The below short story, my first published crime fiction,
originally appeared in The Orchard Press Online Mystery Magazine in
2002:
The Small Timer
By Paul Davis
The shooting victims were discovered at 9 o'clock that night in
an old warehouse along the Delaware River in South Philadelphia.
I was on a "ride-along" with a Philadelphia police
sergeant when his car radio alerted us to the triple homicide. The sergeant,
Bill Francini, was the subject of a column that I was writing for the local
paper. Not wearing a seat belt, I braced myself as Francini raced for the
river.
Arriving at the crime scene some ten minutes later, Francini
pulled into a vacant space among a dozen hastily parked police vehicles.
Francini ushered me around to the side of the warehouse bay, where I would not
be violating the official crime scene, yet I could observe Philly’s finest do
their work.
Francini called out to his lieutenant and introduced me. The
lieutenant looked at me sharply, perhaps placing me from the photo that ran
with my column, and then simply nodded. He took his sergeant by the arm, and
they entered the warehouse.
From my vantage point I was able to see the three dead men in
the center of the warehouse bay. All were dressed casually. A short, elderly
man lay crumpled with his squat legs twisted under his torso. A snarl appeared
to be etched across his face and a gunshot wound was visible just above his
right ear.
The second victim had been a big and heavy man. I’m no little
guy, but this guy was truly big. He lay face up and stretched out across the
ground. He died with a dumbfounded expression on his face, just below the large
wound on his forehead.
The third victim sat in an upright position against a wooden
crate. Like the other two, he had a gunshot wound to the head. His face
retained a goofy grin that looked familiar to me.
I heard one of the crime scene investigators from South
Detectives tell the newly arrived homicide detective that an anonymous caller
had dialed 911 and reported the shooting. The scene looked like a professional
execution, organized crime style, so the detectives called the city's organized
crime intelligence squad and asked for someone to come and help ID the
bodies.
When a detective named McCollum from the squad arrived some 15
minutes later, he quickly walked among the three bodies, sidestepping the spent
shell casings and blood puddles. He immediately identified the short, older man
- the one the detectives with their usual black humor had nicknamed
"Grouchy" - as James "Jimmy First Nickel" Martin. Martin
was a known associate of the local mob in his capacity as a receiver of stolen
goods.
McCollum identified the second victim, nicknamed
"Dopey," as Joey Aurelio, a strong-arm enforcer for Martin. The third
victim, nicknamed "Happy," was dismissed as some small timer, as
McCollum, the organized crime expert, had never seen him before.
"Hey, McCollum," one of the detectives shouted,
"This guy should be happy – he’s still alive!"
A month later I entered the Federal Building in Center City
Philadelphia and rode the elevator up to the 8th floor. I stood before the
FBI’s receptionist, who was securely housed behind a sheet of protective glass.
I told her that I had an appointment with Special Agent Frank Kaplan. I had
come to interview Kaplan’s protected witness, Harry Sullivan - a.k.a.
"Happy."
I had been granted an exclusive interview with the sole survivor
of the warehouse murders, who was now a star witness for the prosecution in the
upcoming federal murder and racketeering trial of Francis "Frankie
Raven" Ravelli, a particularly vicious mob captain of a particularly
vicious crew of thieves, extortionists and hit men.
Sullivan had granted me an interview, as he liked my column on
the warehouse murders, and we knew each other from the old neighborhood.
I joined the Navy on my 17th birthday and traveled to Southeast
Asia aboard an aircraft carrier about the same time the 20-year-old Sullivan
was heading to state prison for the first of his many periods of incarceration.
Years later, I would see him at neighborhood bars and clubs, and
he would play the criminal insider, feeding me tips for my column. He liked to
show me off to his cronies. He was quite impressed with the notion that I
had become a writer. Of course, the only other writers he knew were number
writers.
Kaplan came out to the reception area and directed me to a
vacant office where I saw Sullivan sitting at a conference table. Sullivan’s
head was adorned with a turban bandage, and he used a cane to navigate his way
back to his chair after he stood and came forward to shake my hand. I sat on
the other side of the table, laid my tape recorder down and took out my
notebook and pen. I threw out some obligatory questions about his health and
his family before I launched into asking him a series of questions about the
events that led up to the warehouse murders.
Harry Sullivan was a small-time thief. He was in his early 50s,
slightly built with a drawn, pock-mocked face that was framed with longish,
unruly and scruffy blond hair. Despite his looks and his profession, he was not
a drug addict. Sullivan barely managed to make a proper living from his small
time stealing and he often had to supplement his illicit income with a straight
job. Despite his failure as a criminal, he yearned to be an arch-criminal, like
Willie Sutton the old bank robber.
Sullivan wanted to be respected.
Sullivan’s graduation to the big time came on the day he
happened to witness a head-on collision between a Volvo and a city trash truck.
The driver of the Volvo was killed instantly, and the city workers were unhurt
but badly shaken. Sullivan was one of the first to come to the aid of the Volvo
driver, but seeing that he was beyond it all, Sullivan's criminal instincts
kicked in and he lifted the man’s brown leather satchel from the front
passenger seat.
Sullivan slipped away and sprinted the two city blocks to his
apartment. Once there, alone in his kitchen, Sullivan broke the lock on the
satchel and dropped the contents on the kitchen table. He cried gleefully at
the sight of the assortment of diamonds spread across his table. Sullivan
surmised that the accident victim had been a diamond salesman or courier.
Later, after he calmed down, he placed his haul into a large
paper shopping bag and walked three blocks to Jimmy First Nickel’s appliance
store. Even though Martin had a reputation of being somewhat tight with his
money – hence the nickname that indicated he retained the first nickel he ever
earned – Sullivan knew that he was mobbed-up and he was the man to see.
Martin was sitting behind the counter, talking to his much
younger and pretty girlfriend Gloria when Sullivan walked in. He handed Martin
the bag and told him how he came to be in possession of the diamonds. Martin, a
short, heavy man in his 70s, breathed hard as he rose from his chair and came
around the counter to lock the door and hang the closed sign.
Martin ran his hand through the sparse gray strands of hair that
were slicked back across his head as he looked into the bag. Sullivan stood
there feeling awkward, smiling a goofy smile at the strikingly beautiful,
dark-haired girl. She returned his smile with a cold look of boredom.
"I’m impressed Harry," Martin said. "This is some
piece of work here. Lemme make a call and see if I can unload it
tonight."
Martin mumbled into the phone for a few minutes and then
announced that he had arranged a meeting with "the Man." Sullivan
felt a surge of perverse pride of a professional thief, but he was also felt
fearful of entering the world of big-time crime.
"I don’t know, Jimmy," Sullivan whined. "I think
it’s better wit you as the go-between."
"Harry, this is the big time! There must be $100,000 worth
of diamonds in this bag," Martin exclaimed. "The Man wants to meet
you personally."
A few hours, a few beers later, Martin and Sullivan drove in
silence to a riverside warehouse. Once inside, Martin introduced Sullivan to a
large man named Joey, who lumbered towards them, his hand placed on a gun in
the waistband of his slacks. Sullivan knew instantly that this was no major
league buyer. He knew that Martin had gotten a bone crusher to help steal his
diamonds.
In desperation, assuming Joey had planned to kill him, Sullivan
scooped a handful of the diamonds from the bag and flung them towards Joey’s
face. Sullivan then dove for some stacked crates half-heartily, fully expecting
to be shot and killed.
The blast sounded like heavy artillery in the open warehouse
bay. Sullivan, surprised not to be dead, scampered up and saw that Joey was
stretched out. He also saw two young dark guys, neat dressers, who looked like
a hundred guys Sullivan knew from the bars and clubs of South Philly.
One held a large semi-automatic handgun, a Beretta, Sullivan
guessed. The other held a shotgun, which was now trained on Martin. Getting a
better look, he realized that the one with the Beretta was Frankie Raven.
Ignoring Sullivan on the ground, Ravelli smiled cruelly as he
held his Beretta to Martin’s head.
"We’re your life-long partners, Jimmy. Didja think ya could
cut us out of this deal?"
"No, no, please," Martin cried. "I was jes
introducing a couple of guys, its small time."
"That’s not what Gloria told me, ya fuckin’ weasel,"
Ravelli said as he fired into Martin’s head.
Martin dropped down to the ground like a hangman’s weight bag.
Ravelli then walked slowly with a pronounced South Philly strut to where
Sullivan rested against a crate.
"I know you. You’re a small timer from Donny’s bar,"
Ravelli said.
"I’m no small timer," Sullivan scoffed. "This was
my job."
"When you’re right, you’re right," Ravelli said
coolly. He lifted the Beretta and pulled the trigger.
Kaplan brought us another refill of coffee just as we were
finishing up the interview. Sullivan sat in his chair puffing on one of a long
string of cigarettes that he had smoked while telling his story to me.
"You know why I really want to testify against
Ravelli?" Sullivan asked.
"Well, for starters, I would think his shooting you,"
I said in response. "And I know Frankie, he will certainly finish the job
if given the opportunity."
"Yeah, yeah, sure. But I really want to get up in court and
put that bastard away," Sullivan said. "I want him and everybody else
to know that I’m no small timer."
Frankie Raven received a life sentence. Quote the judge, Frankie
Raven, nevermore. Sullivan was booked into the federal witness protection
program and was moved out west somewhere.
As he wished, Sullivan received his moment of glory, his
proverbial 15 minutes of fame. But I had to laugh when I spied what my editor
placed over my column about the trial.
"Small Timer Testifies Against Mob Boss."
© 2002 Paul Davis
Note: You can read my
other crime fiction short stories via the below link:
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