by John Etzil
He grabbed at his crotch with an oof, and I slammed the Glock against the side of his head. He collapsed on the kitchen floor with a thump, out cold, his hair still perfect.
I kicked him in the right side, just below his rib cage, driving the tip of my boot into his liver, a penalty kick for forcing me to see his fat ass naked and making me touch his junk, even if it was just with the tip of my boot. Proxy and all.
Crying kid screamed again. I looked at him, shook my head with a sigh of disgust, and placed the tip of my Glock silencer six inches in front of his nose. “Shut up.”
His red-rimmed eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. I thought he was going to hyperventilate and pass out from fear, but somehow he managed to stay conscious.
I rolled Ostrich Boy onto his stomach, cable-tied his hands behind his back, and pulled his dress slacks up. I wiped the butt of my pistol all over his silk shirt to get the oily slick from his hair off. It left a nice little pattern on his five-hundred-dollar shirt. Even though it was petty of me, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my abstract work of art. Picasso had nothing on me.
I patted him down for weapons and felt a mass in his front right pocket. I reached in and was rewarded with a compact Ruger 380 pistol. Nice. I popped out the clip, saw that it was fully loaded, re-clipped, and shoved it in my pocket.
I stuck my hand into his other pocket and found a smartphone. I wasn’t worried about anyone being able to place his phone at this location because there was no cellular service here on this side of the mountain.
I grabbed his right thumb and placed it on the phone’s fingerprint reader to unlock it. I changed his pass code to 1234, tested it to make sure that it worked, then shut it off and put it in my pocket. This would come in handy later.
I rolled him on his back and buckled his eight-hundred-dollar diamond-studded leather belt extra tight around his chubby gut.
I took out my Swiss Army knife and cut Mary Sue’s bindings. She wiped a tear from her cheek and smiled at me. She stood up, her legs wobbling like a newborn colt, and gave me a hug. I felt her whole body trembling. I held her until she stopped shaking, for what seemed like a full minute.
“Who’s that?” I nodded over to crying kid.
“Harold.” She leaned over to untie him. “We’re just friends.”
Thank freakin’ God.
“Don’t touch him,” I said. She stopped and looked at me.
“Why not?”
I gestured toward him with my Glock. He jumped and yelped. Again. “Can he keep a secret?” I raised a questioning eyebrow. “Go to his death with it?”
“Yeah. I can keep a secret. Yeah. Of course I can. Just untie me,” he interrupted.
I pointed my gun at him, again, and he got a close-up peek inside the tip of the silencer. His eyes grew twice as wide and I saw his pupils grow in fear. I might appreciate the inner workings of such a wonderful noise-deadening piece of art, but I didn’t think he did.
“Shut up. Understand?” He nodded his head up and down. “Good. When it’s your turn to speak, I’ll tell you.” I nodded my head up and down, trying to convey to him the universal yes gesture that I expected of him. It worked, and he mimicked my motion. I nodded my appreciation. He had officially risen to equal the IQ of my dog London.
Mary Sue’s forehead was wrinkled in confusion. “Secret? What do you mean?”
“We can’t go to the cops with this guy.” I nudged Lard Ass with my foot.
“What? Why not?”
“Guys like this, hardcore mobsters, they don’t play by the rules. They don’t follow laws. They’ll never stop coming after us and we’ll never be safe. We’ll be dead before we can testify against him. Your family will never be safe.”
“How do you know he’s a mobster?”
“Believe me, I know.” I bent down and searched for Ostrich Boy’s wallet. The fabric of his dress slacks was so soft that you could make a baby’s blanket out of it. I had to admit, the sick bastard did have good taste in clothes.
I found his wallet and took it out of his pocket. It was made form baby seal leather. Figures. I opened it, found his license, and memorized his name and address for future reference. Then I handed it to her.
“Get your laptop, open TOR, and search for Sam Rexanio.”
“TOR? What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s an untraceable web browser for people who want privacy. It doesn’t leave an Internet browsing history on your computer and it routes your Internet connection through multiple servers so that it’s untraceable.”
She ran off to get her laptop.
Now was a good time to have a little chat with Harold. I pulled up a chair, sat down in front of him, and laid the Glock on my lap, pointed to the side so he didn’t think I was trying to intimidate him.
“So can you really keep a secret?” I asked, watching closely for the physical “tells” of lying that the untrained body doesn’t know enough to hide. Things like rapid eye blinking, a change in posture, voice inflection, fidgeting, and a couple of others that didn’t apply since they involved hand gestures that couldn’t be accomplished when your hands were tied up like Harold’s were.
“I can, I won’t tell anyone, I swear. Now please untie me.”
Harold was a terrible liar. He exhibited every single physical tell I knew of, including some I hadn’t thought were possible with hands tied up. I felt like I was watching a CIA video tutorial on spotting deception. The only thing missing besides a narrator was freeze-frame red circle graphics around all his giveaways.
“Harold, Harold, Harold. Sorry to say, buddy, but I don’t think you understand the gravity of our situation.” I laid my hand on the Glock. “Now, in a few minutes, Mary Sue’s gonna come in here with her laptop and show us a little bit of history about our friend here.” I gestured toward Sammy with the gun. “I think once you see for yourself who this douchebag is, you’ll be a little more convincing in your ability to keep secrets until your death.”
He stared at me but didn’t speak. His lips were trembling and he’d developed a nervous tic in his shoulder. I pointed the gun at him. “So, I’m going to ask you one simple question. Do you think you can keep an open mind and read what Mary Sue’s going to show you?” I nodded my head up and down again, and he mimicked me. Yep, he was definitely in London’s league. I set the Glock back on my lap and nodded my appreciation to him.
“Good answer.”
Mary came hustling into the room, her laptop cradled in her arms. “I’ve found him!” She placed the laptop on the kitchen table and turned it towards us. “Holy crap, you won’t believe how evil this guy is.”
11
I was curious to see what Google brought up from the newspapers about Sammy and how accurate it was. If they had even ten percent of the story right, these kids were in for a rude awakening. Even someone as daft as Harold would have to agree with me.
“First we go to Google Images, to make sure that we have the right guy,” Mary Sue said. She clicked on the “Images” tab, and after a long delay caused by the TOR browser routing us through multiple servers to protect our location and identity, photo after photo came up of our Ostrich Boy.
At nightclubs dressed to the nines, walking in the street with a guy on each side and two behind him. At charity events, hobnobbing with politicians, getting into and out of limos, etc. Hundreds of them, proving that the clown on the floor was indeed Big Sam Rexanio of New York.
“Now we know it’s him, so let’s go to the news. Here’s where it gets good.” She clicked on the “News” tab, and a host of articles appeared on the screen. Most were recent, and a few included mug shots. He didn’t photograph well.
Every major newspaper from the New York Times to the Washington Post had numerous articles implicating Big Sam for extortion, murder, gambling, racketeering, loan-sharking, dog kidnapping, etc. Lots of indictments, few convictions, and even fewer jail stays. He seemed to have a guardian angel watching over him. I smiled. Not anymore.
I looked at Harold. “Do you understand who we’re dealing with here?”
“Maybe he’ll be thankful for us not killing him, and leave us alone,” he said.
Mary Sue rolled her eyes. “Jeez, are you for real? Didn’t you see what this guy was going to do to me?”
“Yeah, but I’m sure he wasn’t going to kill us. If we’d just played along, this could be over. But not now.” He gestured to me with his head. “Thanks to your friend here.”
I fought back the urge to bitch-slap him and instead let him continue his imbecilic rant. “He attacked a big-time mobster. Well, I’m not taking the fall for him.”
My restraint ended, and I reached for my Glock. Mary placed her hand on my arm.
“Don’t.” She looked at me and shook her head slightly.
I didn’t say anything.
“Okay, Harold.” Mary Sue turned back towards her friend, stooped down, and spoke to him like he was a ten-year-old. “Let’s just say that we played along. Do you think guys like this ever leave a witness to a crime? Someone who could testify in court against them?” She paused for added effect, then added, “They don’t. Which is why he has all those indictments against him, but hardly any convictions. Are you getting this?”
He waited a few seconds before answering. “So what now? We just going to murder him in cold blood?”
I’d had enough. I took the Glock and stuck it in Harold’s face. He whimpered like a scared puppy. I silently apologized to London for lumping this moron in the same category.
Mary Sue shrugged and surrendered the reins to me. She was good. “Sorry, Harold, I tried.” She walked away and stood at my side with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Wait, you just can’t let him shoot me.” His voice quivered and cracked like an overly excited preteen.
“I’m not going to shoot you…yet.” Now it was my turn to pause for added effect. “So here’s how this works. I’m leaving with Sam. Mary Sue will untie you after I leave. This way, you can’t be implicated in removing the body. And this whole night never happened. Capiche?”
“Ka-what?”
“Capiche. It’s Italian for ‘got it?’.” God, this kid lived a sheltered life.
“I don’t know, man, this whole thing sucks.”
“Yeah, it does. And it will play out in one of three ways. We go to the cops, and Sammy kills us all. Or: I leave with Sammy, and you tell someone what happened, and I kill you before you can testify against me. Not that I’d need to, because my word as Sheriff is much more believable then yours. But I would anyway. I mean, why take chances, right?”
I let him think for a minute, then continued; “Or: I leave with Sammy, you man up and live with our little secret for the rest of your life, and nobody else dies. And I can guaran-fuckin-tee you, that the first option ain’t gonna happen. Capiche?” I stuck the Glock in his face and nodded my head up and down, delighted with my new expertise in subliminal coercion.
Sammy groaned and rolled over, but didn’t open his eyes.
Harold looked down at him. “What are you going to do with him?”
“Does it matter? All that matters is that he’ll never bother us again, and that you’re not involved. The only thing that you did is keep a secret. Now grow some fucking balls, look me in the eye, and swear on your mother’s grave that you’ll take our secret to your grave.”
Harold thought for a second, and a sigh of resignation seeped from his lips. He looked up at me. “Fine. You win. I’ll never tell anyone. Ever.”
“Excellent. Oh. Almost forgot. There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re never to see Mary Sue again.”
“What? What the hell?” He sounded like he was going to cry. Big surprise.
“You’re a nice boy, but you have a lot of growing up to do before you’re man enough to hang with her.” I stood up and stuck the Glock in my belt.
I remembered that Sam’s SUV was far away and I needed to retrieve it. I asked Mary, “Any open bays in the garage?”
“Yeah, one. Do you need to pull your truck in?”
“Not my truck, his SUV. Can you move the car that’s blocking the open bay?”
“On it.” She grabbed her keys and trotted over to the door that led to the garage.
She came back two minutes later. “All set, door’s open too.”
“Good. Do you have any plastic drop cloths?”
“I think so, in the garage. I’ll check.” She came back a few minutes later with a clear plastic drop cloth, the kind a homeowner would use for a painting project.
“Excellent. Sit tight, I’ll be right back.” I grabbed Sammy’s keys and hiked out to his SUV, hopped in, slid his seat back, and started her up. I drove into the garage and shut the door. So far, so good.
When I stepped into the kitchen, Sammy was wide awake, sitting up, and talking to Harold.
12
“You were right, kid, I wasn’t going to hurt you. I was just having a little fun.” He smiled at Harold and tried to stand up. Mary Sue stood behind him, frozen, her skin pale and her eyes the size of saucers. My eye caught the glint of the ten-inch butcher knife that she cradled against her chest with both hands.
I took out my Glock and made eye contact with her from the doorway. When she saw me, I swiped my head to the right, indicating that she should back up from him. She understood my gesture right away and took two steps back. Smart kid.
I felt relief, not wanting her to go through life with the heavy burden of having killed a man. Not just killing, but stabbing, which was just so damn intimate. Unless you had the reach of Andre The Giant, you’d wind up being close enough to breath in their last breath. I hated that.
Plus, the average body holds one and a half gallons of blood. I looked down at the kitchen floor and noticed the small gaps between the vinyl tiles that would act like magnets to his spilled blood. It would take us hours to sop all that mess up. I’m in great shape and all, but four hours on my hands and knees and my lower back would be sore for a week. Screw that.
Sam continued his used car salesman pitch, complete with ear-to-ear grin. “All’s you got to do is let me go and you’ll never see me again. I promise. Scout’s honor. So what do you say?”
I gingerly stepped into the kitchen and crept up behind him. I was in plain view of Harold, but he never looked at me. Good boy. He was learning. I got within arm’s reach and then smashed my Glock into the back of Sammy’s slicked-back head. He collapsed like an old abandoned building being demolished with dynamite.
I grabbed the plastic drop cloth, shook it open, and spread it out on the floor. I rolled Sammy up in it.
“Oh God,” Harold moaned, as if the visual of Sammy’s face disappearing under the opaque plastic drove home the seriousness of the situation.
I took my time wrapping him up. The less DNA and greasy hair follicles I left behind, the better. I dragged his fat ass out to the garage and heaved him into the back of his SUV. I closed the hatch, happy to be getting this douchebag out of the house, and Mary Sue’s life, forever.
I went back inside and instructed Mary Sue, “Wipe the floor down with a strong cleaning solution. Think of anything he may have touched and wipe that down too. Anything. Doorknobs, countertops, tables, chairs, toilets. Then burn the paper towels you used. I’m leaving.” I waved the Glock over at Harold. “Call me if he gives you any trouble.” I pointed the pistol at his chest. “I’ll come back and finish him off.” I winked at her and left.
13
The back of Sammy’s head hurt like he’d been whacked with a Louisville Slugger. When he’d first opened his eyes and realized he was still alive, he’d felt pure jubilation. The euphoria faded fast when he tried to move and realized that his hands were tied behind his back and he’d been rolled up in a plastic sheet. And he was lying in the back of a moving vehicle.
He recognized the new leather smell mixed with his favorit
e air freshener, forest pine, and realized that he was lying in the back of his own vehicle. His heart raced and his breathing picked up. Always a mild claustrophobe, he imagined the plastic tightening around his torso like a noose, constricting his breathing. His chest tightened and he wanted to scream out. His pulse quickened, and a cold, clammy sweat dripped from his body. Nausea hit him like a Mike Tyson body shot, and he felt faint. Calm down, just breathe. He closed his eyes and focused on slowing his breath and figuring a way out of this. He’d dug enough holes and buried enough rats in his life to understand what was happening. If he didn’t get his shit together, he was going to wind up in a hole. Tonight.
But how? Why? Who knocked him out and tied him up? He remembered the big kid at the wench’s house, but he couldn’t be the law. Otherwise he’d be on his way to a holding cell, not wrapped in plastic and heading over to a hole in the ground off some backwoods trail. In his own SUV. How disrespectful.
Had he messed with the wrong guy? Unlikely. This sleepy little rat-fuck town had no made men in it. He’d checked with all his contacts to see if the guy he was gonna whack, a real estate developer with an art collection side business in the neighboring town of Cobleskill, had any connections. He didn’t, and this town was clean as a whistle.
He couldn’t say the same for the real estate developer. Eight months ago the sleazy little bastard sold him some artwork that turned out to be of questionable origin. So questionable that the FBI had come to have a little chat with Sam. Not only had the cheating bastard art dealer tried to pull one over on him, but he’d led the FBI to him.
Sammy was shrewd enough in his shady dealings to avoid convictions on most of the criminal charges that were brought against him, but that was a double-edged sword. It wouldn’t take much for the bosses to think that he’d stayed out of jail because he was a mole. A visit from the FBI was the last thing he needed, and dropping in on the art dealer unannounced was payback for his little FBI meet-and-greet. And while he was here, he’d help himself to some artwork. For his troubles and all.