09.29.09
Name Game
He had chosen the name because it sounded good. DeSilva was a far better choice than Carlson. No one would respect a John Carlson but “Johnny DeSilva” had an undeniable ring of power.
His light skin and tall slender body, a liability when he had been a boy now brought him a different kind of attention when clothed in the dark blue pinstripe suit and custom bent white hat.
The piercing blue eyes, warm and disarming when cloaked in a smile became as cold and hard as ice when the smile faded. Hardened by time and the realities of the Depression, those eyes could turn as silent and swift as an approaching shark.
And Johnny’s eyes were wary as the Lincoln rolled to a stop in front of Al’s Garage, where a dozen hoods, some local, some not, waited for the suicide doors to open, ready to shoot if one hair on DeSilva’s head looked out of place.
Flanked by two lieutenants with Tommy guns, Johnny stepped out of the car and looked into the darkness of the garage. To his right a row of wooden work benches held parts from the three cars in the bays on the left, their hoods open in expectation, waiting to swallow the repairs and get back on the streets. The empty oil drums placed here and there for the dirty rags were only lightly used; most of the grease catchers missing the target and piling up on the floor around them. The smell of gasoline and oil permeated his nose and Johnny knew from years of being a grease monkey in this same garage that he made a perfect target silhouetted against the brightness of the early afternoon behind him.
Looking down at his polished shoes and then at the slick and gritty floor of the shop, he seemed unconcerned about the guns he knew were trained on him and his two lieutenants, Butch and Marty. Posture was important in the world, especially the world of gangsters.
“Hey DeSilva! You gonna stand there all day?” One of the dark figures shouted from the depths of the tool and pin-up lined cavern. Slowly, confidently, the three newcomers moved into the shadowy darkness willing their eyes to quickly adjust to the change in light in case their guns were needed. Johnny had not responded to the taunt, choosing instead to ignore it as if it were beneath him as he approached the nearly closed circle of men with guns, neither smiling nor scowling. Keeping your opponent off guard was good strategy; like the shark circling his prey, raising its panic level until it darts off in the wrong direction-straight into the jaws of death. Rather than enter the circle, the three stood just outside of it, a move designed to draw out the one they had come to talk to. It would be this man that Butch and Marty’s guns would be trained on.
Johnny knew that the shop had been cleared prior to their arrival. The mechanics had all been sent to lunch and Al was not sitting in the worn, wooden swivel chair at his cluttered in the office behind the ring of hoods.
This is where it had all started, Al’s Garage; Johnny’s second home as a boy and neutral ground in the protection racket game that had brought North Minneapolis to its knees in front of the gangsters.
This is where the man known as “Big K” had risen from the streets with broken bottles and crowbars, recruiting bullies from the hoods of Polish, Irish, and Italians, coercing one business at a time to his “protection” and paying off cops along the way to watch his back or turn theirs as he built his organization to a level that drew the attention of the hungry predators in St. Paul and Chicago.
And this is where Johnny had watched and learned as “Papa Al” shielded him from his abusive father and the neighborhood toughs as he walked his tightrope of neutrality, sometimes dancing across the tight strand, protecting his own as rival factions met within his non-committal walls to iron out their differences. No bloodshed was allowed and all “debts” were to be settled off the premises.
And Al waxed prosperous indeed as the only garage trusted by gangsters and their bosses on any side of a dispute to handle their cars. After all, one did not want to be driving a rolling bomb or a coffin with no brakes!
“Johnny DeSilva,” Big K finally spoke up, forfeiting his advantage in the waiting game that demanded the other side make the first move. Normally he would have waited for Johnny to speak but the day was wasting and he had other business to attend to. Besides, he thought, these three punks were no match for him and his twelve guns.
“Johnny DeSilva,” K repeated thoughtfully, “been hearing that name a lot lately, seems you been taking over some of my key accounts and skimmed thousands from my operation.”
Johnny, still silent, just nodded.
“What’s the matter,” Big K asked, “cat got your tongue?”
Now Johnny looked into Big K’s muddy brown eyes. A slow smile spread across his face as he saw the puffy eyes and bloated face of a man succumbing to a life of comfort food and padded chairs.
“Seems you’re doing all the talking so far,” Johnny said, his smile easing the tension on the trigger fingers in the room.
“So it does,” Big K nodded in agreement as he searched the blue eyes of the DeSilva, sensing a young lion about to take out the old one. “Something familiar about you,” he continued, “where do I know you from?”
Johnny’s smile widened a little more, energized by Big K’s spark of recognition. He and his lieutenants had been careful to hide their true identities, showing up out of nowhere and attacking quick, claiming the accounts from Big K and knowing he would come after them with a swift and deadly vengeance. Their only hope was to make a big enough dent in his operation to spur a meeting like this and there were only three possible outcomes; cut them in, hire them or kill them and say good-bye to the several thousand dollars they had successfully skimmed from him.
Johnny shrugged at the question. “I get that a lot,” he said. Even if he had told him that he had been the young blonde boy scraping the floor of the garage they were standing in and picking up the greasy rags all of these last ten years, Big K’s ego would not let him believe it.
“Word is you might be from Chicago,” Big K continued doing the talking, “maybe yes, maybe no. I’ve been waitin’ for the Chicago boys to come and talk. I could use some more muscle to expand my operation. You verify that and we’ll do business, you don’t, you die.”
DeSilva’s smile faded, “Here’s the real deal, “K”, is that what they call you? You turn your operation over to me, right here, right now, and I let you retire with a pension; a percentage of what you’ve built. You live fat and happy and we all walk out alive and stay that way.”
Big K and his boys looked at each other, smiles breaking into snickers and growing into full fledged laughter until Johnny and his boys were laughing as well. Soon there were tears streaming down the faces of Big K’s men and the big man himself was red in the face, possibly in danger of a stroke. K’s hoods were weak from the experience and could not have lifted their guns if they had tried.
Finally, Johnny raised his hand to Butch and Marty and the laughter stopped, returning the stone cold stares to their faces. Big K stopped his laughter as well, showing the side of him that had gotten him here.
“What makes you think that we are just going to let you walk in here demanding anything and walking out with my whole operation? Look around you, DeSilva; you’re outnumbered four to one!”
Johnny did not look around but stared straight into K’s eyes. “This is neutral ground isn’t it?” He replied with a question.
“Yeah, always has been,” K started.
“So, whatever arrangements we arrive at will be settled off the premises?”
“That’s the rule,” K affirmed.
“Do we have a deal then?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t think so,” K answered, disdain rolling off his tongue, “I think we’ll find out who you really are and settle this elsewhere.”
“I’m a busy man,” DeSilva said, “It’s now or never.”
“Then it’s never,” Big K replied, “Chicago boys or not.” Hey, he reasoned, the boys in Chicago could not blame him for killing DeSilva if he didn’t know who had sent him and if he wasn’t no one would care. This crap was getting on his nerves. Glancing at the men around him, K put them on alert. The last remnants of the laughter were gone from their faces.
“Matter of fact,” K said, “we’ll settle this right now, across the street.”
Raising their weapons, his men motioned the three would-be takeover artists toward the open garage door.
“What about the missing money?” Johnny asked. “If you kill us you’ll never get it back.”
“Oh, we’ll find out where it is. You’ll watch your friends die slowly until you tell us.” K said as he followed behind
“Why should we tell you if you are just gonna kill us anyway?” Johnny continued. Big K just rolled his eyes. “Keep moving!” He demanded.
“Looks like we don’t have a choice,” Johnny said, motioning for Butch and Marty to continue walking. Tommy guns shouldered, neither man showed any signs of stress at their plight.
With a smirk on his face, Big K followed as they walked through the door into the bright light of the sunny afternoon, his men flanking him and squinting as they crossed the threshold, watching for Johnny and his lieutenants to try to escape in the waiting Lincoln.
“You really want to do this?” Johnny asked as he led the way.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Big K assured him.
“You’re sure?” Johnny repeated.
“Yeah, I’m sure! Now move, get across the street!”
Johnny smiled as they stepped onto the patchy tar- over- brick street. Turning to face Big K, Johnny saw him and the hoods, so long in the darkness, struggling to adjust to the day’s brightness.
“Last chance, K,” Johnny said.
K and his men chuckled coldly. You had to admire this guy’s spirit.
“Up against the wall,” the big man said as Johnny and his guns were shoved back against the bricks of the side of a neighborhood bank.
Facing the twelve guns Johnny said loudly, “Okay boys, we’ve given them enough rope.”
Exasperated, Big K shook his head, “I told you DeSilva, we outnumber you four to one.”
“I think you miscounted,” Johnny said, looking up toward the roof, “we’ve got you by three.”
Following Johnny’s gaze Big K and his men looked up and saw where the missing money had gone, counting the twelve cops pointing Tommy guns at their faces like harpoons at a barrel of fish.
Johnny stepped out and turned, smiling and said, “Looks like we got a deal, Chief.”
“Better start planning your “retirement”, K!” the Chief hollered down.
As K lowered his head the men around him looked hopefully to DeSilva.
“Meet your new boss, boys,” Butch finally spoke, raising his Tommy to silence any objections.
The hoods nodded in respect as Johnny and his lieutenants crossed the street, climbing into the shiny black Lincoln with the suicide doors and pulling away from the curb.
“Yeah,” Johnny thought to himself, “DeSilva has a much better ring to it.”
John Evan Carson
9/17/2009
