Hard Stop

By Declan Davies

After two recently laid-off suburban dads decide to steal a vanload of counterfeit Viagra from a mob-connected businessman, their easy-money plan gets a whole lot harder.
Hard Stop is a comic crime novel set amid a soft housing market and a flaccid economy, where desperate times lead to bad behavior — and the stiffest of penalties.

Jim Metz was pharmaceutical salesman of the year, but now he’s partnered with his shady neighbor Dave Malley in a desperate bid to come up with some fast cash, aided by the pony-tailed, double-crossing ex-con Chimp Wiggins.

Chimp’s boss Jerzy “Shore” Shalinski brings in ex-cop-turned-PI Knocker Morris — a guy who makes his living somewhere between “legal” and “not so much” — to find out who grabbed his product. Enter an ambitious wannabe-Attorney General named William Blankley and his state-cop partner Nora Raines, who offer Morris a powerful incentive to help take down Shore with a made-for-TV police raid that will move the two of them up the political food chain — but leave Knocker stuck between a rock and a very hard place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Declan Davies
• Release date: Jun 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458079732

Declan Davies

Declan Davies was born and raised on Long Island, New York, and currently lives and writes in southeastern Pennsylvania.

Book preview

Chapter 1

One week later

They were in a bar on Spring Garden Street in Philly, an Irish place, and the Marine Unit cop was telling another cop about the floater they found with its mouth stuffed full of hard-on pills.

It was getting near the end of his shift, he was saying, and he thought about pushing the body over to the Jersey side of the river to let the Camden PD deal with it, you know with all the frigging paperwork and shit.

So we haul it in, and we go to meet the coroner and the crime guys back at the dock. When we’re ridin’ in the guy’s leaking blue dye all over the floor of the boat, coming from his mouth.

The Marine Unit cop drained the last inch of his beer and signaled for two more. "We’re talking to the coroner at the dock, and the guy looks in his mouth and sees this goopy mess of blue crap and says ‘Holy Shit.’ He goes, ‘Those are erection pills. Guy choked to death on friggin’ hard-on pills.’ Me and Tommy can’t believe it. Tommy, he’s friggin’ hilarious this guy. He says to the coroner, ‘So, you gonna use a body bag or you need a pup tent?’

At first the coroner just looks at him, then he says all serious: ‘I dunno,’ he says. ‘But I can tell you we’re gonna have trouble closing that morgue drawer.’ We’re dying!"

The other cop laughed silently, his rounded fullback shoulders shaking as the pint glass traveled a practiced trajectory up to his mouth.

Who was the guy? Anyone know ‘im?

Nah. Looks like a white guy, and his clothing suggests he was not one of our more urban residents, if you know what I’m saying.

The Marine Unit cop took a drink and glanced at a young couple that was taking two seats down the bar a ways, the woman looking around, bored and put out, the guy already absorbed in ESPN. Suburban guy, dressed like office guys dress on casual Fridays. Maybe he came in from the Main Line to play with hookers. Who knows? He shook his head. Imagine the wife? Or the kids?

The other cop laughed and did his best cop-imitating-a-cop voice. Yeah. ‘Mam, your husband was found in the river with a mouth full of erectile dysfunction pills. You may want to consider an open casket. He tipped his pint and said the rest through a half-mouthful of beer. Cause we’ll never get it to close.

The Marine Unit cop was laughing now, too, until the young art-school-looking barmaid came around to refill their pints and they went quiet, watching her from behind as she pulled the draft handle, her half-shirt cheating up just so.

Think that stuff actually works? the one cop said, his eyes fixed on the barmaid’s lower-back tattoo.

Dunno, the other cop said, reaching for a pint that wasn’t there yet. Never tried it.

Nah, me either. That new Mustang GT, now that gives me a hard-on. Pulled a guy over the other day had one of those. Sa-weeet.

And it went like that for another hour or so, the cops talking about overtime cuts, uniform allowances, the Phillies and how a sergeant in the Eighth District was dating a prossy, him either not knowing or not caring. After a handshake and a few slaps on the back, they paid up, tipped the tender, then sailor-walked back to their illegally parked personal vehicles. A few minutes later they had blended into the long line of brake lights strung along the Schuylkill Expressway, the drivers inching, cursing and cell-phoning their way home.

In one of the cars was a private investigator named Knocker Morris, who was pawing through his glove box looking for his phone, almost rear-ending a big white Nissan Tundra when traffic stopped dead near Kelly Drive. Morris was on his way back from Atlantic City, where he’d been hitting the casinos, meeting some women, trying to clear his head after spending one hell of a week on a crazy case that nearly killed him twice. Now, reaching for his ringing cell phone, he couldn’t help feeling that it wasn’t over yet.

Chapter 2

One week before

That’s the thing with you people, that’s the thing…

Mike DiTomba picked up a china coffee cup and slurped so loudly it even made his wife wince, and she’d been watching the guy eat for thirty years. The thing is, you think you’re all so pure and simple out here in the frigging country, like you’re all frigging Amish or something.

He was waving his cup around while he spoke, and his wife came over and took it from him, telling him without speaking not to get worked up — remember your acid reflux, Michael.

"Let me tell ya, I been building down here in these damn corn fields for what, something like twenty-five years now? Working my goddamn Brooklyn-guinea ass off building houses down here. And I can tell you, you ain’t so Pennsylvania-pure, my friends.

You got crooks behind every stack a hay. Buncha homegrown shysters always playing every goddam angle. And I ain’t just talking about the politicians. I’m talking, cops…everybody.

One of the two people sitting across from him at a long mahogany dining table was a tall reddish-blonde-haired woman dressed in a maroon v-neck and blue jeans. She had a pair of sunglasses slung in the vee made by her sweater, and DiTomba couldn’t help looking there, getting a peek of white skin and a freckle or two. She was wearing her hair up and had a baseball cap on the table next to her big cardboard cup of frigging convenience-store coffee — never touched the coffee that the housekeeper put out. Jamaica Blue in a big silver pot, twenty bucks a bag, and she don’t touch it.

Cops, Mike DiTomba thought. Don’t matter whether they’re a guy or a broad. They all act the same. The guy next to her looked at her when DiTomba made the remark about politicians and cops and everyone being in on it, smiling just a little bit, like he was going to nudge her, like bust her balls.

He was a fortyish guy, nice dresser, full head of sandy hair, not a touch of gray. He could be a politician, DiTomba thought, he looks like one. He was from the state attorney’s office, he told Mike when he left a message on his phone. He had some important business to discuss, and could they meet, like, tomorrow?

More coffee, or no? Mike looked at the state attorney guy — said his name was William Blankley, never said Call me Bill, though.

No thanks, Mr. DiTomba. I’m good. He smiled pleasantly, let a few seconds of silence pass before he started again. Mr. DiTomba, I hear you. The things you’re saying about what you’ve had to deal with… the, you know, obstacles. I can imagine the frustrations. And you, a dedicated businessman, a valued member of the community. To put up with that — He looked around like he was sneaking a smoke in the schoolyard, and lowered his voice. With that shit, if you’ll pardon my French. That’s not right.

DiTomba nodded. The lady cop looked at William Blankley half-impressed and nodded too, like she was enjoying his attempt at speaking Regular-Guy English.

I know it ain’t right, DiTomba said. I build goddamn houses. That’s what I do. Can I tell you something? He had one elbow on the table and was pointing out the large picture window at the end of the room. DiTomba Properties is the largest builder of residential homes in the county. And we been here a long time, been building here since the eighties, when you couldn’t get anybody to move out past the frigging Main Line. Too many horseflies and too much cow shit out here. He waved his hand around as if shooing flies away or waving off the fumes from a cow pie.

Well, we made this place Main Line West. That’s what we did. Built be-yoo-ti-full homes, gave families a great life in a very be-yoot-ti-full place. He nodded at them, looking for agreement. The cop, the attorney guy and DiTomba’s wife waited patiently for him to go on.

And I dealt with all the problems, from crooked code guys to the frigging hippies who wanted to save the frigging bog turtle, or whatever the… He stopped himself when his wife reached over to touch his shoulder. He settled down, palms up and out. Now this? Now I got to get involved with this?

It was the lady cop’s turn to talk. Mr. DiTomba, truth be told, you’re already involved. Mr. Blankley and I are only trying to help you out.

Blankley sipped at his coffee and held the cup away for a moment. Mmmm… that’s good. Jamaica Blue, right? DiTomba nodded, smiling. He liked this guy. The lady cop, not so much.

Sergeant Raines is right, Mr. DiTomba. Blankley set his cup down and picked up his briefcase, talking while he opened it. Fact is you have some troubles of your own. And look, I know how these things happen. A guy at some county office says he needs cash to make a problem go away, and you pay it, because you figure that’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’s always been, right?

DiTomba spread his arms out and shrugged. Yeah, that is the way it is. And I didn’t make those rules. Shakedowns are the same everywhere, whether you’re New York, Philly or East Be-Jeesus. He moved over to the window, his hands on his hips. I’ve been paying off Mennonites, for crissakes.

He flicked a brownish, slow moving, insect off the window sill. Frigging stinkbugs. You get these in your place? Goddam things are everywhere. Anyway, now forget about selling houses, at least if you want to make money. The market is tanked, I got empty lots, like I’m paying for mud, is what I’m doing. I’m taking a bath on every place I sell. Everybody wants extras, big-screen TVs, swimming pools. He sat down again, looking exhausted. Bad enough I’m losing my shirt, but then I still got to pay off every yokel paper-pusher who’s smart enough to stick his palm out.

Blankley tapped a pen on his notepad, nodding, listening, feeling the man’s pain.

Right. But, the thing is, you’re the one who’s being accused of rigging the system. You know how it’s playing out in the press: Big developer takes advantage by bringing his big-city corruption down to the country, dirtying up the locals. Uses his crooked ways to sucker innocent folks into buying homes they can’t afford, cue up the violins, cry me a river, on and on.

He took a folder out of his briefcase and dropped it on the table. I know it’s a crock, Mr. DiTomba. But still, you got a beef or two hanging over your head, let’s be honest. He peered inside the file, studying it with theatrical flourish, tapping his tongue against his front teeth. Let see… bribery, illegal waste disposal, tax evasion.

All bullshit, and you guys know it, DiTomba said, finger poking the air. You got your attorney general boss running for governor, am I right? Tight race, it’s looking like. And I just happen to make a good get-tough-on-white-collar-criminals story. Like I caused the housing market to collapse?

Mike DiTomba folded his arms behind his head, leaning back in his chair. You want to blame somebody for that, how about blaming those frigging Bolsheviks down in DC. They made out better than anybody. I never seen balls like those guys got. Loot Fannie Mae, drain Freddie Mac, give out big-ass mortgages to people who can’t even afford cable TV, then act like nuns in a whorehouse when it all goes bad. No offense, but eff that. He looked down and picked a piece of lint off his yellow Cutter & Buck golf sweater. And by the way, I’m starting to wonder if I should have my lawyer on speakerphone here.

This time the lady cop talked. No need, Mr. DiTomba. We can go whenever you say. We just thought we could ask you a favor, something that might help you out as well. If you decide you want to help, then absolutely, you would have to call your lawyer. Until then, we’re all just having coffee.

She reached over the Blankley guy’s arm and plucked an eight-by-ten black and white photo from the file, holding it with two fingers like it was still wet, and dropped in front of DiTomba. He let out a low whistle, then started to laugh. Blankley smiled and nodded.

Jerzy Shalinski. You know this guy, from what we hear.

"Shore? Yeah. Who doesn’t? He looks like a frigging fruit fly in this picture, though. Where is he, at some gay thing in Key West?’

The photo showed a late-fiftyish man, tall, thin and Florida tan, wearing a bright green Hawaiian shirt and white chinos. He had a thousand watt smile splitting his nut-brown face, his hand holding a fat black cigar.

Cabo, actually, the lady cop said. He’s got a place down there, but I don’t know how often he gets away these days. Apparently he’s keeping very busy.

Mike DiTomba chomped on a croissant and wiped some of the crumbs off his sweater. Where you been? Shore’s been busy for quite a while. Busy beaver, Shore. As in busy taking a piece of out of every builder in the county. Can’t roll a bulldozer off a flatbed without Shore showing up looking for his taste.

The attorney guy and the lady cop stayed quiet, letting Mike DiTomba vent — don’t keep it in Mike, talk to us, we’re you’re friends. Guy’s been shaking me down for years. I finally talked to some people in South Philly about it. Guys with friends, you know? He pressed the tips of two fingers against the side of his nose. You know what they tole me? They tole me they can’t do anything. They said Shore had an arrangement with some people there in town, gave him free reign out here. King of Cow Country, they said.

Who’s he dealing with in Philly? William Blankley asked, not really expecting an answer, but trying anyway. DiTomba looked up from futzing with his watch.

Please. I may be a dumb wop outta Flatbush, but I ain’t suicidal. You want names, go ask Shore. Maybe they’re on his – whattaya call it — his Facebook page. DiTomba made himself laugh, and despite her self, the lady copy smiled. William Blankley let out a polite chuckle.

Very good, Blankley said.So, Shore does his community outreach among the builders here and sends a few love notes back to the boys in South Philly. Got it.

The lady cop took a swig from her WaWa coffee cup and set it down. We’re hearing other things about Shore. Like, he’s branching out, exploring other areas of opportunity.

Well, your hearing might be better than mine, DiTomba said, growing bored with this now and looking at his Rolex again to make sure that cops knew that he had no intention of running a free shakedown seminar all morning, schooling these two slices of white bread on the shadowy doings of Shore the Jew and his Philly friends. We about wrapping up? I got a hard stop at eleven-thirty.

Blankley picked through some other papers. Sure. Just a few more minutes of your time, Mr. DiTomba. We appreciate it. Blankley smiled and nodded at the lady cop. She cleared her throat, leaned back in her chair and made a big show of looking at her own watch to tell DiTomba that she too was running low on patience.

Mike? Can I call you Mike? The lady cop asked, but didn’t wait for an answer.

If things don’t break your way with all the beefs hanging over you and what not? You might end up with a whole lot of time on your hands, Mike.

She stopped for a three-second, dramatic cop-interview pause. You know, out at Lewisburg? And I’m hearing the white collar crime section is overcrowded out there, running out of room in the luxury cells. Heard they’re putting more newcomers in with general. She drummed her fingertips on the photo of Shore Shalinksi. So, you can help us out now with a little background on Mr. Shalinksi here. Have a nice chat over coffee. Or…

Or the next conversation we have might be through Plexiglas, right? DiTomba smiled at the lady cop, a smarty-schoolboy smile. Nice. I watch cop shows on TV. I see you got your Bad Cop on. He sipped his coffee and tipped his china cup at her. It’s good. It works for you, he said, thinking: Bitch.

The lady cop returned the smile and pushed the photo over to Blankley, signaling him, like: You may begin.

Okay, so… Blankley began like he was about to read a shopping list. We have Shalinksi known as being active in the following areas: Extortion from construction companies. Loan-sharking, hijacking. Bootlegging movies and video games. Prostitution rings operating in tanning salons. And now we’re hearing drugs, possibly meth.

Mike DiTomba had been listening, nodding, matching his mental checklist of Shore’s criminal activities with the DA guy. But when William Blankley got to the last part, Mike DiTomba started to laugh, first just his shoulders moving, but then a loud cough-like laugh. His face went red and his wife came scurrying over from her perch on the loveseat, carrying a glass of water.

What’s funny? The lady cop, her name was Nora Raines, asked him. She waited for him to catch his breath. DiTomba sat back, wiping one eye with his thumb. He waved off the glass of water his wife held in front of and sat back down.

Sorry. It’s just funny. All the other stuff was right. But the drugs, you got that wrong. He took a drink. Meth? Shore ain’t into meth. What is he, a biker or something? No, not meth. Blankley and the lady cop just stared with a look saying: Yeah, go on.

Shore’s got his own thing. He’s … He chuckled and apologized. Sorry. I just thing it’s a frigging hoot, the shit this Shore gets into. Now he’s selling counterfeit Viagra from China. Fugazy hard-on pills. He stopped to brush off some more croissant flake. I kid you not. He’s not making enough money, he’s got to sell fake Viagra?

How do you know this, Mr. DiTomba? asked Sergeant Raines.

Well, I ain’t a customer. He winked at his wife. Not yet, thank God. But see, Shore has a couple of imbeciles working for him. What the hell do I care, I’ll tell who they are. He looked up at the ceiling and snapped his fingers.

Wade… Wade Somethin’ and Chimp Wiggins. No shit. ‘Chimp’ is the guy’s name. These two knuckleheads are part of Shore’s protection racket. They come around and collect, and if you don’t pay, all a’ sudden you find all sorts a things happening to your houses, broken windows, spray paint, maybe even a fire. Or your crew shows up to frame out a place and you find two tons of raw garbage sitting in the basement. That kind of thing.

William Blankley made some notes, though he knew all this already. Wade Kulkey was the first guy’s name. Caucasian, thirty-one years of age. Small time loser, arrest number one was on his thirteenth birthday, petty theft. Moved on to stolen cars and marijuana trafficking. Spent time at Graterford, and probably had his own cell at County.

Charles Chimp Wiggins. Caucasian, but claimed to be a Lenape Indian. Age thirty-eight. Specialized in stealing construction equipment. Two stretches for trafficking in stolen goods. The last one came after getting a stolen bulldozer stuck in the Brandywine River. According to the police report, he had tried to hide in a foot-and-a half of water by laying flat and breathing through a reed. A vigilant cop noticed the lack of any other reeds around, along with