Get Louie Stigs

Larry Pavlicek

Description

FBI Agent Dennis Loughney has a problem. So does the Honorable Richard van Gothen, a judge with a social conscience. And so does Charles "Chuckie the Mangler" Mangano, a notorious crime boss. And they're all the same problem. Meet Louis Stigmatelli, small-time con artist, wannabe mobster, and possible federal witness who could sink Chuckie for good. When Louie's convicted of fraud, he lands in a different kind of cell, where the other inmates are monks, the warden is a former boxer turned priest, and his continued existence has become a headache for the Mangano Mob. What about his career as a petty criminal? And what about Agent Loughney's case? How secure is Louie's incarceration? And what kind of oddballs is he locked up with, anyway? All the answers-not to mention Louie's soul-depend on who gets to him first. Everybody has a reason to . . . GET LOUIE STIGS!

Sujets

• Catholic Church

Informations

• Publié par: ACS Books
• Date de parution: 24 avril 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781505109474
• Langue: English

Extrait

Get Louie Stigs
Get Louie Stigs
LARRY PAVLICEK
Copyright © 2016 The American Chesterton Society.
Cover and interior illustrations by Steve Pavlicek.
All rights reserved. With the exception of short excerpts used in articles and critical review, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form whatsoever, printed or electronic, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-5051-0946-7
ACS Books is an imprint of TAN Books
PO Box 410487
Charlotte, NC 28241
www.TANBooks.com
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Acknowledgements
FIRST-TIME NOVELISTS tend to run up a lot of debts, and I’m no exception. I’d be on the level of a chicken-killing dog if I didn’t acknowledge those who helped me produce what I hope will be an entertaining story. First credit goes to my entire family for not only believing in me but also understanding my extended periods in the man cave; love each of you a whole bunch. Their encouragement, along with that of Geir Hasnes, David Deavel, and especially George Boldizsar (RIP) kept me going through the many false starts and rewrites it took to arrive at this point.
I owe a special debt of thanks to Dale Ahlquist, president of the American Chesterton Society, who waded through the original manuscript but still agreed to publish it. He gave me one challenge at the outset: to write a credible story involving the Mafia without the usual epithets. It wasn’t easy, and here’s hoping the book meets the test.
I’m also indebted to the owners and staff of the Glockenspiel (“St. Paul’s German Restaurant” —may its memory be enshrined in St. Paul’s history) for allowing me the space, electricity, and friendly atmosphere to write, rewrite, and edit. Some may find it hard to believe, but a noisy neighborhood bierstub brimming with warm ambiance can do a lot to get a writer’s brainwaves pulsing.
I’d be very remiss if I didn’t thank my son, Stephen Pavlicek, for his great work on the book cover. Having access to only a small portion of the story, Steve conceived and executed what I consider just the right cover for this story.
Finally, but most importantly, I am grateful to Sibyl Niemann, the best editor of which a first-time novelist can only dream. Her ability to critique without criticism, correct without condescension, and recommend without recrimination made this a better book than it had any right to be. Should this book tank, it’s not her fault but my own.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of George Boldiszar—friend, guide, and muse.
There is nothing so precious as a faithful friend, and no scales can measure his excellence.
—S IRACH 6:15
Chapter One
MOST PEOPLE WHO EVER MET HIM considered Michael Lewis “Mega Mike” Cripkin the poster child for chronic egomania. Only in his late twenties, Cripkin had reached a rather lofty station in life courtesy of his genius for finance and a knack for moving tainted money around until it came back looking cleaner than the day it was printed. These talents were Cripkin’s entree into an elite circle of acquaintances, most of whom were capos or better in the New Jersey mob. In his young life, Cripkin was reputed to have moved more money than any ten Harvard MBA’s and lived a lifestyle that threatened to redefine hedonism. He had the world by the throat and normally wasn’t shy about broadcasting it. One particular afternoon, however, he was uncharacteristically subdued as he drummed his fingers on a gray metal desk in a cramped interrogation room.
The reason for Cripkin’s sudden personality change sat across the desk from him wearing a rumpled charcoal gray suit and a blue striped tie that had seen better days. Despite looking like he’d gotten dressed in response to a fire alarm, Special Agent Dennis Loughney, FBI, was a picture of reserve as he watched Cripkin fidget and sweat. Experience taught Loughney that after you “popped the question,” the first guy to speak was the loser. He had Cripkin right where he wanted him; he’d sit there all day if necessary.
“Can I have a smoke?” Cripkin finally asked, lacking Loughney’s insight.
“Sure, Mikey,” Loughney said as he rolled a Parliament across the desk toward him. “Relax. Take your time. It’s a big decision.”
Cripkin lit up, took a deep drag on the cigarette, and then tried to rally a shred of his usual bravado. “Without that wire tap, you guys got no case,” he said, using his best wise guy inflection. “My lawyers’ll get it tossed out in a minute.”
Like the excellent poker player he was, Loughney hadn’t come close to showing his hand. He produced an inch-thick affidavit and plopped it on the desk in front of Cripkin. “Trust me, Mikey. Even if your lawyer’s name is Houdini, he’s not gonna find a way out of this one. Oh, and I might add, the wiretap isn’t all we’ve got.”
With that, the agent produced a small tape recorder and flicked it on. What Cripkin heard almost made him wet his imported silk underwear. For several minutes, he listened to the gravelly voice of Chuckie “the Mangler” Mangano, Mob boss of northern New Jersey, interspersed with his own, discussing matters never intended for government ears.
“See, Mikey,” Loughney continued while clicking off the recorder, “we managed to wire your Beemer. The affidavit supporting that one’s just as thick. I might also mention that the guys at the FBI lab cracked your firewall. What they found behind it makes for some pretty interesting reading.”
Loughney paused for effect before continuing. “Face it, Mikey, you’re in some kind of jam. Best case, you’re looking at twenty years. Worst case, when Chuckie Mangano finds out you were dumb enough to let the feds wire your car, you’re looking at a dirt nap. The way things stand, I’m your best option.”
Cripkin’s hand trembled slightly as he snuffed out his cigarette. “So what’s your deal again?” he asked.
“You give us Mangano. We drop the money laundering charges and you cop to a couple of counts of wire fraud. After Mangano becomes a ward of the government, we’ll give you a new lease on life—after you’ve paid a brief debt to society, of course.”
Cripkin was silent for a few moments and then asked, “How much time?”
“That’s up to the U.S. attorney,” replied Loughney. “A lot will depend on your testimony and what a pre-sentence investigation turns up. If the PSI shows that you’re basically a decent sort who took an unfortunate wrong turn, maybe eighteen months. You got skeletons in your closet, the government might want you to take more time to ponder the error of your ways.”
“I get to pick where I end up? New identity, car, job, the whole smash?”
“Once you’ve made amends, it’s a lock,” Loughney assured him.
“And you guys can keep that animal away from me?”
Loughney produced a faint, understanding smile. “We’ve done this before, Mikey. The only guys who run into problems are the ones who don’t follow our advice. A smart kid like you will have no problems if you stick to the guidelines.”
“It starts now, right?” Cripkin asked. “I take your deal and I get protection from the git go?”
“You join up with the good guys,” said Loughney, “and your next stop is a safe house Mangano couldn’t find if someone gave him a map.”
Loughney pushed a pack of Parliaments toward Cripkin, who absently took another cigarette. Once more, Mega Mike took a deep drag. When he exhaled, it was like a sigh of relief.
“You know what I think?” Cripkin asked.
“Tell me, Mikey.”
“I think I should have listened to my mother, gone into the furniture business with my Uncle Lennie.”
“Can I take that as a ‘yes’?” Loughney asked.
“You just got yourself a reformed mobster,” Mega Mike replied.
Careful not to betray his elation, Loughney calmly reached for the desk phone. “Phil, Denny here. Listen, give Stadko at the marshals’ service a ring and tell him we’ve got a priority guest who’ll need transportation and suitable accommodations ASAP; and by ASAP I mean twenty minutes ago.”
Turning back to Cripkin, the agent reached for the Parliaments and spent a few moments savoring his first smoke of the afternoon.
“We’ve got a little time to kill before the cavalry arrives. Where do you want to start—top down or bottom up?”
“Bottom up would be simpler. How ‘bout I give you Mangano’s bag man.”
“C’mon, Mikey. We know who Chuckie’s bag man is. You’re gonna have to do better…”
Cripkin, recovering some of his lost swagger, cut Loughney off. “You think you know,” he said, smirking. “I got a flash for you, Sherlock. Mangano’s real bagger ain’t even on your radar—unless you got a jacket on Louie Stigs.”
It was a draw whether Cripkin’s tone or the fact he might be one up on him aggravated Loughney more. The agent prided himself on knowing Mangano and his gang down to their third cousins, yet “Louie Stigs” wasn’t ringing any bells. His newly formed relationship with Cripkin wasn’t at the stage wher