Heaven, INC:Chapter 42: INSIDE DOPE AND A SLICE TO GO

Knowledge is of two kinds.
know a subject ourselves,
or we know where we can find the information upon it.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON

GOTHAM PIZZA,
28TH AND A STREET
12:06 PM PDT

JIMMY WATCHED PIZZA GEORGE toss the dough ball in the air, spinning and catching it expertly as the ball quickly evolved into a perfect circle.

Gotham Pizza’s one of those legendary, off-the-beaten-track kind of places where people-in-the-know come for a slice of pepperoni or a Philly-cheese steak done to absolute perfection. It was also the place Jimmy went to when looking for information. Gotham delivered across half the county and Pizza George picked up straight dope all along the way. “Course I heard about it,” George said in his gravelly voice. “You think I’m losing my touch here or what?” He shrugged.

“Got it with a 10:30 order for two torpedoes, no onions, and a liter of Mountain Dew.”

George ladled sauce onto the pizza skin; he loved the drama of his information telling, making you wait like you waited for his pizza. He was popping one pizza in the oven and taking out another when a man in an expensive suit walked in.

George looked up from cutting the pizza. “You got some kinda perfect timing, Arthur.” While Arthur was paying for his pepperoni and olive, he whispered something to George. Nodding, George said, “Appreciate the tip.” Checking on a pizza while watching through the window as Arthur and his pepperoni-and-sausage got into a Mercedes, he said, “Put what can on The Lady Is A Queen in the 7th. It’s a lock.”

“A lock?”

“Certifiable.” He smiled. “Look, Jimmy, fact of the matter is, I really ain’t keen about talking to you about this. Last time you went after Ducroix, you ended up in the joint. You think I wanna see one a my best friends back in jail?”

Jimmy said nothing.

Without bothering to step outside, George fired up a Lucky Strike. “All right, here’s what I heard: Mij Poopikov got worked over pretty good at Norcestor and Imperial by some of Bivo Papacostas’ boys. Somehow, but about three in the morning, he somehow escaped wherever they were holding him—”

Apartment 420.

“— he came busting out of the Norcestor Arms, Building 1, naked and bleeding and running for his life with a couple of Bivo’s Greeks not far behind. So, he runs out to the intersection at the same moment a Mustang’s sitting at the light. Mij busts the driver’s side window, hauls this guy out of his car and takes off, leaving this guy scared shitless in the hood at three in the morning.”

“Christian Ducroix, Dominic Ducroix’s son.”

George exhaled smoke through his nose. “You telling the story? Or am I?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Sorry. I’m listening.”

“Good. Now, Mij, he takes off in the Mustang as somebody in a Mercedes picks up the Greeks and takes off after him. Then all of em get followed by a motorcycle and a Hummer.” Butting out his smoke, George said, “Let me get this cheese-steak order.”

George exchanged pleasantries with a Navy master-chief in crisp whites, all the while knocking out a baker’s dozen in cheese-steaks and sausage parms, plus a half-dozen orders of pasta; Gotham was popular with the 32nd Street Naval Station, so it was no surprise a guy with a South Philly accent would find it.

“Yeah,” the navy chief said, “we got something weird going on at the base. I was working security when some guys from the FBI came in, wanting to see medical records from the ‘60s. Then, right after they left, some guys from DNS show up, flashing papers that got them into a secured area even the FBI couldn’t go.” The master-chief shook his head. “I don’t know, but those guys from DNS just rub me wrong, you know?” Paying his bill, he smiled and said, “See you tomorrow, George,” and carried three shopping bags of East Coast style to a waiting truck displaying US GOVERNMENT tags.

George turned to Jimmy. “Where was I?”

“Motorcycle and the Hummer.”

“Right. So this bike comes speeding up Norcestor with the Hummer in pursuit. As the bike takes the corner, someone in the car fires a couple rounds at the bike. Now, according to the news, there was some kind of sporadic gunfire reported in Lemon Grove last night, supposed to be gang-bangers in some kinda turf war but, you know,” George said, “how reliable’s the fucking Media nowadays? I mean the fucking Media— Hey, Mike, how ya doin’? Two antipastas? Comin’ right up.”

Mike Kopinski was an ex-city councilman with extensive business connections bordering on corruption. He was also a man who’d run for mayor, and run well, until his marriage blew up amid a messy scandal over allegations he’d cheated with his campaign manager’s wife. Now he was involved in the Atwater marina, a multibillion dollar entertainment/hotel project along the Chula Vista coast that some were calling a boondoggle and Mike Kopinski called ‘vitally necessary to San Diego’s tourism industry’.

But Mike didn’t mention the marina, instead asking about the weekend’s games.

“You like the Steelers or the Jets?”

“I’m taking the Steelers and the under.”

Scooping up the antipastas, Mike said, “Chargers got a shot this weekend?”

George chuckled. “C’mon, you kidding me? You gotta go back to ancient Thebes to find another city chokes in the big one like San Diego.” Watching Mike get into his car, George turned to Jimmy. “So what happened to Christian Ducroix?”

“Last thing anybody saw was him high tailing it down St. Angela.”

“And do the Feds and cops know all this?”

George shrugged. “How should I know? But it ain’t like those people’re down there are rushing to talk to johnny law.”

“But they talk to you.”

George grinned. “When’re you gonna understand you learn more from people with good food than you ever can by flashing a badge?”

Jimmy considered this before shrugging. “You got anything else, Detective Emeril?”

“I got one more thing.” Pizza George put a heavy, bloodshot gaze on Jimmy. “So how’d you know
Ducroix would be at Norcestor & Imperial last night? Who told you?”

Jimmy frowned. “Who told me? What the fuck, who told me? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What the fuck am I talking about? What the fuck, Jimmy, have I not been waiting for you to come rolling in, fearing it? Why else you think I made your foo foo pizza? No one else eats it.”

“Bullshit, my pizza’s not foo foo, and what the fuck are you talking about?”

Over at a table, Owen was manhandling a sausage parm while listening vigilantly.”

George put a hard poker stare on Jimmy, three to the river. “C’mon, Bro. Come on. I look like I’m just off the Subway? Please, save it for the rubes, I don’t wanna hear it.”

Hear what? What the . . .

“What the fuck are you talking about, George?”

“What the fuck? I am fucking talking about you grabbing fucking Du-” George’s voice dropped to conspiratorial, New Jersey whisper. “Look, James, we are friends, okay? And you know I’ve been in some pretty sketchy situations, right?”

Jimmy felt the hair on his neck standing up.

“What the fuck are you saying, George?”

“What I am saying,” George said, “the two-torpedoes-at-10: 30 guy saw Ducroix get into a white carpet cleaning van with a license plate beginning ‘TBV’ . . .”

They all craned to look out the window at Van #1's front plate: G8X3CBO.

George shrugged. “Sorry about freaking you out, Jimmy.”

“That’s it,” Owen said, “that’s it. George, sausage parm or no parm, scaring the shit out people is uncool. . . Dude, we’ve got a show to play tonight.”