The below short story, my
first published short story, 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 had been 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 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 had joined the Navy on my
17th birthday and traveled to Southeast Asia 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, 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. The accident victim must have 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 the 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 its better wit you as the
go-between."
"Harry, this is the big
time! There must be $100,000 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. 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 like a
hangman’s weight bag. Ravelli then walked slowly with a 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 shrugged, lifted the Beretta and
then 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 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 By Paul Davis
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