The Wares

By Will Henson

Small business owner and middle-aged fence Ray Nealey is short on cash and keen on his next big hustle, so when he's unwittingly implicated in a burglary gone wrong, he doesn't run from it—he uses it. Navigating a sea of ex-cons, dirty cops and mob wannabes, Nealey uses every ounce of wit and foresight he possesses to make his mark on the unforgiving criminal terrain of 1980's northeastern Pennsylvania.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543937954

Book preview

21

Chapter 1

Frank Cooney fell into the cherry and custard colored booth, a snow-peppered Flyers cap pulled over his brow, mumbling to the suit across the green Formica table that he found the place okay, made the left onto Spruce when he should’ve made the right, but he found the place okay.

The suit smiled. That’s good, he said. If not, not a problem. Coulda found you pretty easy wherever you go. Just go where the stink’s coming from. You know what you smell like? You smell like one them Indian casinos with the bad carpeting and the bad lighting, ceilings all low and everything, so much that smoke floating around you think maybe the whole damn place is burning down.

Funny how that works, Frank said, yanking at a wool glove frayed with age. Me working behind the bar all day, impressive you come to that conclusion. Professional services you claim to provide and all.

The suit, in his early forties and moon-faced, his patchy skin the color of raw chicken flesh in the beaming fluorescent light, smiled and shifted in his seat and pointed with two fingers, a half-smoked cigarette squeezed between them, at the wide plate glass window on his right. You know Frank, I see you out there, he said, I see you out there and I see you sitting in that old wagon you got there, putting down beers and smokes and God knows what else. And I’m thinking to myself, I’m watching and I’m thinking, Christ, this don’t look too good. Guy sitting out here all by his lonesome, just his thoughts and a whole bunch of junk that never helped nobody think straight, ever, in the history of trying to think straight. He ashed his cigarette. And, you know, I’m sitting in here and I’m running it through my head and I’m figuring the last time I see a guy like that, same way you’re looking, the poor sap’s sitting in his garage with the door down and the windows up, engine rumbling away and a rubber fucking tube running from the pipe straight into the backseat. The suit twirled his cigarette, studying the fading glow. Real sad thing, see a guy in a state like that.

You got a point or something? Frank said. ’Cause you’re talking like you got a point but I don’t think I’m following it, so maybe you can help me out on it.

Just an observation, is all.

Frank nodded. He peered around the diner at the few elderly couples sipping coffee and nibbling on Danishes and the three middle-aged truck drivers lounging in the back, shouting and laughing, drinking pitchers of beer and eating hamburgers with French fries and dripping coleslaw. Mirrors lined the non-windowed walls in the back, floor to ceiling, and overhead lighting reflected down on the beige laminate floor.

Uh-huh, Frank said after a moment, scratching his nose and staring at his repeating reflection across the room. In that case, how is everything, Officer? Would it be too smart of me to say maybe I missed you a little?

You say whatever you want, Frank, the suit said. It’s a free country last time I checked.

He swung his leg off the booth and took one more drag before stamping out the cigarette. He wore an off-the-rack light gray suit with a baggy white button-down shirt. A mustard-stained green and maroon patterned tie hung from his neck, loose and pulled down an inch, the top button of the shirt popped to let his fleshy neck breathe. Folded next to him on the booth was a charcoal colored overcoat and on top of it a crimson scarf with a Christmas tree pattern running along the edges.

I didn’t order coffee, the suit said, glancing around. Figure I order for you but then think what if it gets cold before you get here? I look like a real asshole, right? But I’m also figuring, I don’t order for you, shit, that don’t look too good neither. Look like an asshole either way, you know? No-win situation. Hate that sorta thing.

Frank picked up one of the two large laminated menus spread across the table. He scrolled the black text and blown up pictures of fried eggs and hash browns and waffles overflowing with syrup and butter and powdered sugar. After a few seconds he flipped the menu onto the table and stared at the suit. His voice was low and breathy. If we could get to the matters at hand, you don’t mind. ’Cause I gotta be honest, I thought you and me, I thought we was done.

The suit scanned his menu. He didn’t look up. Done? he said.

That’s what I said. Frank shifted in the booth. See, I’m confused. My being here. Particularly when you think on how prior matters got themselves resolved. That’s where I’m confused. I was under the impression, very much under the impression, in fact, our interactions would be significantly more limited from that point going forward. And yet here I am.

A tired-looking waitress with blonde hair soaked in cheap hairspray approached the table and asked them for their order. The suit smiled up at her. I think we could use a couple more minutes, sweetheart, he said. Appreciate it.

She tapped pen against pad and shuffled off and the suit followed her movement and shook his head. He shot Frank a crooked smile. What sorta shit you think she’s been through? he said.

Frank didn’t reply.

Broad like that? the suit said. Divorced, my guess. Maybe twice. What you think she is, forty-five? Fifty? Working at this cemetery, night shift on a Saturday? Christ, break out the violins. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. Guy was probably a drunk. I see that sorta thing a lot, you can imagine. Put his hands on her probably. And you can say what you will about the job I did with my first one, and I mean I was far from perfect, no doubt about that, but I was never raising my hands, not ever. Her though, the way she hunches over—

I’m supposed to sit here and listen this shit? Frank said. This what I’m doing here?

The suit stared at Frank. I shoulda ordered us coffee, he said after a few seconds. That’s what I shoulda done. Maybe see if they can spike it with a little something for you, improve this mood you got going on. Listen to you. Antsy as a period broad.

"You gonna answer my question?

Let’s order first.

Fuck you. Fuck you, you think I’m hanging around here. You come by my work outta nowhere, worse than the parole people, say you wanna grab a cup of coffee? Fine. Cup of coffee. That’s it.

You’re talking like you got somewhere to be.

Nuh-uh, that ain’t what it is. We agree on something and I make it happen. Just like you says. You remember? I do specifically what you says and that was not easy. Not an easy thing for me to do. You forget that. Frank leaned forward. "So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m not gonna order the coffee and I’m not gonna order the fucking coffee cake to go with it. And I most certainly am not gonna sit here and listen to your bullshit, listen to you gab and gab and go on and on and on. ’Cause ’less you got something monumentally important to tell me, you and me are done."

The suit cocked his head. "Frank, what is this? What planet you think you’re on right now? What in the holy hell makes you think you dictate anything to me? He swiped a couple of stray crumbs off the tabletop and leaned forward. Let me remind you how it works, ’cause it’s clear your memory’s gone a little shaky. How it works is: you order what I tell you to order, you eat what I tell you to eat and you sit until I tell you standing is back on the fucking table."

The hovering waitress interrupted. Alright, what’ll it be, fellas? she said. She had her blue ballpoint pen out and was tapping her notepad and staring down at them over half-moon spectacles.

The suit handed his menu over and smiled. Let me get three fried eggs over easy, bacon, sausage and toast. And a coffee.

What kind of bread you want your toast?

White.

Eggs?

Over easy, like I said. Not too runny though. And lotsa salt and pepper, you could.

Salt and pepper’s on the table, you need it. Sausage comes in links.

That’s fine.

And you? she said, turning toward Frank.

Just a coffee, he said.

You sure? the suit said. You sure you don’t want nothing to eat?

Yeah, I’m sure.

The waitress scratched a few more letters onto her pad and snatched Frank’s menu. Be out in a few minutes, she said.

Frank hunched and perched his elbows on the sticky tabletop and cracked his knuckles. He was wearing red and black flannel with rolled up sleeves and navy cargo pants, his face was gnarled and lined, and over his lip grew an untrimmed gray mustache. Faded tattoos, their original shapes and words little more than dark smudges now, lined thin forearms littered with coarse hair and loose dry flesh.

The suit scooted forward and gazed outside. I love going to a diner, ordering breakfast for dinner, you know? Reminds me of my old man, me being a kid. When my mother was off visiting her parents or wherever, and my pops had to whip something up, he was always making us breakfast for dinner. The guy barely knew how to boil a pot of water but it when it came to breakfast, I tell you, the man was a wizard. Scramble up a dozen eggs, throw a pound of bacon in the frying pan, half a loaf of Wonder in the oven. The officer stretched his arms over his head, his fingers interlocked. Fucking loved it. Better than Christmas dinner, I swear.

Frank shook his head. "I think you’re confused, Officer. See the way it usually works is a guy comes into the bar, he hops up on the stool and starts rapping with the guy pouring the drinks, and the guy pouring the drinks, he raps back, a little give and take, and a few drinks go down and in the end, maybe the guy leaves a couple bucks in the till. The drinks are good, the conversation’s good, maybe more than a couple. But what he don’t do is come into the place, ask the guy pouring the drinks when he gets off, then offer to buy him a cup of coffee so he can bitch and moan to him over a bunch of blueberry fucking pancakes."

The suit traced the edge of the plastic ashtray sitting in the center of their table with his finger. Let me ask you something then, he said. How’s Al Quinn’s looking these days? The crowd, I mean. Any strange faces come by at all?

Sure, I see you.

Not me.

Okay, not you. The fuck is this, twenty questions?

Frank banged his knuckles on the table, waiting for a response. He watched the waitress weave from table to table, refilling coffee mugs and water glasses and retrieving dirty dishes, her face impassive, altering only to acknowledge a request for more ketchup or napkins. The soft murmur of conversation contrasted with the sharp scraping of metal utensils on ceramic plates. Outside the harsh screech of a steel beam being dragged across asphalt pierced the air.

Really? Nothing? the suit said. How ’bout a young Charlie Schinnerer? You don’t see him bouncing ’round the place at all these days?

Lotta guys come in. Some guys I see, some guys I don’t see. Frank paused. Take this one, the other day. Guy walks in, this spade with purple hair and pants tighter than a nun’s twat. Real swishy-looking guy we’re talking here. Think he was most certainly lost, be honest. Now him, this fella, this is a guy I remember. How you forget a guy like that? His face is on one of them wanted posters, like in the westerns, I’m calling you up straight away, no doubt about it. But most guys? These guys, most these guys, they look the same, they sound the same, they order the same drinks and bitch ’bout the same things. Maybe the names are different, but they’re all crying ’bout the same crap. So I can’t say I see anyone special as of recent. You wanna put some pictures in front of me, have me do you another favor, get a little deeper with you, sure, maybe I can help you out there, you want.

The suit rubbed his cheek. You don’t think it’s a little off? A little strange? Guy you help me book less than a week ago’s walking around your place, free as a bird?

Frank fished a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit up. Come on, what’re you looking for here? You’re a fucking dope cop, Gormley, for Christ sake. You think he’s the first guy I ever see gets caught pushing powder and gets the spring ’fore his picture’s even developed?

"He most certainly is not. But see, that’s the interesting thing. Young Charlie Schinnerer, he don’t get sprung on bail or bond. Nobody had to put up nothing. That’s the thing."

Frank paused, smoke streaming from his nostrils. How’s that? That don’t make no sense. Hell’s he doing out then?

"I’ll tell you what he’s doing out. We pop him, just like you say. Walking right out his apartment, bag in hand, one of them canvas gym bags full of goodies, kind of goodies make a prosecutor’s life much easier. Slap the cuffs on him, drive him down the precinct, run him through, get him nice and cozy. The whole time during this he don’t say a word. At first I’m trying to play with him a bit, poke the bear, see what I can get. But he don’t bite. So finally after a while I sit down with him, get him by himself, have a little one-on-one time. And I know he’s on the younger side so I’m figuring maybe I can bang on him a bit.

‘Where’d you get the stuff, you little shit? You know how fucked you are? You got any idea what these big old jigs are gonna do to a punk like you inside? I don’t care how tough you think you are, these cats are gonna wear you out like an old sweater.’ I’m saying all this shit to the kid. And he just looks at me. Looks at me and all he says is, ‘You gotta let me call my father.’ ‘Call your father?’ I says. ‘Fuck you talking about?’ Well, shit, he’s right. Remember I say he’s on the young side? Yeah, he’s on the fucking young side all right. The little bastard’s a minor. All the goddamn commotion going on, trying to work this all out, how it’s gonna go down, I don’t even see it. And, go figure, kid seems to got a pretty good idea how his rights work. Which, of course, involves him being allowed to reach out to a legal guardian following an arrest.

You gotta be shitting me, Frank said.

I am not shitting you. Seventeen years old he is. Which in the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania constitutes him, legally, as a minor. Which further means we can hold onto him for twenty-four hours, but after that, he’s okay till the detention hearing.

Frank ran a hand through his hair. I don’t believe it. Seventeen going on what, forty-three? Kid looks like he could coach the fucking Eagles he wanted.

"Don’t matter how old he looks, point is he’s a juvenile. One in which you provided me with, I remind you."

Frank leaned back in the booth and rubbed the back of his neck. Okay, so what? What’s that mean? He’s no good to you now?

For all intents and purposes, no. Not his case at least. Thing like that, how it developed, that’s no good for me. Made that clear to you well beforehand.

Gormley stopped speaking as the waitress approached, her right elbow arched and supporting a circular tray displaying a large plate of food and a cup of coffee. She lowered the tray and handed Frank the steaming brown mug, then slid the loaded oval plate in front of Gormley. Picking up his knife and fork he pierced one of the yolks, allowing the yellow goo to ooze over the platter, infringing on the bacon and sausage and four slices of plain white bread, slightly burned with slabs of yellow margarine dissolving in their centers.

You want milk or sugar for the coffee? the waitress asked Frank.

Yeah, give me both.

And one for me too, when you get a chance, Gormley said.

She nodded and left. Gormley sliced the other yolk. Sorry about that, he said.

What? Frank said.

The coffee. Taking so damn long, coming out with the food. Shoulda been out ten minutes ago.

Jesus Christ, fuck the coffee. This thing with Schinnerer, where’s this put me? So he’s out. Or least the adult charges ain’t sticking now. Fine. What I’m having trouble seeing is how’s this make him no good to you, after everything you’re telling me? I’m sitting here and the way I understand it is you still got the dope in hand with the guy moving the stuff, right? And you’re saying that’s no good to you no more?

Gormley bit into a slice of bacon, hard black bits tumbling down his shirt onto the floor. I really got to spell it out for you? he said.

Frank glared, then turned his head and stared through the window. Dim headlights from a taxi shimmered through the splotchy glass before fading away. I probably know, he said. Probably know right when you walk into Al Quinn’s before. When I’m sitting outside the car there. And now I’m sitting here, watching you eat like you’re ’bout be sent off to the chair, I think I probably know.

"Good for you, Frank. ’Cause what I want for you to understand is I don’t like it any more than you do. The way things were gonna shake out, way I saw it, you’d never see my fat face again. Maybe buy you a shot and a beer once I got the cocksucker to flip, but after that, forget it, just faces in the crowd you and me. But what can you do? Sometimes things don’t play the way you’re expecting ’em to. And you and me, ain’t nothing we can do about that. So I ain’t asking, I’m telling. My situation, it ain’t changed. If anything, it’s worse, ’cause I’m no further along than when I first run into you, and I still don’t got a thing to show. And if my situation ain’t different than what it was when we first hooked up, or got worse, then yours most certainly ain’t gonna be any better than what it was neither. So, as you’re probably figuring, I need you step to up again."

Frank nodded, his jaw clenched and lips tight. So, this is it for me? he said after a few seconds. On the other side of the diner one of the truck drivers twisted in his seat and whistled for the waitress, waving an empty beer pitcher in the air.

This is it for me? Frank repeated. This what I got to look forward to every day, rest my life? Every time a thing don’t go down how you like you’re gonna come to me, tell me I got no choice in the matter, you need me to step up, do your job for you?

Stop being so damn dramatic, will you? You’re like a woman, I swear.

Well isn’t that what we’re doing here? You buy me dinner, then you screw me?

You said you ain’t eating.

Fuck you.

Yeah okay, fuck me. Look, I told you, I ain’t happy about it neither.

Oh yeah? Well whoop-dee-fucking-doo, Officer, good for you. How you think this whole thing works exactly? Like we’re going down the Lowe’s, picking out wallpaper or something? The first guy don’t work out, okay no problem, we just grab ourselves another one, easy-peasy, just like that?

The waitress brought the second cup of coffee, mumbling an apology regarding the delay. Gormley nodded, took it in hand, sipped it, grimaced and stared over the rim, saying nothing. Frank watched the waitress glide to another table, his tongue locked into his cheek.

I don’t think so, he said. "I don’t think you understand at all, so let me tell you. Schinnerer was hot, just like I tell you. And you bagged him, ’cause I got him for you. And then you lost him. Not me, you. You lost him. Now, you know, I’m sorry you don’t do your due diligence on the kid, tell me the mook didn’t meet whatever half-assed criteria you’re using in this scheme you got going on, but I struggle, I really fucking struggle, Officer, seeing how this falls back on me."

Gormley took a breath and placed his utensils on the edge of his plate. He ran his tongue over his upper teeth and folded his hands over the plate. "Frank. Listen. I’m not in anybody’s pocket here. Let’s get that straight, okay? Now in my experience, and I think I been ’round long enough to say this, but in my experience, it ain’t about the good guys and the bad guys. All right? It ain’t like you see in the movies, Gary Cooper and all that shit. What it comes down to, what it really comes down to when you scrape away all the headlines and handshakes and ceremonies and all the other bullshit, is it’s like anything else in this world. It’s about guys who get shit done versus guys who don’t get shit done. That’s what matters. You follow me?"

Frank glanced over each of his shoulders, his eyes mockingly wide. You talking to somebody else? Somebody behind me, maybe gives a crap ’bout any this?

Okay, Frank, Gormley said, leaning back. Sure thing. That’s how you wanna play it, talk to me on Al Quinn’s. That’s how we’ll do it. You wanna go that way, that’s how we’ll do it.

No, I don’t think so. Schinnerer, he walks into the palm my hand. Dumb luck, you wanna call it that. Beyond that? Most these guys? I told you, they got about as much larceny in them as a troop of girl scouts. My regulars, these are municipal people, private citizens. A few guys from the Lace Works now and then, maybe a couple from the Local 16 swing by if nothing’s hopping off at Barnwell’s or The Brickman. You’re scraping the bottom of the barrel here, pal. These guys do not color outside the lines. They do not. Maybe they think different once they get a couple drinks in ’em, think a little bigger themselves, blow some smoke up your ass, but there ain’t nothing there. Worse thing these guys do? They fudge the tax return, maybe throw a little something extra into the insurance claim after a grease fire does a number on their kitchen. There ain’t nothing worth digging at Al Quinn’s with these types. Guy comes in, puts ten on a filly his brother-in-law told him would place and maybe another fifteen or so on the Irish to cover. Maybe they hit, maybe they don’t. Buys himself a little action for the afternoon, has a few pops, goes home, tells the wife he’s wiped, he’ll throw her a jump tomorrow and boom, he wakes up, same shit different day.

Gormley finished his last bit of eggs. Okay. So no Joe Blows you recognize looking maybe do a little moonlighting they get the chance?

Frank shook his head.

Then talk to me on the guys running the place. How ’bout the book? Anything with weight?

Frank smirked. Okay sure, here we go. You butter me up, then you hit me with it.

Come on.

Frank leaned forward and rested his elbows on the tabletop. Listen, grand scheme of things? My guess? Peanuts, probably. See, Mickey, he don’t get too involved ’cause he’s got the name on the liquor license and you ain’t fucking around with that. Even you got the good ties, ain’t worth the headache. So Mickey, he’s just overseeing the day to day. The guy behind it though, that’s the connected guy. Guy name of Genie Pistaro.

Gormley sipped his coffee. Genie? Like the TV show, with the girl?

Same one.

Gormley grunted and smiled a little. Kind of a faggy name for a wiseguy, no?

Well, Frank said, "from what I hear, it’s what his mother called him when he was a kid and ever since. Eugene being his Christian name and all. And what I also hear is his beloved mother passed not too long ago. Stomach cancer. Real grueling shit, way I understand it. And, as such, from what I further hear, the last guy to question the masculine nature of Genie’s nickname ended up with the useful end of a Phillips head through his right