Fatal Checkout

By Will Mobbs

A story about lives in criminal San Francisco after sail gave way to steam. Coal, steel and shipping shaped most lives and fortunes, followed by gambling and crime. Possibly the largest outfit operated under the Irish Kelly family, reaching the height of their power as a result of World War 2. Inevitably, age and growth brought the need for dele

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Heron
• Release date: Feb 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739894719

Book preview

Precis

In the final days of sail, with the introduction of coal powered shipping, the demand in San Francisco for a tough breed of men, who worked hard and played harder, grew rapidly. Into this field, and recently arrived overland from New York, having worked his passage from Ireland, Sean Kelly soon learned the ropes, and how to climb them to the top of the legitimate coal supply industry, which also led to the other side of the legal fence and eventual gangland supremacy. The demand for coal escalated further with the advent of World War 2, when Kelly, who had prudently acquired vast scrap tonnage in the form of old freighters and trucks to salvage the steel, now put it to even greater use to move the black stuff for the military, and it paid. The criminal element of the set up was growing faster and more lucratively than the original dirty side, so fortunately for Kelly, his fully grown son was available, and better equipped mentally, to control it.

With the death of Kelly senior, the son needed trusted soldiers to run the different divisions as rigidly as hitherto, and of those, Mario Fantoni had more of an edge even than young Kelly, but they worked together and when oil became the primary fuel requirement, gambling clubs and the numbers rackets swelled the flow of dollars. Inevitably, jealousy and deceit created discord, culminating in the death by bombing of Jerome Kelly. Some years later, Fantoni was murdered at his own front door. The old school criminal fraternity still survived, trying always to gain the upper hand in any situation, but all too often, lacking the mental fortitude to prevail.

Huge restructuring of the judicial system in the North West, plus innovative technological advances in criminology, brought drastic change; which saw legalisation for most of the Kelly Empire, now headed by Fantoni’s widow. Inheritance of her husband’s shares and wealth did not bring with it his vast experience and with her new life partner, she soon looked for a more fulfilling life. Fortunately, a controlling framework within the organisation enabled this change. Mark Fallon also felt his role in the set up was far from satisfying and achieving very little. Fortunately, a thwarted early career in architectural design surfaced. During this period of corporate divestment and restructure, an opportunity arose in the form of a vast tract of land, which would require a great deal of work to prepare it for sale, and even more to keep it. Decision made, the concept of a classis Stud was born. Like a huge jig-saw it happened. The people involved grew like a family as they became the beating heart of the venture and its rapid growth paved the way for a beach wedding in Fiji for those at the helm.

* * *

Preface

Driven out from their native Ireland by the effects of the potato famine, and desperate for a new life on the other side of the Atlantic, the Kelly family endured unspeakable hardship culminating in death at sea for the ageing Kelly senior. With no money and no bread winner they faced starvation in the slums of New York. Despite her age, the mother had to resort to the only way for her to earn money to feed her children, but that too was short lived. She died in the equivalent of a work house. The two youngest boys were helped by a local church, but the eldest, Jerome, was turned out to go and find his way. All he had going for him was his size and strength, which he used to advantage. He built a life, not pretty, but it eventually took him to the top of an unsavoury pile from which he forged a criminal empire where anyone else’s bad luck, turned into his good luck; one way or another.

This fragmented journey attains a level of stability for decades in the milk and honey that became America, until purely the enormity of the organisation, and technological advancement in law enforcement brought about a far reaching change to the spectrum of life.

Phase 1

Chapter 1

Banks of steely grey clouds bore down, to silhouette the twin uprights of San Francisco’s mighty Golden Gate Bridge, heralding the night. Damp, heavy air shunted the fog, nullifying the dull ochre lights warning of Alcatraz; towards the island a small boat’s horn bravely announced its position. On the shoreline, the clinging mist swirled under and around the buildings on Fishermans Wharf, where huge sea lions lazed the afternoon on the marina, before slipping into the water. At first the odd one would announce its departure with tuneless barking, the numbers increasing until finally, the last fifteen or so made a collective exit amidst a raucous din and splashing. In seconds the water’s surface regained an oily smoothness, the only traces of the departing mammals, wet patches on the boards and the musky aroma of fish that would still linger in the morning. As the light faded, the fog thickened, a cold, creeping damp engulfed all, muffling every sound, disorientating the senses.

On warm summer evenings an almost festive atmosphere prevailed on the wharf, with an occasional street vendor or entertainer enjoyed by people strolling. But tonight, despite their renown, the numerous fish restaurants vied for limited passing trade, while those with regular clientele fared only slightly better. The weather decreed business on the wharf finished earlier than usual. One by one, doors clattered, and lights died, followed by the customary clinking of empty bottles and the clashing of trashcan lids. Finally, from within the shrouding mist came disconsolate parting comments from proprietors and staff, beginning their customary, cold homeward journeys in a shuffling exodus, leaving the area hauntingly deserted.

An almost empty trolley car rumbled from its terminus, its lighted windows barely visible. The bogies rattled as, changing tracks, it headed towards the city, the front lights barely visible, and the driver relying on the clanging bell to warn of his approach. The shiny faced conductor worked the heavy lever keeping the huge gears aligned with the right cables. By the time they began the long climb, they were gradually leaving the mist, and the few people riding inside were unconcerned as they repeated the habitual, boring nightly ride home. Droplets of moisture ran down the inside of the glass where the film of condensation had been wiped in futile attempts to look out. One of life’s unfortunates sat with his head in the collar of a threadbare jacket, traces of hardened food lining each side of the zip fastener, and disappearing into shiny creases around his gut. He began verbally bewailing his misfortunes, and firm up beliefs as to why lady luck owed him an overdue visit, but before long, finding it was falling on deaf ears, returned his chin to a grubby moist collar.

Hours later, when the threatened rain arrived, it came slowly and in the form of a fine, breeze-borne drizzle, not much heavier than the mist it replaced. It gradually covered every surface and crevice; anyone still moving about did so quickly, heads bowed, coats pulled high and tight against the weather. Eventually, bars and eating places in the city closed for the night, and once the cabs stopped plying for trade in numbers, only the bigger roads carried traffic, with the occasional police car or garbage truck venturing along dark streets. A lonely, dishevelled figure rummaged in a trashcan for scraps of food, and was caught in the powerful gush of water from a street cleaning truck. He almost lost his footing as, mouthing abuse, he hurled whatever was in his hand in futile retaliation at the departing vehicle. His clothes would have to dry on his body again tonight; an unpleasant prospect he would share with numerous others from the inevitable array of drunks and dropouts vainly looking for shelter. Few people were abroad unless they were of the breed that comes to life while the rest of the world sleeps. Even so, there were those who made it their business to be active at just this time.

A garbage truck finished its noisy collections in a dark service road behind eating houses and as it moved forward, the noise reverberated up the narrow space between tenements. Wet rubber squealed against the sidewalk, fighting for grip as the truck turned into a larger road and began its clamorous work again. Soon it had moved from the service road, a car, tyres splashing in the gutter, cruised to a halt, then slowly reversed into the service road, stopping a short way down it, where the light was poor. The lights died almost before it stopped, but the engine continued to burble, and dripping water fizzed on the hot exhaust. Inside, two men sat in the dark, hardly speaking. Every few minutes the driver pulled back his cuff to check the time on the luminous face of his cheap store watch, occasionally uttering a brief comment to his companion. The other responded with little more than a grunt, regularly sweeping his hand across the windshield to clear his vision, nervous eyes fixed on an even darker area in another service road directly across the main street, and his right hand resting lightly on the grip of a silenced gun that lay on the seat beside him.

It was that time when nothing moved, and if it did, the solitary sound bounced off every surface. From the deeper shadows of this back alley, a scrawny stray dog sniffed its way from a recently urinated-on wall to a row of emptied trashcans, picking at food spilled in the collection process. It lost interest and, passing the car, cocked its leg against a front wheel before padding, unconcerned, round the corner, to follow the garbage truck. Strangely, and despite being soaked to the skin, the dog deliberately skirted puddles.

The man with the gun shifted uneasily in his seat and this time spoke first, ‘Goddamn Paulo! Ain’t it time? Feels like we bin here forever!’

He glanced sideways, his eyes flicked back to watch the dark area across the street.

The driver checked his watch again, then scratched in his ear with his small finger nail. Replacing his glove, he pulled on the wheel to shift his position, taking care not to push the horn. Half turning to face the other man, he tried to sound calm. ‘Ain’t like you, Joey. It’s gotta be real soon so just relax. Eh?’

Joey grunted again as he took the piece of gum the other offered, briefly letting go of the gun to unwrap the silver paper, surprised to feel the sweat in his palm. He usually felt jumpy at this stage, and deliberately rubbed his open hand on the thigh of his pants. He again gripped the weapon, reassured by the solid warmth of the metal. Still, his index finger twitched back and forth along the trigger guard. Almost on cue, the pair stiffened, alerted by a large bright hole near the centre of the darkness opposite. The light cast a dim glow, which flickered as silhouetted figures came through a doorway, before the dark resumed. Instinctively, Joey’s hand tightened on the gun butt as they both slid down in their seats, and Paulo killed the engine to stop the exhaust vapour giving them away.

Piercing light filled the air as a car came out of the alley opposite, bouncing as it swung into the road and swished away into the night. Once again in the blackness, Joey breathed out long and hard as he sat up. Beside him, the driver was in no hurry as he thumbed the motor and lazily eased out of the service road in the same direction, letting the car gather momentum.

‘Let’s get it done Paulo! Nice an easy, and no fuck ups.’

Joey glanced at his colleague, but the driver didn’t answer. They had done the job in practice, many times, and knew there was no need to rush. The other car would make its usual detour to drop off a passenger, and that gave him time to park in a predetermined spot. The ageing, but sleek Buick purred up the hills, avoiding attention, and as he turned into the parking area, Paulo doused the lights and slipped quietly and easily into an empty space, cutting the engine as he stopped. His hand rested lightly on the stick shift lever. Some twenty minutes later, wet surfaces on the buildings across the street reflected splinters of light from an approaching car.

Paulo gently nudged Joey, who grunted. Thrusting the gun into his overcoat, his thumb on the safety, Joey slid quickly out of the car. He hurried towards a lighted doorway, turning up his collar with his free hand. A few feet from the door he stepped behind a thick shrub, pressing himself as close as he could, out of sight. Senses on full alert, he heard the car slow as it swung off the road and surge once more to make the turn into the parking area. Through the drizzle, the twin beams, lit the front of the apartment block and Joey felt exposed until the comparative dark engulfed him again. The engine died, and in the silence he heard the click as the car door opened, then the muffled thud as it closed. The sound hammered in his ears, his throat dried, and he fought to control the thumping in his chest. Again, he wiped his hand inside his pocket before carefully wrapping his fingers around the butt, and consciously freeing the barrel from his coat lining, he nervously touched his thumb on the safety catch. In the Buick, Paulo heard the car door shut too, and waited a few moments before sitting up carefully. He watched the hunched figure turn from locking the other car and walk unhurriedly towards the building, head down, shrugging up the heavy coat that lay like a cloak over his shoulders. As he took the house key from his pocket, he passed the shrub, barely three feet from the waiting Joey. Pausing at the door, he raised his arm. A moment to align the key and push…

This was the signal. Pay off time.

Even as the key neared the lock, Joey felt himself turning from the wet leaves that hid his pale face. He blinked. As his arm came up and his thumb slipped the safety catch off, he began the easy, deliberate stride that would put him barely a yard from his target, the gun almost brushing his clothes. In that one fluid moment the key turned, and Paulo blew the horn.

Startled, his wide eyes filled with alarm, the man at the door half turned towards the sound, his fingers still clutching the key. The two men were face to face. Joey couldn’t miss. Before the car horn faded, his first shot hit the target in the chest and, the second entered his left eye, lifting off the top of his head and making a mess of the illuminated glass door. The man’s coat slipped from his shoulders as he reeled, and now the crumpled red lining framed the overweight body as it twitched in death. Briefly, the assassin looked dispassionately at his victim. A stream of spearmint spittle shot from his clenched teeth to land beside the dead man’s nose, flowing towards the enlarged, vacant eye socket.

He stepped over an outstretched leg and walked calmly to the waiting Buick, the gun laying hot against his hip. Not a single light showed from the surrounding windows as Joey got in, and the car gently moved out into the road. Seconds later, the rain had washed out the tyre tracks, and the only sounds came from water gurgling into the sewers, and the dwindling metallic contractions from a recently parked Pontiac. As if in homage, the mournful, muffled groan of a distant foghorn drifted up from the bay.

There were still two hours before dawn and high on the hill, where the rain was heavier, blood flowed from the dead man. At first it oozed, thick and red, soaking the coat, and going down the two steps towards the parking lot, where it mixed with the rainwater heading for the street and the main drains. It swirled in a tight eddy when it reached the spot the Buick had stood, picking up a chewing gum wrapper as it moved again. It gathered pace, out into the main flow where the wrapper bobbed and spun like a boat in rapids, the silver paper showing pink as it passed under a street lamp, to be swallowed by a storm drain.

In the Buick, a minute or two passed in silence, the wipers slapping hard as they cruised towards the bridge. Paulo nodded his head deliberately as he glanced sideways at Joey, respect evident in his eyes.

He spoke softly to his buddy, ‘You okay Pal? You okay? Cos you done real good! Yeah! You’s real cool man!’

The other man just stared as the wipers slapped back and forth, then a wry smile spread across his face. His nose lifted slightly, sniffing the expelled cordite that coated his clothing. He swallowed hard.

‘I guess so. The poor bastard never knew what hit him! Jesus! You shoulda seen his fuckin brains flyin all over the place! I feel like I need a drink. Can we get one d’ya think? Eh?’

‘Soon Joey! Real soon! Yer know, just as soon as we get to the farm! Okay?’

The killer grunted and slumped further in his coat, closing his eyes, ending the brief conversation. He could feel his heart-rate recovering and he stayed like that. They crossed the main road leading to the Hayward Bridge, then took a minor road heading away from the city, on through Santa Clara and Los Gatos until the car slowed and turned off the road onto what was little more than a track. This was different. The soft riding car bounced and slithered on wet earth, barely avoiding thick brushwood on each side, before making a sliding turn into a gate and following a short dirt road to its end. An open barn-like building blocked the way. Paulo drove in killing the lights and motor as he stopped, and a small character straight out of the Hillbillies came and opened the car door. He ducked his head and spoke to Joey.

‘I knows you bin up all night Son, but yer gotta do this one last thing right. Right? Ain’t no use gettin at me none. Boss says it’s gotta be done, an yer knows yer gotta! Right Joey?’

Joey knew the routine and resigned himself. He stepped out of the car straight on to a sheet and having laid the gun on it, undressed; then followed the little man, who had gathered up the sheet, through a door at the end of the barn. Maybe it was tiredness or the early morning air, but Joey felt cold and vulnerable. Standing on a grid outside the door, he was unceremoniously hosed with warm water and was able to wash himself with carbolic soap, to rid any minute drops of blood. He towelled, then put on a gym suit and sneakers, and warmer, was taken to another room where he could relax and enjoy that drink and welcome food. Surprisingly, he felt better for the crude shower and ate well. The towel he had used had been added to his clothes on the sheet, and the whole lot, minus the gun, was already being incinerated behind another part of the building. Joey knew from past experience that in the morning the gun would be carefully reduced to tiny iron filings and added to the contents of a cement mixer somewhere off the property. While Joey was dwelling on these thoughts, Paulo had been through the same procedure, and came to join him. Before the dawn, the Buick would be arriving at a distant car crushing plant where the cloth trim, seats and carpets would be stripped and burned as the rest was compacted into a neat, solid metal cube. Unknown to those at the farm, the sweet running engine came out to be sold on.

The sky in the east was aglow as the first rays touched the topmost sections of the Golden Gate. By comparison, it was still dark on the bridge, lit only by the endless stream of slow-moving headlights bearing early city commuters, soon on the endless, futile search for parking spaces. Slouched in the back of a smooth riding Taunus sedan, sleepier by the minute, Paulo and Joey were oblivious to this scene as they were carried away from town. They had come through Burlingame and crossed the Hayward Bridge where the high-powered car left the city limits, cruising at a mile eating pace, heading up through the hills for the four-hour ride to Sacramento and Lake Tahoe.

On the other side of the bay, people were starting their daily routine. Lights were coming on around the apartment block where Joey had metered out his dose of carnage hours earlier. The rain had stopped about thirty minutes before, and the last traces of blood were steadily congealing close to the body. A slightly built woman walked purposefully passed the line of parked cars, fumbling for keys in her bag. Still looking down at the keys as she sought the right one, she was on the inert heap, and standing in the congealed blood before she became aware of it. The keys fell and her scream ended abruptly as she collapsed in a dead feint, falling against the shrubbery, and then on to a low brick wall. The pathetic snapping of ribs made no sound inside her thick coat.

Some twenty yards away, two postal workers taking a shortcut across the parking area on their way to work, heard the clipped scream and ran towards the sound. What they saw stopped them dead, for the woman had fallen out of sight, behind the shrub. The younger man, still in his teens, couldn’t handle it and turned aside to vomit beside the pathway, grabbing at the other’s arm for support. His colleague though, had been there. Korea prepared a man. But here in a quiet suburb, and all these years later? He instinctively snatched the whistle from his top pocket and blew hard, repeatedly! Now people appeared from all directions and a small group gathered. The postman carefully stepped over the body and battered at the door. Someone found the little woman who had regained consciousness. The violent door battering bore fruit. The janitor opened it with a flourish and had pumped himself up to remonstrate with whoever was creating the noise.

His deep breath came out in one strangled wheezing. ‘Jesus Christ, alive!’ He turned on his heel and yelled back. ‘I’ll call the cops!’

Back at the farm, the little hillbilly man stepped aside as the car, taking the assassins to their upstate, bolthole rolled quietly across the floor of the barn, out through the massive, yawning doors. It eased down the dirt road, huge red lights filtering through the swirling exhaust as it turned smoothly through the gate and was out of sight. His bony frame looked smaller as he struggled to shut the huge barn doors, shaking his head, a wry smile tugging his mouth. He didn’t pretend to understand the wisdom of his involvement with this set-up.

He simply knew that his run-down little farm, and the use it was being put to, was making more money for him than he could ever have dreamed of. He turned out the lights and made his way through to the makeshift sitting room where he helped himself to a plate of meat sandwiches, pickles and sliced tomatoes and a very large whisky to follow. Placing the plate on the sofa beside him he took a long pull at the glass before reaching for the phone. Dialling carefully and clearing his throat, he waited a long time before it was answered.

‘Scott! It’s done!’ He paused. ‘Yep! All set, just like yer said. Car’s gone and gears gone. What? Yep. All cept the gun. Just like yer said. Will do! Yep. Pulled out bout ten minutes ago. Sure. So long!

He emptied the glass and topped it up, then sat and ate hungrily. As the first streaks of light invaded the room, he stood and stretched, then rubbed his face with calloused but softening hands. He downed the whisky, yawning as he walked back into the other room.

It was not so much an office, but a sawdust covered space with boxes scattered around an old desk. He dragged the desk sized cabinet from the wall. He knelt stiffly, and brushing sawdust aside, lifted a short plank to reveal a chamber half the size of a coffin. The old man reached in with the package he had kept hidden from Joe Pastorelli. The gun, still loaded, carefully wrapped in oily soft cloth and put into a plastic bag amongst an array of similar weapons. A tiny self-adhesive label testified to the date and the name ‘Fantoni’ was followed by JP. The little man allowed the same wry smile to flicker across his features as he struggled to replace the cabinet. They all fell for it. Like trusting children, they believed the gun destroyed. One day, unless he toed the line without question, Joey Pastorelli would very probably pay the price for that trust.

The old timer shuffled his boot across the marks in the sawdust and locking the door, walked away through the small door and across the yard, the same measured shake of the head tossing the lank grey hair that hung below the brim of his hat. He had been awake all night and felt the need to rest. He struggled up to the pathetic room out back and still feeling the effects of the whiskies, threw his hat on a chair, flopped on the bed and was asleep.

Chapter 2

The charge desk sergeant looked up at the old-fashioned clock which had hung in the same spot since before he joined the force. After a particularly busy night, fraught with the usual influx of prostitutes, drunks and a spectrum from the criminal ranks, his shift would soon end and he was looking forward to breakfast with his wife and a long slumber. The bed would still be just warm and she would make sure he was