The Japanese Sandman

'An army led by a council seldom conquers: it must have a commander-in-chief, who settles disputes, decides in emergencies, inspires fear or attachment. The head of the ring is such a commander. He dispenses places, rewards the loyal, punishes the mutinous, concocts schemes, negotiates treaties. He generally avoids publicity, preferring the substance to the pomp of power, and is all the more dangerous because he sits, like a spider, hidden in the midst of his web. He is a Boss.'-Lord Bryce

Intro: I remember them cold nights, I was sleeping on the floor.

 1925

    Angelo waited in the backroom of Irving Cohen's butcher shop. It was a little past 6 and Irv was just

closing up the shop, cleaning, putting everything away. 'Come down around closing time tomorrow, I 

think I might just have a prime cut for you.' In addition to running the shop, Irv was something of a jack

of all trades when it came to criminal activity, a little bootlegging, loansharking, fencing stolen goods 

from time to time.  Angelo had met Irving a few months earlier when he'd tried to rob Irv's shop with an

unloaded gun. Irv had called his bluff somehow, looked down the barrel of that fucking thing totally 

unafraid, and when he'd charged at him in the store Angelo had simply fled out the door down the street,

thinking he was in the clear before Irv barreled into him.

        After wrestling the gun from him and realizing it wasn't loaded, Irv asked him, 'Why did you try 

to rob me? Do you know who I am?' Angelo explained that he did not. That he hadn't had a real meal

in a couple days and was hoping for a quick, big, score. 'You're about to get a big hole in your head you

keep this up.' Irv had told him. 'Look kid, you got chutzpah, I could have work for someone like you. 

Why don't you come by around closing time? tomorrow?' 

    Irv hadn't expected much from the kid, but had been pleasantly surprised by his work ethic. In 

addition to helping Irv with deadbeat clients, tracking down the occasional vandal of the shop, Angelo

had proved quite helpful in the shop itself, sweeping the floor, cleaning equipment, helping customers.

In the few months since they'd met they developed a solid working relationship, Angelo acting as Irv's

enforcer sometimes, Irv giving Angelo leads on good places to rob. It wasn't great money, but after a 

while Angelo had been able to get a room in a boardinghouse in the patch neighborhood with his girl

friend, Mary. 

            Things had been going well for them for a while until 2 months ago, when Mary told him she 

was pregnant. They'd had a huge argument then when she told him that whatever he was doing now for

money wasn't going to cut it. He was going to have to get a real job. Why not over at the paper mill? 

The pay was decent and it was steady work. That was where the argument had started, when he told her

he didn't want that.  That, that was, in fact, the last thing in the fucking world that he wanted. That he

had seen what the factories did to to the men who worked in them. Seen what they had done to his 

father at the end. Broken down, drunk, barely existing, living for the end of the week where he could

spend all he earned at the saloon.

        That was when Angelo had decided it was time to ask Irv for more work, something big. He didn't

want to elaborate the reason to Irv. 'I yes I understand.' Irv had said. 'But I am obviously not he biggest

fish in this town my friend. That honor goes to Bill Foley, some call him Warner's Al Capone. Everyone

in town from the whore on the street, the guy selling reefers at the jazz concerts, to the other 

bootleggers in town, everyone gives Big Bill Foley a piece of the action. I'll put in a good word for you

see if he needs any extra help.'

    That had been 3 weeks ago, since then he'd mainly just worked at the shop, the yesterday when he 

came in the morning Irv told him to come tomorrow at closing time, he had a great opportunity for him.

Now Angelo waited in the back, surrounded by calendars for meat companies and paperwork, the door

swung open and he saw Irv come through, taking off his meat stained apron as he did. 'Boy do I got

something for you my friend.' Irving explained. '50 bucks for one nights work what do you think of 

that?'

        Angelo smiled, he liked that. Smacking down those bills on the table we'll sure shut her up fast, he

thought to himself. Irv had a desk next to where Angelo was sitting and he sat down. 'So here what the

deal is.' He explained. 'These brothers, Eli and Jake Kaufman, they set up shop in town a few months 

ago. Selling rotgut, you know just basic crap mixed and watered down and cut with god know what to 

sell to the average moron. So anyway, long story short, when Foley send his guys over to explain the

cost of doing business here in Warner, they tell him to get lost. Go fuck himself. Then the next day one

of Foley's guy's is leaving one of his cathouses with the drop and some idiot sticks him up, steals the

cash.'

        'So a couple days ago Bill Foley get's intel from someone from inside the Kaufman organization,

who knows when their next big shipment of beer is coming in, and the best place to hit. The shipment is

coming in around midnight tonight, and they said to have you come by Chapman's saloon around

10:30 tonight. Tell them Irv sent you. And if they ask who that is just say, 'The Jew.' Irving got up from

his desk. 'I've go to finish closing up here. When you get to Chapmans..' 'Where is that again?' Angelo

asked. Irv smiled, 'It's downtown, just a couple blocks from City Hall. When you get to the front of the

building, just past it there's an alley, go down that and you'll come to a door with a slot at the top.

Just knock on that.'

        Angelo got up, 'Alright, Irv, thanks a lot.' He said, shaking his hand. 'Don't embarrass me over 

there kid. I know you got a fire in you, it's what I like about you, but keep in mind I did vouch for you.

And, Harry Folsom, Foley's man over there, he doesn't fuck around. But go home, have some supper, 

kiss your wife and get some rest. You've got a long night ahead of you.'

Angelo pulled up the collar on his threadbare coat as he crossed over the bridge that led from the Patch,

the neighborhood where he lived with his wife in a boardinghouse, to the city proper. He'd been

meaning to get something better to wear, but something always seemed to come up. Irv gave him a 

decent amount of hours working at his shop, and whatever leads he had from his contacts on the streets,

places to rob, people, shops that had been cased out. However, even with that he was still barely making

enough for rent and food for the two of them. 

A cold wind blew hard against his face as he made his way up the hill which led to downtown. Angelo

had been in Chapman's saloon a few times before, usually to meet a contact for something, he didn't 

drink himself. It was known in town as the place to go to find a lead, or a fence, or almost kind of vice

one might wish to procure in Warner. He'd never given much thought as to who owned the place, but 

now, as he came closer up the hill to downtown, he remembered a fella who looked like the muscle 

sitting in the corner of the bar. 

Even sitting down, Angelo could tell he was large, and the three piece suit and vest, complete with a

gold pocket watch looked strange on him to Angelo's eyes. Almost like be more suited for a pair of 

overalls or a butchers apron. He was talking closely with another large, well dressed man, who from the

way everyone talked to him, was the man in charge.

As Angelo made his way up the hill around the corner to Chapman's saloon we could already tell he 

was in the right place by the roar of loud conversation and music emanating from inside. He could see

the people drinking and celebrating inside and he made his way past the front door and down the alley.

As Angelo made his way past the alley he passed a couple odd drunks, some passed out, a few just 

lurking in the shadows, and he felt grateful he brought his switchblade and his pistol with him that 

evening. 

Angelo knocked loudly on the door at the end of the alley as he came up to it. The slit at the top opened

and a gruff voice answered from the other side. 'Who is it?' The voice said. 'Angelo Berardi. Irv Cohen

sent me, I'm looking for Harry Folsom.'

'Who sent you?' The voice asked again. 'Irving Cohen!' Angelo repeated. Then he remembered, 'The 

Jew.' As if the words itself were a password he heard the latch on the door unlock and the thick door 

swing open.

Harry Folsom took out his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time, a few minutes past 11. He

was standing in the back alley of Chapman's saloon having a cigar before he was going to brief his new

'Soldiers.' He'd told his people to go out and find a few decent guys, not afraid to get their hands dirty, 

but not trigger-happy nuts either. According to their intel the shipment of beer was supposed to arrive at

the Cohen's warehouse at midnight. They'd already convinced Cohen's men in the warehouse to switch

allegiances to Mr. Foley, so they had them, plus the 5 guy's they'd recruited off the street, plus 4 of his

main soldiers that he used all the time. 

Harry took a drag of his cigar, they'd have Cohen's men in the warehouse wave them in, then once

they were in they surround them and tell them what's what, drive the trucks with the beer back to Mr.

Foley's warehouse across town and unload them. Sounds so simple, he thought, but there are so many

ways it could go. Mr. Foley didn't want, a 'bloodbath,' in his words,  but Harry just wasn't sure these 

guys were to type to just roll over. Eastern Europeans, tough bastards in his experience. They'd already

had the gall to sell booze in Warner without giving Mr. Foley his 5 percent cut, but then when they'd 

sent one of their guys to tell them the score they'd told him to fuck off. 

Then they'd robbed one of his guys coming out of one of his whorehouses, Harry even heard that one

of the guys who'd done the robbery was bragging about it in Chapmans! Harry shook his head, and still

Bill hasn't made a move. Not like him, he thought as he knocked on the door twice for Lump to let 

him in. He put the cigar out on the wall before he walked back in, the smell of whiskey and tobacco

smoke greeting him as he walked back in.

'Ok, does everyone understand what were doing here?' Harry asked. They were in the basement of the

saloon among various barrels and casks. 'We have to unload the stuff too?' A skinny kid asked. 'Yes, that

is what we are paying you for.' Harry replied. He nodded to 'Lump' Chapman who went into a back

room to emerge with a couple of Thompson submachine guns, he gave one to Harry who gave one to 

the skinny kid, another of Harry goons Charlie, grabbed the rest, and handed them out.

Harry lit up a fresh cigar, 'Now they shouldn't give us too much trouble. However, these guys have been

anything but predicable, so if they look like their about to try anything, blow them to hell.'

'Alright, kid, take it easy.' Bill Cosgrove said as Charlie put his pistol inches from his temple. 'Tell your

guy's to get out of the truck's, put down their gun's our we're going to fucking light them up.' Foley's 

guys, plus a few of Cohen's had their trucks surrounded and were closing in, but still, Bill wasn't sure

what the guys in the trucks would do. 

Bill had pulled up to the loading dock of the warehouse with the rest of the trucks, now he saw as 

Foley's men started getting them out of the trucks taking their guns and tying them up with rope. The

Cohen's are not going to like this, Bill thought. Probably kill me for not putting up a fight, he thought to

himself. He watched as Folsom's goons led the tied up men in the trucks deeper into the warehouse, as

he did he saw Folsom himself walking up to him. 'You know their not just going to take this lying 

down.' He said. 'Consider it a message,  to consider taking your business-'

Their head both turned at the sound of machine gun fire coming from inside the warehouse. Harry 

turned and ran toward the inside, the machine gun fire continuing. As he came inside, amid the barrels

and crates he saw all of the men lying dead in a pool of blood in the middle of the floor. Plus a few of 

the guys from the warehouse. 'What the fuck happened?' Harry asked, to no one in particular. 

'What happened, asshole is these guys you said we could trust from the warehouse tried to make a

move on us, and I just did like you told us to do.' It was the skinny kid, 'Angelo',' was his name. Harry

shook his head, 'It's alright kid, you did good.' He said.

2010

        'Keep your eyes on the road your hands up on the wheel,' Jim Morrisons voice boomed from Mike

'Mojo' Martell's speakers as he made it down the final part of the dirt road, feeling the sense of relief 

that he always did when he touched solid pavement. The dirt road part wasn't actually that long, he 

figured that out after making the trip up to the Source a few times, but it always felt longer than it was. 

Especially coming up.

    Mojo always feared he'd get a flat on his Subaru outback either on the way up, or even worse on the 

way back, and he'd have to try and make the long trip back to his home in Franklin on one of those 

shitty donut tires. Man I really should just invest in a couple extra fucking tires, he thought as he came

down the hill to the intersection where he took a left at the red barn to get back on the highway. The red

barn was always sort of his reference point, when he first made the trip up to the source's house, using

only the direction's he'd written down, seeing the barn had been what had convinced him that he was 

going the right way. 

After all, if he fucked up, missed a turn, or just got lost, there was no way to call the source. Not that 

he'd get any cell reception out there anyway. The source kept phone conversations to a minimum, just

'I'm coming up,' and he'd reply, 'Ok.' However, the good thing about the source was that he always had

product, something of everything. Coke, weed, hash, X, pills. Also heroin, meth, crack, but Mojo 

preferred not to deal to much in what he thought of as 'The dark side.' He'd seen to much of that stuff

could do firsthand. He'd fucked up, got high on his own supply, gotten addicted, and gone to jail after

selling to an undercover cop.

Now, the way he thought of it, he was just  a businessman. He worked as a musician and a producer and

he just happened to also sell weight to those same clients. He wasn't going to crazy parties, or shady

apartment complexes to sell to random people like he'd sometimes, done in the past. He didn't run the 

risk of someone pulling a gun on him and robbing him, or trying to stiff him, asking for a front then 

never paying him back. 

Mojo had told himself, when he'd contemplated getting back into the game after he'd been out of prison

for a few years, that it would be different this time. Civilized. Mojo passed through the open farm fields

and woods until finally coming upon the green sign for the highway heading south, just one road now,

all the way down.

So far, in the 3 years Mojo had been dealing with the source it had been that way, civilized. All of his

customers were people he'd known for years, that he could trust. To a certain extent. But dealing with

the source had more than a few strings- the least of which was the long drive up to Northern Maine to

get to his house in the middle of the woods. 'Here's how it works my friend, and its pretty simple Vato, 

I don't know you and you don't know me. If were going to keep doing business together, and I would

like us to, you need to understand this. You don't talk about me to anyone, my name, not even 'This guy

I know who lives in the middle of the woods,' I don't give a fuck. As far as your concerned, I don't even

exist.'

So it had been difficult at first, people, were curious about these things. He could remember that even 

from selling in high school, and even with his new, upscale clientele. 'This dope is killer man, where did

you get it?' They'd ask. 'A guy I know.' He'd say, feeling bad about even saying that much. He tried to

put the emphasis in his voice that he didn't want to discuss it any further, and most of them were ok 

with that.

Mojo checked saw a sign for Franklin, 80 miles. Not bad. He'd met the source in prison, his name was

Eddie. They'd been cellmates and for whatever reason he'd looked out for him. Eddie had kept to 

himself in prison, and Mojo noticed the other prisoners tended to keep their distance from him. He was 

tattooed from head to foot and told Mojo he was from Honduras. Had been in the military there, special

forces. Trained in the United States over at the School Of Americas, where he said the CIA gave special

training to military and paramilitary groups from around the world.

In prison all Eddie did was read, do push ups and lift. He'd gotten out a few months before Mojo and 

had gave him his number, told him if he needed anything, any kind of drugs, he got him. Mojo had 

taken the card, not really thinking he'd ever need it, but not wanting to discard it entirely either. He was

planning on being relatively sober upon getting out of prison, but still, never hurt to another connect.

Mojo head his phone ring on the passenger seat of his car and checked the number, 'Jenny,' he picked

it up, 'Jenny G, what can I do for you my lady?' 'Uh, huh, well I'm coming back that way now you

want to meet up at my casa say, 1 hour?' Alright it's a date baby.' Mojo hung up. He always seems to

sell what he got from the source just as fast as it came in.