A Six-Pack to Go

A Six-Pack to Go

© 2021 Kip Meyerhoff

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-66780-259-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66780-260-2

Dedication

Life is full of surprises, some little, some big, some happy, some sad. Just when I thought life no longer held any more surprises for me, BAM! In my 78th year on this planet, life handed me my biggest and happiest surprise ever.

My younger son had questions. Was he adopted or a victim in a maternity ward mix-up? Seeking answers, he saw fit to provide his parents and siblings DNA test kits as Christmas gifts. I dutifully swabbed my cheek and mailed it off. A few weeks passed, and he received the results: I was his father, and he was my son, in spite of his red hair and freckles. No surprise for me, maybe for him.

Time goes by, and I see a photo of him posted on Facebook depicting him standing between two women, and the caption reading, Here I am with my new relatives. Curious, I picked up the phone.

It turns out the woman on his right was his sister and the other, his niece, one of his newly-discovered sister’s children. Thus, the ladies are my daughter and granddaughter. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Introspection quickly replaced my initial shock and trepidations. I sought the counsel of my wife and then made the calls that ultimately united us.

I dedicate this book to my four children, nine grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. May they seek to understand, find worth in listening, and enjoy happiness, knowing Gramps had a great ride. Rejoice, for God has blessed us all.

Table of Contents

Business Traveler

Looking Better

The Fishing Trip

Not-So-Easy Money

Clandestine Warriors

A Six-Pack to Go

Rollo Michaels: The Last Case

Acknowledgments

Business

Traveler

Chapter 1

My name is Charlie Michaels, and I was on a mission: collect the vig, plus penalty, on a ten-grand note Charlie Lucky held on the Fishers Hotel, a joint just across the tracks from the Central Islip train station. It was a Saturday, three days after Christmas, the year before the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. My crew boss, Don Vitone, had me sitting by myself on a train for a two-hour ride to the middle of Long Island. It seems last night’s six inches of snow made driving to Central Islip from Brooklyn impossible. It was still snowing when the conductor walked through our car shouting Central Islip as the train slowed, with steam gushing and steel wheels screeching, while the locomotive sprayed sand on the icy rails for traction.

Word had it that Bernie Gill, the mook who owned the hotel, was a degenerate gambler, in deep to one of Meyer Lansky’s shylocks. Being a month late on your payment a second time usually meant an ass-kicking. But Lansky’s sister-in-law was married to the mook, making a twisted arm or broken leg out of the question as long as Lansky held the note. So he sold it to Lucky Luciano at a discount of two grand, no less, to keep peace in the family.

As any good plumber knows, shit rolls downhill, and Luciano tells Vitone, and now I’m stepping off a train in a twenty-degree blizzard. Right away, I discovered my Thom McAn’s were never meant for a foot of snow. I pulled my overcoat collar up, my fedora down, and leaned into the blowing snow to wait for the train to leave the station. The whistle blew, the snow-muffled All aboard! shouted, the engine wheels spun, the train left, and I trudged across the tracks, overnighter in hand.

The hotel was bigger than I thought: three stories high, wood frame, smoke pouring out of a bunch of chimneys, and snow-covered cars parked all around. As I got close, it sounded like the joint was jumping. By the time I climbed onto the porch, my feet were numb, and my ears felt like if I touched one, it would shatter and fall. I brushed snow from my hat and coat and stomped my shoes on the mat.

The sign above the door said, BAR. I entered a full house, two-deep at the mahogany, small tables by the wall all taken. Live music blared from the back, where folks danced to a catchy tune. The din of a hundred shouted conversations fought through the cigarette smoke to get my attention. Two bartenders and two girls kept the booze flowing. Unable to get to the bar, I waved for one of the girls.

What’ll it be, Mister?

Beefeaters and soda, lemon twist, I said, Can I get some eats?

She directed me to the dining room with the promise to bring my drink to my table. I chose a quiet corner table, set my bag on the chair to my left, and placed my coat and hat on top. I sat back to the corner so’s I could keep an eye on things. Only six other diners took up two tables, making it easy for the young lady with my drink to find me. The dollar tip I gave her didn’t seem to impress.

My waitress, menu in hand, shuffled toward me. Alice could have been the cocktail girl’s mother and appeared to have a lot of miles on her brogans. I opted for the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and green beans like she suggested, and it got me a smile that wrinkled her brow. I’m supposed to ask you if you want a salad, but you don’t look like a salad kind of fella.

As I sipped my drink, Alice brought me water and a couple of rolls with pats of butter, still smiling. My Boss around? made the smile go away.

Usually is. Why?

I want to tell him what a great job you’re doing.

You can write it on the back of your dinner check in the comments section. G-O-O-D, it’s a four-letter word, she said, the smile back, this time with a wink.

I know a lot of four-letter words, Alice, I said to her back as she left to check on the other tables. The first bite of my warm buttered roll was a pleasant surprise: real butter. Alice was soon back with my dinner. The big portions covering my plate and the quality of the food continued to impress. I hadn’t eaten all day, so I was determined to clean my plate.

Only a couple of forkfuls of mashed potato awaited me in the au jus when a man sat down at my table without asking. He wasn’t the boss. He had a highball in one hand, a pinky ring with a big rock on the other. The dark-charcoal suit looked like a Hickey Freeman, a little tight around the biceps and bulging at his left armpit. Expensive muscle for a joint like this. I wiped my mouth with my napkin, dropped it on the mashed potatoes, and locked eyes. He put his drink down and crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

Alice says you want to see the boss, he said, holding my stare.

What’s it to you?

I’m his secretary. You need an appointment. He reached inside his jacket, making sure I saw his piece, and withdrew a notebook. He made a show of rifling through the pages, shook his head, and said, Yeah, you don’t have one.

Tell him Don Vitone sent me to see him. That made his eyebrows rise.

You have a name?

Michaels. And you?

Jack Murphy, he said, standing and offering his hand. I’ll tell him you’re here.

I stood, and we shook hands, doing the old high school bullshit of trying to out-squeeze the other. Alice broke us up with, How about some dessert and coffee?

What you offering? I said to her as Murphy headed toward the bar.

Only what’s on the menu, big fella. I settled for the apple pie, warm with a slice of cheddar, and sat back down. Cream and sugar?

No, black like my heart.

Chapter 2

Bernie Gill was as described, two hundred-plus pounds on a five-six frame, full head of white hair, and furtive, beady-eyes darting behind thick glasses. He sat where Jack had while his secretary schmoozed the two couples dining across the room from us.

I don’t know you and never heard of Don Vitone, he said. What’s this about?

The ten-grand you used to owe your brother-in-law Meyer Lansky.

What do you mean ‘used to’?

You now owe the money to his good friend, Charlie Lucky. Same terms. It seems you’re a few weeks late on the vig. That’s where I come in—get you up-to-date, so to speak.

Lansky’s a prick, so screw you. Turning his head slightly, he yelled, Jack, get over here!

I backhanded Bernie, knocking him and his chair ass over teakettle. A woman screamed. Jack took three steps toward me and froze, the revolver in my hand having the desired effect. After a few heartbeats, Jack found his testicles, then walked over to help his employer up. In doing so, he stepped on Bernie’s spectacles with a nicely shined size twelve Florsheim.

Big-footed asshole, Bernie grumbled, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. As for you, tough guy, get out of here before I let the boys loose on you. Go tell those guinea bastards you work for they bought a worthless piece of paper.

One of the bartenders entered the dining room with an out-of-season baseball bat, and the cook came out the kitchen door with his favorite chef’s knife, causing their boss to straighten his jacket and stand a little taller. Jack kept looking back and forth from the gun in my hand to the expression on my face, wondering if I was serious.

Maybe you should call your in-laws before you overload your ass, Bernie, I said and sat back down. He left in a huff, bent glasses askew, as a red welt rose on his face from my slap. His embarrassment almost hid it. Jack followed, and the cook and batboy returned to their posts. I waved Alice over and asked for a refill.

Surprisingly, she brought out the pot and filled my cup. I wanted to slap that pervert for a long time.

Pervert?

Keeps playing grab-ass with the girls. Told him if he laid a hand on my daughter, I’d cut his gizzard out.

So, she is your daughter?

The young lady who brought your drink—my daughter, Rose, she said, adding that the guy with the bat is Rose’s beau, Ralph, then said, You might watch out for Jack. He can be sneaky-mean.

A big boy like that looks like he could easily knock the cherry off a Cherry Chouffe Rouge, made her blink.

The other patrons quickly left but were soon replaced by folks who had worked up an appetite dancing. I was on my fourth cup of Joe when Jack returned, no gun in hand, no boss, no back-up. He sat at the same chair across from me, further back than my backhand could reach. You got to hand it to him, smiling before he spoke as if I was nothing for him to worry about.

Boss says to tell you he’ll have six hundred for you in the morning. Dinner and a room on him. He threw a room key on the tablet. The tag read 308. Third floor, last room on the right. Ain’t much, but the Honeymoon Suite’s full.

Elevator?

You’re kidding me, right? Stairs by the front desk. Your envelope will be at the bar when you come down. The 10:15 to Jamaica is usually on time. Be sure you’re on it, he said with a hard stare for emphasis.

As long as I have what I came to get, it should be no problem. But if I don’t, that will be a big problem.

That’s what I told Mr. Gill, he said. Buy you a drink at the bar?

Maybe later. I want to get settled into my room. Sorry about pulling the gun; I just didn’t want to dance.

You slapping my boss makes me look bad.

Nothing personal, I said, dropping a fiver for Alice, and went to find room 308 on the third floor of Fishers Hotel.

I was surprised the stairs didn’t creak under my 190 pounds, plus pistol, lead-loaded sap, coat, hat, and satchel. The second-floor hallway was well-lit and lushly carpeted. The stairs to the third floor were behind a closed door. When I opened the door to continue my ascent, I understood. The lush carpet didn’t extend upward, and the lighting was dimmer in an attempt to hide the third floor’s seediness. The brightest light was the fire exit sign at the hall’s end. Halfway down, I passed the communal bath. Its light was spilling into the hall past the half-closed door. At least my key worked. I stepped in and flipped on the light.

My room was cold, clean, and sparse: no closet or chest of drawers. A washstand with a lidded pitcher stood under a mirror, and a pull chain worked a bare lightbulb above it all. I looked in the mirror at a guy whose mother had higher expectations for this son. I was tired. My five o’clock shadow was three hours darker, matching my mood. I flopped on the bed for twenty winks.

I awoke with a chill. My Benrus said I overshot the twenty winks by an hour. I decided to freshen up and removed my jacket and shoulder rig. I poured water from the pitcher and splashed some on my face. The cold slap didn’t snap me out of my mood. Murphy’s offer now seemed like a good idea, so I headed back down to the bar.

Chapter 3

The joint was still jumping, the band was repeating their playlist, and the big Irishman named Murphy had cleared himself a spot at the bar. I tapped his shoulder, and he spun around, ready for who knows what. His smile was quite friendly, but his eyes said something else.

Hey Buddy, thought you might have called it a night, he said.

Call me Charlie, Charlie Michaels. You still buying?

He talked me into shots of top-shelf Irish whisky with a beer back. After a quick two, he seemed to loosen up even more. Your boss Lansky has been here a few times. Gill says they’re related by marriage.

He’s not my boss. You meet him?

Nah. But I talked with his limo driver and ride-along gunzel while the Gills entertained the Lansky family.

Family?

Yeah. Wife and little girl, cute like a Shirley Temple doll.

You don’t look like you’re from around here, I said as the bartender who thought he was a batboy, probably for the Brooklyn Bums, poured another round. Murphy’s story was a New York one, his father the son of Irish immigrants. Jack was the youngest of three boys. His siblings followed their father onto the docks of New York, but Jack had bigger ambitions. Working on his brothers’ information, Jack