A Crime For Love

"Did you kill the guys?"

"Naw, they were dead when I got there."

What kind of idiot asks shit like that when the place might be bugged?

The next day, Mr. Lane called me over to his house and said,

"Good job, Sonny," and handed me a shoebox of cash, $30,000.

The money and cocaine I'd stolen in Miami from the drug dealer's safe gave Mr. Lane an unexpected profit on a simple execution order that had fortuitously turned into a debt collection. After my unexpected bonus, there was nothing I wouldn't do for Mr. Lane.

A week later, I was on the move again. I left for snowy Ontario, Canada, to deal with an old bearded Hebe diamond dealer who had absconded with ten million in uncut stones taken on memo. He didn't realize the outfit he memoed the stones from was mob-connected. You don't do that shit in NYC.

I flew into Ottawa International Airport on a one-way ticket and picked up a rent-a-car. I carried a light carry-on with a change of clothes. The rental agent was mob-connected because I found a shiny nickel-plated .45 Colt Semi-Automatic pistol in the glove box. I drove to the address where my target was living. When I arrived, it was late at night. I wore a ski mask appropriate for the cold night. After casing the mountain lodge, I saw it was easy to cut the electric power by simply turning off the breakers in the fuse box attached to a rear wall. That killed the alarm, and with the cover of surprise, I easily broke into the thief's hideout through a back door by using a slim-Jim to jack open the lock.

I tiptoed through the kitchen and encountered the diamond cutter's daughter in the living room. She was sleeping nude under a heavy fake fur blanket in front of the television. I put the gun to her head and woke her gently. I used a towel to gag her and tied her up. I left her bare-breasted with the rope wrapped around her tits. The bitch had two nice tits.

I woke up her father In the bedroom; he was snoring loudly, probably dreaming of the holy land. I woke him abruptly and dragged him into the living room. I told Hymie, that if he didn't give me the missing diamonds, pointing the flashlight at his daughter's naked chest, I would slice off her tits.

I guess loved his daughter; someone had paid for her great tit job. I followed him into the basement, and by the light of my flashlight, he gave me a small green metal fishing tackle box he'd hidden behind the furnace.

"Heh, dere a still eight million in stone left," he said with a thick accent.

"You're short two million. You fuck up!

He made an expression of desperation, so I hit him in the face with my heavy .45 pistol and knocked out most of his front teeth to compensate for the missing stones. I left him tied securely to a boiler pipe in the basement.

When I came upstairs, the daughter was awake and had managed to dislodge the gag and was screaming her head off. She shut up when she saw me.

"What did you do to my Dad?"

"He's ok." I said, "Nothing a dentist can't fix."

I leaned forward to kiss both of her nipples, chewing a little, which must have turned her on because she spread her legs.

"Aren't you going to rape me?" She sounded disappointed.

"Nope, I got a girlfriend."

"Why'd you kiss my tits?"

"I like tits."

I rummaged through her beauty case and found a large black dildo and a tube of KY jelly. I told her to spread her legs wider and stuffed the extra large plastic prick into her hairy quim. Let her explain that to her kosher dad.

I drove back to the airport and consigned the rent-a-car. I would have preferred to drive south for the US-Canada border, but it was about 1000 miles. I flew to Avery Field /Laurier Airport, close to the US border. I rented a sedan and rendezvoused with one of Lane's contacts, who flashed his lights at me in an all-night diner's parking lot. He was waiting for me about ten miles from the border in a large Land Rover. I followed him on a secret route, bypassing the border guard's station without being detected. The tackle box with the diamond was in my carry-on. Since it was a domestic flight, I was not searched.

Once past the border, I drove for fifteen hours back to Brooklyn, pissing out the open door into the snow when necessary. On the way south, I stopped momentarily at gas stations when low on fuel, grabbed a sandwich or bag of chips and drank Coke to stay awake. Once I arrived in Lane's Brooklyn office, I was greeted by Norbert. I carried the green tackle box inside and followed him into the back room. The safe was big enough to stick a person inside. Norbert put the metal box with the uncut raw diamonds in the center compartment of the safe, locked it, and handed me the key,

"Take this key to Lane. Give it to him. Tell him no questions are going to be asked."

I had no idea what that meant, but when I arrived at Mr. Lane's home, it was daybreak. I taped on the front door window. The door slowly opened. Mr. Lane's pale white hand reached out to me. I put the safe key in his hand and left without saying a word other than,

"That's all the stones he had left. No questions will be asked."

The hand holding the key withdrew inside the vestibule. The door closed. No other words were spoken. I had kept one uncut stone for myself. As far as I know, no one ever missed it.

These two trips caused me a lot of trouble; I'd blame it on Julie's Mom, who was never keen on me. I know she thought I was fucking her daughter, but the fact was, Julie was still a virgin and determined to marry as one. I respected Julie's desires, and although we were naked on occasion, I never took advantage of her, although I'd get my prick between her cleavage and leave a good deposit of sperm for her shampoo. A man has to find some relief.

Julie was mad at me. I hadn't told her where or why I was gone for those weeks. That was purposeful, to protect her. The gang had no qualms about killing a woman if they believed she might betray them. The time away Julie was soon to be compounded.

I was back for only two weeks when Mr.Lane called me into his office.

"OK, Sonny, you're going to Ireland. You have a passport?"

"Yes, Mr. Lane, I applied and received one several months back, as you told me."

"Good."

"Why am I going to Emerald Isle?"

"There is a shipment of guns arriving by sea for the IRA. You fly to Dublin to meet your guy. Then you'll drive south. The IRA contact knows where to take you. He will accompany you to the seaside. When the boat comes ashore, the IRA guy will check the cargo. If it is acceptable, and it will be, he will give you a briefcase with 24k gold bars for the payment. This will take place every week for 6 weeks. Each time, you will immediately take the case with the gold bars to our pawnbroker in Dublin on Marlborough Street, who will credit the goods back to us."

"How do they do that?"

"You don't need to know or to ask questions; only a guy wired asks questions."

"Sorry, Boss, do you want me to strip?"

"No, but you should know better, learn! Don't ask questions."

"Yes, Boss."

"One more thing, in the duty-free shop, you'll buy a box of American Cigars. Your contact will recognize you as a young dude smoking a cigar."

I asked Julie to drive me to JFK Airport. I explained that my job required a trip for at least several weeks; I wasn't sure of the return date. I told her to drop me off at the curb and kissed her goodbye, giving her bountiful tits one last squeeze. I picked up my ticket at the Aer Lingus counter for a night flight to Dublin and a voucher for the return trip without a specified date.

I boarded with a carry-on bag containing a few changes of clothes. Before boarding, I'd ordered a box of twenty American cigars from the duty-free shop. Once on board, a cute red-haired Irish stewardess handed me the plastic duty-free bag before deplaning. It was a long flight, and after a few beers and a whiskey, I fell asleep.

The lights went on when the plane was about to land in Dublin. The landing was smooth. Once on the ground, I went to the baggage distribution area, where there was a Rent-a-Car desk. The reserved car and my guy awaited me. He was a short fireplug wearing a raincoat and a tweed cap. His brogue was so thick I had trouble understanding him.

I elected to drive. As the Irish drive on 'the wrong side of the road,' I fucked up. I almost collided with some German joker in a large Mercedes, but I eventually got the hang of it. My contact asked if I wanted him to drive, but I figured I better get used to it. I continued driving south to the town of Carrick-on-Suir, a little north of the seacoast in County Waterford. My contact directed me to leave him at the fork in the road. About a half mile down the road on the right was the farmhouse just outside the village with a sign 'Powers.' where I'd be a guest for the near future.

I used a code word to check into the safe house and offered my convivial host a cigar. He pocketed it and introduced me to his lovely wife and two children and showed me where I'd be staying. No questions were asked other than,

"I've a cousin, Joe Murphy, in America. Have ya ever met him?"

I slept in a tranquil room overlooking the rear of the property. Since it was a small dairy farm, there was plenty of Irish butter and potatoes on the dinner table. I joined in milking the cows or helping wherever directed. Milking was really easy with the Simplex milking machines. If a cow's teats were sore or infected with a pimple, we'd apply a tube of antibiotic carefully so it would not contaminate the milk. I don't think my host expected me to help out, but he appreciated it. His one employee seemed resentful that he was being displaced. When we drove tractors to move silage into the barn that would ferment into winter food for the cows, he almost ran me over with the multi-blade pitchfork attached to his tractor. My host shouted stop! And my life was saved. I would have looked like a shizcabob if he'd hit me.

My undercover job entailed one night's work a week. On the Tuesday of each week, when the guns were scheduled to arrive, my IRA contact would pick me up after dark in a small gray English Ford. I'd be smoking the stogie, and he'd drive to an abandoned sandy beach strip on the Waterford Coast. He'd set a flashing light on a rock near the water.

A fishing boat would arrive after an hour. That was when I'd sweat my underwear, waiting nervously in the cool, misty air as the boat came up to the shore, afraid we might be captured by the army or 'Garda.' The men steered the shallow boat as close to the shore as possible and then jumped into the water. The wooden cases in the boat looked like coffins. Somehow, the men hoisted each wooden crate out and onto the narrow dock.

A lorry (a truck) stood by to take delivery of the heavy boxes. The weapons were World War II vintage, mostly Springfield rifles and some M1 semi-automatics packed in grease paper but otherwise in good working condition. The IRA man would jimmy open one of the wooden crates and, take out a sample weapon, check it for rust and function. Then he carefully put the rifle back in the greased paper, wiped the grease off his hands, and closed the wooden lid. The number of large crates was always two, just enough to fill up the small lorry borrowed from a local bread factory. It took four of us to lift and load the crates off the dock and into the lorry. Each crate held 50 heavy rifles.

Even though the days were warm, you could freeze to death at the seaside in the early mornings. After the first trip, I wore a woolen cap, an Irish cable sweater, and a heavy jacket. Each delivery went as planned and was completed without incident. Afterward, the IRA man dropped me off at the farmhouse in Carrick.

At sunrise the following morning, I drove north in my rental car with the case containing the gold bars. If traffic was light, it took only several hours to get to Dublin. It's a very small island, and I never stopped driving until I arrived. I'd pass lots of hitchhikers, but I'd never stop. Once in Dublin, I delivered the leather case to the rear door of the address provided.

A man who looked like an undertaker opened the barred back door of the pawn shop, took the bag, and handed me a brown envelope containing five hundred Irish pounds in bank notes to pay my weekly expenses: hotel, car, eats, and movie theaters.

Mr. Lane had said, "Use the extra money to fuck some Irish tart."

His suggestion wasn't what I had in mind.

One afternoon, I made the mistake of attending the local movie theater in Carrick. It was a small cinema with a small screen and at least a hundred young kids shouting and throwing popcorn. After one visit, I gave up on it. The kid's noise was deafening.

Every Saturday night, there were dances, some featuring English bands I'd heard of, but I wasn't interested in dancing or looking for females; it was just an evening out to listen to the music, have a few drinks, and watch the young people frolic. Once time I took a bus to a country dance in what looked like a huge barn. I was amazed at the three girls in front of me on the bus who spent the entire forty-minute journey spouting one profanity after another, words I'd never heard a female use.

I regretted not taking my car to the barn dance. The return bus left early, and I was stranded. I tried to walk back, but it was too dark and cold to continue. I stopped at a farmhouse and slipped into an unlocked car to sleep. At the light of day, I got back on the road and hitched a ride back to Carrick.

In the evenings, when not involved in gun running at the seaside, I'd go to the pub in the village, and I'd stay for an hour with a pint of Guinness or Woodpecker Cider. I kept a low profile, and despite the local's curiosity, I didn't enter conversations. The publican, a local IRA member, knew I was 'connected' and would tell the guys to leave me alone. That shut the mouths of any inquisitive drunks.

During this time, I was writing to Julliet, but no letters from her arrived. I wondered what was going on, but I was quite busy, so I just figured I'd sort it out when I returned. I suspected her Mom was involved, but I underrated her duplicity.

On occasion, some evenings, I'd visit the local village pub and watch the small plastic-rimmed TV. After the late-night news of the "Troubles" in Northern Ireland, I'd nod good night to the publican and drive the few miles to my room at the farm. With the bedroom door closed I'd dream of Julie's nice tits and jerk off. That kept me civil. If I didn't milk the serpent at night, I'd be in a nasty mood the next day.

When I'd make the gold drop off in Dublin, I'd spend the night in a hotel, have a decent meal, and take in a play or a movie. The cleaning girl in the hotel, Elsie, was very inquisitive, coming into my room unannounced when I was sleeping nude. I guess she saw what she liked. Her flirting suggested it was worth taking her out to dinner. We took a short bus ride to get to the city center and arrived at a restaurant she'd suggested.

The menu wasn't cheap, but I was flush, and she was hungry. She ate like a starving wolf. She ordered a mixed grill of various portions of meat and consumed several bottles of Baby Champs (a carbonated Sherry wine). She was in a happy mood after her meal, and we went for a walk that ended at a gated city park. She said the park would be locked soon, but we entered, and I started playing with her tits. We lay down on the grass, and I got my hands under her dress between her plump thighs. Our park visit permitted my successful attempt at fucking her behind the high bushes.

The problem was how to get off her girdle. She wasn't a slender woman. Her figure was more matronly, and her cunt was covered with thick curly hair. Somehow I was managed to lift it enough to get next to her cunt, and she steered my dick inside her, but the difficulty of seating my cock was stressful. I came much sooner than I would have preferred. She offered no resistance and held me tightly as I came inside her. Fearful we would end up locked in the park, we got up off the damp grass and as I pulled my pants back on, she got herself together. She suggested we take a bus back to the hotel, and she burst out crying once we were seated in the back of the bus.

"You're not gonna like me after I let you do what you did," she cried.

"No, sweetie, letting me fuck you will make your memory indelible, and I'm gonna like ya forever." I knew I was being unfaithful to Julie, but I was just too horny to resist the easy tart.

The next week, I traveled to Dublin. I stayed at a small bed-and-breakfast. Rather than continue with Elsie, the annoying hotel girl, I stayed remained alone. The first bite at the apple was enough. Instead, I attended a movie theater. The cinema in Dublin was large and grand, like our old movie houses in the States. The nice thing about the Irish movies and theater was alcohol. After a shot to two of Irish Whiskey, the plays or movies were much more enjoyable.

Before the featured film came on, a grainy film of the Irish flag came on accompanied with the scratchy music of the national anthem. Everyone had to stand up at attention before the show began. Just as the patriotic moment finished, a very pretty dark-haired girl sat down one seat from me. She looked frail, and when I went to buy candy, I bought her an extra chocolate bar and handed it to her. That little gift led to a friendship; she'd take my arm and ask me to walk her home. It wasn't too far a distance. At her attached apartment, where she lived with her family, there was a baby sleeping in the living room, which I assumed was hers, but I made no advances toward her. She seemed fragile.

For the next few trips to Dublin, always following the 'gunboats' arrival, she'd meet me at the movie show. I felt sorry for her and would give her a ten-pound note each time I'd say good night, and she'd give me a quick kiss on my cheek. If I wasn't so tied up with Julie, I'd have had an easy conquest, but I never touched her except to hold her cool hand.

Back in Carrick, when the chores were done, I'd buy postcards and writing paper and spend hours writing love letters to Julie, but I never heard back from her. Why? Because she never got my letters; her mom intervened and destroyed them. Julie thought I'd abandoned her, and at her mother's insistence, she started dating the son of a friend who was happy to get involved with a beautiful musician.

Under her mom's influence, in this short time, without receiving any correspondence, Julie believed I'd abandoned her. Her response was to start dating Hillary Hashemi, the grandson son of a retired Jewish stockbroker.

The grandson's newfound beauty especially intrigued the young man's grandfather, a wealthy Patriarch. Juliet was refined, educated, and could discuss opera with the old man. He was so happy with this prospective family member that he gifted her a long strand of pearls he'd purchased on a round-the-world cruise. He realized Julie was something special, although very naïve, yet worthy, like a fine racehorse, of becoming a valuable family possession.

The grandad encouraged Sonny boy to propose. At the next dinner party, a diamond merchant arrived with several diamonds so Julie might make her choice. She chose an off-color stone with blue fluorescence. It was pretty to the eye, but not being knowledgeable, she picked an inferior stone. It is likely they were all inferior. Later, when I saw the stone, it was a warning that this group of charlatans was grifting Julie. They could afford to offer her a valuable D flawless. Before I recovered 8 million in uncut diamonds, Mr. Lane's fence had given me a day-long tutorial in diamonds, but I wasn't there to help her. Their next offer was a trip to a downtown jeweler to construct a simple, inexpensive wire ring for the stone.