by Tiana Laveen
“Ciao, amico mio.”
“Hello to you too, Pietro.” Angelo checked out the other guys, who stood there like schmucks. “Who the fuck are you?” Angelo pointed to a wide one wearing a fancy black and white checkered suit. He looked like an entire kitchen floor. The man’s eyes were dark and beady, set deep into pale, doughy flesh. Angelo sniffed the air and his stomach churned. A strange, sweet stench came off the guy. Sweat and horrible cologne. Fucking sickening.
“I’m Mario,” the man stated. His full lips were ruby red and shiny, like a lip gloss effect.
Angelo sucked his teeth, then turned away, not bothering to say hello or shake the hand of the uninvited guest. The shorter, skinny one stood between Pietro and Mario. A man he didn’t like at first glance.
“And you?” Angelo puffed on his cigarette.
The guy crossed his arms and stared him down without saying a word.
“Angelo, these are a couple partners of mine. Nothin’ to worry about, old friend. Nothin’ to worry about. Mario is my nephew, and Eduardo here is a dear friend who has outstanding negotiation skills.”
In other words, Pietro believed Angelo would drive a hard bargain, and they’d somehow get stiffed or pay too much for his services without some sort of mouthpiece. A verbal enforcer. Eduardo glared at him, then offered a creepy little smile.
They settled around the table, Pietro to his right, Eduardo across from him, and Mario to his left. An hour in, empty drink glasses covered the table, large plates of pasta sat half eaten, bread baskets had been replenished a couple of times, wine glasses filled, and cigars butts crammed the ashtrays.
“You’re that good, huh?” Mario asked, slurping a forkful of spaghetti through his piehole.
“He’s the best,” Pietro interjected. “Angelo here is a fuckin’ keeper. He’s the notorious Casper, but in-house, we call him the enforcer.” Pietro removed his wallet from his pants pocket and slapped it on the table. “I’m paying for our lunch today. I insist. Hey, Angelo, how many times have we worked together, huh? Twice?”
“Three times. It’s been three times, Pietro.”
Pietro’s people were the kind of guys who hired others to do all their dirty work. They were stinkin’ rich and make-believe mobsters known as RCLs, rich cowardly lions, who rarely got their hands filthy. Besides, shooting to kill wasn’t for everyone. At least they were aware of their limitations. Most crime families handled their own business, and they also had a trusted few who were no blood relation to get things done. Angelo was one of those men. Pietro’s grandfather had hired his pops, and so, the baton had been passed.
Angelo was just glad that Pietro realized the men of his ilk weren’t like him, but they had the wherewithal to pull a guy like him into the fold. And now, he’d brought these two castrated idiots to join in on the fun.
I don’t like this guy. Something about the short one rubbed him the wrong way, and he just couldn’t shake it.
“My family trusts him,” Pietro explained to Eduardo who kept asking personal questions, as if he needed to be impressed before things could move forward. “I’ve known Angelo for years. Trust doesn’t come easy.” Angelo nodded in agreement. “So, how much for the property in Queens?” Pietro rolled a toothpick between his teeth.
The man spoke in code. One could never be certain who was listening.
“It’s two stories.” Meaning two people. “I’ll charge accordingly.”
“In good condition?” A devious glint shone in Pietro’s eye. By this he meant: Do you think you can handle two at once?
“Excellent condition, Pietro.”
Mario, the human black and white kitchen floor, opened his gateway and belched, then straightened his tie. It was a nice one worth showing off, indeed. Angelo watched Mario with amusement as he wrapped his fork around a bunch of spaghetti and stuff it in his mouth.
“So, Angelo, here’s the thing,” Eduardo chimed in, unsolicited. “We’re the ones that need this building for a library. It’s a prime location.”
Pietro nodded in agreement.
“How old is the structure you’re wanting?” Angelo questioned, needing more information about the targets. “I might have some other properties if this isn’t what you need.”
“The building is thirty-eight or forty years old, give or take.”
“All right, all right. Nothin’ classic then. What about the last spot you had? Why didn’t it work out?” And with this he was asking exactly what they needed done.
“Well, it just wasn’t big enough. Some structural issues. There wasn’t a flood or anything like that, though. A little roof damage, but that was repaired. It’s in a quiet part of town, which was nice, but it was hard for some people to get to it if they were, say, comin’ from Queens. I know you can appreciate that.”
So, they essentially meant his quarries would be at home. No torture, no huge clean up. They’d get them moved out of there for him after he finished with the job. Also, he was being asked to use a silencer to make a clean shot to the head because the area was highly populated. Apparently the two targets had been ducking and dodging Pietro’s men, knowing they were on the look-out for them. Eduardo had also specified in code that the targets weren’t women. Pietro knew how he felt about killing women or children.
“All right. My starting price for a two story place like this is—”
“Look, Pietro here is hesitant to lay it all out for ya. He wants to be nice, but I’m not nice. I’m about business,” the short fucker interrupted, then sat up straight as if he were some well-known diplomat. Someone demanding deference. “We want a fair price, Mr. Feral.”
“Ferrari. My last name is Ferrari.” Angelo casually tapped some ashes into the ashtray.
The man shrugged like he didn’t give a shit. “Yeah, Ferrari, Feral.” He chuckled. “Honest mistake. Anyway, we should get the building fairly cheap, considering it’s full of niggers, faggots, and spics. I’ve been over there to the property several times.” Angelo kept translating the words in his head. What he meant was these two punks weren’t high on the totem pole, and they hung around riff raff. “They’re down in that area of town, and the niggers hang out all fuckin’ night, doing what monkeys do, getting in the way and tossing around bananas. The fuckin’ fairies are out clubbin’ and druggin’ all night, too, and they’re the first to squeal like scared bitches, as soon as the police ask to see their ID.
So both targets were married. Angelo would have to make sure their wives aren’t around so they wouldn’t be able to ID him, before he struck.
“The spics are too busy tryna get somethin’ for nothin’, so if they see ya in action tryna sell the building, they’ll know their days are numbered for living there. They’ll—”
“A, Eduardo,” Pietro interrupted, his eyes darting frantically from Angelo to him. “Thanks, but I’ll take it from here.”
“No, I’ve got it.” The punk waved him off. “They’ll blackmail you, or threaten to report ya as a slumlord. You know how it goes? Lower their rent or else.” That was code for: It’s a crowded area; there’s crime. They don’t live in a good part of town. Do this right, make sure you’re alone. There could be witnesses who will try to extort you.
Angelo rolled his thumb over his ring. The rich, savory flavor of the ribeye he’d just eaten overwhelmed his palate. He carefully took a sip of his wine and set the glass down.
“So, with all that being said, let’s negotiate. There’s factors, but uh, it’s a piece of cake. Especially for a guy like you, right? I mean, I heard you pretty much choose to live in squalor. That’s a good cover by the way, so it’s not like you’ll have tuh rough it. You’re used to it!” The guy chuckled. Angelo smoked casually and kept his eye on the piece of shit. “To be totally frank with ya, Angelo, I’m sure you’re amazin’, but you’re not the only realtor in town, and your goin’ rental rate is inflated. In fact, it’s highway robbery.”
Pietro cleared his throat and his eyes widened as he shot his friend a worried look.
Angelo laughed real easy like.
“Pietro, relax. It’s okay. Really.” Angelo smirked at the man sitting across the table from him, then brought his cigarette to his lips. What a son of a bitch. Shop talk always consisted of coding. It was a safe bet, and most idiots could decipher it, read between the lines. However, rarely had he heard such despicable analogies. Such wretchedness. This was no longer code, or shop talk. This guy was laying it all out on the table, venting… and of all people, to Angelo.
“Uh, Edwardo, Angelo here is pretty, uh, open-minded, ya could say. He probably doesn’t like—”
“Monkeys, huh?” Angelo cut Pietro off. “Bitchy faggot ass fairies and entitled spics…”
“Yeah. That sums it up.” The man reached for a glass of wine and sipped it in a dainty sort of fashion. As if he were made of class.
“Uh, Edwardo, I fucking insist that I do the talking from here on out,” Pietro warned with a frown, his face flushed now.
“Why? You said ya wanted me to help handle him, Pietro.” The pussy looked downright perplexed.
“Handle me?” Angelo grinned, then laughed.
“Ya said he was a hard negotiator. But he seems perfectly reasonable to me.” Edwardo smiled, turning back towards him. “Isn’t that right? You’ll be fair, now won’t cha?”
“Edwardo, first let me say that negotiations are a mixture of art and science. They are what we, that being me and Pietro, as grown men, sit down and do. Pietro knows this.” He pointed at Pietro and winked. “I have no issue with working out a deal he and I can both can hang our hats on, but I don’t ever, and I mean, ever, want to see your fuckin’ face or hear your fuckin’ voice again.” He glared at him, and it took all of his strength not to drag the bastard across the table and beat his brains out. “If you ever see me coming in your direction, you cross the fuckin’ street and you do it fast.” He pointed an accusing finger at him.
“What the hell is wrong with you? You’re not rare, ya know? You’re a dime a fuckin’ dozen! A dimwitted muscle!”
“Edwardo, shut the fuck up!” Pietro got to his feet and grabbed the guy’s shoulder. Angelo took another slow draw from his cigarette, then leaned forward. The wide one kept right on eating, barely pausing.
“Let me give you a little bit of advice, Ed. You don’t have to like anyone ya don’t want to. It’s a fuckin’ free country as they say, right?” He smiled and tossed up his hands. “In fact, I hate most people I meet myself.” He shrugged. “But see, here’s the problem, hot shot.”
“What’s the problem, boogie man?” the guy taunted with a huge grin.
“The problem, you runny cum shot that your dog-fucking and Huckleberry Hound dick suckin’ bitch of a mother should’ve swallowed, is that you sat here, and you fuckin’ disrespected me.”
Eduardo’s eyes darkened.
“I didn’t fuckin’ disrespect you. In fact, I paid your crazy ass a compliment, you pompous fucker!” the man yelled angrily, turning to Pietro, no doubt for support. “My mother! Did you hear what the hell he said about my mother?!”
“Ed! For the love of God, just don’t talk to him that way! Ya don’t wanna talk to Angelo that way!” Pietro warned.
“No, man! Fuck this shit. How in the hell did I disrespect you?” he asked Angelo.
“Fags. Monkeys. Spics. I don’t personally understand any sexual attraction between men. I find the shit weird. It’s like swinging two bats together and no one gets a home run. Where’s the fuckin’ dugout? Regardless of how I feel about it though, it’s really none of my fucking business, now is it? And it’s not yours either, I can promise you that. Two grown men can do whatever the hell they wanna do. They don’t need anyone’s permission.” He shrugged. “What is my business is the way this meeting is going. I don’t like it. And I don’t like you.”
“You need us as much as we need you. I didn’t let cha just set your price and—”
“You brought your dorky, imaginary lawyer façade wit’ ya and tried to smack me in the face with it. You sat down with someone ya don’t fuckin’ know—you don’t know shit about negotiations, and definitely nothing about me.” He licked his lower lip as he pointed to himself. “Then ya started shootin’ off at the gotdamn mouth, and Pietro here thought that bringing you would help him. He thought that was a brilliant fuckin’ idea for some stupid reason. Incredible.” Angelo cracked up laughing. It was almost hilarious. Pietro’s blood drained from his face. “That was unwise.”
“So, ya don’t like me sayin’ faggot?” The guy threw up his hands. “Like you’ve never said it!”
“What are ya? Slow? It’s intention, you dumb fuck. When I say it, I’m not tryna demean anyone, just callin’ them what they are, but even with that, I try to show some fuckin’ respect. How do ya know I don’t have a gay friend, huh? A faggot brother or fruity cousin who I think is a swell guy?” He took another toke of his cigarette. “If I did have a faggot friend or cousin, I’d still care about ’em, and wouldn’t want the likes of a weasel such as you talking shit about ’em. You know your intention when ya say shit like that, and so do I. You think you’re such a man, huh?” He sneered. “I know some gay guys who would mop the fuckin’ floor with you.”
“Oh yeah? I’d like to see ’em try it.” The bastard smirked.
“Yeah? They’ve got more manhood in their baby finger than you have in your entire Hervé Villechaize, ‘Ze plane! Ze plane!’ miniature body. Isn’t that funny? Someone the size of a chunk uh cat shit, talkin’ smack.”
“Fuck you, man!”
“Eduardo, no!” Pietro waved his finger, as if chastising a child.
“Ya don’t like it, do you? See how that feels when it’s turned in your direction, you delicate pussy. Dish it, but can’t take it. Spics, huh? I know some fine Puerto Ricans. They’re good men. I know some reckless Puerto Ricans, too. There are unscrupulous people of every color in this world, you idiot. And you’re one of ’em. You’re a hanger-on. You’re not one of us.” He pointed towards Mario who was now looking up from his plate, but still chewing. “Even this anthropological vacuum ova here has more class than you.”
“You really think you’re somethin’ special.” Ed chuckled.
“I don’t think it. I know it. And you’re insecure. You feel the need to knock someone else down so you can stand on their back and appear taller. The short hits just keep on comin’.” Angel extinguished his cigarette and lit another one in a matter of seconds.
The guy snorted. He believed him to be joking.
“Anything else you wanna whine about, Mr. White Jesse Jackson?” the guy teased.
“Jesus H. Christ! Ed, just shut up already,” Mario barked with food in his mouth.
“Look, Angelo, I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what’s gotten into Ed. I—”
“Don’t apologize for me, Pietro. I’m not fuckin’ sorry. Let’s just blow this taco stand. This motherfucker can’t take a joke! I was just funnin’ ya. He—”
“Ed, shut tha fuck up!” Pietro screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes wild.
“Before you go, Eduardo, I want to address one more point.”
“Oh, really? Go right ahead. Be my guest… ya fuckin’ jackass.” The man got to his feet and began to button up his suit jacket.
“The monkeys you mentioned? That’s interesting, because last I checked, my woman doesn’t live in a zoo.” Out the corner of his eye, he noticed Pietro’s shoulder’s slump, and then, he looked down and shook his head.
“Shit…” Pietro mumbled.
“She doesn’t swing from trees, either. My ol’ lady is Black, motherfucker. I’d love to tear out your damn tongue for the shit you’ve said to me today, then sauté it in a nice garlic butter sauce and feed it to Mario here, without blinkin’ an eye.” Mario’s eyes widened. Ed’s darkened. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth around me. It’s real fucked up how we Italians here in the city can’t seem to get along with the Blacks, and the Blacks with us. We’re at each other’s necks. We actually have a lot
in common, if ya think about it, but fuckers like you get off on that racist shit. Instead of judgin’ someone by how they move, you judge ’em for how they come into the world. How they’re born. As if any of us have a say in whose cojones we’re shot from and whose pussy we slide out of. Fuckin’ pathetic is what you are. Now, I think you’ve got the message. This is a warning. I rarely give warnings.” He waved his cigarette coolly in the guy’s direction. “But on behalf of my friend Pietro here, I’m givin’ you one. And only one.”
Edwardo burst out laughing. So did Pietro, his was a nervous sound. Angelo followed suit with a cackle of his own.
“Ohhh! I get it now. Why didn’t ya just say so? You’re fucking a nigger. Protective of the spook. Here’s a little friendly warning. One and only one,” he mocked, holding up his finger. “I’ve heard jungle pussy is great. In fact, I have it on my bucket list, but it can get ya in trouble. See, they breed like fuckin’ rats, Angelo. And before ya know it, she’ll be givin’ birth to watermelon seeds, fried chicken legs and zebras! Good luck findin’ out which one is yours. They have bastard litters—… AHHHH! Fuck!” The table turned over, the loud crash radiating throughout the room as Angelo grabbed the fucker by the throat with one hand and lifted him up off the ground with the other, while still holding onto his cigarette. Mario stood back, his jaws working hard while swallowing the last bit of his food. Pietro yelled and screamed, begging. Desperate.
The bastard kicked his legs about, dangling, and his face was turning red as a tomato. He began to gasp for air as he clawed at his fingers.
“Angelo… Angelo! Please! Put him down! He doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about. He’s high! I was just tryna show ’im the ropes but he took it too far! He’s an idiot, not worth it! Cool it, man… come on!” Pietro begged.
Angelo started to crush the tendons and larynx. Squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze, until the bastard looked on the verge of passing out. Only then did he let him drop to the floor like a sack of shit. He whipped out his gun with the attached silencer.