Guns 'n Money: The Collection

By Ty Johnston

Small-time mobster Jackie Cruise lands out of prison after five years only to have someone start shooting at him. Not one too take such acts without response, Jackie goes on a crusade, a tirade to discover who wants him dead. Along the way he loses some friends, makes new ones, and discovers betrayal in his midst, all while leaving a long trail of bodies behind him.

Collects 5 Guns 'n Money books

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Johnston
• Release date: Aug 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311641335

Ty Johnston

Originally from Kentucky, Ty Johnston is a former newspaper journalist. He lives in North Carolina with loving memories of his late wife.Blog: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

Book preview

Guns ’n Money

Chapter 1: Home Sweet Home

The second I climb out of the taxi, the bullets start flying. Dropping my suitcase, I duck down behind the cab, reaching inside my jacket for a piece, but then remember I haven’t carried a piece in years. Hell, I haven’t done anything in years.

The bullets keep right on coming, a half dozen of them now, snapping against the road and the sidewalk all around me and the taxi, spitting up chunks of gray and black. I’m looking around for a better place to hide when the cabbie decides he doesn’t need to get paid and he peels off, his ride kicking out black smoke and leaving me in the open.

A couple more bullets. This time right around me. I don’t even have time to look who it is doing the shooting. I can feel the tiny shrapnel pieces of concrete darting up from the sidewalk and lancing against my cheeks.

I duck and roll, heading for an alley between two brownstones. I forget my luggage. A few more bullets are right behind me, missing by inches, crashing into the alley’s walls.

As I enter the cool darkness of the alley, I spin around and look out. Across the street there’s a black sedan peeling out, leaving a trail of black rubber. I can’t make out the driver, but for just a moment I spy the shooter, some guy in a black hoodie hanging out the passenger window on the other side. He’s sporting a 9mm, the bastard. He gets off one more shot, the bullet going wide, then the car is gone.

I breath softer for the moment. Welcome back to the big city, Jackie. Not even out of prison a day and you’re already getting shot at. But who the hell would want me dead? I mean, I been locked away for five years, and as far as I know I ain’t got no enemies on the outside. At least none living, anyways.

I’m just about to regain my nerve and stroll back to the sidewalk to retrieve my suitcase when a sports car the color of a baboon’s ass slams on the brakes and screeches to a stop on the street in front of me.

I nearly turn and run as the passenger door is thrown open.

But then I hear a familiar voice, one I hadn’t heard in a long while. Tony Olivetti. Jackie! Get your ass in here!

Smiling, I glance out the end of the alley. Nobody else is shooting at me and no more dark sedan in sight. Keeping my head low, I chug out to the sidewalk, grab up my suitcase and dive into the Italian sports car.

Squirming around in the seat until I’m sitting straight, I toss my case in the back and slam the door closed. Looking to the driver, I say, Good to see you again, Tony. I think you just saved my ass.

Chapter 2: Back in the Saddle

Tony leads the way and opens the door for me as we stroll into the room. The place is an office, elegant by anybody’s standards. Thick carpet. Glass windows from floor to ceiling on the left. A big, heavy desk of rosewood in the center of the room. On the right a dark wall with paintings by Rembrandt or Picasso or somebody.

Behind the desk sits a hefty guy in a pinstripe suit, dark glasses covering his eyes, one ear glued to a phone. He looks up and nods at me and Tony, then holds up a hand. After a few seconds, he says something into the phone, then hangs it up.

This guy is Roberto Carcinni, an up-and-coming guy in the Family. Not a top dog, you got to understand, but one of the younger fellahs working his way up. From my vantage point, he’s already pretty high up, but I’m smart enough to know that in the bigger scheme of things, Roberto is still small fry compared to the big boys of Chisel City.

Tony! Roberto shouts out as he tugs down his sunglasses and drops them on his desk. He stands and comes around the desk, giving my friend Tony a hug.

Then the two turn and look at me.

Tony points to me. This is Jackie Cruise, boss. I was telling you about him.

Roberto nods. That’s right. Jackie, I hear you just got out.

Yes, sir, I say. Always be polite to the guys with money and guns.

What they get you for? he asks.

Armed robbery, Tony says before I can answer. Can you believe that shit?

The two chuckle, then Roberto says to me, What were you holding up?

Appliance shop, I say with a grin. Was supposed to deliver some goods to your brother that night, but ... well, I didn’t make it.

Roberto’s older brother Francis had been my boss back in the day, but Francis had moved up in the world, was a lot higher on ye olde totem pole than Roberto now was. My guess was the Family wanted me back in, probably trusted me after I’d kept my mouth shut all these years, did my time like a man and never snitched on anybody, even when all it would have taken was a word and I would have been out on the street in a matter of days. Of course, I’d probably have been dead soon after, but it is what it is. I kept mum, thus earning some respect. That was probably why Tony had been there to pick me up near the bus stop. I don’t know where I would have gone if Tony hadn’t picked me up, but I would have thought of something, maybe an old relative’s place until I could have gotten myself straight. With Tony showing, I was already ahead on getting myself straight. I was here, in front of a Carcinni, which meant they wanted me back in. Which meant I had a job. Things were looking up.

But who the hell had been shooting at me?

The question is almost on my lips as Tony says, Boss, you wouldn’t believe what we ran into.

Roberto gives him a quizzical look.

Just as I’m pulling up, Tony explains, a couple of asshats take a few shots at Jackie here from across the street.

That so? Roberto asks me.

I nod. Yeah. Don’t know why.

That would be the Sardonas, Roberto says with a frown.

Sardonas? I say. I knew a Frankie Sardona back in the day, but he and I never had any bad blood between us.

Roberto grimaces. Things have changed, Jackie. Times are different now. Frankie Sardona used to be one of our best boys, but he went solo two, three years back. Built up his own team. Now he thinks he can force his way into the racket, add his own name to that of the Family.

But why the hell was he shooting at me?

Probably didn’t want us to get our hands on you, Roberto says. Hey, look, you and me, we never worked together, but my brother and Tony here have nothing but good to say about you. So I wanted you in. Frankie and his boys probably got word of it, or maybe they just knew you were getting out, and they decided to take you down before you could get to us. Sort of a preemptive strike, if you know what I mean.

I nod. Yeah, sure, I knew what he meant. But if Sardona was behind this, it seemed an awful bold move to try to take someone out in the middle of the day on a public street, especially when that someone had possible ties to the Carcinni clan. If Frankie was willing to do that, then he must think he’s got a lot of clout, a lot of power. He must not have feared the cops or the Carcinnis. Or he was batshit crazy.

Roberto pats me on a shoulder. Look, Jackie, how about Tony here gets you set up someplace decent, then we get you doing a few low level jobs? Just some light work to get your hand back into things? Then in a few weeks, if you feel up to it, we’ll get you back into some heavy hitting? What do you say?

Sounds good to me, Mr. Carcinni. What else was I going to say?

Roberto turns to Tony. You got this?

I got it, Tony says. Jollie Lemon has been needing a hand, so I figured we’d help him out.

Good. Roberto pats my shoulder again. You boys need anything, don’t hesitate to call.

Yes, sir, Tony says.

Yes, sir, I repeat.

Chapter 3: Lawyers, Guns and Money

Jollie Lemon is an old-time fence. He’s been around for years and years, running an honest pawn shop up front of his place while in back he sells and trades in goods not so honest. I did some work with him from time to time back before my government-funded vacation, so I had no qualms dealing with him again.

Before we get to his place, however, Tony gets me squared away in a little room little more than a flophouse owned by the Carcinnis on the east end. It isn’t much, just a futon on the floor with a couch and a TV so ancient it weighed a hundred pounds and had a black and white screen. Still, it’s a place to sleep and to hang between jobs.

Stowing my one suitcase and snagging a key from the landlord, Tony then drives us to Jollie’s shop. We find the old guy working his front desk, a handful of customers roaming about looking at Jollie’s wares, mostly video games and electronic equipment, but a few pieces of jewelery and even a few legal guns.

Holy shit, Jollie says with a grin as Tony and me saunter through the front door. If it ain’t Jackie Cruise. Boy, I heard they locked you up and threw away the key.

I can’t help but smile myself. Jollie and I don’t have a long past, but we always got along real well, and he’s done business with enough other people I know. Old man, I say, walking forward to shake his hand, they had to let me out. Told me they needed to make room for your ugly puss.

There’s some general laughter all around, Tony getting in on the funny action for a few minutes, but then Jollie calls over one of his workers to take the front desk before pulling us with him through a hanging curtain into the back room of his shop.

That back room is a small legend in some circles, and deservedly so. There’s wall to wall shelves holding everything from table saws to raw diamonds in a safe to sawed-off shotguns. I couldn’t name all the stuff lining those walls. All of it’s illegal. Some of it’s hot, some of it’s merely under the radar. But all of it would land Jollie in hot water if he ever got caught. Fortunately for Jollie, he’s got a lot of people looking out for him, including more than a few cops on one payroll or other. One big thing Jollie has going for him is that he’s like Switzerland, a neutral party. Everybody comes to him for business, so nobody puts the screws on him. And everybody is willing to shed a little green from time to time to keep the cops from looking too close at Jollie’s store.

The old man comes to a stop in the middle of his small warehouse and turns around. So, what can I do for you gentlemen today?

I hear you need a job done, Tony says, his eyes snaking towards my own. I nod along with him.

Yeah, that I do, Jollie says.

What? You need us to pick up something for you? Tony asks.

Jollie waves off the question. Nothing like that. I got plenty of stock for the moment. But I got this customer, he’s a lawyer. He’s behind on his latest payment. Way behind.

Lawyers make good money, Tony says. He should be able to pay.

That’s what I’ve been thinking, Jollie says. Bum comes in here and wants a top-of-the-line stereo system, but he don’t want to pay big bucks for it. I get him one. It’s a little warm, I got to admit, but not too hot. It won’t be missed, in other words. But this bum, he says he can’t pay full up front, so I figure him being an upstanding officer of the court or something, he’s a good bet. I let him open a line of credit. Now he’s missed a payment, by weeks.

I tch, tch and shake my head. That’s not like you Jollie, giving out credit to an unknown and all.

He shrugs. What can I say, times is tough for everybody. Or maybe I’m just getting soft in my old age.

So, what you want us to do? Tony asks. Break the guy’s legs or something? Retrieve your property?

Jollie waves us off again. "No, no. Nothing so drastic. At least not yet. It’s his first missed payment, so I’ll go easy on him. He reaches in a shirt pocket and pulls out a little card like a business card, hands it to Tony. That’s his address. Just head over there and bust out a few windows, show him who he’s dealing with."

Tony glances at the card, then hands it off to me. I recognize the address. Over in a nice part of the city. Not my usual turf, but I know the lay of the land. I’ve broken in my share of places over there.

Here. Jollie reaches over to a shelf and picks up a claw hammer, hands it to me. Take this. Put a little fear of God into the guy. But don’t hurt him. Not yet, anyway.

I smile as I take the hammer. It’s been a while. This could be fun.

Because Tony’s sports car is too well known among the thug crowd, we decide to take one of the old box vans Jollie keeps around back of his place. Cruising across town takes some time with the traffic and the lights, giving me and Tony a chance to catch up some. I’d been so busy since landing out of the joint, we hadn’t really had a chance to talk. I find out not much has changed with the old crowd, some guys moved up in the Family, some guys went missing, a few are locked away. It’s interesting to find out about a few new characters on the scene, but there aren’t really any major surprises.

At one point, I bring up being shot at on the streets. I’d like to know who the hell took those shots at me.

Tony only nods as he drives. You and me both, partner, but the truth is, we’ll probably never know. Probably just some low-level stooge Sardona keeps around for the light work.

Like us? I ask.

He grins. Yeah, kind of like us.

After an hour, we finally cross over a bridge into a nicer part of the city, and soon we’re cruising along suburbs with green front yards, dogs yipping on the porch, soccer moms jogging up and down the streets.

Don’t worry, Tony says while patting the dashboard. In this heap, we look just like any other utility worker or delivery guy.

But I’m not worried. I’ve done this sort of thing plenty of times before.

Soon enough we spot the address ahead, a red German sedan parked in the driveway in front of an open two-door garage.

That’s the place, I say, pointing.

Tony steers over and parks a couple of houses down. Let’s do this quick.

We’re out and jogging toward the house, not quite running because that might bring us too much attention. In jeans and T-shirts, we blend in well enough, not looking like the thugs we are.

In front of the house, we shift, me heading for the German car, Tony heading toward that open garage. I just make it to the car when the front door opens. Out steps a heavyset guy in a nice side, his comb-over haircut looking a little out of style for his young but flabby face. The guy doesn’t look happy.

Who the hell are you? he yells at me and Tony.

Tony only grins, then jogs on into the garage.

Jollie Lemon sends his regards! I shout out, then I swing the hammer down hard, busting out the driver’s tail light of the guy’s car.

He screams like a little girl. My baby! What the hell you doing?

I swing again, this time shattering the driver’s door window.

Agh! The guy keeps screaming like somebody just cut out his appendix. He nearly stumbles off his front porch, rushing toward me, but then I raise the hammer once more and he comes to a halt a dozen or so yards away.

Please, whatever, don’t hit my baby again, okay? He’s pleading with me, begging.

Hey lawyer boy! Tony shouts out.

Me and the attorney, we both look into the garage. Tony is standing there with a rusty old wood-chopping axe. Then Tony comes charging out, the axe raised above his head.

I swear to God, that attorney’s face turns as white as a dead fish’s belly. He raises his arms as if they would do any good against an axe chopping for his head.

But Tony isn’t going for the lawyer. No, sir. He brings the head of the axe down hard in the center of the car’s hood, making a sound like a giant can opener crunching open a sheet of iron, along with adding a nice new dent.

The attorney screams again, then turns and runs toward his house. Actually, it’s more like a fast waddle than a run, but the idea is similar.

Tony grins at me and I bring my hammer down hard, knocking off the driver’s side mirror.

Think that’s enough? Tony asks.

I hear shouting and crying from inside.

I think he gets the point, I say.

Then we both run away, hop in the old van, and drive back across the river to our home turf. We laugh all the way. It’s almost just like the old days.

Good times.

But somebody out there took some shots at me, and I don’t like that. Somebody’s got it coming to them. Nobody tries to brush off Jackie Cruise and gets by with it.

Chapter 4: Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution

Jollie pays pretty sweet for the little job we did for him, but I had five years of lost time to make up for. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a flophouse. To help raise a little dough, I hook up with a taxi company owned by the Carcinnis, landing myself one of the yellow cars that can be seen all over the city. It’s a way to make a little extra money while getting the lay of the land again. After I had been gone so long, Chisel City had changed here and there, and I want to refamiliarize myself with the old town. I get to set my own hours, make a little scratch, what could be better?

I had been driving around for a few days, just dropped off some passengers at the airport, when my new cell phone starts ringing. It’s Tony.

Jollie’s got another job for us, he tells me.

Like the last one?

Nah. This one’s different. A repo job.

A car?

Nah. Some rock star’s guitar. Supposedly Jollie picked it up for him special, but now the guy’s not wanting to pay.

Sounds easy enough, I say.

Maybe, but this guy has security, Tony tells me. I picked us up a couple of baseball bats, just to even things up a little.

You think we should take a piece?

Nah, Tony says. That might up things a little too much, draw more attention than we’d want. But Jollie says if we ever want a piece, to head over to Mo’s and pick up anything we want, on Jollie’s tab.

Good old Jollie. Looking out for us. Mo’s is Mo’s Ammo, the spot for all the Carcinnis boys to pick up their hardware. Mo has been around for ever, as long as Jollie. Like Jollie, Mo runs a straight racket up front, selling home protection stuff to the rubes and the gun nuts, but out back is where the real hardware can be found, sometimes hot and sometimes not, but always available to the Carcinnis for the right price.

I’ll pick you up, Tony says.

"How about I pick you up, I say in return. A cab will stick out a lot less."

Sounds good.

So I go pick Tony up at his place, a little apartment on the east side not far from my own pad. He’s got the address for this rock star, and it turns out to be one of the swankier hotels downtown.

We’re not going to get in there carrying baseball bats, I say as I pull away from the curb, Tony in the back seat so things won’t look out of order.

Yeah, but we don’t go into the hotel, Tony says. He’s already got things figured out. This guy, he’s got a press conference this afternoon. We wait until he’s leaving out one of the back doors, then hit him before he can get in his limo.

Won’t he be surrounded by security?

Two or three guys tops, Tony says. That’s why we got the bats.

I hope he’s right. These security guys, usually they carry some heat. But what the hell. We live in such a coddling country nowadays, many guys who carry are too chicken shit to pull their sidearms, more afraid of going to jail or looking stupid than doing their job. On the other hand, some of these guys think they’re real cowboys. But again, what the hell. I can use the money, and it’ll be something to do.

Think he’ll have the guitar with him? I ask.

Doesn’t matter if he does or not, Tony says. We put a big enough beating on this guy, he’ll want to pay up or shed the guitar.

We cruise around for a while to kill a little time, get something to eat from a hot dog stand, then head over to the hotel. I park us in the alley around back where the delivery trucks and stuff are parked. Sure enough, there’s a long, black limousine sitting near a back exit.

That’ll be his, Tony says, pointing over my shoulder to the limo.

You want me to pull up closer?

No, but be ready to rock and roll when we see that door open.

It doesn’t take long. A big goon the size of a defensive tackle comes out the back door and glances around. For a moment his eyes fall on my taxi, but then his gaze slides on by. Good thing we came in the taxi, not drawing any undo notice.

The guy says something to somebody inside the door.

Then Tony is out of my cab, his bat held low behind his leg. I follow from the driver’s side, leaving my door open.

That big security guy, he’s smarter than he looks beneath his thick, bushy eyebrows. He yells something inside the hotel’s back door, then slams the door closed.

At this point, I’m thinking the gig is up, but Tony, he keeps right on walking forward while the big guy unbuttons his dark jacket and begins to stroll toward us. I keep my distance from Tony, not wanting to afford this bodyguard guy one nice, big target, but I’m not sure it would make much difference. If this guy draws on us, he’s got us both dead to rights.

But apparently he’s not as smart as I’d given him credit. He lets us get close. Too close.

His eyes dark and narrowed, he opens his mouth to speak, but never gets the chance. Tony lunges with the end of his bat, butting the goon in the jaw. Despite the bodyguard’s size, he drops like a ton of bricks and is out cold.

I giggle. What the hell? I hadn’t thought big boy would go down so easy.

Then Tony is running for that back hotel exit, and I’m right on his heels. I’m not sure why we’re running, ’cause that back door has got to be locked.

Still, there’s the limo driver. He’s stupid, too, and opens his door to climb out. A slam from my bat against the door makes him think twice, and he jerks the door closed and locks himself in.

By this point, Tony is up the few concrete steps to that back door of the hotel. Whoever is on the other side lets their curiosity get the best of them. They had to hear the beatdown going on outside, but apparently they want to take a look to see what’s happening, or perhaps they’re just checking on their boy, the bodyguard who is flattened behind us in the alley.

The door opens. It’s another guard, a tall, slender guy in a dark suit with even darker shades wrapping his eyes. Tony belts the guy in the stomach. The tall, slender guy huffs and puffs but falls to his knees. Beyond, I can see a hallway empty but for a skinny guy with long, shaggy hair; he’s wearing some kind of sequined jump suit like the King. That’s got to be our boy.

Tony is busy hammering away at the bodyguard still on his knees when I slide past them and head toward our rock star.

The guy looks like he’s out of it. I think he’s got to be stoned out of his noggin or something. Doesn’t stop me from smacking him upside the head with my bat. A bit of blood splatters from his now broken nose and he screams like bloody murder. I belt him in the stomach to get him to shut up, but this only forces him back against the wall where he keeps screaming, sounding like some chick in a bad horror movie getting chopped up.

Shut him up! Tony shouts out, finished with the guard.

I plant my bat in the guy’s stomach again. This time he drops to his knees.

I grab him by his hair and tug back his head so his swirly eyes are looking me right in the face. The guitar. Pay Jollie for it or next time we’ll be back with more than just bats.

I elbow the idiot in the chin, rocking back his head to smack against the wall.

I turn to Tony. Enough?

He ain’t got the guitar, so yeah, let’s get the hell out of here, he says.

We skedaddle.

One last kick to the big security guy’s head on our way to the cab, then I’m peeling rubber and we boogy on down the road, laughing all the while.

That was fun. Just like the old days. We didn’t get the guitar, but we delivered a message. That should be good enough.

Chapter 5: Getaway

A week passes after Jollie pays us and I start to get worried that maybe we did something wrong in not retrieving the guitar. But then one day I’m driving a passenger across town when my cell rings and it’s Jollie.

What’s up? I say into my phone.

Hey, Jackie, can you and Tony swing by my place tonight? Jollie asks.

I don’t think that would be a problem, I say. Everything all right?

There’s hesitation on the other end. Well, I kind of got a situation.

Uh oh. I don’t like situations. Look, Jollie, I’m sorry we didn’t get the guitar back from --

Oh, no, nothing like that, Jollie says with a quick laugh. But then the laugh dies away real quick. "I just need to talk with you