Free Operation Underworld by Paddy Kelly Page B

masses of workers gutting, shifting and selling their loads sixteen hours a day.
    The unsavoury truck driver waddled his way across the slippery floor, and weaved his way in and out of the numerous stalls of flounder, eel and shellfish. As he chewed his cherry cheese Danish with his mouth open, he considered himself lucky that he didn’t have to work under these unhygienic conditions. Making his way to the staircase leading to the office, he ascended and, when he reached the top, ignored the paper sign on the door telling him to wipe his feet before he entered.
    The heated air of the glass-encased room was a welcome relief from the bitter February chill flowing through the lower level of the open market. Stepping up to the chest-high counter, the middle-aged driver removed his gloves and reached into his coat pocket to remove the invoice for his delivery.
    “Hello, Emily!” He addressed the receptionist, who although the same age as the driver, had weathered her years behind a typewriter far better than he had his years behind a mother-of-pearl steering wheel. His syrupy voice held no sway with her, and she showed her affection for him openly.
    “What the hell you want, fat ass?”
    He was undeterred. “How was your Christmas, Emily?”
    “Let me tell ya, Burt. I remember three things about my Christmas. One, it was in Hot Springs. Two, it was too short. And tree, I didn’t have ta conversate with no delivery boys!” Her last comment was in synchronised harmony with the strokes of her pen as she endorsed the document in front of her, pulled the pink copy and curtly shoved it back across to Burt.
    Giggling circulated the office as Burt bid Emily a fond goodbye and wished her a happy Valentine’s Day. The receptionist didn’t answer, but instead made her way over to a door with a wooden letterbox fixed to the inside of it. Through a slot in the cross-piece of the door, she inserted the rubber-stamped, endorsed invoice. Above the slot, lettered on the frosted glass panel of the door, was the inscription, J. Lanza, President Amalgamated Sea Food Workers Unions .
    On the other side of the door five men sat at a dark mahogany conference table, and it was a large, jowly man who was conducting the meeting.
    “So what’s the story in Queens?”

    “Well, Mr Lanza, as far as we can tell, some guy named Dimitri has a coupla trucks and is deliverin’ around Astoria for twenty per cent under the rate.”
    “How many trucks he got?”
    Shuffling through some papers, a third man reported. “Five, Boss.”
    “Okay, you tree.” Pointing to the three largest of the four men,
    “Get over to Queens.” He spoke as he made his way around the table to his desk. “Find this prick! Work him over, good! But don’t cripple the fuck! We still need him ta pay.”
    Two of the men standing in front of the desk smirked at one another. Lanza continued. “Wreck one, maybe two’a his trucks. Let him know who done this.”
    “Who should we say is callin’, Mr Lanza?”
    “Tell him you’re from the Fulton Watchman’s Protective Association.”
    Reaching into a bottom drawer of the desk, Lanza produced three strange-looking items. Homemade devices made from empty wine bottles filled with a yellowish substance and corked with a primitive fuse system, they were too large to fit into a conventional pocket, but small enough to conceal inside a coat.
    “Take these stink bombs. Find three of the markets he’s been deliverin’ to and pop one in each of them. This way they’ll get the picture, too. That’ll be the day some God-damned Ruski son-of-a-bitch moves into New York!”
    As the three men filed out the door, the phone rang, but before answering it, Lanza spoke to the remaining man in the room.
    “Anything else?”
    “No, Boss. That’s about it.” This man was smaller and better dressed than the other three. In addition, he carried a double-strapped satchel.
    “Alright then. Make the rounds, check the numbers and get back to me