by Andy Rausch
“This reminds me of a song,” observed Lefty.
Orlando looked at him. “What song is that?”
“Bitch Better Have My Money.”
“I don't know that one,” said Orlando. “Judging from the title, I'm gonna venture it's outside my wheelhouse.”
Lefty grinned. “What kind of music do you listen to?”
“Classical,” said Orlando.
“Damn, Orlando, how old are you? I didn't think anyone under the age of 400 listened to classical music.”
Orlando smirked. “I could ask you the same.”
“What does that mean?”
“I didn't think anyone over the age of 15 listened to rap music,” quipped Orlando.
“Well, the song is almost 30 years old,” said Lefty. “Back when hip-hop was good.”
“I didn't know such a time ever existed,” Orlando said.
Lefty ignored him.
Layla looked up, doe-eyed. “What's classical music?”
“Well,” said Lefty, “it's this really boring, terrible music old people listen to.”
Layla looked at him, unblinking. “Like Brooks?”
“No,” said Lefty. “Old people like Orlando.”
Layla scowled disapprovingly. “That's not nice, Daddy. Orlando's not old.” Before Orlando could thank her, Layla added, “Not that old, anyway.”
Orlando nodded, grinning.
“What are you gonna do with your share of the money?” asked Orlando.
“I'm gonna retire, hang up my guns.”
Orlando nodded knowingly. “I tried that once.”
“Didn't stick?”
“Nah, this shit is in my blood, I guess. I missed the life.”
“So you came back?”
“I came back,” said Orlando.
“How about you? What are you gonna do with the money?”
“I'll save it. It's not about the money for me. It's about the work.”
“Well then,” said Lefty, smiling, “if you don't want the money, Layla and me would be glad to take it off your hands.”
“Nah, I'm good. But thanks for the offer.”
Orlando looked at his watch, seeing that it was close to two.
“That time?” asked Lefty.
Orlando nodded. “Yeah.”
Lefty stood. He hunkered down over Layla, who was reading a Guardians of the Galaxy comic, and hugged her. “I love you, Tator Tot,” he said. Layla didn't look up, but said, “I love you, too.”
Lefty instinctively checked to make sure his silenced Glock was in its holster. Finding that it was, he straightened his jacket, bracing himself for the meeting. As he did, his shoulder began to throb. He winced. Seeing his expression, Orlando asked, “What's wrong?”
“It's my shoulder,” said Lefty. “It hurts like hell.” Lefty looked at Orlando. “Some bald-headed fucker shot me.”
Orlando smiled. “I resemble that remark.”
Lefty nodded solemnly. “You bet your ass you do.”
Lefty turned and looked down at the boats docked on the water. “See you in a bit,” he said, making his way down. As he did, Lefty considered this could be a setup. He didn't think it would be considering he was doing Don Antonio a favor, but there was no way to know. Where the Mafia had once been a calmer, more predictable place, events like Gotti whacking a boss (and Orlando later doing the same) and the introduction of drug sales and RICO, the organization had changed. The business had become the Wild West. These days people would rather shoot a guy than look at him, so a mob associate—especially a black one—had to watch his ass at all times.
But maybe this was legit. Maybe they would hand over the money, Lefty could divide it up with Orlando, and everyone could go about their merry way.
Maybe.
Lefty reached the edge of the dock, stepping onto it. As he made his way along the walkway, he paid close attention to the slip numbers, watching them as they got closer and closer to 222, where the Don Quixote was. Finally he came to the slip, and there, as promised, was the yacht. Lefty knew nothing about boats, having never been around them, so he was unsure about this. There was no one in sight. He figured whoever he was supposed to meet was inside the yacht, but he didn't know if he should just yell for them or board the thing and knock.
“Hello?”
No one responded, and he was forced to step onto the boat. He hopped on, momentarily struggling to find his footing. He regained his composure and knocked on the closed door. A moment later the door opened and a skinny Italian with slicked back hair answered. The goomba wasn't wearing a suit like the usual mob guy, but rather a red Hawaiian shirt.
“Who are you?” asked the man.
“I'm the guy who killed Bruno.”
“How'd you do it?”
“I crushed his head in.”
“Interesting.” The goomba stepped out of the way, allowing Lefty to enter the cabin. Lefty didn't feel comfortable, but he did what was expected and stepped inside. Once the door was closed, the goomba said, “Can I offer you a drink?”
“No, I'm good. I'm just here for the money.”
“Right,” said the man. “Of course.”
He walked over to a table, sitting on a couch behind it. There was a leather briefcase on the table. The man reached for it, turning it so the combination locks were facing him.
He man clicked the locks, opening the case.
“Here's your money,” he said.
Lefty stood there, tensed up, just in case the goomba tried anything.
The man smiled, coming up from the case with a .45 aimed at Lefty. Before gun could clear the lid, Lefty slid his Glock out as effortlessly as Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western. The Glock came to life and bullet holes simultaneously appeared in both the briefcase and the goomba. The man's face twisted into a gruesome display, and he fired haphazardly, firing a round into the wall.
Lefty knew there was no money in the case—why would there be?—but he moved forward and checked anyway. Just as he thought, there was no money there. The briefcase had been empty save for the gun.
Lefty turned and walked out of the boat's quarters. When he stepped outside, he heard the sniper's bullet strike the wall to his right. He looked over and saw the hole. He looked around frantically, but had no idea where the shooter was. The guy had a rifle, could be anywhere. Lefty turned and re-entered the cabin, a second shot smashing into the door.
What could he do? What were his options? There really were none he could think of beyond waiting inside. But what would he wait for? Would another gunman come rushing inside, or would the sniper simply fire holes into the hull, sinking the Don Quixote with him inside?
Lefty waited, but heard no more gunshots. Finally, he grew tired of waiting and stepped outside. He stood there for a moment, staring up at the hill overlooking the water, searching for the sniper. He saw nothing. The guy could be anywhere.
Suddenly another shot ripped into the exterior of the cabin, right beside Lefty's head. It took a moment for Lefty to register it. When he did, he dove back inside the cabin, waiting for someone to come to kill him.
The mobsters did not disappoint. After Lefty had waited awhile, the flimsy door came smashing in, revealing a mobster wielding a gun. However, Lefty was sitting inside the door waiting. Before the mobster could get clear of the door, Lefty put a bullet in his head. The guy fell out of the way, his body blocking the entrance. Lefty sat there a moment, his gun trained on the door, one hundred percent sure there were more gunmen. A minute later, a second mobster poked his head around the corner, firing a gun into the cabin. Lefty fired at his face, splintering the door frame beside him. The man was no longer visible, hiding out on the deck.
The man reached around the doorway, his pistol aimed into the cabin. He fired wildly, shooting nowhere near Lefty. Lefty, however, siezed the opportunity. “Unnnngggghhhh!” he cried, feigning being hit. Seconds later the gunman came in, catching a bullet in the eye for his trouble.
Lefty exited the cabin, l
ooking towards the shore, searching for the sniper.
Orlando was sitting at the picnic table, talking with Layla about her favorite Prince songs. Since Orlando didn't listen to pop music, he had no idea Prince had once been in a band called 94 East. But somehow seven-year-old Layla knew all about it.
“You're a smart kid.”
Layla nodded. “I know.”
Orlando smiled, surprised by the lack of humility.
“Do people tell you that a lot?”
“What?” asked Layla.
“That you're smart.”
“Oh, yeah. Everybody says that.”
“Do you think it's true?”
Layla looked at him, trying to determine whether or not he was insinuating she was stupid. “Well, yeah, of course I do,” she said. “I'm the smartest girl in my whole class. There are other smart kids, like Devon, who's almost as smart as me. But she believes in aliens. You know, from outer space.”
Orlando stared at her. “And you don't?”
“Of course not. Do you?”
Before Orlando could answer, he heard a sound coming from the bushes to their left. He squinted, trying to make out what was happening. When he did, he saw a man crouched there, aiming a sniper rifle at the docked boats. Orlando looked in that direction, trying to see Lefty, but found he could not. But Orlando knew Lefty was the target.
“Hold on,” said Orlando to Layla.
He stood up, crouching down a bit, moving briskly up the hill at an angle towards the gunman. Orlando had his Glock up, ready to shoot if push came to shove. Eventually he would shoot him no matter what, but he didn't wanna do it from this distance. He continued moving towards the bushes. As he did, he heard the zip and saw the rifle rock. Orlando burst into a sprint now, charging towards the sniper. He must have made a noise, because the sniper sat up, half out the bushes. The gunman fumbled around, probably reaching for a handgun. Orlando leveled the Glock, firing a bullet into his temple. The man fell back, his brains painting the bushes behind.
Orlando wished he had a way to tell Lefty the sniper was dead, but he didn't have his phone number. He couldn't leave Layla alone, and he sure couldn't take her down on the dock. So for now Orlando would just have to sit and wait for his return.
He sat down, scanning the area for more would-be assailants. As he did, Layla explained the genesis of Prince's first solo album. They sat talking for almost an hour before Lefty made his way back.
As Lefty approached, Orlando asked, “Didn't go well, huh?”
“Not particularly.”
“I'm guessing it was a set-up?”
“There was a guinea on the boat, waiting to kill me. After I shot him, a couple more goons rushed me. Then, on top of all that, there was a sniper up here taking pot shots. I never did see where he was.”
Orlando turned and pointed towards the bushes. “He's over there.”
Lefty looked over, raising his gun.
“No worries,” said Orlando. “He's deader than Abe Vigoda.”
Lefty approached Layla, hugging her from behind. “I missed you, Tator Tot.”
“I missed you, too, Daddy.”
“What did you guys do?”
“Well,” said Layla. “I told Orlando all about Prince, and Orlando killed another bad guy.” She looked at Lefty. “How about you, Daddy? Did you kill some bad guys?”
“I don't wanna talk about it.”
Layla nodded. “I know what that means. That means 'yes.'”
Lefty grinned. “How do you know so much?”
“Because I'm smart, Daddy.”
“You take after your daddy,” said Lefty.
Layla made a face.
“What?” he asked. “You don't agree?”
“You're pretty smart,” said Layla. “But not as smart as me.” Realizing she may have hurt his feelings, she added, “But you're still smart, Daddy. You're not too dumb.”
Lefty rolled his eyes.
“So now what?” asked Orlando.
Lefty sighed. “I guess we gotta go after Don Antonio. Get our revenge, and get our money.”
Fifteen
Going To War
They were driving down Rosa Parks Boulevard in Lefty's Caddy. Orlando took out his cell phone and called his friend Moses. Moses was an old Mafia associate, a “friend of ours” they called him. He fenced stolen goods and operated a sports book with permission from the organization. Moses knew everyone and everything involved with the crime world in Detroit. You couldn't boost a car or snatch a chain without Moses knowing about it ten minutes before it happened.
“Hey Moses, this is Orlando.”
“Orlando, my man,” answered Moses. “How's it goin', youngblood?”
“I'm in your neck of the woods. I need an address.”
“No problem. Who you lookin' for?”
“Don Antonio,” said Orlando.
“Sounds like you got big fish to fry.”
“Moby Dick.”
“The great white whale.”
“Man owes me money. I come to collect.”
“You got a pen and paper?”
“No,” said Orlando. “What I got is something better.”
“Which is?”
“A photographic memory.”
“You want the man's home or his office?”
“Where does he spend most of his time?”
“Man spends almost all his time at home these days.”
“Then home it is.”
“Don Antonio lives in Palmer Woods. You know Palmer Woods?”
Orlando asked, “That Tiger Woods' brother?”
The old man laughed. “Nah, it's a white bread neighborhood lined with great big nigger-free houses filled with uppity crackers. Palmer Woods is up there north of Seven Mile Road. Don Antonio lives there on Woodward Avenue in a big white house with red trim. Gaudy as hell, that red trim. Looks like Liberace threw up all over the house. You can't miss it. And it's got a great big clock out front, hanging next to the door. Can you believe that? Who the hell puts a great big ugly-ass clock on the front of their mansion?”
“A man who wants to know what time it is?”
“That man wouldn't know what time it was if Father Time kicked him in his ass,” quipped Moses. “So, you gonna shoot the man?”
“I can't say.”
Moses laughed. “Same old Orlando.”
“A gentleman doesn't kill and tell.”
“Sure you right.”
“Thanks for the info.”
“No problem,” said Moses. “And keep your black ass out of trouble.”
“You know me better than that.”
Orlando ended the call. He looked at a map of Detroit on his phone, trying to figure out how to get to Don Antonio's house. Once he and Lefty determined the best route, they discussed the situation.
“What's the play here?” asked Lefty.
“We gotta get our money. That's the only play there is.”
“Yeah, but do you think he's gonna have that much money on hand inside his house?”
“Probably not,” said Orlando.
“Then what?”
“Then we take his fat ass to the bank and get the money.”
Lefty looked at him. “How you know he's fat? You seen him?”
“Nah, but these mob bosses are all fat.”
Lefty nodded, recognizing the truth in this.
“What do we do after we get the money?” asked Lefty. “Do we kill him?”
“Is there a choice?”
Lefty grimaced. “I guess not. But the organization will have us killed.” He looked at Layla in the rear-view. “They could hurt her. Or worse.”
Orlando looked at Lefty, maintaining a serious expression. “You want out?”
Lefty considered it. He knew the answer he should give, which was 'yes,' but he also knew the answer he would give, which was 'no.' “Like the song says, it's too late to turn back now.”
Orlando nodded. “Ain't that the truth?”
“It'
s a hell of a life, this life of ours.”
“But the pay is good, and what else are we gonna do?” observed Orlando. “We gonna work nine-to-five jobs wearing suits and ties and sitting inside a goddamn cubicle staring at a screen?”
“Not me,” said Lefty. “But I heard you used to be a professor.”
“Once upon a time.”
“Why'd you give it up?”
“Because I had to kill a mob boss and his minions.”
“Deja vu.”
“All over again.”
Moses was right—the house was unmistakable with its giant clock and tacky red trim, sitting there nestled among a slew of bland, all-white, lookalike mansions. Lefty drove past the place so they could give it a look-see. There was a single goon standing by the door, right next to the clock. There were sure to be more goombas inside. Lefty parked the Caddy a full block down the street, planning to walk down to Don Antonio's just as he had when he'd saved Layla.
“I'm gonna have to leave you here for a few minutes, Tator Tot,” Lefty said.
Layla frowned. “You said this was gonna be a fun trip. This isn't fun at all. You said we were gonna go to an amusement park, but we haven't. It seems like most of the time I'm just sitting in the car waiting for you to go kill bad guys.”
Lefty and Orlando exchanged looks.
“Again, we really shouldn't talk about Daddy killing people,” said Lefty.
Layla sounded irritated. “I know, Daddy.”
“If you said it to the wrong person, Daddy could go to jail for a long time.”
Layla nodded. “Probably for a year.”
“No,” said Lefty. “Probably forever. So no more, okay?”
Layla nodded. “It's boring sitting here in the car. Is this gonna take a long time?”
“We'll hurry,” said Orlando. “I promise. Then we'll be right back.”
“Tell you what, Tator Tot,” said Lefty. “I'll make it up to you. Tomorrow, when this is all over, Daddy will take you someplace fun.”
Layla looked up, her face brightening. “Like where?”