Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [6]
In fact, Johnny may have mentioned a key of some kind. He was a Chatty Cathy. Problem is, I’m not much of a listener. Still, I would’ve remembered money talk.
“He wrote about you like you was his girlfriend,” Tony says, waving the notebook under my nose.
“We were fuck buddies, that’s it.” His eyes flick to the Jesus on the wall. “We weren’t going steady or anything. He didn’t hand over his old high school letter jacket from St. Nick’s. I don’t know about any of this.”
“You know the A&M garage across the street from Ray’s? He keeps his bikes in that place. You know that?” I nod. “You ever wonder what else he might have tucked away in there? You ever wonder why he was delivering office paper at two in the morning?”
Working as a bartender teaches you pretty quick that people will eventually spill whatever it is that’s gnawing at them. All you have to do is wait. And so I wait. And keep telling him that I don’t know anything about a key. And wait some more. Repeat my innocence. Then shut my mouth, praying he doesn’t beat the shit out of me or worse.
He paces the room. I notice he’s not any wearing shoes, just long white athletic socks pulled up to the knees. I suppose we’re both shoeless so the carpets don’t get messed up. He explains the “sitch.” Johnny was a drug courier—some of his friends were too, but he was the head honcho, the numero uno courier. The drugs were shipped from New Jersey to Johnny’s storage place at A&M in bicycle frames. Johnny would then distribute the bikes to his other courier pals to take apart so they could peddle their wares to various eager customers far and wide across the City of Brotherly Love.
I am starting to have a little more respect for the dead kid.
Tony doesn’t elaborate on his role. “I was just the connector, mostly, with these guys in Jersey. I never touched the bikes. I never even seen the bikes. I just arranged for the shipments. To tell you the truth, I had no idea what was really going on until the thugs in Jersey contacted me and told me.” His voice is stiff, like one reserved for false testimony in court.
And then, it seems, Johnny got greedy—maybe he needed some new guitar amps or fancier pens—and he started keeping a portion of the proceeds locked away in the storage center along with the bikes. And then the Jersey guys, these “bicycle distributors,” wanted to know where their money had gone. They didn’t want to hear about how Tony couldn’t get to it or how Johnny had taken the secret to his grave. They just wanted to get paid, and fast.
“They been here twice already,” Tony says.
“What does your ma say about this?”
His thick, caterpillar-looking eyebrows fly up in surprise. “She don’t say nothing. She just grinds up beans for coffee and gives them cake.”
I don’t believe him, but I don’t say that either. I bet Granny’s grown used to the perks the money brought in; the status she earned for the extra church tithes; maybe she even bought a few wigs made out of real hair or new plastic covers for the furniture.
“How about if I make you a deal? You let me out of here and we forget about this whole thing. I’ll talk to Lou about you being allowed back in the bar. You know, we’ll start with Tuesday-night karaoke. You can sing Johnny Cash or Britney or whoever the hell you want. But you gotta let me out of here first.”
“They’ll be coming back soon,” Tony says. He actually wrings his hands, like an old lady. “And now I got you to deal with and no key and no money either.”
“I’m telling you, I’ll put in a good word with Lou. No problem. I bet he’d even help you out with the money if I ask him nice. And talk to these Jersey thugs. He’s a popular guy. People love him.”
Tony gives a big, long sigh. “Give me a second.” He paces some more and then says, “You need anything? Like a glass of water?” I nod and