THE COUNCIL
by Andrew Tarantino
Copyright 2012 Andrew Tarantino
Smashwords Edition
*****
PART I
THE AMATEURS
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTIONS
2000
For Peter Genovia, there was nothing like a good bar fight for unwinding, and he had started this one intentionally. He was a big hulk with a demeanor that intimidated the toughest of men, whether they admitted it or not. He had left the Marines but hadn’t found a replacement for the sensation of a physical fight. When life got tough, some smoked a cigarette, others took a drink, and Peter started a fight. He really needed this one. It had been a while. He was cutting back.
He had called a likeminded friend; they found a rough looking Chicago bar and applied his favorite instigation technique. He approached a mean looking man who wore a Chicago Bears jacket and loudly proclaimed in a faux Irish brogue, “God bless the Packers.” That always did the trick. He was a Bears fan himself, but it was worth it.
Outside the little bar, a short, tough looking man in a sharp suit was striding purposefully up the sidewalk. As he neared the bar, someone crashed through the door, landed sitting on the pavement, got up, collected himself, and stormed back inside. The pale, well dressed, diminutive man walked in and stepped to the side, staying against the wall.
Peter and his menacing, Italian friend were fighting just about everyone else in the bar. The two of them fought back to back, looking like boxers in their stance. They were bloody, swelling, and cut, but they relished every swing. The well-dressed man, who had just entered, found a side booth and watched the fight. Three people in succession fell back and hit their heads against his table.
Peter dealt a vicious uppercut to foil the man in the Bears jacket, and another man, this one with a ponytail, followed quickly after, swinging away. Peter ducked, and the man punched Peter’s friend in the back of the head. The friend fell unconscious. Peter was standing, fighting ponytail man when another tackled him at the knees, taking him and his opponent to the ground. Peter got to his knees, straddled the helpless ponytail man, whom he had just fallen on top of, and maniacally began punching him in the face. As Peter unloaded his wrath, the man who tackled him stood behind him with his hands around Peter’s neck. Peter barely seemed to perceive the man’s fingers burrowing into his sweaty, sinewy throat.
The man from the booth slid out and went to the bar. He grabbed a towel and fastened it to his plain but well shined right shoe. He calmly walked over to the man who was doing the choking. He took four quick steps, as if he were about to kick a field goal. At the end of his stride, he kicked the man square in the side of the head. He fell to the floor, motionless. Peter got up, rubbed his red throat, and brushed himself off.
“What’s the towel for?” Peter panted. “Trying to go easy on him?”
The man carefully removed the towel and buffed his shoes with it.
“Screw him. I’m going easy on my shoes.”
He said it in a very serious tone. It was not a joke, simply the truth.
“You Peter Genovia?”
Peter nodded.
The man straightened up, reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, pulled out a yellow business card, and handed it to Peter.
As Peter looked down at the card he asked, “What are you, a fucking cheese head?”
By the time he looked up from the card, the little man was already walking briskly down the street. Peter looked down bewilderedly at the yellow business card. All it showed was a hand written address and time. He thought of his unconscious friend and put the card in his pocket, pushing the curiosity out of his mind in favor of trying to revive his buddy.
~
At Natolla’s Italian grocery store, a frail, old clerk stood in the doorway of the mom and pop store, looking down the street. He turned into the shop, closed, and locked the door.
“Angie’s coming!” He whispered with a trace of an Italian accent. “Hurry, hurry.”
Everyone in the store went into a well-rehearsed, efficient routine of quickly closing the shop and making it appear abandoned.
Angelo (Angie) Ficha was a tall, lanky man with thin, black, slicked back hair. He was well dressed in a flashy suit with a very wide tie, and a diamond stickpin. He was marching down the sidewalk, getting into his best badass character. His best was none too convincing. The word was out on him. He had earned a reputation as a push over. His frustration over this was probably the only factor that allowed him to pull off any semblance of a believable badass. He approached the front door of the grocery store where he saw the closed sign and the apparently empty building. He pounded on the glass door with his fists.
“Gordo! I know you’re in there. Next time I won’t walk away. You owe me money!” he screamed.
He punched the glass, but to his embarrassment, it wasn’t the widow that gave. It was his throbbing knuckles. He stormed down the street angrily with his head down, but his eyes looking up ominously.
As he walked, the short business card giver stepped out from an alley with his silenced pistol drawn. He rested the muzzle on Angie’s nose.
“Keep your hands in your pockets, and keep your mouth shut. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you.”
Angie didn’t move, but his blood was boiling. The nerve on this little son of a bitch, he thought, doesn’t he know who I am?
The man pulled the business card out of his pocket with his free hand and slid it into the breast pocket of Angie’s over coat.
“What the hell is this?” Angie asked.
“Just shut up and turn around.”
Angie turned around and the man disappeared down the dark Alley. Angie didn’t know what to think. He was angry, embarrassed, and curious all at once. The nerve on that little punk, he thought. Was it just a weird prank, or was he serious? He pulled out the business card and looked at the time and address.
~
Rick Carson was sitting in a college classroom. He was reviewing the insult of a grade on the paper in front of him. He was not the type to start trouble, but he was reaching his boiling point. Ordinarily, this poor grade would have rolled off his back like most of his other problems, but the other problems were beginning to exhaust his patience.
He got up from his seat in the back of the room, snapping the chair out from under him. All of the other students were filing out of the room. He walked against the flow of traffic to the front of the room. The professor, a tall middle-aged man with a shaved head, stood stoically. Rick paused for a moment to compose his words. He was not one to speak simply out of emotion. He was young, fair, and anything but threatening in appearance.
“What do you need, Rick?” the professor calmly asked.
Rick handed his paper to the professor and began to stare him down.
“It would help if you would tell us what you want before the paper is due.”
“Read the syllabus.” he replied with an infuriating calm.
“Every time someone asks you, you change the subject. You would think when seventy five percent of the class bombs and the rest barely scrape by; it’s not our problem.”
“The requirements were…”
Rick interrupted, “Maybe we’ll just have to go to the dean”.
“You’re talking to a tenured professor, you little punk. Do you think you’re intimidating me?”
Rick moved uncomfortably close to the professor and spoke in a low, angry, but level voice.
“Maybe she would like to hear about your other little extracurricular operation.”
The professor stood speechless and stunned as Rick turned on his heels and walked quickly out of the room.
In the hallway the man with his yellow business card was leaning on the wall, waiting. When Rick walked into the hallway, the little man caught up with him and stopped him.
“It’s Rick, right?”
Rick had no clue as to whom he was talking. His mind searched its banks and came up empty. He turned toward him but decided against a verbal reply.
The man extended a hand to shake and went on. “Hey, it’s been a while. How’ve you been? Are you still with…? What’s her name? Um…”
Rick, still puzzled but going with it, shook hands and answered. “Yeah, Kerrie.”
“Well, see you around.” he said, and he disappeared into the crowded hall.
Rick opened his hand, looked down, and saw the yellow business card. He shook his head, put the card in his backpack, and walked down the hallway.
~
It was nighttime outside the Goodman Theater stage door. John Tarantino, a stout, tough-looking Italian, walked up to the door and went in. There was a big Vegas style show on stage. John walked to the wings just as Julia Branch walked off stage. She was a tall, thin, blonde knockout, dressed up in full 1930’s showgirl regalia. John grabbed her by the arm as she went by. He whispered in her ear, and she led him back toward the dressing rooms.
In the dressing room, Julia was changing out of her costume and into a green dress. John stared out the window with wide, distracted eyes.
As she slid the dress straps up her shoulders, she showed some irritation. “Why do we have to do this again? I’m sick of it.”
John snapped, “I just got to blow off some steam. Are you going along or not? I thought you got off on this.”
Julia walked to John and turned her back to him so he could zip her up.
John looked at the dress and threw his hands up. “Not sexy enough. You know what I want.”
She let out a groan, removed the inadequate green dress over her head, and went back to the closet.
“Not sexy enough? Kiss my ass, DAGO.”
“I’d love to. Bring it over here, Sweet Cheeks. And watch that DAGO shit.”
Like Peter, John also needed a little violence to settle him down. He had neither the toughness, nor the skill for one of Peter’s all out brawls, so he had to be a bit more devious to find an outlet.
~
Julia was standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a redbrick building. Eight feet down, was the corner of the street and an alley. John stood just around the corner, hiding in the shadows. A couple of men walked by, looked Julia up and down, but remained silent.
John said quietly from the shadows, “The next one had better not walk past.”
Julia flashed an irritated look toward the alley. She used to find this thrilling, but the thrill was beginning to wear off. When she saw another man approaching, she arched her back, exposed a long leg through a high slit in the dress, ran a hand through her thick hair, and gave him an inviting look.
“What’s the good word?” As soon as it left her mouth, she wanted to call it back.
The poor bastard had no idea what was in store for him. He was a bruiser with a military haircut. He slowed down and stopped in front of her. He leered at her sideways, looked her down, and up again.
“The good word? Legs baby. You want to go back to my place and spread the word?”
Julia covered her mouth and whispered sincerely, “I’m Sorry.”
John sprung out of the shadows, turned the man around by his shoulder, and punched him square in the nose.
John screamed, “So you’re going to just pick up my girl while I’m standing right here?”
Poor Bastard was bending down, leaning on his knee with one hand, and holding his bleeding nose with the other.
John continued, “What am I, some kind of motherless mutt who…?”
John wound back with his foot and buried it in poor bastard’s unprepared stomach. He fell over sideways and curled up in the fetal position. He mumbled as John continued.
“Please, I didn’t…”
John was kicking him in the ribs as he screamed. “You didn’t what?” KICK. “Are you going to call me a liar now?” KICK. “Come on, call me a liar.” KICK.
Julia stood to the side with her hands covering her mouth. Her eyes were tearing up. It was a truly pathetic sight, such a strong, invulnerable looking man rendered so utterly impotent.
“John!” She pleaded.
“What? Someone needs to teach this guy to leave other guy’s girls alone.”
John dropped another few stomps onto the man’s kidneys.
“Stop! You’ll kill him.”
John stopped kicking to look down at the bloody, quivering mass on the ground. He rubbed the uppers of his shoes on the backs of his pant legs and turned around.
“Come on.” he ordered.
He took her hand, and they started walking down the street together.
Out of nowhere, the business card distributor walked up behind them. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled at Julia. They turned at the noise.
“Sexy, you know, those legs go all the way up and make a fine ass of themselves!”
John was incensed. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
He spun around like a flash and threw a lightning fast punch toward the man’s face.
The man swiftly put up both hands and caught John’s fist. He slowly brought the fist down, opened it, and placed his yellow card in it. John and Julia looked down at the card and looked up to find the man gone.
~
The exterior of Orchard Club was beginning to deteriorate. Some of the letters in the neon sign no longer lit up. The red façade was badly in need of cleaning, and the dark canvas awning over the door was torn and dingy. It was located in what was left of Little Italy, Chicago.
Inside, there were several old, Italian men sitting at the oak bar, having coffee. Several others were playing cards at little round, felt-topped tables. The morning light was beaming through the horizontal blinds, slicing through the smoke and dust. Signed pictures of The Rat Pack, Al Pacino, and other famous actors and singers, mostly from the 60’s and 70’s, trimmed the dark, wood paneled walls.
Upstairs, there was a loft with a large, round, mahogany table and an old-fashioned stained glass lamp hanging over it. Don Genovia; a dark, young Italian man, and his uncle Bob Genovia; a dark skinned, elderly, white haired man, were sitting at the table playing a card game. They were both smoking big cigars and drinking coffee.
Bob chuckled, “You going to turn up the Briscolla card or what? I think you’re going senile before me.”
“Keep your shirt on, here it is.” Don snapped back with a faint smile.
Don turned up a card and set the rest of the deck on top of it. There was just enough of it sticking out to tell which card it was. They each held three cards. They played them in turn, one at a time. After they played each card, they took another from the draw pile. They played as they talked. It was a family tradition. Talking during a card game was the norm. Some Genovias had trouble putting together a coherent thought if they weren’t holding a hand of cards. Visiting their family reunion was like visiting the world series of poker.
Don asked, “So, how are things with that guy?”
“You mean our fine public servant Alderman Burke. See for yourself. Look around. Place is turning into a dive. I got no money left for upkeep. This stunad Burke, he holds a grudge for sixty years.”
“You’d think he was Sicilian.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t have been more than ten when that shit went down.”
“What’s he actually doing?” Don asked.
Bob brought his finger to his lips and Don shut up.
The frail, old waiter shuffled up to the table, refilled the coffee cups, and emptied the teaming ashtray.
The waiter was a kindly, rough looking, old, Italian who sounded like a buzz saw when he spoke. He motioned to Don and said, “Hey Donnie, why don’t you take it easy on your old uncle?”
Bob raised a finger in the air. “This young guy’s got no respect. He beats me every game.”
Don protested, “Hey, I keep trying to lose. This guy can’t even beat me when I take a dive.”
The waiter walked away after sharing a polite laugh with them.
“Anyway, this guy, this Burke, every year when they assess the place, what I owe goes through the roof. And I’m talking high. It’s putting me out of business. Then he sicks the health department on me, then the building inspector, then the fire marshal. First, it’s this code then that code, codes up the asshole. I’m losing my regulars because the place is falling apart.”
Don got up from the table, put his coat on, and snubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.
“I got to go. Write down the score and we’ll finish the game next time. Don’t worry too much, Uncle Bob, I’ll think of something.”
“You’re a good kid, Don, but leave it alone. I don’t want you getting into any trouble on my account. My brother, God rest his soul, would never forgive me.”
Don smiled at his Uncle and walked down the stairs. As he exited the front door, he bumped into the man coming in. When he reached his car and went for his keys, he found his yellow business card.
CHAPTER 2
THE SUMMIT
In a large hotel conference room, sat the recipients of the mysterious business cards. A large rectangular conference table dominated the center of the room. Sitting around the table were, in this order clockwise: Angie, Peter, Rick, Don, John, and three other unknown, tough looking street guys. The men were all staring at one another, trying to size each other up, looking everywhere for clues to what they were doing there.
The door opened and the man with the business cards stepped into the room. Following closely was a big fat man who was wearing a suit that must have used up the best years of the lives of a generation of silk worms. His name was Anthony Latigre. He was smoking a huge cigar, wheezing the wheeze of the overfed, and wearing a topcoat but not the sleeves, confirming that stereotypes can be right on the money. His little stooge escorted him to the head of the table and took his topcoat from his shoulders.
He addressed the group in a fashion that made each man in attendance think he had seen this scene in some movie.
“Hello gentlemen. I’m glad that all of you could make it tonight. I’m sure you are all very anxious to know why we have gathered you all here.”
As he spoke, an extra long ash fell off the end of his cigar and dripped down his jacket. He absentmindedly brushed it away with his hand as he continued.
“I am here, gentlemen, as a savior, a padrone, a problem solver, the man with the answer to the problems that keep you awake at night. The old, quote unquote, Mafia structure has served some of us well in the past. Even those of you who have not been a part of it, still know what I am talking about thanks to Henry Hill, Joe Valachi, and all the other rat bastards like them. Gentlemen, La Cosa Nostra is all but dead. It’s obsolete. We can also thank the rat bastards for that. If we need, God forbid, to bring a man down, we need new ways of preventing discovery. Omerta no longer works. It’s a joke.”
He again dropped a long ash on his coat and brushed it off without even seeming to notice it.
He went on, “I have come up with a way to dispose of an enemy without having to worry about the police or anyone else discovering it. Well, more accurately, they might discover it, but they will not be able to pin it on anyone. Believe it or not, Alfred Hitchcock had this all figured out fifty years ago. The whole thing is based on the plot of the Hitchcock classic Strangers on a Train.
In that film, the character Bruno plans the crisscross murder. Bruno wants to murder his father. He finds a man with an ex-wife who would be better off dead, he kills her, and then the man is supposed to kill Bruno’s papa in return. The only mistake Bruno makes, is not clearing it with the other guy first. If both men had been in on it, it would have gone off without a hitch.”
The cigar ash incident repeated itself once again. The attendants of the conference were studying each other. They watched the way others took what they heard. None of them were quite sure what to make of it. Was he serious? Was this a Joke?
Anthony was done by no means. “Now, what I propose isn’t that simple. What Bruno tried with two people, I want to do in a group. This group will have untraceable weapons. The people in this group will have absolutely nothing to do with each other in public. If any member of the group is publicly tied to another group member, everything will be destroyed. The beauty of the plan is that only we know that the group even exists. If somebody has a job that needs to be done, he contacts another group member. One who ho he thinks would be good at that particular job. The man requesting the murder is the only one in the group who could be a suspect. So, while the job is being done, that guy goes out and gets himself an alibi. That is the important part.”
As he gestured with his cigar hand, more ashes floated to the floor.
“The jobs must be timed perfectly. The man requesting the hit must know exactly when to make himself noticed elsewhere. I will provide a place to meet and plan. I will also provide any of the weapons or tools that you need. Does anyone have any questions for me?”
Anthony expected a bit of a pause, but Angie piped right up.
“Yeah, who the hell are you?”
“We will make introductions later. I’m the man who has the answer. You all have a mutual problem. I’ve brought you men together because you each have someone you would be better off without. I have done my homework. I narrowed it down to you gentlemen by looking at your backgrounds and temperaments. I decided you were the most likely to be capable of doing what we’re talking about.”
Rick, the college boy, raised his hand out of habit and asked, “What’s in this for you? Are you just one of us, or are you the leader of the group?”
“Good, the kid of the group already knows that nothing in this world is free. Some men don’t learn that until it’s too late. All I ask for forming this little group is this. I get the privilege of calling upon any one of you for one hit, at my convenience, within the next year. Other than that, the last time you see me will be sometime next week when we have your hideout and weapons. Any other questions?”
They all sat quietly and stared at each other as if they were playing chicken. Who would flinch first?
“Alright, now I’m going to give you all an opportunity to walk away. I’m not going to repeat Bruno’s mistake. If you don’t like what you’ve heard, just get up and leave.”
No one flinched.
“No harm will come to you. Just get up and go back to your life.”
One of the tough looking extras got up, straightened his clothes, and headed for the door. The other two unknown men got up and started to follow him.
“There’s only this to remember.”
The three men froze in place as if they had been caught escaping some prison.
“Don’t ever mention that this meeting took place. Don’t even hint at it. Do not forget, gentlemen, that I know an awful lot about each of you. Do not turn on me.”
The three men continued out of the room without a word between them.
Don was hesitant and fidgety, but he stayed. He hated the feeling of committing to something that was out of his control. On the other hand, he had always been a good judge of character. He would have bet his life savings that none of those three men would see another sunrise.
As the three walked out, the stooge stood up from his seat by the door. Anthony turned and gave him a grave look. Stooge nodded in comprehension and left the room after them.
Anthony walked to his overcoat, which lay draped over a chair by the wall. He lifted the coat and picked up the box of Havana cigars that was underneath. He walked around the table with the box opened. As he walked by, everyone took a cigar. They all lit them except Don who was already smoking one. He still took it gratefully and put it in his cigar case.
“Now for introductions. I am Anthony LaTigre.”
Don, Angie, Peter, and John snickered a bit as they tried to stifle a laugh for several long uncomfortable seconds.
“What? What ‘s s so funny?” Rick asked.
That sent John over the edge. He broke out in a long, loud laugh and said, “I like these cigars. THEYRRRRRRRRE GREAT!”
Everyone except Anthony and Rick broke out in a good, long guffaw. They had all heard funnier things, but this laugh was more a tension release than a true indication of their senses of humor.
Anthony stood at the head of the table, not even a twitch of smile emerging on his face.
“My fellow paisan are snickering at my name. In Italian it is translated Anthony the tiger. Tony the Tiger. Now, I wanted to get all of the jokes out of the way in the beginning. I don’t want to see as much as a smirk about my name from today on. I’ll give you just thirty more seconds to get hold of yourselves.”
They all forced themselves to quiet down, but they had to use every one of their thirty seconds.
Anthony went on. “Fine, let’s make the rest of the introductions. How about clockwise?”
He pointed at Angie.
“Angelo Ficha, but call me Angie.”
“Peter “Small Nose” Genovia”.
“Rick Carson.”
“Don Genovia.”
Peter’s face lit up. “Hey, no shit. Maybe we’re family. Where you from?”
Don answered, “I don’t think so. I’m from right here. I’ve never heard of you. Where are you from?”
“I guess not. I’m from Brooklyn originally.”
“The name’s John Tarantino, and if anyone asks me if I’m related to Quinton, I’ll put a bullet in your eye. I like his movies, but it stops there.”
Anthony took control back. “Now that we got that out of the way, I’ll get a message to each of you later this week. It’ll tell you the location of the hideout. If you hear anything this week about…” He made finger quotes. “…a Bat Cave, that will be code for the hideout. So pay attention.”
They all stood up at once.
Don raised a finger. “We had better not leave all at once. People could see us together.”
Anthony opened the door. His stooge was standing on the other side, waiting. Anthony gave him an inquisitive look and Stooge nodded slightly. They had been taken care of.
Don was the only one, other than Anthony who picked up on the exchange. He still wasn’t sure about this whole thing, but he had made the right call. Maybe it had been stupid to come here, but he would at least have to play along for now. He would let this thing play out and watch his back closely.
The others may have had their reservations, but they all had problems that this whole thing could wipe clean. Their problems trumped caution.
CHAPTER 3
PETER
Peter’s apartment was a very small studio.
The sofa bed was pulled out, and had not been made. He never made it. What the hell was the point? He figured, if he ever gave up sleeping in it, he would make it. It was one of the few things he hadn’t retained from The Marines.
He sat at the computer, scrolling through the registered sex offenders list. He stopped at the name Edward Genovia and stared at it. He printed the page, pressed the speakerphone button on the desk phone, and keyed in a number.
A strained, female, elderly voice came through. “Hello.”
“Mamma, I found him.”
“What do you mean, you found him?”
“He got caught. I found him on that sex offender list on the internet.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I can’t tell you that, Momma.”
“You be careful. You get hurt or get into trouble; it’ll just be another part of my life he’s ruined.”
“I will, don’t worry. Get some sleep. You sound tired.”
“I am. I love you, Son.”
“You too, Momma. Night.”
“Son?”
“Yeah, Ma.”
“Make that horse’s ass pay.”
Peter sprouted a warm, loving smile and kissed into the phone.
“Yes Ma’am.”
He turned off the phone, slouched down in his chair, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t even remember how old he had been when all of this happened. It was one of the major forming events in his life. The loss of a father and the abuse by one, he didn’t know which was worse.
~
Anna Genovia was the kind of woman who would have been beautiful if she had led a different life. She was a dark Italian, in her mid-twenties, but she had aged far more than that. Her apartment wasn’t much to look at, but she kept it well.
She was in her ratty nightgown, holding her husband Edward off with a butcher knife. He looked just like Peter but without the crew cut. He stood facing her with his arms outstretched and his greasy hair in his eyes.
“Get out!” Anna screamed. “Get out now. You’ll never touch Petie again. My God, he’s seven years old. You God damned, sick bastard!”
“Anna, settle down. I didn’t…”
“Get out! I swear to Jesus himself, I’ll kill you. Even if you stay, you’ll fall asleep sometime. Gone or dead, those are your choices.”
“This is my house!” he screamed. “You won’t kick me out, you ugly little bitch.”
“He lunged at her, reaching past the knife and slapping her hard across the face. She fell back a few steps; but she composed herself, spun around with the knife outstretched, and slashed him across the cheek. He grabbed his face, brought his hands down, peered at the blood, and looked up at her with a ferocity in his eyes that chilled her to the core. It was like looking into the eyes of a rabid dog.
“Get out.” This time she said it a little quieter, but still with the same resolve.
Once again, he lunged toward her. This time he grabbed the knife by the blade. As he ripped it from her hand, thin streams of blood sprayed from his clenched fist. He threw the knife to the floor, charged her, and punched her in the face. His giant, sledgehammer fist hit her jaw with the force of a locomotive. She flew backward into the wall and she slid down to the floor. The back of her head left an indentation in the plaster. Her cheek was smeared with blood, a mixture of his and hers. He stood over her and began to laugh; surprised she was still conscious.
“Gonna kill me, huh. Nobody kills me.”
She began to sob.
“Don’t start that shit.” He smirked. “It won’t do you any good. Get up. Try it again. This time I’ll give you my left and even you out. Come on, what are you waiting for?”
The side of her face was already beginning to swell. Her words came out garbled, as if her cheeks were full of cotton.
“Please just leave. Please leave.” she sobbed.
“I’ll be back.” he promised.
He turned quickly, flung the door open, stomped out, and slammed it behind him.
Seven-year-old Peter watched from the cracked bedroom door. He remembered that door slam as one that must have registered on the Rictor scale. It was the sound of his life permanently changing. He had seven years with a father, albeit a sorry excuse for one. A door slammed, and then a lifetime without a father began. He still, as an adult, had a mild aversion to loud door slams.
It was the last time he or his mother saw him. He was a tough guy even then. He didn’t cry. He wasn’t especially scared. He was pissed. Until he became an adult, he had nothing but hate for his father. When he reached adulthood, he added regret. The hate didn’t subside, but he missed his dad. He hated the man but missed the idea of a father. Edward Genovia may have been a biological father, but he was certainly no dad.
~
What Anthony LaTigre had dubbed, the Bat Cave, was a little, dilapidated house in the back of an old, abandoned hospital. It was near Lake Michigan on the northern outskirts of Chicago. A crumbling, cement walkway led from the street to the front steps.
Inside, a round table stood in the corner. The hard wood floor was scuffed, scratched, and dirty. All five recruits were digging in and getting comfortable. Dust covered every surface, and filled the air. On one side of the banged up, wooden coffee table was a torn, rawhide couch. On the other side sat two battered easy chairs. Don and Peter were sitting opposite each other at the table. John was stretching out on the couch, and Angie and Rick were shifting from side to side uncomfortably in the two easy chairs.
Peter was going on and on to Don about his lineage. “You got to go to this site, FamilyTree.com or some crap. It’s amazing. I traced my dad’s family all the way back to the other side.
Don rolled his eyes. “The other side of what?”
“You know, Italy. Really, the same town in Sicily where they went in Godfather 3.”
“Amazing!” Don exclaimed. He hated Italians who’s only connection to their culture was The Godfather movies and The Sopranos. Sure, he liked the movies, but to him, these Italians were like Ivy League, silver spoon African Americans complaining about slavery they were never afflicted with; or American Indians asking for reparations for crimes committed before they were even born, against people they had no more connection to than he had to Mussolini. It was people clinging to a history that wasn’t theirs. He was Italian and proud to be, but he didn’t go around complaining about his ancestors being grabbed from Ellis Island and being treated like slaves on work crews. They were long since dead, and he had a reasonably good life. He wasn’t sure, but he was starting to peg Peter as one of those.
“You should look on this thing. Maybe you’ll find out we’re…”
Don interrupted, “You know what, Small Nose? I don’t give a flying…”
John couldn’t contain his curiosity anymore and he interrupted. “Pete, why do they call you ‘Small Nose’”?
Angie added, “Yeah, you know, it don’t look that small.”
Peter made a speech he could have delivered in his sleep; he had done it so many times. He invariably had to answer the question once or twice a month.
“First of all, it’s Peter. Nobody calls me Pete, Peetie, or anything else except my mama. Remember that. Now, the nickname is a long yarn. When I was coming up, there was this other Peter. He had a nose you could hang your hat on. Now, usually something like that would get him a nickname like ‘No Nose,’ on the count of the whole irony thing. There was already a ‘No Nose’ around, so they called him ‘Big Nose’. Anyway, I come along, and everybody’s getting mixed up. Somebody says ‘hey, you seen Peter?’ and it’s ‘You mean Peter No Nose?’ ‘No.’ ‘Oh, Peter Big Nose.’ ‘No, the other one.’”
Everyone just stared at him as if he was speaking Swahili.
“Anyway, I didn’t exactly like being called ‘The Other One.’ I mean my nose ain’t all that small, but Peter “Normal Nose” sounded stupid. So here I sit, Peter Small Nose.”
“Did anybody actually follow that convoluted mess?” John asked.
Rick looked more confused than the rest. “How come you were locked into having a nose name? What’s wrong with Shorty or even…?”
A loud rap on the door interrupted him. Stooge walked in with two large, old-fashioned, leather suitcases. They were the kind that closed with a strap rather than a zipper or a latch.
Everyone quieted down.
Stooge walked over to the table where Don and Peter sat, and dropped the suitcases on it. Anthony walked in right behind him. He still wore his overcoat over his shoulders, and he gestured with his hands like a good Italian.
“Good evening gentlemen. I see you’re all breaking the place in. My associate and I have brought you all a present. It’s a complete arsenal, just what you asked old Santa Claus for.”
He motioned toward Stooge. At that signal, Stooge un-strapped and opened both suitcases. They were packed full with firearms, no two the same. There were handguns, disassembled rifles, and shotguns. There were bolt actions, pump actions, revolvers, semi automatics, and even some fully automatics. Thick black Velcro straps held the weapons in place. The light was dim, but the weapons seamed to gleam like treasure in a chest.
Peter let out a long “I’m impressed” whistle.
Anthony began to explain. “There is sufficient ammo in that closet for every weapon here. Every one of those weapons is 100 percent untraceable. They have all been stolen at one time in the past. They are also completely clean. I guarantee that none of them has ever been used in the committing of any crime. All of the serial numbers have been removed and the bores, magazines, cylinders, and extractors have been polished of any identifying marks.”
He picked up a Colt 1911 .45 and worked the action as he continued.
“Always wear gloves when you handle one. Never, under any circumstances, bring one of these back here after a job. Get rid of it. The river is always a good choice. If you need one that is no longer there, I can get it for you. They’re dirt-cheap these days. Since the city, in its unending wisdom, has made it harder to get a gun legally than a cake of fucking plutonium, the entire market for them is underground and booming. No fucking waiting period neither. Only jerk-off Joe Citizen has to worry about that.”
Peter picked up the stock half of a disassembled rifle, put it over his shoulder, and grabbed his crotch with the free hand as he sounded off. “This is my rifle, this is my gun. This one’s for fighting, this one’s…” He went from singing into his best, fast talking Groucho Marx impression. “…usually the reason I’m fighting in the first place.”
They all went through the case, playing with the guns as if it was Christmas morning.
Don asked, “Why are you going to all of this trouble. This too good to be true thing is starting to bother me.”
“This is not free. Remember, you have each committed to a hit for me sometime in the future. With my problems, this is a good investment.”
CHAPTER 4
RICK AND JOHN
Rick opened the unlocked door of his girlfriend’s apartment. He walked in holding a bright bouquet of flowers and found the apartment in disarray. Clothing was scattered across the floor. Low, muffled blues music grumbled from behind the closed bedroom door. He was hoping he was in for a treat. In the back of his mind, he knew of Kerrie’s problem and should have been worried, but his internal optimist took over.
“Kerrie.” He called.
He took a few tentative steps into the apartment. When he looked at the closed bedroom door and the clothes on the floor, he developed a smirk of anticipation.
“Sexy girl, am I invited?” He asked excitedly.
He walked to the bedroom door and slowly began to turn the knob.
“Ready or not, Baby.”
He slowly opened the bedroom door, savoring the anticipation of the reveal. As the door opened, first he saw her bare feet. He paused at the sight of the lacey bra and panties, lying on the bed at her feet.
“I’m glad I didn’t go out with the guys. None of them are put together like you are.”
He pushed the door open and slowly revealed his beloved Kerrie, a 23 year old, blond, beauty with perfect proportions. She lay naked and curled up on her side in a breathtakingly sexy pose.
“Damn, Baby.” he said, biting his lip.
He let go of the knob and unbuckled his belt. He dropped his pants and stepped out of them. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You’re about to be glad I didn’t go out with the guys, too. Here I come.”
As he opened the door the rest of the way, he saw her closed eyes. His grin disappeared when he looked closer. He saw a small white stream of vomit at the corner of her mouth, and a puddle on her pillow where it had collected. He looked down at her hand and found an empty syringe. He ran to her side, grabbed the syringe, and tossed it onto the nightstand. The needle stuck in the wood like a dart. He tried to shake her awake, but she did not respond. He found her pulse, put his ear to her mouth to listen for breath, and grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand. He dialed 911, put the phone between his shoulder and cheek, and tried to sit her up. She remained completely limp. It was like trying to maneuver a 100-pound rag doll.
On the other end of the phone, a disinterested voice droned, “911, state your emergency.”
“It’s my girlfriend. She overdosed. She’s unconscious and barely breathing. The address is… You’ve got it? Fine, just hurry. I will. I’m trying to wake her up, hurry please.”
He dropped the phone on the bed, sat her wilted body up, and hugged her tightly as he shouted in her ear.
“Kerrie, wake up!”
He picked her up and tried getting her to stand, but she was dead weight. He stood, holding her from behind, his arms under hers, shaking her back and forth brutally. He began to lose his battle with his tears.
“Kerrie, I’m here. Wake up. Don’t die. Help is coming. Hang in there. Why do you do this?”
Sirens began to fade into earshot as he screamed. Worry and terror where on the forefront of his mind, but next in line was that professor. It was that fucking professor, so smug, being brutally, bludgeoned, shot, stabbed; murdered in every imaginable way.
~
John Tarantino and Julia Branch were sitting in different chairs around the coffee table in her studio apartment. The television was on, but they were not watching it. It was a small but neat and well-organized apartment. John was in the midst of losing an age-old argument. The dilemma was one that has frustrated nice men since more than one man existed.
“Mind your own business, John.”
“I can’t understand you. This stronzo treats you like a whore. It doesn’t even fucking bother you?”
“He’s my man and I love…”
“The man you love? Marone, this guy hits you, he cheats. Hell, he lived with another woman until a week ago. You could have your pick of anyone around, but you pick this stunad.”
“She had nowhere to go, and there’s nothing between them anymore. He’s not perfect, but who is?”
He had no idea what to say next. There was nothing to say that seemed feasible. How could you have a rational argument with a person who thought like that? He knew there was no way to win, so he gave up. He didn’t want to give up. He loved her, but she infuriated him to no end. He had a passionate disdain for irrational people, but he found himself in love with one.
“Do you fucking hear yourself? Julia… This is… I got… Women all want to be treated like shit, every fucking one of you!”
As he said it, he stood up and stormed out of the room. He burst out of Julia’s apartment building, walked straight to a payphone, and made a call.
“Still on tonight?” He was trying to catch his breath. “Good, I need it.”
He slammed the receiver down, took out a cigarette, and thundered down the sidewalk. He had no idea what was in store for him that night, but he knew it would be far more satisfying than his bait and switch routine with Julia and some poor schlub. He was pumped full of aggression, and he needed a release valve. He was looking forward more to taking care of someone else’s job, than to dealing with his own. He wanted to get his hands dirty, and he wanted it now.
CHAPTER 5
PROFESSOR
Rick and John sat at the table in their dingy hideout. Rick had a file folder full of papers on the table in front of him.
“You ready for this?” Rick asked.
“Yeah, it’ll feel good to work off some steam. So, who is this poor bastard?”
“A professor. Well, he’s not just a professor. He’s also a dealer. My girl is a heroin addict. This prick keeps her stocked in balloons. He’s a dirty, old, pathetic perv, who can’t get any tail without shelling out drugs in exchange for it. And if she happens to be especially good, she might just pass her class.”
Rick could see John taking on his anger toward the professor. He had completely put himself in Rick’s place and it was obvious.
“Women. Trust me; they all want, is to be treated like shit. Treat them like shit, and they can’t help coming back for more. I been considering trying it myself. Being the nice guy is not really showing me an up side up to this point in my life. So, what do we do to this worthless piece of shit?”
“That’s not the end of the story. She had been clean for almost two months until last week. I walked in and found her O.D.’ed in the bedroom. She would have died if I hadn’t come in when I did. The plan you can read. It’s all here, times, places, everything. Don’t let me down, Tarantino. Ten o’clock sharp.”
Rick got up and left the Bat Cave. John stood and walked to the suitcase. He took out a handgun and a shoulder holster and strapped it on. He then took out a pump shotgun, a Remington Wingmaster 870 12-gauge, in two pieces. He went to the closet and loaded the gun but left the barrel off. He loaded four shells, chambered one, and then loaded fifth into the magazine. He put both pieces into a canvas satchel. He also packed duct tape, a ball peen hammer, extra shells, and a pair of latex gloves. God, this is going to feel good, he thought. He grabbed the hammer back out of the bag and gave it a few practice swings. Every muscle was tensed, as if drastically over filled with the pure violence he was about to unleash. He didn’t care why Rick wanted him gone, although he identified. It wouldn’t have mattered to John if it had been for spitting on the sidewalk. It was enough that it was to be done and he was to do it.
~
John entered the college campus through a parking garage. He had the satchel slung over his shoulder. He entered a tall office building, found the elevator, and pressed the down button. The elevator was on the top floor, and it was one of those 1970’s models that seemed to take an eternity. He checked his watch. It wasn’t nerves that made him anxious. He tapped his foot and looked outwardly nervous, but inside he was monumentally excited. It was the thrill of anticipation that was killing him.
~
Outside the professor’s office, a sexy blond college girl leaned against the wall talking to the professor. She was wearing a very short skirt, which sat low on her hips, and a shirt that ended just a fraction of an inch below her breasts. She looked like the type who would wear something like that and then act offended when a man looked. She was holding a composition paper and gesturing with it.
“We’re going to have to talk. A “D”? This is just not acceptable. What can I do about it?”
She ran a finger down the full six inches of skin between her navel and her low riding waistband.
“Well, step into my office and we’ll discuss it in more detail, okay?”
He led the way to his office door. They both entered and he closed the door.
~
John had changed into a maintenance person’s brown uniform. He saw a large, white, rolling trash dumpster, dropped his satchel in it, and started rolling it down the hallway.
~
The blond was just exiting the professor’s office. She was adjusting her clothes, sniffing, and rubbing her nose with the heel of her palm. She had a near sick look on her face as she ran right into John’s dumpster and dropped the now “A” paper. She barely stayed on her feet through the collision. She bent down to retrieve the paper, cupped a hand over her mouth, and began scurrying down the hall.
John walked past her, went directly into the professor’s office without knocking, and swiftly but gently, shut the door behind him. The professor got up from his desk while wiping white powder from his nose. John carefully kept his back to him as he reached down into the dumpster.
The professor adopted the snotty tone of a master speaking to a servant. “What the hell is going on? Have you ever heard of knocking? Since when do you people…?”
John quickly produced his hammer, spun around, and cracked the professor in the back of the head. The professor went limp and fell to the floor. John picked him up, checked to make sure he hadn’t completed the job early, and dropped him into the dumpster. He emptied the professor’s trashcan on top and made sure there were no arms or legs exposed. He stopped to take a breath and to savor the moment. He had finally started. It was like finally leaving the house for a much-needed vacation, but multiply that feeling by 50. He turned the dumpster around and pushed it out of the room.
~
Rick was driving around at night, searching for an alibi. He passed by a police car that was parked on the shoulder. Who better, he thought. It’s perfect. What will it cost, maybe a hundred? I’d pay that for a rock solid murder alibi. He drove past the cop, went around the block, and headed back toward the cruiser.
~
The professor sat in a folding chair up against a large square cinderblock pillar, in the basement of his building. He was very thoroughly duct taped to the pillar. He was unconscious, and his head was slumped forward. John, who sat on another folding chair opposite the professor, checked his watch. They were buried in a maze of ductwork that spanned from floor to ceiling. It was 9:50 PM. John walked to the professor and shook his head by the hair until he woke up to find his mouth covered with duct tape. John walked back to his chair, sat down, and looked up grinning.
“I guess you got a lot of questions for me right about now. Well, you’ve got about ten minutes for me to tell you what’s going on and to let it sink in.”
The professor was absolutely panic stricken and started thrashing from side to side. He began faintly mumbling from beneath the duct tape.
John tapped his watch.
“That’s going to do you no good. I used a whole fucking roll of tape on you. You might as well calm down and at least find out why this is happening to you.”
The professor thrashed some more and finally became still. He was panting through his nose, as he stared at John with his most pathetic face.
“Well asshole, you just wasted a minute and a half of the last ten in your life. How’s that feel? Why are you here? Glad you asked. You used the wrong college smack whore. I got a friend name of Rick Carson. Ring a bell?”
The professor continued gazing intently at John, his eyes pleading.
“Well anyway, he’s a student of yours. He also just happens to be the fiancé of one of the little broads you keep swimming in heroine and good grades, in exchange for sex. My advice for you, if you were going to live long enough to take it, would be to go find your victims at a bar, like a normal fucking degenerate, and leave these girls alone. You should especially leave alone the ones who are engaged to men with bad tempers and good resources.”
John slowly stood up, stretched his back, and pulled out both halves of the shotgun.
~
Rick was heading back toward the police car. When he got about 50 feet from the cop, he floored it and hit 75 MPH just as he passed a 50 MPH speed limit sign. He blew past the cop who turned around, got right behind him, and turned on his lights. Rick pulled over and looked at the clock. It was 9:56.
~
John was standing in front of the professor. He attached the barrel to the shotgun, pulled the locking nut out of his pocket, and tightened the barrel down. The loud clicking of the locking nut being tightened must have sent a message, because a trickle of urine began to drip off the professor’s folding chair.
“Don’t worry too much. Maybe I’ll let you go. Maybe we can work out some sort of deal.”
The professor’s eyes pleaded and his head nodded vigorously.