Read Online As Time Goes By by Michael Walsh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Walsh
Tags: Fiction, Media Tie-In
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Dion O'Hanlon, except they weren't carrying milk. They were carrying whiskey down from Canada to a thirsty midtown Manhattan. It was Solly's intention to make sure thirsts were quenched uptown and in the Bronx first.
This part of Westchester was supposed to be their cordon sanitaire, a place they could drive through with out fear of molestation or hijacking. That's what O'Hanlon paid his protection money to the Westchester cops for, and that's what he expected to get in return. The boys driving his trucks had gotten lazy, though. Today, they were as unwary as the romping schoolkids at P.S. 31 in the Bronx. Today, O'Hanlon's money was no good here. Solomon Horowitz had outbid him. He felt it was his patriotic duty.
Not to mention he'd had to. He needed the liquor for his clubs, and O'Hanlon had recently euchred him out of a sweet deal up in Montreal that Horowitz had thought he'd locked up.
"Zei gesunt, Ricky," said Solly. "Remember, never pull your piece unless you plan to shoot somebody. Never shoot unless you plan to hit somebody. Otherwise maybe they get mad and hit you back."
Rick watched the boss move away briskly. For a stout man, Solly was a nimble fellow.
Rick began to take aim as the first truck cab came into his sights. Tick-Tock Schapiro, Solly's right-hand man and his third cousin, in that order, slapped his hand down hard. "Watch it, punk," he growled. "You might hurt somebody with that thing."
Tick-Tock got no quarrel from Rick. Schapiro was six feet four if he was an inch, and every inch of him was mean. His given name was Emmanuel, but nobody ever used it. He had acquired his nickname when he was thirteen: the ticking of the grandfather clock in the tiny hallway of the Schapiro family apartment on Little Water Street was driving him nuts, so he went out and acquired his first piece from a Five Pointer over on An thony Street, brought it home just as pleased as punch, and shot the bejesus out of the clock's face, taking spe cial pleasure in watching the glass front shatter, the hands of the clock spin off, and the inner mechanism explode into a thousand pieces that no Swiss clock- maker could ever put back together again.
When his oma complained about what he had done to her clock, which she had brought over from Ger many, he threw her down a flight of stairs. Tick-Tock told the cops she'd slipped. His mother, who'd seen the whole thing, gave them the same story. Tick-Tock had that effect on people.
Tick-Tock was also Solomon Horowitz's most valu able asset in his newly escalating battle with O'Hanlon. Schapiro was big, but he wasn't dumb, and he had de veloped the best inside information on the Irishman's booze shipments. How he did it was anybody's guess. Tick-Tock didn't talk much.
"Lemme show ya," he said. Coolly Tick-Tock aimed his pistol at the lead truck and shot out the front tires. The vehicle swerved precipitously as its wheels were transformed into a shower of rubber shards. Schapiro was a hell of a shot, as even Kinsella, the driver of this particular truck, would have had to admit. But with no control over his truck he was helpless as it swerved off the road, grazed a tree, and rolled onto its side. Sweat, cordite, and burning rubber mingled in the air like some obscene perfume that wouldn't be offered for sale at the big new Bloomingdale's store on 59th Street any time soon.
That's why the gang carried fire extinguishers. Pinky Tannenbaum, Abie Cohen, and Laz Lowenstein sprinted toward the burning truck, spraying gunfire and foam more or less simultaneously. Meanwhile the rest of the boys enfiladed the convoy, riddling the cabs of the other three trucks like they were the metal turkeys at Luna Park, the ones you could pop to impress your girl, win a stuffed animal, and maybe get lucky, too.
In the teeth of the ambush, the Irishers jumped out of their trucks like Aran fishermen abandoning their curraghs in a storm. They fired as they dropped from steering wheels and shotgun positions,
This part of Westchester was supposed to be their cordon sanitaire, a place they could drive through with out fear of molestation or hijacking. That's what O'Hanlon paid his protection money to the Westchester cops for, and that's what he expected to get in return. The boys driving his trucks had gotten lazy, though. Today, they were as unwary as the romping schoolkids at P.S. 31 in the Bronx. Today, O'Hanlon's money was no good here. Solomon Horowitz had outbid him. He felt it was his patriotic duty.
Not to mention he'd had to. He needed the liquor for his clubs, and O'Hanlon had recently euchred him out of a sweet deal up in Montreal that Horowitz had thought he'd locked up.
"Zei gesunt, Ricky," said Solly. "Remember, never pull your piece unless you plan to shoot somebody. Never shoot unless you plan to hit somebody. Otherwise maybe they get mad and hit you back."
Rick watched the boss move away briskly. For a stout man, Solly was a nimble fellow.
Rick began to take aim as the first truck cab came into his sights. Tick-Tock Schapiro, Solly's right-hand man and his third cousin, in that order, slapped his hand down hard. "Watch it, punk," he growled. "You might hurt somebody with that thing."
Tick-Tock got no quarrel from Rick. Schapiro was six feet four if he was an inch, and every inch of him was mean. His given name was Emmanuel, but nobody ever used it. He had acquired his nickname when he was thirteen: the ticking of the grandfather clock in the tiny hallway of the Schapiro family apartment on Little Water Street was driving him nuts, so he went out and acquired his first piece from a Five Pointer over on An thony Street, brought it home just as pleased as punch, and shot the bejesus out of the clock's face, taking spe cial pleasure in watching the glass front shatter, the hands of the clock spin off, and the inner mechanism explode into a thousand pieces that no Swiss clock- maker could ever put back together again.
When his oma complained about what he had done to her clock, which she had brought over from Ger many, he threw her down a flight of stairs. Tick-Tock told the cops she'd slipped. His mother, who'd seen the whole thing, gave them the same story. Tick-Tock had that effect on people.
Tick-Tock was also Solomon Horowitz's most valu able asset in his newly escalating battle with O'Hanlon. Schapiro was big, but he wasn't dumb, and he had de veloped the best inside information on the Irishman's booze shipments. How he did it was anybody's guess. Tick-Tock didn't talk much.
"Lemme show ya," he said. Coolly Tick-Tock aimed his pistol at the lead truck and shot out the front tires. The vehicle swerved precipitously as its wheels were transformed into a shower of rubber shards. Schapiro was a hell of a shot, as even Kinsella, the driver of this particular truck, would have had to admit. But with no control over his truck he was helpless as it swerved off the road, grazed a tree, and rolled onto its side. Sweat, cordite, and burning rubber mingled in the air like some obscene perfume that wouldn't be offered for sale at the big new Bloomingdale's store on 59th Street any time soon.
That's why the gang carried fire extinguishers. Pinky Tannenbaum, Abie Cohen, and Laz Lowenstein sprinted toward the burning truck, spraying gunfire and foam more or less simultaneously. Meanwhile the rest of the boys enfiladed the convoy, riddling the cabs of the other three trucks like they were the metal turkeys at Luna Park, the ones you could pop to impress your girl, win a stuffed animal, and maybe get lucky, too.
In the teeth of the ambush, the Irishers jumped out of their trucks like Aran fishermen abandoning their curraghs in a storm. They fired as they dropped from steering wheels and shotgun positions,
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