Revenge of the Prodigal by Michael Caudo

Author:Michael Caudo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Art heist crime novel.
Publisher: Tasker Morris Ventures, LLC
Published: 2022-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

MONEY NEVER MISSES

Fenway Phil sat at the end of the Paradise bar watching his Guinness cascade inside its pint glass. He would have preferred a house-grade Chianti poured from a jug, but the stout better suited his current role. Originally hailing from New Haven, Connecticut, from a half Italian father and a half Irish mother, the remaining half a jumble, Phil had learned to adapt to his surroundings from an early age. Adopting the genealogy most suitable to the prevailing winds, Fenway Phil (occasionally going by Flatbush Phil) fancied himself something of an underworld chameleon. So complete were his adaptations, he actually convinced himself that each was authentic in its own right, the hallmark of the consummate con man—believing his own bullshit.

His present mutation: Boston-based old head, vaguely connected to either the IRA or a Charlestown crew (no one cared enough to check, nor did it really matter), was going over without a hitch. The Thorn’s crew were all either too stupid or too greedy to question this shaky pedigree. All The Thorn cared about was that Phil looked the part, and that he did. Phil Ragusa had an uncanny resemblance to the actor George Raft; this alone gave him credibility enough. Moreover, Fenway Phil was always working on some big score. Naturally, none of these scams had panned out, but he always had a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why they fell through at the last second. Up until now, that is.

This collection of miscreants had actually managed to stumble upon an epic score, the true value of which none of them fully comprehended. Being the misfits they were, they had no idea how to unload it. Phil had assured The Thorn he had the perfect fence but had been stalling until he could devise a way to steal it for himself. So when Dino Graniti reached out with a proposal, Phil was more than receptive. He was barely eking out an existence from the crumbs that fell onto the floor of the Paradise. Everybody knew Andy Boy controlled everything that generated any real money in the neighborhood, so they were reduced to scrounging around the periphery, where the prey didn’t know any better.

Dino appeared at the rear door, the “Ladies Entrance.” He waved at Phil, but with a come here motion, indicating he needed some help. Phil made his way over, careful not to look too eager. It was important to keep up appearances, and he had strived to give Dino the impression that he wasn’t desperate, though desperate was an understatement. Phil drank at the Paradise three nights a week. The remainder of his time he spent in the Marina District of Atlantic City bouncing between the Borgata, Harrah’s, and the Golden Nugget, making the rounds of the poker rooms, sports books, and various lounges. As for where he laid his head on any given night, he liked to say he had a waterfront residence at the Jersey shore, which was technically accurate. Phil’s 2001 Econoline van was permanently parked on deflated Michelins in “A” lot of the Frank S.

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