Mind Kill- Rise of the Marauder

by Peter Casilio

  Mitchelli made his way back to Buckala. Rundown or not, Runners had about thirty patrons, most of which were black. Buckala was smoking at his table at the rear of the bar, drinking a beer from a small cloudy glass.

  Buckala looked up at him as he approached. “Hey, you want a cigar?” He held up a black cigar that looked more like a root rather than a cigar. It was five inches long, a half inch in diameter and looked like it had been rolled on a street curb, rather than the soft legs of a Cuban whore.

  “Sure why not, is this only bar in New York State that allows smoking?”

  Buckala smirked. “The last compliance officer that stepped in this bar coincidently found his car burned up in his driveway. They don’t come near the place, look around--everyone in here, including the bartender, is smoking.”

  A black waitress came over in a very short skirt, revealing her long slender legs, the bottom of her large breasts protruding slightly under her cut off tee-shirt, her large almond eyes smiled as she spoke.

  “Whatcha want boss?” She cracked her gum.

  “Jack Daniels,” Mitchelli replied.

  “On the rocks or with water, babe?”

  “Neat.”

  “Wow, we have a real man here. You got it honey.”

  Mitchelli lit his cigar taking five or six long puffs, and was surprised. “Sal, this is about the ugliest thing I’ve ever stuck in my mouth, but it’s not bad. What the hell is it?”

  “I don’t know, my cousin gets them at Turkish store in the Bronx. He sends me fifty at a time and I send him chicken wings. It will keep you awake tonight.”

  Buckala quietly told Mitchelli what he had heard on the street, which was nothing. He was frustrated. He didn’t know if it was because he was a marked man by the Buffalo PD, weakening his bargaining abilities, or if a powerful gang had hushed everyone up threatening massacre if any one talked. He was concerned a new gang had moved in while he was off line. They would have to import some badass muscle to hush an entire city’s underworld.

  Buckala pointed at the door: Kazz was walking in. Kazz was short for Kazzlowski. He looked like he stepped out of a fashion magazine from the early seventies. He was wearing black and white polyester shoes and a tan polyester leisure suit, a style that Mitchelli had not seen for thirty-five years. He was young; thirty was a stretch, too young to be dressed this badly. He was five-foot-ten, one hundred fifty pounds with greasy blonde hair and blue eyes. His skin made him the whitest thing in the Runners. He sat at the table and the waitress immediately brought him a bottle of root beer.

  “Sal, you still smoking that shit?” Kazz asked. “You look pretty good for someone who’s been dead for six months. Who’s the fat dinosaur WOP?”

  Buckala smirked. “Dead not hardly, this dinosaur is my new federal partner from Washington.” Buckala was considerate enough to leave the “fat” adjective out.

  “You’re full of shit,” Kazz responded. “Your pull died months ago; you’re off line and you’re not pumping me for any data. This guy looks like he’s a retread from the WWF wrestling federation; he’s no federal agent. He dresses like he drives a garbage truck. All you ever gave me was trouble; you’re not squeezing me for nothing.”

  Mitchelli was impressed; occasionally he drove a dump truck and his work dress was never what Ann thought appropriate for the owner of the company. He took the comment as a compliment. He didn’t want to look like a nervous government bureaucrat like Freed. Mitchelli began to ignore Kazz’s insults and drifted into his own obsessive thoughts. List… Did I forget something on my list? There is something I can’t remember on the list, was it an itemized cost item on the college project, did I forget to pay a bill?

  Buckala leaned over the table. “Look Kazz, you owe me, remember when I covered your ass when that Delaware Avenue gang was going to cut your foot off? How would you collect door to door without your foot?”

  “Bullshit.” Kazz unintentionally spit on Mitchelli’s arm as he spoke. “I turned legit, I’m selling insurance policies. Maybe you saved my ass, maybe you didn’t. If you did save my foot it was because you owed me for being your pigeon. I’m no one’s pigeon got it?” Kazz slammed his hand down on the table.

  Mitchelli shook his head; this reminded him of the site contractor several weeks ago. He begs him for the contract, then falls behind schedule because he has understaffed the job, and then makes ridiculously insulting excuses no one ever sent him a copy of the construction schedule, and suddenly you owe him. Did I forget to execute the plumber’s contract for . . .which contract did they agree to? May be two weeks ago. . . “I am considering working for the department, but only if the following stipulations are added to yesterday’s terms”… The United States Federal government will indemnify, hold harmless, grant full and complete immunity to Peter Mitchelli for all liabilities, crimes associated with, not withstanding, otherwise while in service, or out of surface to his country during, prior and after his participation in this investigation named Task Force “E”; life time immunity. My god! It was my listed terms of employment, they granted me full immunity. They granted me full immunity without even questioning it!

  Kazz continued, “I’m not tied to the street like before, WOP. I don’t owe you, and I’m not afraid of your fat WOP friend.” Kazz made the mistake of accidently spitting on Mitchelli again. This time it landed on his cheek.

  Mitchelli closed his eyes. The word “WOP” brought back painful childhood memories. The bullies, he hated bullies. They were cowards, always having to prove themselves at the expense of someone else. Pauli and the neighborhood bullies; O’Shid and his choke hold, Immunity, Immunity, WOP, DAGO, GUINNI, rich kid, did you ever want to hit someone like you wanted to kill them? Mitchelli’s head jerked back. He pivoted on his chair, grabbed Kazz by his sport coat just under his armpits, taking him and Buckala completely by surprise. He pulled him close to his body, as if to give him the kiss of death, then remarkably he stood, lifting Kazz out of his chair and pressed him against the wall. Mitchelli’s cigar was clenched between his teeth.

  Kazz squirmed and yelled, “Get this crazy bastard off of me! Buckala, come on we go back a long time, hey man come on. Where did you find this crazy WOP!”

  “Now we go back a long time,” Buckala calmly replied “Hey how quickly you remembered! A moment ago you didn’t know who I was.”

  What scared Kazz was not so much Mitchelli’s brute force, but his look; he looked through Kazz, a thousand-yard stare beyond the bar; hate, hate that could kill. Kazz made his livelihood on the streets, he had been roughed up before; he knew idle threats from lethal. He read Mitchelli’s eyes as lethal, crazy lethal. The eyes of a man that had killed before.

  Mitchelli took Kazz from the wall, and threw him on top of the bar, knocking glasses over and shattering them onto the floor. All the patrons watched, not startled as if it was a regular occurrence at Runners. Entertained, they patiently watched to see what would happen next. Mitchelli brought his head down within a foot of Kazz’s face.

  Mitchelli spoke in a low forceful; threatening voice, his cigar still locked between his teeth. “I’ve been on a slow burn for two years, and right at this moment, between your spitting on me, and your lapse of memory I’ve run out.”

  The pressure from Mitchelli’s forearms pressing against Kazz’s ribs and diaphragm was so great he could not breathe. Kazz could hear the cartilage between his ribs and vertebrae cracking under Mitchelli’s weight. Mitchelli hesitated; he was at a loss for words. He had just physically assaulted a man he had just met. He had lost it and was embarrassed, disgusted with himself for losing control of his emotions once again. He said the first thing that came to his mind.

  “Did you ever date a girl in Depew?”

  “What?”

  Mitchelli repeated himself, “Did you ever date a girl in Depew?”

  “I’ve been to Depew.”

  “I’ll shut you down for selling funny insurance, and then I’m going after you for that girl that got raped in Depew! I�
�m running on less than four hours sleep and I have a long night ahead of me.”

  “I never raped a girl in Depew that was Cheektowaga, not Depew!”

  Mitchelli took along puff on his cigar, the end glowing red hot, he exhaled the smoke all over Kazz’s face, his white complexion quickly changing to green. “You better find your memory, or I promise you . . .”

  “I swear I never raped a bitch in Depew, tell him Sal, we go back a long way, right buddy?”

  Mitchelli growled, “You’re going down for that incident in Depew, I’m sending you down!” He stopped; he was out of shape and panting. His breaths were making the cigar tip red hot, glowing in the dimly lit bar. Kazz was scared Mitchelli was going to singe his eye with the cigar. Mitchelli lifted Kazz off the bar by his leisure suit, the sleeves now torn under the armpits, and placed him back in his chair.

  After a long moment, the patrons returned to smoking, drinking, and negotiating terms with their favorite prostitute. Buckala discreetly gripped his full framed nine-millimeter Glock concealed under his shirt. He was covering Mitchelli; he had seen the bartender grab a baseball bat from behind the bar, which would have easily cracked Mitchelli’s head wide open.

  Kazz repeated, “I never dated a girl from Depew, I swear!”

  “Yeah sure,” Buckala sneered.

  “Please, I never dated a girl from Depew, you have to believe me.”

  “Let it go.” Mitchelli’s was voice stern. Kazz did not mention Depew again.

  Kazz tried changing the subject, “Hey Sal, we go back a long way, but there’s some scary shit on the streets. Everyone has a gun to their head, No one’s talking. Six weeks ago a dealer decided he’s going to finance his payment to his supplier over the next two weeks, next thing on the street he’s off line, nowhere to be found. Then they find him in his brother’s garage, disemboweled--that frickin’ World War II Japanese torture bullshit. Shoot him in the head, slit his throat, ok; but no: frickin’ disemboweled. His whole gang shit their pants. They paid real quick. Except it’s not that easy: The guy’s brother turns up with his dick and balls in his mouth in the trunk of the gang’s captain’s car. Get this, the dude is still alive with his frickin’ balls in his mouth. The captain freaks and kills the poor bastard. He shot him in his trunk almost blew up the gas tank.” Kazz’s hands were trembling and his forehead was sweating profusely. “Man what you want from me? I’d be lucky to have my foot cut off, I don’t want my balls in my mouth; I’m just a neighborhood banker.”

  “Look I’m not asking you to take an ad out,” said Buckala as he took a long cool drag on his cigar then spit a small piece of tobacco out of his mouth, making sure it did not hit Mitchelli. “Anything pops up on your radar, I want to know, believe me there’s federal money involved. Their deposits are much larger than our bankrupt city’s; at least two grand for a good tip.”

  As they finished their drinks, Buckala attempted to calm Kazz down. Kazz kept apologizing to Mitchelli. Mitchelli didn’t say another word; he just sipped his Jack Daniels and smoked his smelly cigar. He was ashamed of himself; he had let Kazz get to him. He didn’t know how to play the game. He had acted like a lunatic; he hated bullies and he had just portrayed one. He had realized just before he lifted Kazz to the air that he was a federal officer with immunity. He didn’t have to operate within the restriction placed on police officers. He was offline--no one had his number; he was freelance all the way. Buckala could have spent hours talking to Kazz, threatening exchanging insults, possibly obtaining no information. Mitchelli had scared the shit out him in less than five minutes, getting him to spill his guts. Buckala loved it.

  After Kazz left, Buckala said, “You crazy son of a bitch, you’re smooth. I could have spent days trying to squeeze something out of Kazz. You’re lucky that bartender didn’t split your head open.”

  “I’m embarrassed,” Mitchelli said, as he looked down at his glass. “I let my guard down. I let a thirty-year-old punk get inside my head and mess with me. I got too emotional, it wasn’t smooth. A professional would not do what I did. I’m no cop; I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Listen to me,” Buckala quipped. “I know you’re a little screwed up over your wife. I’ve worked with just about every cop in this city. Freed told me you got me this gig so you know I got my shit together. You’re no cop, I’m not sure what the hell you are, but you’re no cop. But you are one effective son of a bitch. The first time I saw you, I said ‘this guy’s got balls.’ You have good instincts; you can’t get that at any police academy. Don’t psychoanalyze everything out here, it will get you killed. There’s no apologizing on the street, Peter. You take what you can, however you can get it, and you run with it. You did good. If you screw up, I’ll tell you and no one else. You got my ass out of limbo, I owe you.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Mitchelli responded. “None of us know the street as well as you. My intentions were purely selfish. I wanted to work with the best street cop, I insisted on you to cover my ass out on the street. Thanks for trying to make me feel better, I won’t make that mistake again. If I do, you give me a swift kick in the ass.”

  Buckala smirked. “I know desperation when I see it,” he said. “These federal guys are desperate. Look, we’re here because they didn’t know which way to turn. They brought in a builder, and a narcotics cop who’s been abandoned by his own department. You gave the Feds what they didn’t have, what they desperately needed, a new direction, a beginning. Peter, your locations may lead to nothing, but in my world that happens. As a detective I’ve run into dead ends all the time, hey I’ve changed directions. These poor dumb fed bastards just kept doing the same stupid thing over and over. Even I could see the hope in their eyes, that first night on the beach. It’s when you’re on an investigation going nowhere and boom, you’re onto something. You’re grasping at straw, then bails, and soon you have an indictment. You gave them that hope, and us being here shows how much they desperately need it. You took up their cause and gave them purpose, a mission. Believe me, I didn’t have a mission for six months and it drove me crazy, they haven’t had one for two years.”

  “Sal, thank you. I needed that.”

  Buckala put his arm around Mitchelli as they walked outside Runners. “Stop saying thank you. Next you’re going to kiss me like Angela, ooh I love you, Angelina!”

  Mitchelli walked with a cop he respected, but Buckala was making the queerest expression with his lips. He had to laugh; his world had changed so much in the last several weeks. He appreciated Buckala’s professional reassurance but still did not believe he acted appropriately. Mitchelli knew he deserved to be teased regarding MacJames and their actions at the beach; it was unprofessional, even for a civilian deputy. He shuddered to think of the harassment he would get from Captain Stephan Zachovich. Stephan would be certain to remind him that the Sheriff’s Office had a code of conduct and a professional standards unit. Then he’d ask if MacJames gave him tongue.

  ***

  Buckala and Mitchelli were staking out the grain elevator on Fuhrman Boulevard as their assigned stakeout. At first, Mitchelli had looked forward to the intrigue and thrill of undercover surveillance. He knew it wasn’t going to be like the movies, but he hoped it would be somewhat interesting. Oh, my God I’m really going crazy. Sheer and utter boredom. During the twilight hours, he would watch the boats cruising slowing behind the safety of the break wall in the inner harbor. He used night vision binoculars to watch the boats beyond the break wall. He recorded on a small spiral notebook the name, registration number if it was visible, manufacturer, and type of boat. Logging the boats broke up the monotony. Buckala had his eyes locked on the grain elevator.

  Mitchelli had agreed they could smoke in the truck, which he later regretted. Those black root cigars stunk the next morning. He had to make sure he emptied the ashtray of any ashes, especially cigar butts. Buckala was a good storyteller and they tried to pass the time with his seemingly endless collection of street stories. He realized how much Buckala love
d his job. He was excited to pass his stories onto someone who was interested and always tried to tie some kind of police training to the story.