Authors: Iceberg Slim
Olivia ran to him with tears flowing and sobbed, “Papa, they were trying to kill Jimmy Collucci. I love him. Papa, we're going to be married!”
Tonelli embraced her and patted her back. He released her and went, with a furious face, to Mario cowering in bewilderment.
Mario mumbled, “Mr. Tonelli, we thought he was a thief.”
Tonelli flailed Mario's head and shoulders with the cane and shouted, “
Stupido!
You have hurt my daughter's innocent fiancé.”
Tonelli went and put an arm around Collucci. He turned to several of his men and said, “Take this boy to the finest hospital. He must have the best of everything. He's going to be my son-in-law. Understand?”
Louis Bellini chuckled and said, “That skinny kid has the balls to be important. Tonelli's guys look like a whole mob worked them over.”
Then moments later Bellini stuck his head into the limousine about to pull away for the hospital and said softly to Collucci, “Jimmy Collucci . . . I like you. Are you Sicilian?”
Collucci nodded.
“What is your mother's maiden name?”
Collucci said, “Why?”
Bellini frowned and said, “I'll overlook your ignorance this time. But never ask Louis Bellini
why
again.”
Collucci said, “I'm sorry. Her maiden name was Saietta.”
The limousine pulled away. Collucci stayed in the hospital for a week.
On the sixth day Frank Cocio came into his room and said, “Congratulations, you are to marry Olivia Tonelli thirty days from today.”
Then Cocio smiled. “Mr. Bellini wants you to join the Family. He told me to see that you make your bones. I have the guy you need in mind already.”
Collucci said, “Who do I . . . ?”
Cocio grinned and said, “Bobo Librizzi,” and went through the door.
Collucci lay in shock. His joy at the prospect of becoming a Mafioso wiped out as he wondered how he would manage to kill his friend.
And now, the recollection fading, Collucci glided the Caddie into Chicago's exclusive Gold Coast section. Refuge of the rich and the powerful.
Collucci sighed as he gazed up at Joe Tonelli's fifty-story apartment building. The crown jewel of his vast real estate holdings.
He swung the Caddie off the street to halt before the eye of an infrared TV monitor. The monitor swept above a wide steel door at a ramp leading into Joe Tonnelli's private underground garage and elevator.
The steel door rolled up and the Caddie's headlamps spat light into the ramp's inky mouth. Shadows darted and leaped as the Caddie crooned down the ramp and into the tunnel. He drove into the brightly lit garage and parked.
Two guards in shirtsleeves waved from their gin rummy on the rear seat of a Tonelli limousine. He went across the concrete to the self-service elevator in the rear of the garage and glanced up at the bulletproof dome jutting out above the elevator and nodded to the machine gunner, who waved.
He reached to punch the “up” button. The cage opened, and out stepped Lieutenant Paul Porta. He was commander of the special gang squad headquartered at Eleventh Street Central Station.
The chunky cop shook Collucci's hand warmly and said, “Maybe you're lucky I preceded you up there.”
Collucci said, “Why, Paul?”
Porta said, “A half-hour ago, Taylor's Warriors hit Mullins' policy bank check-in station and safe for seventy-five grand.”
Collucci said, “Uh-uh, maybe I better go up another time.”
Porta leaned close and said seriously, “Jimmy, I think I've finally
done it. In fact, I am almost certain that within twenty-four hours I will have a dependable undercover agent infiltrated into Tit for Tat Taylor's Warriors. I will learn all the secrets of their tunnel and defense systems they have under their so-called Free Zone. Arrangements are being made to impeach and force that spade governor out of office. Our man goes in and the National Guard will crush the Warriors.”
Collucci said, “Is how you planted the pigeon classified?”
Porta laughed and said, “Jimmy, if you're going to tip them off, it is. It wasn't difficult really. A black con just released from Joliet Penitentiary has a Warrior pal out here who had been his cell mate. I filed a detainer warrant for stickup, murder against him on his release date. He agreed to help me bust up the Warriors. I arranged to have the beef withdrawn, with privilege to reinstate against him at any time, of course.”
Collucci banged him on the shoulder and said, “Congratulations, Paul. And good luck!”
They shook hands.
Just before they parted, Collucci said, “Paul, your agent anybody I know?”
Porta said, “I doubt it. He's just an ordinary young spade whose street moniker is Rapping Roscoe. He's full of shit alright, but I've got him, as they say down in Texas, between a rock and a hard place.”
They laughed together, and Collucci stepped into the elevator.
And on the far Southside, Rapping Roscoe rode in a battered black Pontiac with his ex-cell mate, Bumpy Lewis, and several other Warriors that Roscoe did not know were Warriors. They all were observing him closely for his fitness to become a Warrior.
T
he drama for Rapping Roscoe and the occupants of the battered black Pontiac started to unfold when Lotsa Black Hayes, the massive driver, glanced up at the rearview mirror and said raggedly, “Ivory, we got two black rollers on our ass.”
Ivory Jones, the squad leader, leaned forward toward Dew Drop Allen, the tiny white Warrior on the front seat beside the driver, and said casually, “Drop, you know what to do and when if necessary.”
Dew Drop nodded, and Ivory said, “Lotsa, do the thing now.”
Lotsa Black stomped on the gas pedal. The finely tuned race-car engine booted the Pontiac forward with a roar. Rapping Roscoe, Lieutenant Porta's tool, turned jerkily and looked through the rear window at the fading headlamps of the blue Plymouth sedan.
Bumpy Lewis glanced at Roscoe and said, “Roscoe, be cool, my man. Ain't no reason now to keep it from you. You are with members of them bad muthafuckuhs, Warriors For Willie Poe. Them black rollers back there are lucky they ain't gonna get a chance to hit on us. No roller fuckin' with us is gonna get anything but offed.”
Roscoe smiled weakly and mumbled, “I'm together, brother. You dudes are Warriors? Ain't that a bitch?”
A half mile from the safety of the Zone the Pontiac suddenly started to lose and regain speed in alarming heavings and jerks.
Ivory Jones looked back at the pinpoint headlamps of the blue Plymouth and commanded, “Lotsa, take the next corner and cut into the first alley and kill your lights. Drop, get out the muscle.”
Dew Drop leaned forward and rapidly punched at the car's radio pushbutton selectors, which if done in a precisely coded release pattern would pop up the top of the dashboard. This top was really the lid for a long, shallow steel box which contained several preloaded Magnum pistols, a high-powered automatic rifle, a sawed-off shotgun, grenades, and ammunition in the miniarsenal.
The lid did not pop up! Dew Drop twice again carefully punched the pushbuttons as Lotsa Black turned a corner and drove a half block north down an alley and snuffed the Pontiac's lights and ailing engine.
The alley was dark and quiet except for the profane voice of an uptight stud in a distant flat.
Ivory Jones said harshly, “Drop, the guns, pass out the goddamn guns!”
Dew Drop stopped fumbling with the radio buttons. He turned his face toward the rear of the car and opened his mouth to speak. But no sound came out. His blue eyes stared through the rear window as if he was hypnotized.
He pointed and said in a hoarse whisper, “Ivory, the release gizmo, the switch to open the box, must be out. I can't get to the guns, and I think I see them rollers coming down the alley with lights out.”
Everybody in the Pontiac looked out the rear window. There was the dark hump of a car outlined against the glow of street lamps at the mouth of the alley.
Ivory flung open the heavy door next to him. He leaped to the
alley floor and shouted, “Drop, get under the wheel and talk shit to them. Lotsa, get out and fade with me until we can maneuver from the rear and bust those rollers' heads with a brick or something.”
Lotsa Black had gotten one gigantic leg out of the Pontiac when the Pontiac and Ivory were blasted by a bright white light.
“Police!” a bass voice shouted. “Nigger, put your hands on the top of the car or get your head blown off.”
Ivory spat in the direction of the voice and slowly placed his palms on the roof of the Pontiac. Roscoe's knee beat a frantic tattoo against Bumpy's thigh inside the Pontiac.
The tires on the blue Plymouth hissed like tomcats against the gritty alley floor as the eye of the spotlight moved forward to stop two feet behind the Pontiac. Two hard-faced men sprang from the Plymouth. The slim one stood at the rear of the Pontiac. He switched and aimed a shotgun at Ivory Jones and the frozen figures inside the Pontiac.
Slim commanded Ivory, “Now, you bad motherfucker, raise your arms high. Back up past this shotgun and put your hands on the top of the car at the rear.”
Ivory followed the order, but spat again as he backed past the shotgun.
Thick Set went past Ivory to the driver's side with a thirty-eight snub-nose pointed at Lotsa Black's head and said, in a soft, almost sweet, voice, “Alright, nigger, haul that fat ass out here slowly and stand beside that bastard at the rear with your hands on the top.”
Lotsa Black slid his bulk slowly from the car seat. He took a step and a half toward the rear before he bellowed, whirled, and lunged for the snub-nose. The thirty-eight exploded, and a tiny bolt of orange lightning leaped from the muzzle. The Pontiac rocked as Lotsa Black smashed back against it and fell.
Ivory shouted, “You're gonna be iced, you faggot nigger, if you waste him. We're Warriors, motherfuckers.”
Slim moved quickly and shoved the muzzle of his shotgun hard
against Ivory's throat under the jawbone and pleaded in his loud voice, “Please! Please! Crack another word! Come on, you terrible bastard, do me a favor and open your jib again so your mammy can bury you without your head. Now let's march!”
Ivory went toward the front of the Pontiac and its rigid occupants, with the shotgun rammed under his jawbone. He kneeled beside the front wheel with his palms on the fender.
Slim stepped back to cover Ivory and the interior of the Pontiac. He said, “Where did you hit Lard Ass?”
Thick Set laughed and said, “Through the right eye and out the top of his skull.”
He pointed the thirty-eight at Dew Drop through the open door and said, “Get out and kneel beside this loud-mouthed nigger.”
Dew Drop got out and followed the order. Thick Set stood behind Dew Drop and Ivory. Slim moved to the open rear window of the Pontiac. He pointed the shotgun at Bumpy and Roscoe on the backseat.
Thick Set said, “Whitey Blue Eyes, are you a Warrior too?”
Dew Drop said loudly, “I sure am, and you can bet your mother's fucking life I'mâ”
Dew Drop's reply was cut off as Thick Set took a step forward and fired two rapid shots. Roscoe and Bumpy saw the arms and hands of Dew Drop and Ivory slide lifelessly from the front fender.
Thick Set threw his head back and said gleefully, “What the hell, let's be tidy and go all the way.”
Slim swung open the rear door and said, “You niggers hit the ground and go the clean way or sit right there and I'll blow you away nasty with this shotgun.”
Bumpy hurtled though the open door toward Slim and seized the barrel of the shotgun with both hands. Roscoe was paralyzed. His teeth chattered as if he were encased in ice. Bumpy struggled with Slim for the shotgun. Thick Set sprinted toward them casually, pressed the thirty-eight against the back of Bumpy's head, and pulled the
trigger. Bumpy sagged to the ground. Slim and Thick Set stuck their faces into the Pontiac. Vomit dribbled from Roscoe's mouth. His eyes walled toward the top of his head. He lay on the floor in a ball, whimpering piteously like a puppy with a crushed rear end.
Slim guffawed and said, “We should have a camera to get a shot of this bad Warrior crapping in his pants.”
Thick Set reached in and jerked Roscoe to the alley floor. He pointed the muzzle of the thirty-eight at his temple.
Roscoe stared into the muzzle. His heels clicked together in a spasm of terror, and he blubbered rapidly, “I ain't no Warrior, I swear I ain't. I'm one of you. Call Lieutenant Porta at Eleventh Street Station. He'll tell you I ain't lying.”
Thick Set snorted and said, “Bullshit, you're no undercover cop. We'd know because we're members of Porta's special squad. What's your badge number?”
Roscoe waved his arms and pleaded, “I ain't got no badge number 'cause I didn't mean I was a real roller. I mean the lieutenant is got me working to get inside the Warriors' hideout, to set them up an stuff like that. Please believe me, Officers. I ain't stuffing on you. Call Lieutenant Porta at Eleventh Street. If he ain't there, I got his unlisted private number at home. I ain't jiving, Officers. I ain't no Warrior.”
Slim said, “Write it down.” He dug into his coat pocket and took out a small address book, then he threw it on Roscoe's chest.
Thick Set flung a ballpoint beside it. Roscoe, in the glow of the spotlight, shakily scrawled a telephone number in the book. They pulled Roscoe to his feet. He leaned against the rear fender of the Pontiac. Then he shuddered and batted his eyes rapidly at a terrifying spectacle. Bumpy sprang up, grimly alive. He came toward Roscoe, followed by Dew Drop, Lotsa Black, and Ivory Jones. They stood in a half circle glaring at Roscoe.
Bumpy said coldly, “You a dirty nigger, Roscoe. We all Warriors, chump, and you gonna be executed!”
Roscoe's lips pounded together soundlessly. Slim tore a page from the address book and gave it to Ivory.