by Landon Beach
She could hear him, his voice sounding better than anything she had ever heard. She managed a smile as she looked up at his dripping face, and then she saw and heard nothing.
33
Grosse Pointe Shores, Michigan
1 Month Later . . .
In a darkened corner of the spacious basement in Giancarlo Abruzzi’s home, Father Tony sat in a red leather chair next to one of Giancarlo’s soldiers, who was also seated. Behind them was an impressive floor-to-ceiling cabinet built out of pine. The room was paneled in dark maple with ornate lighting fixtures spaced evenly at a height of five feet off of the space’s soft black carpeting.
From behind a large desk, Giancarlo sat and watched as Father Tony finished a sip of wine and then patted his lips with a white handkerchief. That will be your last taste of the blood of Christ, Giancarlo thought. Blood in, blood out. It’s part of the business—a way of life. Time to join your God. The Association could deal with an attack from the outside, but an attack from within meant that everyone in on it was history.
Grasping his rosary, Father Tony sniffed the air. “I smell lime, my son,” he said to Giancarlo.
The soldier seated next to him gave Father Tony a rather hard pat on the old priest’s shoulder. “Keeps the basement smelling fresh, you know?” he said.
Giancarlo remained quiet. Let him think some more.
Father Tony kissed his rosary and nodded in approval. “I shall have to buy some and spread it around the musty corners of my church then.”
It never was your church, Giancarlo thought. It is and always would be God’s church. At least now, no one would ever again have to experience the old priest’s rock soup—a recipe of water, vegetables, and rocks, used for their minerals, that had been passed down to Father Tony from his family and their origins on the west coast of Italy in the early 1900’s. The soup had been a staple at St. Anthony’s, but Giancarlo and most of the poor hated it. If the priest had been “in the life,” then there would have been an option to put him on the shelf, or excommunicate him from The Association by letting him live. But, since the good father was not a made member, there only remained one way for him to be permanently separated.
Father Tony looked around, hoping for words of affirmation.
Giancarlo took a puff from his cigar...and waited.
The room was quiet, and seeming to sense that the pleasantries were over, Father Tony set down his wine and began. “I have no idea what is going on, my dearest Giancarlo. I brought a fresh stack of holy cards—the kind Don Gallo would approve of,” he said, placing the stack on the table. Then, he set six new decks of playing cards next to the stack. “Bicycle red and bicycle blue,” Father Tony said. “I know your love of cards.” He put a chubby palm on top of the decks. “And, these are the only true playing cards, right?”
Giancarlo continued to stare at him, showing no signs of thanks or even acknowledgment.
The priest’s voice began to shake. “I have prayed every night. I—”
Giancarlo raised his hand, and Father Tony immediately stopped speaking.
The soldier seated next to the priest rose and walked over to the corner of the room off to Father Tony’s right. There, he turned on a lamp.
Giancarlo spoke, “I have plenty of lime if you need to borrow some for the church. Look.”
Father Tony turned his head toward the corner where the light had just come on.
Leaning against the wall was a rectangular section of carpeting that had been removed from the floor. Giancarlo could see the confusion in Father Tony’s eyes, like, “How is that carpeting staying so stiff and retaining the shape of a perfect rectangle?” The answer was, of course, that the section of carpet was affixed to a heavy wooden frame; it was a hatch cover. Perhaps aware of this now, or perhaps not, Father Tony’s eyes focused on the section of floor that the rectangle of black carpeting had covered. What should have been the bare floor seemed to be covered in a layer of lime dust…but, in the middle, a hand was sticking up out of the ground.
Father Tony shrieked and turned around, burying his head in his chubby hands.
The soldier turned the light off and sat back down next to the frantic priest.
He knows whose hand that is by the rings on the fingers. Good. They say all of the tough guys are in the cemetery. Well this basement is no cemetery, and that hand belongs to no tough guy. Giancarlo waited, and eventually Father Tony’s head rose, tears streaming down his face. “I swear on my life that I had nothing to do with—”
He never got another word out. Giancarlo placed his hand over a simple silver bell on his desk and pushed down, ringing it.
The doors to the wooden cabinet burst open, and the soldier who had been waiting inside shot Father Tony in the back of the head.
Giancarlo calmly smoked his cigar, watching the smoke lift toward the ceiling.
✽✽✽
Angela Russo sat behind an immaculately set table for two. She had on a cream-colored gown with a scarlet scarf. Her lipstick color was scarlet, and she wore matching heels. A fresh fire roared in her dining room’s fireplace, and a special bottle of red that she had chosen from her cellar for the occasion rested on the table. Sinatra’s album In the Wee Small Hours had just started to play, and she took her seat and waited for her guest.
Two minutes later, Pietro “Papa Pete” De Luca was escorted in through the large mahogany doors that led to the dining room. He looks good, she thought. Black suit, gray tie, gold watch, gold pinkie ring, gold-rimmed glasses, and his thin hair was combed in a way to make him appear as youthful as possible. His smile was welcoming and magnetic.
She stood, and he embraced her, kissing both of her cheeks and then her hand. There were no words. She inclined her head thanks, and motioned to the seat at the end of the table. He moved with the purpose of a much younger man and took his seat.
A waiter entered through the doors and opened the wine. He poured a small amount in Papa Pete’s glass and waited as the old man swirled the liquid, then tipped the glass back, and finally let the liquid enter his mouth. After a few seconds, he swallowed and nodded his approval with a smile.
“I thought you might like that particular bottle,” she said.
“You know my tastes. You’ve always known them.”
The waiter poured them both a glass and exited, closing the doors shut behind him.
“This has been a most heart-breaking month, Angie,” he said. “I struggle to make sense of it all. Fabian? An FBI informant? He has betrayed us all.” He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes.
She took a sip and watched him regain his composure. After all of the funerals, her housekeeper, Carlotta, had delivered an envelope addressed to her. It was from a man named Brad Cranston, the brother of Stansie’s lover. As she read the letter by the pool, her blood boiled. Until that point, she had thought that Fabian had been using his uncle, but she now had proof that he was a part of it from the beginning and intended to have her murdered. She had immediately summoned the new Don, Salvatore “Street Sal” Gallo, to her home and had him read the letter. He had left without a word but returned later that night.
“It is true, Angela,” he had said. And over brandy in the library between just the two of them, it had been decided that Brad Cranston and Allison Shannon would never be touched. The person who would be touched would be Pietro De Luca. The Association’s millions off the coast of South Bass Island? The Feds had seized it. Don Gallo had explained that it was a major setback but not fatal. He knew the streets, and there would always be people in them, which meant an unlimited supply of customers. The discovery of River Nicky’s underwater graveyard had sent shivers all across South Bass Island, and it would be some time before Don Gallo would be able to find a reliable runner from Canada to Detroit, but time was on his side.
“I had no idea that my yacht was even down there, Angie,” Papa Pete said. “As an old man, I have been taken advantage of because of my kind heart.” He gave a smooth laugh. “I believe th
ey call it elder abuse or something nowadays.”
She humored him and laughed along, knowing she had the advantage. He wanted what all men want: to share a tasty dinner and a wonderful bottle of wine with someone irresistible, engage in pleasant but not too deep of a conversation, and end the evening with great sex by the fire. Because of this, she knew he would have his guard down and his rumored enormous penis up.
“I don’t know about you, but I just want things to settle down for us now in our twilight years. You and I have earned them. You lost your son and daughter, and I lost my nephew. And, now,” he began to cry, “I hear that Leo is missing. Oh, when will it stop?”
She reached over and gave his hand a loving squeeze. “Where could he be?”
The truth was that Don Gallo’s new Underboss, Roman Abruzzi, had garroted Leo De Luca last night at a poker game in Giancarlo Abruzzi’s basement, and Leo was now buried in a corner of the basement with a sack of lime on top of him.
“I do not know,” Papa Pete said. “He is so young, so much potential. We must find him together.”
She shook her head yes, and she could see that it relaxed him. He put his handkerchief back in his suit’s breast pocket and then took another sip of wine.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “And you?”
“A meal with you is all I need, dear.”
She gave a fatal grin and rang a bell on the table.
“More wine?” she asked.
“I have just what I need for now,” he said.
Half-a-minute passed, and the heavy doors opened. Papa Pete closed his eyes, assuredly ready to breathe in the heavenly scent of whatever Carlotta had cooked for their wonderful dinner.
He sniffed. She knew that he smelled nothing. With a confused expression, he opened his eyes and saw Don Gallo and Roman Abruzzi enter. She imagined his warm, athletic sweat—like in warm-ups, when a player feels the best he’s going to feel all night—brought on by the possibility of making love to her, turn to a cold sweat of fear.
“Godfather, I did not know you would be joining us tonight. I am honored, of course.”
“Angela invited us. I hope you don’t mind?” Don Gallo said.
“Of course not,” said Papa Pete. “Only, I do not see two other place settings.”
The Don and his underboss reached the table.
“That is true,” the Don said.
Gently, Don Gallo took Papa Pete’s left arm, while Roman Abruzzi took Papa Pete’s right. Then, Don Gallo nodded, and they squeezed harder, raising him up.
“I—I don’t understand,” Papa Pete said. “Angie, what is going on?”
Angela Russo took a long sip of wine and then stood. You’re about to find out, darling.
The two men walked Papa Pete to the fire, and it was then that Papa Pete noticed that the protective screen that usually ran across the front had been pulled back. The old mafioso struggled to break free, but it was useless. The new, young power of The Association now controlled his old and suddenly tired body. Then, in desperation, he called out for his bodyguard and driver, Marcello Mantegna.
“Marcello, Aldo, and Vanni have all gone for a swim in Lake St. Clair, Pietro,” Roman Abruzzi said.
“No! No! I had nothing to do with any of this! Angie, please!”
But Angela Russo did not hear Papa Pete. She was too busy concentrating on warming the poker in the fire. When the tip glowed orange, she undid his pants and let them drop to the floor. The rumors were true, and she sensed that he had popped a Viagra pill before arriving. Angela raised her eyes and bore them into his. “Stansie was pregnant—my first grandchild.”
His eyes became wet.
“I haven’t silenced you because I want to hear your scream,” she whispered. “My daughter had a chance at life again, away from all of this, and you took it from her. I will always mourn my son, but he was a part of the life. She was not.”
“When did you know?” he asked.
“When you asked me to call my daughter, I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t think it was you. Now, I do.”
“How?” he yelled.
She ignored him, setting the poker in the fire once more. Then, she grabbed his face with both of her hands and gave him a long kiss on the lips.
Papa Pete sobbed.
She picked the poker back up and, without hesitation, proceeded to stab it into his genitals. The screams were loud at first but then subsided when he passed out due to pain. This changed when Don Gallo and Roman Abruzzi stuck his head in the fire and held it there.
Angela watched and then returned to the dinner table and finished her wine.
EPILOGUE
Baxter Peak, Katahdin, Maine
1 Year Later…
Brad Cranston and Allison Shannon climbed the last few feet of Mount Katahdin, named ‘Baxter Peak’ in Maine’s Baxter State Park. He felt strong and warm, as the sun was out and there were few clouds in the sky. The peak not only symbolized the top of the mountain but also the emotional end of their six-month thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, one they had dedicated to the memories of Conrad, Stansie, Keller, Patrick, and Maggie.
Brad’s legs had become iron, and Allison’s injury had only gotten better with each mile. As he took a step closer to the summit, he remembered that at the start of the hike, they were only averaging eight to ten miles a day. They had eventually worked up to twelve to sixteen miles, and, like most hikers who completed a thru-hike, they had a few twenty- to twenty-five-mile days along the way. Of course, the real reason he was recalling these numbers was to prolong the real feelings that were ready to escape at any second.
Perhaps the hardest day of the hike had been the first day as they departed Amicalola Falls Lodge after a hearty breakfast and stood in front of the stone archway, where he was supposed to stand with Conrad so many years ago. It was then that another memory came back to him: one of his brother and him helping their mother clean their house on Saturday mornings, Streisand’s Guilty record playing as they scrubbed toilets, swept the floor, and dashed Ajax in the tub before scrubbing. It had been a simple start to life. His tears had been earned and were plentiful before composing himself enough to have his picture taken with Allison, right before they took their first steps.
They were engaged to be married, happy, but changed in a way that only those who have had to face their own mortality in such a terrifying manner could understand. Now, here, feet from the peak, he felt full and empty at the same time. His mouth became dry, and his feet stopped. He tried to move them, but the memories coursing through his brain had become more powerful than the muscles in his two powerful engines. The mind was stronger than the body. He looked to Allison, and she responded, taking his arm, and pulling him the final feet up to the legendary sign, painted brown with the white letters KATAHDIN written across the top, held up by four wooden posts.
There were other hikers on the mountain, but they were a hundred yards or more away from them. Brad Cranston, trail name Patrick Conrad, and Allison Shannon, trail name Maggie Stansie Keller, were the only two people at the peak.
They looked at each other and then leaned over and kissed the sign. People start, quit, or finish the hike for many reasons just like they start, quit, or finish things in life. For Brad and Allison, they had started to honor memories. And they had now finished what they started. He held on to the moment and then let it go.
As they descended the mountain, Brad’s thoughts turned to their next hike. It wouldn’t be as personal as this one, but it would hit closer to home—geographically. As of right now, the Michigan Iron Belle Trail was over seventy percent connected. Planned to run from Belle Isle State Park in Detroit to Ironwood in the Upper Peninsula, the trail would be over two thousand miles long—approximately 1,204 miles of hiking trail and 828 miles of biking trail crossing forty-eight counties and 240 townships. When completed, it would be the longest state-designated trail in the United States, and they planned to be among the first to hike it. Being together outdoors for the past
six months without any distractions had been revealing. When you stripped away the false sense of connectedness that technology provided, you arrived or returned to the essence of life: to genuinely connect with another human being, to have a conversation, to enjoy the beauty and wonderment that the earth has to offer, and to find peace and harmony amongst nature with the only baggage being what you can carry on your back—the mental baggage lightening with each footstep from Georgia to Maine.
And here, on Mount Katahdin, Brad thought, if Conrad had just shown up for the hike, he might have discovered these things too.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for reading or listening to The Hike. As an independent author, my success greatly depends on reviews and referrals. If you enjoyed the book, it would help me out if you left a quick review and then passed on the recommendation. If you would like more information on upcoming books and discounts, please sign-up for my email list through my website (landonbeachbooks.com) or follow Landon Beach Books on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.
As with my other books, The Hike took a great deal of research in order to bring the novel to life. A few works that stood out were: Five Families by Selwyn Raab, Gotti’s Rules by George Anastasia, Deal With The Devil by Peter Lance, Murder Machine by Gene Mustain and Jerry Capeci, Mob Boss: The Life of Little Al D’Arco, the Man Who Brought Down the Mafia by Jerry Capeci and Tom Robbins, Great Lakes Crime by Frederick Stonehouse, The 100 Best Great Lakes Shipwrecks, Volume I by Cris Kohl, Islands: Great Lakes Stories by Gerry Volgenau, I Henry IV by William Shakespeare, You Can’t Go Home Again by Thomas Wolfe, “The Man He Killed” by Thomas Hardy, and the documentary Detroit Mob Confidential, directed by Alan Bradley and featuring Scott M. Burnstein.
The Hike. Every family has at least one outcast, and I have always wanted to tell a tale about one of these so-called troublemakers. I have found that many of them are misunderstood or become estranged due to either asserting independence or just plain old screwing up—repeatedly. However, the story eluded me until a few years ago when, on a walk around my neighborhood, Conrad Cranston popped into my mind and would not leave until I had told his account. Additionally, I wanted to tell a story that involved organized crime in some way. Looking back, I suppose the seed was planted the first time I watched Francis Ford Coppola’s masterpiece The Godfather. My other novels are centered around the Great Lakes, and, in terms of fiction, I believe that this geographical area—particularly, my beloved home state of Michigan—has never gotten its due. Certainly, there is no mafia novel that I know of that showcases Detroit. Is there a crime organization called “The Association” in the motor city? No. My works are all fiction and purely meant for entertainment. However, a lot of material in The Hike comes from real life examples, which is both scary and intriguing. I sometimes wonder what a being from outer space, observing us for a year or so without our knowledge, would think. The older I get, the grayer the areas of life become.