Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues

by Lyle O'Connor

  “Yeah, why not?” I picked up her pack of smokes, and a lighter that was on the bed stand next to the lamp, and handed them to her. She’d become remarkably pleasant, now that she had a wound to nurse. But then again, I wasn’t fooled; she was a schemer, a gorgeous, sensual schemer. She lit her cigarette, the smoke drifted upward gently from her lips. She sighed. Her face conveyed a brief glimmer of relief.

  “Keep talking.”

  “Bruno came to Musolino’s to see me the next day. I thought I was in trouble for transferring the money, but Bruno never said nothing about it. He said Joey never showed for the meeting and asked the same questions you are asking.”

  “What do you know about this Cal guy?”

  “Joey told me Bruno whacked Cal. He said he wasn’t happy about it, he let Bruno know it. Bruno tried to convince him that Cal was an agency plant. But Joey said there was something wrong with the story, Cal was no cop. That made Joey dangerous. When Bruno left me at the Inn, he said he was going to look for Joey because he might have flipped, but I knew better. Joey was no rat. He wouldn’t enter the Feds’ program without me.”

  Angelique’s lips were alluring, thick and flush. I sat down on the edge of the bed as I listened to her talk; she sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. “Well you’re not a cop,” she said as she adjusted the towel on her upper thigh.

  “Guess not,” I said. “In a roundabout way, I’m a friend of Cal’s.”

  “So you are trying to get to the people that killed him?”

  “I will avenge his murder. Where’s the cash you pulled out?” I hadn’t noticed the luggage stacked neatly in the corner of the bedroom before she motioned to it. “In there,” she said. I walked over to a leather zippered handbag that sat on top of larger luggage piece, unzipped it, revealing stacks of bills, hundreds, fifties, and twenties.

  “So, what’s your game, big man?” Her voice took on a sultry tone. “You a hitter?” Her movement caught my eye. She had leaned forward; her purple robe had fallen open, exposing another form of distraction. She knew it too. Her plan was in motion to lure me into her captivity and secure her freedom, and maybe my demise.

  “I take care of business.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with Joey and me?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said. “Tell me about your job at Musolino’s?”

  “I’m a bookkeeper. I collect money, make deposits, and handle pay-outs.”

  “What about the kidnapping?”

  “What kidnapping?” Her rich chocolate-brown eyes and long eyelashes gave the perception of truth and honesty. Her hand slipped up on my leg as I stood before her. I had to give it to her; she was one hell of an actress. She could have made it in Hollywood.

  “The sex slavery, the lying illegal immigration, the kidnapping underage girls, and the rackets you and Joey are running?”

  “We saved those girls from the street. You don’t know what it’s like on the street for them. We gave them shelter, food, and clothing. We were the ones that protected them. If they were drug users, we gave them a fix. We bought them Christmas and birthday gifts.”

  Was this blind justification? I doubted it. The criminal mind was too predictable. It made a good story, though. I just hoped she hadn’t brainwashed herself with that saving and helping bit. They’d bought kidnapped girls off the street from hustlers, and lied to other girls to enslave them.

  “You buy and sell girls like farm animals, and that’s why you took care of them. They’re nothing but a money crop to you. You can justify it all you want. At the end of the day, it’s all smoke and mirrors. You are guilty of the worst kind of inhumanity known to mankind. You are a human trafficker.”

  She didn’t have an answer this time. A shrug of her shoulder told the rest of the story. Now I understood why she was with a Mafia bum like Joey because she wasn’t the picture of perfection she appeared to be. She was a cheap imitation of a lady and was rotten to the core. I paced slowly back and forth across the room while she watched. She pulled out another smoke, but it fell to the floor, so did she. A .40-caliber round left a gaping hole in her forehead where it emerged. Large caliber exit wounds usually did. After a well placed second shot at the base of the neck, she wasn’t as pretty as she had been. She was also very dead.

  I didn’t waste time looking through the house for clues about Cal and Anna. What mobster would be dense enough to have left evidence around in the house? I grabbed the leather handbag with the money along with my bug out bag and slipped out the back door. The Machine would take extreme offense to a wiseguy’s wife being clipped. In the traditional Mafia world, it was a sin and punishable accordingly. They would be out to kill me for what I’d done. I wasn’t worried; I’d already crossed that bridge. Who were they to tell me what’s acceptable and what wasn’t. The Mob didn’t exactly have a moral compass. She was as guilty as the men for committing the same crimes. If not, I wouldn’t have killed her. It may be their world, but they’re in my book and sex slavery carried a death sentence.

  The drive to sanctuary was quiet. I had plenty of time to think about the execution of Angelique. I was haunted. I didn’t want to shoot her, and I knew why. Anna had awakened in me a new appreciation. I was happier without the confliction I felt.

  Chapter 10

  “Anonymity was a killer’s best friend.”

  —Walter

  The next day Bludd and I had awakened early. With him, it was intentional—for me, not so much. He’d slept in the bedroom while I took the couch. I hadn’t tried to be hospitable about the arrangement; I preferred the central location of the couch. In the event a need arose to act or react, I felt less trapped. Besides, I didn’t really sleep anymore; it was more a series of catnaps, interrupted by dreams. Still, it would have been nice to have slept later. Bludd’s continuous clattering in the kitchenette, followed by his personal apologies to me for all the noise, prompted me to rise and shine—well, maybe not shine. There was no need to dress. I’d slept in the clothes I’d been wearing the day before.

  We sat at the kitchen table and drank our morning beverages, silently at first until the early morning cobwebs had washed out of my throat. I did a quick recap on Angelique, down and dirty, not the type of Palatini briefing he was used to. What he had to understand was I wasn’t the typical Palatini kind of guy. If he hung with me, he’d have to adapt. The standard Palatini way of doing things was out the window. He’d have to get used to the idea of operating off-the-cuff.

  “What is the scope of the project?” Bludd asked.

  I boiled it down to the simplest terms possible. “We’re going to beat ‘em to a pulp, and when we’re done beating ‘em, we’re going to beat ‘em some more, just for good measures.” Bludd nodded. I was satisfied our mission had been made—clear.

  “What about the money, mate? We’ve never been a pack of thieves.”

  We counted it out together on the table, twenty-grand in all, nice neat stacks of spendable unmarked bills. But, that was only the tip of the iceberg.

  “Why should we leave the money for the cops or the Mob to find? Why not put it to good use?” I asked.

  Bludd had thought for a few moments before he answered, “As long as we’re not pocketing it for ourselves, I can live with the decision mate.”

  “It’s settled then.”

  I introduced Bludd to my cockeyed idea of random and roving assassination. It was the catch-all phrase I used for a concept that required clarification. “Whatever we do on any given day will depend on manpower about as much as it does on what time of the day it is. Random and roving, get it.”

  “Where is the cutoff point that we say we’ve finished?”

  “It’ll never be finished. I reckon as long as there is an endless supply of mobsters, it’ll never end.”

  Bludd said, “So there are no plans, and there is no end.”

  I scoffed at him, “Sure there are, we just haven’t made them yet, and it’ll be over when we get done.”

  Bludd laughed,
probably at the absurdity of the non-plan, plan. “You came up with this all on your own, did you?”

  “It’s a natural talent.”

  “What about today?”

  “I don’t have a clue. All I can promise is fun will be had by all.”

  Bludd looked puzzled, and responded, “Fun?”

  “Those were your words, mate.” I couldn’t resist the sarcasm. “You’re the one that said I can’t have all the fun, remember?”

  “I do, mate, I surely do. So where to from here?”

  “Next on my agenda is the target, Frank Rizzi.”

  Cooling my heels and jacking my jaw wasn’t part of my non-existent plan, but with the added manpower of one person, it had become the bulk of my day already. I had places to go, things to do, and people to kill.

  The phone rang. The phone, that ingenious electronic modern leash on humanity, which kept us all connected, all the time. Some would say it was a marvelous invention, and they’d be right, but it had its drawbacks. It was a constant interruption to life, and in Rizzi’s case, it was interrupting his appointment with death. It rang again.

  “Say mate, are you going to get that?” Bludd asked as he watched the phone as if he expected it to spring off the cradle on its own.

  “I suppose,” I told him, but it continued to ring. I looked at it, and then looked at Bludd. He continued to watch it like a hawk, and it rang some more. Phones have a knack for ringing until someone on either end finally gave up. I reached over slowly and picked up the receiver. Bludd was noticeably relieved.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hello, how are you today Scythian?”

  “I’m hard at it Max, What can I do you for?” I didn’t know what to think toward Max. He’d put the call out to other Palatini for assistance, and I should be thankful, but he had acted without my knowledge. He’d made me feel as if I was alone when it hadn’t been true. Was he trying to make up for his stupid blunder of not supporting the project? I didn’t know, and that made me suspicious. For now, my feelings would have to stay in check; I had bigger fish to fry.

  “It has proven valuable to our projects if updates are provided daily and when something out of the ordinary has happened in the field. Communication is the key element to a successful mission,” Max said.

  I mumbled under my breath, “You got to be kidding.”

  “What’s that?” He said.

  “Okay, I’ll make contact daily.”

  “Good show.”

  Here was a guy in a control position who had the audacity to tell me how important communication was to a project, and he hadn’t done jack squat to let me in on what he had done. I felt a bad attitude coming on.

  Max, however, was pleasant and cordial. I gave him that much. It appeared to me it was as if nothing had gone down badly between us. I figured what he really wanted, was back in control over the project. It had to look bad on him to abandon operators still in the field. It might cause other knights to question future projects. No one wanted to be left behind. I suspect piling on Palatini operating procedures might make him feel in control, but it would slow me down. I didn’t have the time or place for it.

  “Cal harbored two of the girls that had escaped the Mob. He should have gotten them out. I think it was the mistake that unraveled the whole project,” Max said.

  “Maybe, we’ll probably never know.”

  “It is highly probable, with your talents, you will free more hostages. How do you plan to handle it?”

  “I don’t have a plan.”

  “We have a contact in the area that has helped kids off the street. She is not Palatini and has no knowledge of our existence, but she is a good soul. She can be contacted to assist without any questions asked.”

  This was a nice option to have. The fact I’d inherited the project in midstream, I lacked the customary assistance I would’ve had on a controlled Palatini operation. Something was better than nothing. “Hit me with it Max.”

  “Gladys Louise Mitchell, she’s a known entity in the Buffalo area and runs a legitimate business for wayward children. I think you will find her to have a heart of gold. She has helped many young ladies to a stable life.” Max followed with her phone number and seemed pleased with my acceptance of his labor.

  In the process of eliminating mobsters, I hoped not to get hamstrung with rescues, but if I did, I had a go to gal, to get me out of the bind. I wished I’d had her name a couple days back for Chloe. I dropped her at a clinic door. Without help, I doubt she’d ever get out of prostitution alive. Soon as I could catch a break, I’d give Gladys a call and pass Chloe’s name to her. Maybe with a little luck, it wouldn’t be too late to salvage her from self-destruction.

  “By the way, has Kuhl arrived yet?”

  “Who is that?”

  “Thomas Orlando Kuhl, he is a top-notch Palatini operative.”

  “I haven’t seen him. I’ll have him call if he shows.”

  “He will be there soon, I’m sure of it. Until then, Seymour can fill you in on Thomas. Godspeed and remember to call daily, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  I placed the phone in the cradle and took a minute to think about the call, a long minute—there was a lot to think about. Perhaps I was being paranoid. Events had unfolded so fast they had taken control over me. It should have been the other way around. Cal, Anna, the project mission, arguments with Max, unknown manpower, and a few guys I’d knocked off, all played in my mind. In order to see the complete picture I needed to unscramble the chaotic images in this project. Bottom line—I was in charge.

  I poured a drink. That was a good start to any fresh undertaking. It was early in the day, and I was tired of the java I’d been pumping into my blood stream all morning. I wanted to slug down something with a little more kick in it. The bottle said distilled spirits, eighty-six-proof. It went over ice, cracked the cubes, and I tossed it down. It was smooth. I poured another. I had little appreciation for an audience, and I noticed Bludd watched intently.

  “Want to join me?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, mate.”

  “Who is Thomas Orlando Kuhl.” I had nothing against the guy. I was skeptical of his value as an operator, having been dropped into a project, without a plan in place. “Max said he’ll be joining us.”

  “I’ve never met him, but he is reputable.”

  “Max said you could fill me in on him.”

  “Kuhl has had experience with the Mob. He led a project in South Africa against Italian Mafiosa when they expanded their criminal enterprise. He did a lot of damage to them.”

  I listened to what Bludd had to say. Kuhl had taken on some grease-balls and had a measure of success. That was a plus. There were differences within the Mob, even within one of the same flavor. There many variations existed around the world. You’d almost think being involved in organized criminal behavior was normal human behavior. And for some, maybe it was.

  Every ethnic variant had a form of mobster. Criminal families weren’t families at all. They were organized criminal enterprises. From the Irish Mob to the taco-bender cartels, they all represented their ethnic origins. Some of the crime families worked with different ethnicities, but rarely were the outsiders allowed into the inner circles of a crime family. Other mobsters killed their ethnic competition. In the end, none showed to be more successful, or ruthless, than the Mafioso.

  Westerners were under the delusion the Mafia had been stamped out in the 1970s because a couple big names in New York and Philly had been locked up. It didn’t mean a thing. What happened in the ‘70s happened in the ‘30s, and again in the ‘50s. The reality that had to be faced was criminal empires continued to expand, and were stronger now than ever, in both numbers and wealth.

  The Mob, like all corporate businesses, had gone global. They lived in places like New York and Toronto, but they conducted business ventures in struggling third world countries. Westerners didn’t believe it because they didn’t want to.

  Bludd interrupted my t
houghts, “This will be right up his alley, mate. Kuhl was a military man of some sort, a Black Ops fellow, and one of your own.”

  “He’s American?”

  “He is.”

  It sounded as if Thomas Orlando Kuhl was a man of many useful talents. The kind of guy I could work with.

  “Why would a guy with his skill set go vigilante?”

  “Your President, I forget his name now, shut down the program in the early 90s. With expanding social programs, military cutbacks, and all that political rubbish, Kuhl was cut in the process. That’s when Max picked him up.”

  Bludd loaded a black canvas bag which had one word, Foster’s, embroidered on one of its sides. He stuffed it with the supplies he hoped he would use before the day was over. I could see the hope in what he packed; a change of clothes, tools, poly rope, adhesive tape, weapons, and ammunition. I grabbed my bug-out bag and refreshed my supplies, which included reloading my 15-round magazine. I’d only spent a couple rounds the night before on Angelique, but maximum capacity was always the correct amount of rounds to have in any given situation. Ending up one round short in a firefight would not be my epitaph.

  I had told Bludd before we headed out I was going to call Gladys Mitchell and get my options lined out with her. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, but after I had heard her voice, a kind, gentle voice, I found myself at ease with her. I made it simple, “I’ve got money, and I want to give it to you for the rescue of kids living on the street.”

  “All right, you can send a check to my…” I cut her off mid-sentence, “No checks, cash on the barrelhead, anonymous, and I have two conditions.”

  “Sir, before I could agree, I’d have to know the conditions.”

  “I have ten-thousand dollars to donate, but I need you to contact a young lady, a prostitute, and see if you can help her get off the street. I can’t tell you much about her; let’s say she was an acquaintance. Her name is Chloe Page; she reportedly lived at Buffalo University campus. I dropped her off at a Buffalo clinic. She needs help to get out of the business.”