The Lufthansa Heist by Henry Hill & Daniel Simone

Author:Henry Hill & Daniel Simone [Hill, Henry & Simone, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyons Press
Published: 2015-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

45

“You gotta do it, Tommy,” Paul Vario said adamantly. “Stacks gotta go. If that fuckin’ mouleenian gets locked up, he’ll give up every one of us.”

They were at the bar in Robert’s Lounge. Vario, who was not much of a drinker, stood over DeSimone; Burke was on the other side as if he were bartending. DeSimone glanced up at the six-foot-three, 280-pound Vario and groveled to express his feelings for his high school friend and truant buddy, Stacks.

“Paulie, how can you ask me to whack Stacks? I mean, him and me go back before I can remember. I’m the only person on earth he trusts.” DeSimone hung his head in grief.

Vario put his arm around DeSimone’s shoulders, and counseled in a fatherly way, “I understand, Tommy. I understand. Here’s what I want you to know: When the commission opens the books, this can get you your button. You’ll be a made man. And I promise you I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen.”

Nothing in the world meant more to DeSimone than becoming a made man in the Lucchese family. “You mean it, Paulie?”

Vario pointed at his cylindrical-shaped chest. “Tommy,” he said in a gravely hush, “don’t you know when Uncle Paulie makes a promise, it always happens?”

DeSimone gazed uncertainly at the Lucchese capo, and then at Burke, who nodded favorably. Vario tapped DeSimone on the back and smiled weakly. “Do it for me, Tommy, eh? You won’t regret it.”

And they gulped their drinks.

Once Paul Vario signed Stacks’s death warrant, DeSimone, though still wrangling with remorse, chose Sepe as his co-trigger man. It had been eight days since Stacks “had gone to the mattress”—a Mafia slang for hiding out—and only stuck his head out of the apartment when he went to a store to buy food. Out of caution, he’d wear a hat with earmuffs, a scarf around his neck and face, and bug-eye sunglasses. It had been a cold, snow-laden week, and save for the nutty sunglasses, Stacks’s apparel was in season, and he didn’t seem out of place. He was living on Mexican tacos stuffed with mystery meat and beans, and on his ninth day on the lam he jogged two blocks to buy a bucket of southern fried chicken.

On returning to his apartment, he undressed to his underwear and chomped on a drumstick. Paranoid, Stacks peeked out the window to see if anyone had stalked him. Fresh snow was accumulating on the sidewalk pavement. No footprints. It eased his trepidations. He poured Coke in a red plastic cup, and a hollow knock on the door spooked him. His heart palpitating, Stacks disguised his voice. “Who’s there?”

“Stacks, it’s Tommy. Lemme in, pal.”

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