Ain’t nobody more surprised than a hustler when he’s popped. Damn, what’s going on here, how did this happen? The shrinks has been conned—been psyched by the clients. Ha, the dope pusher’s got it all doped out. I am the master of this field too. Many is the time in the Joint
that I have worked out a man’s legal problem and then I have gotten to his skull and “That’s where your head is at” and the dude has gotten shook up—“Damn, Carlito, how’d you do it? That’s it, that’s where my head is at.” The public don’t know it, but there’s plenty heavy thinkers in the Joint and there ain’t no better place for heavy rapping and thinking, except that most of them are only worried about their own writs and briefs. The government ought to start up a think tank in the Joint—I’ll bet they come up strong. Yeah, a think-tank tank.
10
W
ELL, NOW WE’RE GETTING DOWN TO MY LAST CON
spiracy. I was busy fixing up my discotheque, trying to make it like a joint from the speakeasy days—Bonnie and Clyde jazz. What with all the straights dressing up like Al Capone, I figured this was the ticket. I got a lot of ideas about things like that. Anyway, Rocco’s man Vinnie dropped by one night. In all the years I known Vinnie, I never got his last name. The bulls never believe you, but in the life you can know a guy for twenty years and never know his last name. And if he’s a wop, God forbid you should ask—automatically you’re a stoolie. Funny. Anyway, Vinnie walks in, points to the john, and says, “Let’s go for a blow.” I got mad at this— I did not allow no snorting in my joint. Fuckin’ people got no consideration for a man’s living. “Vinnie, you know I’m very strict about my rule, let’s go round the block.” So we went for a walk around the block. Good candy too. The sphinx speaks, “Get your money together, then double it—yeah, double it. It’s already
left—should be here by Friday, Saturday—I’ll be around. Fifties and hundreds.”
“Wait a minute, Vinnie. Double—that’s long bread— way out—I don’t know if I can make it—”
“That’s your lookout. You in or you out?”
“Okay, I’m in—I’ll get it together.”
“Saturday.”
“You got it. That’s good snort, Vin, you got some more?”
“See ya.”
Two hundred thou. That means the pot is two mill. That means two hundred keys. Must be coming over in a trailer truck. Good God almighty damn, biggest move I ever heard of—you know I’m dealing myself in. The government declares war, all the pushers run for their holes—meanwhile the panic sets in, the price goes up, up, up. Then the real hustlers grab hold and make the real scores.
I’m scuffling around all week getting my money together. Friday, the
France
docked. Well all right. But Saturday, no Vinnie; Sunday, no Vinnie. I knew we were in trouble, I knew it in front, but I hung in anyway. That’s when the hustler pays his dues, when he don’t know how he’s gonna get zapped—he knows the rug pulled out from under but he don’t know how or where or who. That is a bitch, when you’re waiting. You know the feds are out there scheming, but you don’t know who they got, or what they got, or who’s talking, or whether they been staked out next door for a month. But you know yo’ ass is up for grabs. You know it, motherfucker.
I ain’t left the house for two days. Monday night I can’t sit no more. I go to my discotheque—I was calling it Bonnie ’n Clyde; it was really shaping up with live music and everything. Around 3
A.M
., the phone rang behind the bar. “Carlito, for you.” It was Rocco. “Close up and wait for me.” Click. Jesus Christ! Maybe the wops got him and I’m gonna be hit. I chased everybody out the joint. Then I ran down to the basement and got a sawed-off shotgun and a Walther PPK automatic I had behind a vent. I put the piece under the cash register and the shotgun at the far end of the bar—the way I was going if I had to make a fast exit. Better call uptown for some of my people. Hold the phone—maybe the feds got Rocco and they’re coming for me, and me with all this hardware. I must be out to lunch in my skull. I ran downstairs and hid all the artillery again. By now I was in a cold sweat— like I said, it’s a bitch when you don’t know what’s coming off. But Rocco would never give me up—what happened to Vinnie? All the lights were out; I sat behind the bar and poured myself a stiff shot. Car lights outside, then I heard Rocco—“Carlito, open up.” So be it.
He was all fucked up. I never seen Rocco this way— scuffed, no shave, all shook up. “Trouble, Carlito, trouble.”
“Jesus Christ, Rocco, what’s up?”
“The shit is down in a station wagon under the highway—been there since Friday.”
“So what happened?”
“This French kid, Marcel, drove it off the ship; Vinnie got in with him—they got as far as Canal Street to go to
the tunnel. Then they bailed out. Vinnie got to a phone— he said where he left the car and that they’d been made by the feds. The two of them have disappeared, but there’s no arrest.”
“So what the fuck is going on, Rocco?”
“Battaglia got to me tonight. He says his two hundred large came from Amadeo and that I have to account for it plus the hundred from the Reggie mess. But that money is already gone with my own three hundred as front money. I put up five hundred thou!”
“But where’s Vinnie—he’s gotta account.”
“Battaglia said don’t worry about Vinnie, I’m responsible for Amadeo’s money. My uncle is in a coma since last week—he’s going out for sure, they know it. Can you believe this?”
“We’re in trouble, we’re in trouble.”
“I’m ruined, Carlito. I have to account for their three hundred and I’ve blown my own three hundred. I’m dead, Carlito, I’m dead.”
Rocco slumped on a stool. The joint was pitch-black but I could see he ain’t slept for days. He was at the end of the line.
“What’ll we do, Carlito, what’ll we do?”
The brains have failed, now comes time for the balls!
“We gotta get that car.”
“Are you crazy? The feds are waiting.”
“Vinnie may have panicked, Rocco, and even if the feds made the car—if a good driver gets the jump on them he can get away. You remember that guy, Bobby Iggione?”
“Yeah, Bobby Higgins—they were waiting and he still got away—that was in the fifties.”
“I’m down.”
“You’re crazy, Charles.”
“You got a suggestion, Rocco?”
“I’m wasted.”
“Okay. First, we’ll take a dry run in my car, shoot past the station wagon, check out the scene—then we double back in your car. Wait a minute, Rocco, how am I going to get the car going? Got no time to be crossing wires.”
“I got a duplicate set of the keys when the money went down.”
“Well all reet! We’ll come barrel-assing down, you brake, I’ll roll out—you take off south, I’ll cut east on Canal. I know the area like my hand. I’ll run them sombitches into the ground—they won’t catch me.”
“But—”
“Ain’t no butts here ’cept ours, what we is trying to save, Rock. If Amadeo says you gotta go, how far behind am I gonna be? I say roll the dice.”
“You’re on.”
I felt better already. Waiting around is a drag, but once you make up your mind what’s to be, it’s easy. Action is where I’m at.
I
T WAS AROUND
4
A.M., NO MOON—LIKE THE
P.R.’
S SAY
, darker than a poor man’s hopes. We drove both our cars to 23rd Street near the Hudson River. Then Rocco parked
his car and got in with me. I drove south under the West Side Highway. We were moving downtown on West Street when on our left we passed the Federal House of Detention. Of all the buildings in the world to see tonight, we gotta see the fuckin’ federal jailhouse. “
Madon
,” said Rocco. “
Bendito
,” said me. We were approaching Canal Street—I was clocking lights so the red light would catch us on Canal Street. We caught the light. There it was under the overpass, second car down, facing east. A Volkswagen bus. Four hundred pounds, eighty million fuckin’ dollars in those side panels. The sweat was coming down my back into my ass.
Not a livin’ ass in sight, stone quiet, nothing moved. That means there’s forty agents around here. The light turned green—we went down to Chambers, made a left, went east a few blocks, then back up to 23rd Street where Rocco’s car was.
Nobody on our tail. Ha. We got into Rocco’s four-door Caddie. He was driving, I was in the back laying on the floor, facing the left door. Rocco said, “Bobby Higgins crashed into the cars, drove all over sidewalks—you ready for that, Carlito?” “No I’m down here on the floor knocking off a piece of tail. C’mon, Rocco!”
“You know what they told Bobby Higgins?”
“What?”
“The feds can only put you in jail, but you know what we’re gonna do—that’s what they told him.”
“So he went, right?”
“Yeah, he had to, but you’re not in the same jackpot, Carlito.”
“The hell I ain’t, Rocco! Amadeo’s got a double-decker coffin ready for the two of us. Now listen, no sense trying to sneak up on them—you barrel-ass, hit your brake when my rear door is on a line with the driver’s side of the bus—I’ll dive into the street and roll right up to the door of the bus and jump in. Do me one thing, Rocco—jump out of your car for a second, stand up, then jump back in and drive like hell, make a lot of noise. They’ll think you came for the junk, got cold feet, and took off. They’ll come after you like gangbusters.”
“Meanwhile, you’ll tippy-toe out with the bus, right?”
“Sounds terrific, don’t it, Rocco?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
We came back down on West Street. I had the door cracked.
Rocco said, “We’re coming to Canal Street, I’m stepping on the gas—get ready!”
He slammed on the brakes—I dove out to the street with the keys in my hand. I heard Rocco yelling, then he took off. All hell broke loose, like the Fourth of July—lights, whistles, sirens, cars screeching and braking, gunfire. Don’t ask me how, but I got into the bus and got it started.
La puta madre
—let’s roll. I shot across West Street right into a garage on the corner of Canal. At least three cars came running out right at me. I cut left hard, bounced off a gas pump, then with my foot on the floorboard I cut east on Canal. The agents’ cars were swarming all over me by the dozens—we was banging and crashing all over. They was hitting me from the back and the side like fuckin’ kamikaze. But I still
had the four wheels down on the ground, still running east on Canal; then I saw a helicopter coming at me when I was getting near the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. Blam! They blew my windows out—the bus jumped in the air, but I kept going. The chopper was bumping me with the pontoons trying to tip me over.
Madre puta!
Canal Street is wide open—I need a roof. On Varick Street I made a hard right, jumped a sidewalk, and went through a space in the wall of the exit ramp of the Holland Tunnel. Wrong way—fuck it! I was out of my skull—I barreled into the tunnel with the cars coming out. Move over, I’m coming on. I was bouncing off the walls of the tunnel, gas pedal going through the floor. Almost out the outer end. Then I saw it. They backed a fuckin’ truck sideways into the tunnel. That ain’t gonna stop me, I’m coming out the other side! Then I saw the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. I hit my brake and turned the wheel hard left. Too late. I hit the truck like an artillery shell. There was an explosion—I flew out the door, bounced off the tunnel railing, and fell on the highway. Look like the whole fuckin’ tunnel was on fire. I couldn’t move, seemed like every bone was broken.
Puñeta
, is this the end of Carlito? Nothing like that. The
federicos
dragged me out. The vehicles were still popping, metal was flying all over—a real torch job. And the snow was all melted. I was laughing through my ribs, but I was laughing. Exhibit One coming up, a roasted marshmallow—they can roll it in front of the jury. Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy ride. Then I passed out. I woke up in Beekman Hospital handcuffed
to the bed with two agents on me twenty-four hours a day. Concussion, busted ribs, no big thing.
Next stop, 427 West Street, Federal House of Detention. I’d passed it on my way down twice. It’s a Joint but it’s a country club compared to the Tombs. They took me in front of the U.S. magistrate in Foley Square. I couldn’t get hold of a lawyer so this Legal Aid kid spoke up for me—“Mr. Brigante has deep roots in the community.” That’s for sure. “I admit Mr. Brigante has a substantial criminal record.” Admit shit, my record ain’t bad compared to a real criminal and I ain’t messed with the federal government before. “Mr. Brigante is enveloped in a presumption of innocence, notwithstanding the gravity of the charges.” The wops would have enveloped me in a gravity all right if I hadn’t gone to get that junk— besides, the ice cream is melted so how’s a dope pinch gonna stick? The lawyer did such a great job they only fixed a half-million-dollar bail. Five hundred thou for a cat like me, an American citizen, a lifelong resident of New York. That ain’t right. Where the fuck am I gonna go, Patagonia? I do the crime, I do the time—I ain’t no fuckin’ Bolivian with white socks on; I’m here and I’m gonna stay here, but I got to be on the streets so I can wind up my affairs like them white-collar boys do. Right away these lawyers fuck you up. Damned if dealing with lawyers ain’t the worse part of being a hustler.
So they put me in maximum security at West Street. Guess who my neighbor was? Rocco Fabrizi, formerly with the firm of U.S. Mafia. “Damn, Rocco, how far did you get?”
“I don’t think I got to the next corner. I told them, you’re making a big mistake. I hear you were A.J. Foyt going through the tunnel.”
“I might have made it, but I thought about this guy I saw on the Jersey Turnpike years ago and I hit my brake and cut—otherwise I’d have hit the truck full speed.”
“What guy are you talking about?”
“Some guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt—this was many years ago—he was going a hundred miles an hour on the Jersey Turnpike the wrong way. They couldn’t stop him so they put a firetruck across the highway. He hit it full clip—he and his sports car went through and up. I saw him hanging on top of the ladder; he was wearing one of them shirts, what was left of him. Cop said the guy had lost his girl. When I saw the truck in the tunnel, that’s what came to my mind like twenty years later—crazy, right?”