Two Jakes by Lawrence de Maria

ventures with the Russians. The local
District Attorney, by Island tradition Irish, concentrated on drunk drivers and
his golf game and left everyone else alone.
    The
sliding door opened and a deep voice rumbled, “Jake, come on in. I think
they’re gonna let us eat at the table for a change.”
    He
looked up and smiled at Bobo Sambuca, who filled the entire doorway.
    ***
    Bobo,
one of many Sambuca nephews, wasn’t cut out for the funeral business. He tried
his best but after a widow fainted when he hefted a casket to his shoulder and
the other pallbearers came off the ground, Dudley found him a spot in the
inhospitality end of his organization. He excelled as a bouncer in Mack’s
toughest bars. Mack claimed he’d leave his own bar if Bobo insisted. But one
night he bounced too hard and killed a biker who mistakenly equated tattoos
with toughness. Bobo jumped his bond and Mack asked Scarne, then with the
Manhattan DA’s office, to find him before the cops did.
    “Bring
the dumb shit back in one piece. He’s not a bad guy. All he did was throw the
loudmouth out the door, which unfortunately was locked. Cracked his skull like
a quail’s egg. I’m gonna put a sign up. ‘Helmet law applies inside the
premises, too!’”
    “Why
don’t you let the local cops handle it? The D.A. won’t be thrilled about me
stepping on their turf. O’Connor hates my guts.”
    “Hell,
I hated your guts and got over it. I squared it with O’Connor. He owed me one.
Besides, Bobo’s a hothead and he hates Island cops. Thinks they’ve forgotten
where they came from. They used to hang around with Bobo in the same gin mills.
They’re pissed because he beat them in arm wrestling.”
    “It
wasn’t arm wrestling, Deadly. It was extortion. Bobo never lost. Just the
weight of his damn arm was enough half the time. Hell, he took ten bucks from
me every time I walked into the bar. It was like a cover charge.”
    “Listen,
Bobo might shoot any cops trying to bring him back. He probably won’t shoot
you, you’re family. I’m sure we can get him off on second-degree manslaughter.
He didn’t mean to kill the guy, who was an asshole by the way. He punched a
waitress.”
    So
that’s how Scarne and a resigned Bobo Sambuca wound up on an early flight out
of Las Vegas on September 11, 2001. Scarne had just nodded off when Bobo nudged
him awake.
    “Wake
up Jake, something is wrong.”
    A
flight attendant raced up the aisle. The seat belt light flicked on and the
captain asked all passengers to return to their seats as the plane banked
sharply. What the hell!
    A
man on an Airfone in the next aisle said, “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He looked
at Scarne. “They’re attacking New York and D.C.”
    Before
he could reply, Scarne noticed the flight attendant who had been on the
intercom stride purposely toward him. She leaned down and whispered.
    “You
are a police officer, right? Can you come with me please?”
    “What’s
going on?”
    She
leaned down and whispered, “There have been several hijackings. They destroyed
the World Trade Center. The captain is worried about some of the people on
board. He wants everybody out of first class and his door guarded.” Her lips
were trembling. “Can you do it? I’ll see if I can get help.”
    “Don’t
you worry,” Bobo said. “You ain’t gonna need anyone else. They’d just get in
the way.” He let the blanket covering his hands slide to the floor. “Jake, take
these fucking things off. Sorry, miss.”
    Jake
unhooked Bobo. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the handcuffs.
    “I
ain’t no choir boy, honey, but I’m just what you need.”
    “Follow
me.”
    She
walked to the first class cabin and asked everyone to move to coach.
    “These
two police officers need this section.”
    Sharp
girl, Scarne thought. He looked at Bobo, who was grinning at his recent
promotion. Some of the passengers had already heard of the attacks and were
ready to follow any orders. Those that grumbled