

He didn't want to bet either way.