by Nova Rain
The veil of darkness engulfed New York, and with it, came a nasty surprise that was guaranteed to make the night much harder than I thought. A storm broke out over the city, soaking everything in its path. On my way to Port Newark with Bryan, the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. It was like an invisible man was throwing buckets of water at my car every second or so. Cracks of thunder caused its windows to vibrate, the brilliant lightning flashes illuminating drenched roads and highways.
What the hell am I doing out here?
I asked myself that very question five times during the drive. I hated going back and forth in this weather. I would much rather be in a cozy house, sipping some whiskey by the fireplace and listening for more rumbles of thunder. Company? Sure. I’d like some of that, too. My buddies would do just fine. I preferred the old Joe, though. The outlaw. The guy who’d been like a brother to me all these years past.
Nearing my destination, another thought sent shivers down my spine. Joe and Bryan disappeared from my little fantasy. In their stead, came an image of Ava. Wearing her usual, smug smile, she leaned over and whispered in my ear:
“You three will never be the same again. Suck it up, big boy.”
“Are you okay, man?” Bryan’s voice put an end to the nightmare. “I’ve been talking to you for like a minute and you haven’t responded.”
“I’m fine!” I barked out, noticing the side of the ship Maltese mentioned earlier. Rust had started to wear away the hull. The letter “e” had been wiped off its name. Powerful lights helped me find a suitable spot to park, just past the four trucks that were about to take on its precious cargo. By the time my Cadillac came to a halt, one of the containers was dangling from a crane.
“Let’s roll,” I told my friend, popping the trunk open. A sea breeze hit me in the face when I left the warm interior. Raindrops whipped my skin in the few seconds it took me to reach the raincoat. Without wasting any time, I put it on and pulled the hood over my head, water bouncing off the roof of my car.
“Donny, wait!” Bryan shouted while I raced towards the crane. “How are we supposed the check anything in this rain?”
“We’ll find a way,” I yelled, the crane operator easing the container down on the ground. Its steel surface made a clanging sound once it hit the wet surface. I turned to the operator, shoving my hand into my pocket. “Rob, help me out here!” I urged, maintaining my loud voice.
Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut and pushed one of the levers forward. The container lid slid upward, before I reached up. Grabbing its edge, I pulled myself up and raised my leg over it. Looking down at a row of boxes, I shoved my hand back into my pocket. The flashlight of my cell phone revealed the—lovely—contents. The word “Uzi” was written on the top of the boxes. Right below it, a photo of one of the best submachine guns ever was enough to convince me.
“Alright!” I called out, hopping off. “You’re doing that next.” I said to Bryan, using my thumb to point back at the container.
“Who does Maltese sell all those guns to?” He wondered, the noise of a diesel engine getting louder as one of the trucks approached.
“I don’t know, but my guess is they’re sold all over the country,” I continued. “There are four containers here. One of them can arm all the gangs in New York and Jersey. All of them. Blacks, Latinos, skinheads, you name it…”
“Maltese makes Santone look like a cigarette thief,” Bryan remarked with a smile. “This stuff is worth millions. He had us chasing after civil servants and chefs for change.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, my gaze roaming the dock. Everyone was on our new boss’s payroll. Truckers, Port Authority employees and the entire crew of that huge ship. This whole operation gave me a clue of his power. He controlled the docks; there was no denying that. He was getting sixteen tons of weapons, and no one was molesting him. There were no cops around whatsoever. Neither would there be, because he had made them partners. Not all of them, but enough to let him do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
Almost three hours later, we left the docks, tired and soaked to the bone. My feet were numb, and my fingers were killing me. I had to rub my hands together before I could set off for New York. And as if that wasn’t enough, Bryan’s first question was how great it would be if it were three of us out there, instead of two. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, but still, he was opening the old wound.
Old? No. It wasn’t. It was still fresh; but discussing Joe’s absence didn’t allow it to heal. Bryan kept mentioning the fact that we had to respect his decision. On some level, he had a point. Joe was a new man, going down a different path. He had decided to lead a clean life, without the worry of getting shot or arrested. I wanted to accept this; I really did. Yet, doing things without him wasn’t easy. I missed that flamboyant son of a bitch. Rough around the edges, but loyal to the death, Joe Mancini was a dear friend. I could rely on him, the same way he could rely on me and Bryan.
Stopping at a traffic light just outside the city, I leaned back in my seat, desperate to go home and wear some dry clothes. The unrelenting rain lashing against the windshield, I saw a car speeding down the road to my left. My Cadillac’s headlights illuminated the shape of a silver BMW M3 as it roared past. Its driver looked to the right, our eyes meeting for a split second. Her long, black hair and her beautiful face shattered my hopes of going home. Less than thirty yards behind her, a black Porsche was hot on her tail.
“Isn’t that…?”
“Ava Rockwell,” I finished Bryan’s sentence, putting my foot hard down on the accelerator. I swerved right and overtook two, stationary cars, before turning into the road those two were on.
“Dude, what the fuck…?” Bryan exclaimed. “They’re too fast. You can’t keep up with them.”
I wished I could argue with that. My Cadillac had a 5-litre V8 under the hood, but it was much too big and heavy to compete with those speed demons.
I slammed my foot down, the bellow of the engine growing louder. The Porsche swerved left and into the opposite lane, overtaking a van. I checked my rearview mirror first, closing on that vehicle. To my disappointment, there was another car in the opposite lane. Just after it sped past me, I eased left and overtook the van.
“Are you carrying that Glock with the silencer?” I asked Bryan, spotting the Porsche’s triangular taillights.
“Always,” he nodded, opening the glove compartment.
“This is as close as we’ll get. Shoot that prick’s tires,” I urged, the throttle meeting the footwell. By then, we were thirty yards from each other. Rolling down his window, he stuck his head out, freezing air rushing in. Bryan squeezed the trigger once. The sweet sound of a tire bursting gave me a sense of satisfaction. I watched the fancy car swerve right and left, the rest of its tires squealing as smoke rose from the rear one. Then, the Porsche stayed right, heading straight for the barrier. The sound of metal to metal pierced my ears, sparks flying up in the air. A front light smashed into the concrete, causing the fancy car to spin. Completing a circle, it flipped and began to roll over, bits of aluminum and glass breaking off and littering the road. With its lights destroyed, the Porsche surrendered to momentum and gravity. I lifted my foot off the accelerator, knowing that its crazy course would soon come to an end. Its roof bending in the middle, its windshield smashed, it flipped back on its wheels, making me hit the brakes. I pulled over at the right side of the road, my gaze glued to what used to be an expensive supercar. It was vertical to the road, most of its body in the opposite lane.
“She’s gone,” Bryan announced. “I can’t see that Beamer anymore.”
“Go get that casing.” I advised, watching steam rise from the Porsche’s hood. “This needs to look like an accident.”
I jumped out of my car, darkness in the opposite lane filling my view. We’d been lucky. It was almost 2am; the chances of anyone witnessing this were slim. The driver’s head was resting on the steering wheel. I reached in and tipped it back, until it hit the headrest. Blood was gushing o
ut of two wounds on his forehead, leaving trails down his face.
“Alright, you little fuck,” I grumbled, leaning my head into the Porsche. “Why were you chasing after that girl?”
“Fuck off…” he wheezed, cringing in agony.
“You’re five minutes away from bleeding out,” I smirked, reaching into my waist. I gripped the handle of my gun and thrust it up to his temple. “I can call 911 or put a bullet in your fucking head. Your choice.”
“She…” The stranger coughed up blood. “She works for me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice rising in intensity and volume alike.
“Smoking Lace,” he whispered, his breathing becoming faster.
“I found it,” Bryan interjected, jogging towards the mangled Porsche. “Did he talk to you yet?”
“Yeah. Call an ambulance,” I requested, leaning back out of the car.
“What did he say?” My friend had picked a wrong time to get curious.
“Just call a goddamn ambulance,” I groaned, striding back to my Cadillac.
Stripper no more my ass… Why he had chosen to run after her was still a mystery, but that wasn’t the point. Ava had never stopped being “Peaches.” For some reason I couldn’t understand, she had lied to me. Did I want to know? Maybe, but I wasn’t going to go to her for answers. She had already kept something from me. I had no doubt she would feed me more and more lies.
Chapter Four
Donny
God bless the internet.
Once I got home that night, I read about that “accident.” Sadly, for the driver, he was pronounced dead at the scene. His name? Carlton Hackman. He was fifty-two.
His story checked out. Indeed, he was a shareholder at “Smoking Lace.” In less than an hour, I was able to dig up some more information about him. There were stories about his arrests, reaching as far back as 2003.
Trafficking.
Racketeering.
Cocaine smuggling.
Assault.
Possession of illegal firearms.
It was like reading my own record, minus the trafficking and the cocaine parts.
And this meant that Ava was in over her head. She had messed with a scumbag. He might have been dead, but… This guy couldn’t have been working alone. He had to have partners and lapdogs. Most likely, one of them or even all of them knew what had happened between him and Ava. What they would do next wasn’t hard to guess. They would accuse her of his death. It wouldn’t take them to long to go after her.
This was what I feared the most. Michelle, Ava, and Helena were very close. Those three went out together all the time. Sooner or later, they would be caught in the middle of a terrible situation, which could cost them their lives. I couldn’t imagine what Michelle’s loss would do to Joe. The one thing I knew, was that he would never be the same again. He found purpose in life with her. She had shown him a different way of living than what he’d learned in all his years in the organization. I didn’t like it, but he loved it. The worst part of all this, would be for him to find out that I knew about Ava’s issues and had not told him. He would never forgive me. In fact, he well could take his anger out on me. In that case, one of us would die, and the other would go to prison. So, by the early morning, I realized that there was just one way forward: Talking to Joe.
Purple and pink colors of twilight were up in the sky when I left New York. My first thought was calling him and setting up a meeting. Yet, that meeting could well be next week, because he was a busy man. As much as I didn’t appreciate driving thirty miles, I had to go over to his place in Westchester. This was another result of his relationship to Michelle. The two of them couldn’t—or wouldn’t—live in the city. No. That stupid bitch was too good for a single house in Manhattan or Brooklyn. She had to take him thirty miles away from the streets he once ruled. And that schmuck had to follow her.
Laying eyes on their house, I smiled to myself. Joe Mancini was maybe the last person in the world I expected to live out here. Lost in one of the tree-ridden neighborhoods of Westchester, it felt like a storybook kingdom. Its doorways were arched, just like the four windows at the front. Just past the huge lawn that surrounded the house, was ample space for umbrellas. Beyond them, a large swimming pool promised to make summer nights special. Leaving it behind, I saw Michelle’s most favorite thing about their estate. Incredibly, it featured its own, private lake, elm and pine trees gracing its shores.
I rang the doorbell, unable to get rid of that smile. But, once Michelle emerged from inside, the stiff look on her face took care of that.
“Donny?” She squinted up at me. “What are you doing here?”
“Thanks for the warm welcome,” I assumed an ironic tone. “Where’s Joe?”
“I’m right here.” I heard his voice, before he halted behind her. “Morning. Michelle, go get ready. I’ll handle this.”
“And to think she used to lecture you about your manners,” I giggled, stepping into the living room. “Whoa!” I exclaimed, spotting a 75-inch TV in the corner. “When did you get that?”
“Don’t mind her. She’s still upset about the bombing,” Joe explained. “You didn’t come here to check out my new stuff, did you?”
“No, man,” I shook my head in denial. “We have a problem. Actually, we have two problems. You already mentioned the first.”
“What’s the second?” He posed the question, padding towards his front porch.
“I’m guessing you know about that accident on I-78,” I presumed, gazing out at the lake.
“Yeah, why?”
“It wasn’t an accident,” I began, the moment he turned to me. “The guy in that Porsche was chasing after Ava Rockwell. Bryan shot out his tire. I talked to him before he died. He said she worked for him. He even mentioned the name of that strip club. ‘Smoking Lace.’”
“That’s impossible, man,” Joe rejected that notion. “Ava quit six weeks ago.”
“Did she?” I doubted, hands on my waist. “The guy said ‘works,’ Joe. Present tense. My gut says she’s involved in something dirty. And if she is…”
“They’ll keep coming after her,” he finished my phrase, an expression of concern painted across his face.
“We both know what that means,” I told him, my tone steady. “Look, man…” I paused and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t going to bring this up, because you seem to be enjoying this new lifestyle. We miss you out there. You found your special one, but if you don’t do something about it, you might lose her.”
Joe huffed and scratched his forehead. “What do you want, Donny?”
“The old Joe back,” I retorted, a little surprised by his question. Joe had the brains to figure out my suggestion. “And it’s not what I want, baby. It was ‘til last night, but now, I don’t think you have much choice. Someone bombed your mall, buddy. Hell, it could be the same prick chasing Ava; we don’t know for sure. You can’t fight them from here. You need to get back out there.”
“I’m done with that shit, Donny,” Joe claimed, lowering his tone. “I made a promise to Michelle. I can’t break it.”
“Tell me something,” I urged, maintaining the calmness in my voice. “What the hell will that promise mean to her if she winds up dead in a shooting? Or if she gets blown up with Ava and that doctor? You’re not going to work for anyone, Joe. You’re going to do this to protect her. I don’t remember her having a problem with that.”
“No, she doesn’t,” he spoke, pressing his lips together. “Alright. I’m in.”
“Yeah, baby!” I cheered, punching the air. “So, when do we start? Where do we start?”
“Tonight,” he continued, his tone sharp. “Smoking Lace. Call Bryan and let him know. We meet at ten-thirty outside ‘Mel’s Coffee House’ on Pico Street.”
“How will you sell this to Michelle?” I regretted my words, the minute they came out of my mouth.
“Let me worry about that,” he suggested, pointing to his chest.
“About what?” A
t the sound of her voice, I decided to keep my mouth shut. Besides, the two of them had to discuss something, and I couldn’t be there.
“I’ll let you two have a word,” I said, strolling away from him. “Have a good one, Michelle.” I dismissed her with a smile and left her behind, glad that I didn’t have to try too hard to convince my friend. Joe was in love, sure, but he wasn’t stupid. More than that, he had enough experience to realize whether someone was in danger or not. In Ava’s case, it was as clear as daylight. She hadn’t been honest with him or Michelle for that matter, and that dishonesty could get them both in trouble.
With daylight fading away, I was in high spirits. For the first time in six months, Bryan and I wouldn’t be alone. We’d have the third and final piece of our puzzle with us. Because that’s what we were together. A big, nasty puzzle of muscle, bad tempers and a determination to take out anything and anyone that opposed us. I couldn’t help but smile when Joe got into my car. It reminded me of the time when the three of us took down Eric Santone. He was hands down the cheapest and most perverted Don we had ever met. We had exchanged quite a few blows in that war. He had devised an evil plan to kill Michelle, but we managed to beat him. Okay, we got some help from our current boss, but that didn’t change the facts.
Still, Joe didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. He didn’t say much throughout the drive to the strip club. Instead, he let Bryan and me do all the talking. Within minutes though, I lost every desire to ramble about what we had to do. We had been on dozens of stakeouts. Neither of them needed a reminder.
The pink and green neon lights of “Smoking Lace” were flashing in the darkness as I pulled up outside. The sign depicted a lit cigarette between a pair of lush lips, right next to a pair of legs in stockings. Cars were entering and exiting the parking lot to the right.