Read Online American Gangster by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B

for little things, like getting the fuck
shot
at! You risk your fuckin’ life to serve and protect, and in return? Certain courtesies are shown. In gratitude, like.”
    Disgusted, Richie grabbed his partner by the lapels of the leather jacket and tried to decide whether to shake him till he rattled or knock his damn head onto those bricks till it splashed or . . . shit.
    He let loose.
    Embarrassed, near tears, Javy said, “You’d begrudge me a little goddamn shitting consideration—adiscount on a TV, a Doughboy pool in the backyard . . . a new dress for my girl, maybe once a fuckin’ year.”
    â€œWrong is wrong.”
    Javy’s eyes flared. “Jesus fucking. . . . All I’m talking about is guys like you and me not living under the fucking
poverty
level! You wanna call it wrong, go ahead! Call it wrong.”
    â€œIt’s wrong.”
    Javy threw his hands in the air. “Fine! Then, goddamnit, let the sons of bitches pay me fifty K a year, like the manager of a goddamn supermarket. Pay me
something
for putting my ass on the line, for getting shot at. . . . You got a short fucking memory, man.”
    â€œDo I?”
    His eyes were welling, his lips quivering. “Next time . . . next time four guys come into your place, with sawed-off shotguns? You take care of your
own
ass.”
    Richie sighed. Held up a “stop” palm to indicate a shift in conversation. “Okay. So you robbed him, and then you shot him. And now I helped get you out of there.”
    Javy said nothing.
    Richie went on: “How many other pathetic low-end dealers have you ripped off and shot over the years, Jav? Two? Twenty?”
    Suddenly Javy grew some spine, shoving Richie, who stumbled back a step.
    â€œHey, you know what, Rich? Fuck you and the white horse you rode in on. Guy accuses his partnerof something like that, accusing his own kind. You should be ashamed.”
    And Javy got his car keys out, and bumped by Richie, only Richie grabbed him, yanked his coat half-off to get at Javy’s left sleeve, which he pushed up. The time had come to confirm a suspicion Richie had denied for too long.
    There they were:
the puncture scabs and scars, the needle tracks of the junkie.
    Richie pushed his partner away. “You’re the one should be ashamed. You’re a fucking disgrace.”
    Now Javy did get in Richie’s face. “I’ll tell you what I am—I’m a fucking
leper
! And why? Because I listened to you, because I went along with Saint Richie of Roberts and turned in a million
fucking
dollars! God! Damn!”
    Javy backed off and staggered around in a little half circle, saying, “And you know who wants to work with me after that? Same people wanna work with you, Rich—
no body!
”
    Richie went to his partner, ex-partner, and grabbed the man’s hand holding the car keys and squeezed and squeezed and finally the jagged teeth of the keys did their work and blood dripped from Javy’s forced fist.
    â€œHere’s what I’ll do for you,” Richie said to the trembling Javy, “for that time at my place, when you saved my ass? I will write this up the way you say it happened. I will back you all the way.”
    â€œRichie. . . .”
    â€œBut that is it. That is it for us, Javy. Far as I’m concerned, that was you dead on the floor today.”
    Then Richie backed off, held his hands high as if in surrender and headed out of the dark alley into sunshine, not watching Javy slump against the brick and clutch his bleeding hand.

7. Payback
    At a certain army base in New Jersey, in the cool blue dusk, a beat-up Chevy headed off a road, rumbled over the earth and stopped alongside a perimeter fence. The vehicle’s driver, Frank Lucas, got out and waited, watching a military jeep with its lights off come gliding over the smooth ground of a firing range.
    The jeep slowed.
    Stopped.
    Close enough,