Little Easter

by Reed Farrel Coleman

  The main house was nothing to write home about. It was larger than the garage, but smaller than the palace at Versailles. In fact, the three-floored colonial looked rather plain for a Mafia don’s villa. I’d expected something along the lines of the Jefferson Memorial or the Pantheon. Now I stood just five feet away from sliding glass doors which ran midway along the colonial’s pool-facing back wall. The indoor side of the glass doors was heavily curtained, but not so heavily that I couldn’t make out light fighting through the drapery. And upon close inspection, I saw that the far left door was open a crack.

  I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the open door policy. I didn’t like having gotten this far, unencumbered. I knew prostitutes that weren’t this easy. This wasn’t a soft spot in security. This wasn’t security at all. This was an invitation. And I accepted.

  “Glad you could join the party, Mr. Klein,” an unfamiliar voice welcomed me. It’s owner was hidden somewhere behind an expansive mahogany bar. “Pat him down, Vinny,” the voice carelessly commanded and then wondered absent-mindedly: “Where’s the black Sambuca?”

  Across the bar, seated on a green leather and brass tacked sofa was MacClough. He was bleeding from the nose and mouth and his right eye was swollen shut. Behind him stood a stone-faced fireplug of a man in his fifties wearing an ugly brown polyester suit. He had old school written all over him. He was the type that killed to keep in practice and, unlike Vinny, wouldn’t mind taking some lumps in the process. When Johnny acknowledged my presence by leaning forward, Fireplug rapped him with the back of his hand. “Stop bleedin’ on the fuckin’ couch.”

  Vinny the lisping Adonis started to frisk me. “You look like shit.”

  “Where’s your bosth?” I asked, mimicking the muscle head.

  “He’th not carrying, don Roberto,” Vinny announced with slave-like reverence.

  And suddenly I understood Larry Feld’s caveat about the old man.

  “Here it is,” a deeply tanned, bald head popped up from behind the bar. Its face displayed a sweet, grandfatherly demeanor, but its eyes were traitors to the mask. They were morgue-room black; cruel, cold and detached. They were the eyes of a dangerous man, even more dangerous than the eyes of his son.

  I took a quick step toward MacClough, but that’s as close as I would get. Vinny clamped a finger vise around my neck and I went stiff with pain. I nearly fainted.

  “Vinny, Vinny,” the old don came running around the bar, “is that anyway to treat a guest?” Don Roberto held a glass of inky black liquid under my nose. It’s licorice smell made me dry-retch. Don Roberto didn’t like that, pulled the glass away and slapped me across the face.

  “Thanks, I needed that,” I smiled. So did Don Roberto.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you and Detective MacClough, but—”

  “Retired,” Johnny interrupted just to bust balls.

  “Shut up!” Fireplug clapped MacClough’s left ear and put him to sleep.

  “As I was sayin’,” his Brooklyn was starting to show, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my son won’t be joinin’ us tonight. Always busy, my son. Always busy with the puttana. You know what puttana is, Mr. Klein?”

  “Whore,” I replied.

  “Where you learn that?” the old man seemed genuinely impressed.

  “Brighton Beach. Half the kids in my high school were named Cohen and the other half were named Carbone.”

  “Cohen and Carbone. Hey Vinny, I like that. Cheech,” the don turned to Fireplug and uttered something in Italian.

  In the next instant, Vinny and the old school soldier were carrying MacClough into another room. Don Roberto was so comfortable with his power and so certain of it, that he didn’t bother threatening me or warning me about trying to escape. He just knew I’d stay put. He was right.

  “My son is a weak man, Mr. Klein.”

  “Not according to the newspapers and TV,” I interrupted now that the muscle was out of the room. It didn’t matter. The old man wouldn’t be derailed.

  “He stinks of fish, my son. A man should find a wife. If he wants to have fun, he takes a mistress. We understand that. But not my son. No. Ever since that cunt turned against him,” Don Roberto was shouting now, spraying my face with spit, “he’s been a waste to me and this family. I should have been able to enjoy my painting, my opera . . . Instead, I must pull the strings. Always, I must pull the strings. We have people to take care of, responsibilities.”

  “You had her whacked,” it was almost a whisper. “You had Azrael killed.”

  Robby “the Boot” smiled with his fine white teeth and crooked lips, but his eyes were unwaveringly chilly. “No, Mr. Klein, I didn’t have anything done to that whore who preferred a cop to my Dante. I had the pleasure of carrying out la vendetta myself. My only regrets were that I could not have made her pain last longer and that I had to waste a perfectly good canary.”

  “But I found a freshly buried body out in a field near Sound Hill.”

  “You found the body! Fuckin’ incompetent cops,” don Roberto threw his thin arms to heaven. “That stiff was a little Christmas present,” the old man crossed himself, “from me to them.”

  “You killed a man just to throw the cops off the trail?” I guess I sounded naive to the Mafia king.

  “These things happen,” was his calm response as if he was explaining to his wife that the dog had eaten her rose bush. “Anyway, he was a cruel man. The world will not mourn him.”

  “But why after all this time?” I asked.

  “Do you like a beer, Mr. Klein?” He answered my question with one of his own.

  “Sure.”

  The don offered me a frosted bottle of Peroni. I would have prefered a Corona, an Anchor Steam or even a Budweiser, but the situation called for diplomacy and I accepted the Italian beer with a nod. It went down smoothly enough and was a definite improvement over polluted snow. The don took a bottle for himself.

  “What do you think of my bar?” Robby “the Boot” was just full of questions.

  “A little big for the room,” I burped and excused myself, “but it’s fine work.” I wondered where this was leading.

  “It’s from one of Capone’s speaks. One day outta the blue, I get a call from a guy I haven’t heard from in years. He tells me he bought this bar in a junk yard in Connecticut and he can’t unload it and he’s gonna have to sell it for firewood and he knows I have an eye for fine carpentry. I tell the guy I’ll think about it, but first he gotta answer some questions: How much for the piece? How much kickback does he get? How many people was it offered to before me? And why didn’t they take it?” the don took a gulp of beer and made a disapproving face.

  “Well, Mr. Klein,” he continued, “this dealer could answer all of those questions but one. The price was right. Damn cheap, if you ask me. This guy says he’s willing to take half his usual finder’s fee just to get rid of the piece and he gives me the name of everyone it’s been offered to. But he can’t explain why no one’s taken the deal.”

  “You took it.”

  “I did,” the old man slapped the bar, “but not because it was from a Capone speak or because I loved it. You’re right, it’s too big for the room. When I look at this bar, it makes me wonder about why people do or don’t do things they should. That’s a good thing to think about in my business.” I had a funny feeling we were about to get to the point.

  “A few months ago, I get another call.”

  “Antique dealer?” I busted his balls a little.

  “Cop. Dirty cop. Used to be a bag man for me.”

  “O’Toole,” I took a not so wild guess.

  “Smart,” don Roberto gave me the crooked smile. “Jews are so fuckin’ smart. No wonder the rest of the fuckin’ planet can’t stand ’em.”

  “That’s a point.”

  “So this donkey tells us he’s found Dante’s old puttana and that for the right price not only can he tell me where to find her, but he can drive her into my backyard. I don’t like it, becuse
he shouldn’t be calling me. To the rest of the world, it’s my son that runs things. No one should have to come to me. And when I ask him why he did, he—”

  “O’Toole tells you that you’re not the first person he’s come to,” I sipped on my beer and paused, “but the last.”

  “That prick, O’Toole. He says he’s talked to everyone in the organizattion about that bitch and they all promise to pass the word on. Only no one gets back to him. He has the stones to ask me if the Gandolfos are getting soft. And he wonders how that will play out on the street,” the don’s face grew pink under his luxurious tan and his expression turned as sour as month-old milk. “I sat there and listened to this potato-eating piece of shit insult my family. This moron who couldn’t wipe his ass without written instructions is spitting in my face.”

  “But you checked O’Toole’s story out just to make sure,” I put the empty beer bottle down, “and it turns out he’s telling the truth. Dante could have gotten Azrael for months, but sat on the information instead. And you came down here and looked at that bar and wondered why. None of the explanations you came up with satisfied you. Did they?” I asked rhetorically. “So you took O’Toole up on his offer and killed the woman to punish your son and to make sure word wouldn’t get around that the Gandolfos were going soft. Then you whacked O’Toole for insulting your honor and to clean up any loose ends. All very neat.”

  “I didn’t touch O’Toole,” Roberto Gandolfo looked at me with fierce displeasure. “Don’t ever insult me like that again.”

  Talk about surreal. Here’s a man that just got done telling me he murdered a woman and was sorry only that he couldn’t make the hurt last long enough, a man who murdered someone else just to throw the cops a red herring and he’s mad that I implied he might have killed someone who actually deserved it. Silly me.

  “Never again. Scout’s honor,” was what I said. “Can I ask you something, don Roberto?”

  He nodded I could.

  “What was the canary business all about? It’s a little old-fashioned.”

  “So am I, Mr. Klein. But the bird was a message to my son, so he would understand who had taken his puttana away.”

  I thought about asking the don why he just didn’t discuss the matter with his son, but I was understandably shy about insulting him.

  “Cheech!” Don Roberto shouted at the walls and the stocky man appeared almost instantaneously. “Now that you’ve rested and finished your beer, Mr. Klein,” the old man’s eyes captured mine, “the time has come to save your life and your friend’s.”

  “I thought you people didn’t kill cops and civilians,” my voice broke.

  “Yeah, and in the big war we only bombed military targets,” he enjoyed his own sarcasm. “It’s nice to see a grown man who still believes in the tooth fairy. Anyway, who said I was gonna kill you? I know a few spies and gooks who aren’t so choosy about who they stick their shivs into as long as the money’s right.”

  “So what can I do for you?” I asked, feeling suddenly weak-legged and light-headed. I wasn’t so naive as to think I’d ever see the sun again, even if I had the answers he wanted.

  “My boy is soft like a little girl, Mr. Klein. Only once before has he been disloyal to his family. I knew the details then. I don’t know them now. By not coming to me about that bitch, Dante put in jeopardy my whole organization. My guts tell me you know what secret that puttana held over my son’s head.”

  Soft like a little girl, huh? To this guy, soft like a little girl meant you hadn’t slaughtered as many people as Attila the Hun and you hadn’t enjoyed it as much as Jack the Ripper.

  “Did you ever think of asking your son?”

  The don gave his head a quick twist and with that, Cheech put a granite fist into my right kidney. I went down like the Titanic.

  “I warned you about insulting me, Mr. Klein,” he slapped my face for good measure. “Roberto Gandolfo does not crawl to his son, capisce?”

  In between gasps for air, I nodded that I understood.

  “I’ve also spoken to my attorney,” my inquisitor added.

  “Fuck Larry Feld,” I coughed. Cheech rapped a knuckle into the bump on my head which had risen since Johnny’s gun butt had kissed it.

  “Mr. Feld tells me you’ve been very interested in these goings-on for a long time. And you know what else?” He neglected to wait for my reply. “My lawyer says you had a meeting with my son and that you received a hundred large to give to a dead whore. That’s a curious thing, Mr. Klein.”

  “Very,” I agreed from my standard kneeling position.

  “One more time, Mr. Klein, I ask you nicely. What was the puttana holding over Dante’s head for all these years?”

  I never really considered telling him about Leyna. He didn’t deserve to know. And as long as I knew something the Mafia king did not, my chances to continue breathing were enhanced.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You got big balls,” don Roberto complimented, “but I don’t give out medals for big balls.”

  The senior Gandolfo twisted his head again. This time Cheech gave it to me in both kidneys full out. As my face touched carpet, the flavors of iron and salt mixed in my mouth with the remnants of hops and barley. In my waning seconds of consciousness, I heard a feverish exchange, mostly in Italian, between the old man and his rude boy. Unfortunately, the few words I could make out were Vinny, cop, tool shed, wood chipper and snow blower. Even in my diminished state, I could divine that putting a positive spin on what I’d just overheard would be only slightly harder than deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  A motorcycle gang of hornets buzzed in my ears and my nose breathed in their exhaust. My cheek and beard were very wet and when I cranked my eyes open, I noticed my pillow was a shallow puddle, my bed a concrete floor. MacClough was next to me, bloody-faced and face up, breathing very heavily through his battered mouth. I was trapped between my desire to survey the surroundings and yet maintained the outward appearance of unconsciousness. I compromised, swiveling my sore eyes around as far as they’d go.

  The hornets were not bees at all nor were the fumes and metal chatter the by-products of idling Harley Davidsons. About five yards past the top of Johnny’s head, I saw an impressive display of yard care equipment, one piece of which was revved up and ready to go. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a John Deere showroom and I was fairly certain no one on the premises had midnight lawn care in mind.

  “Hey!” a big paw grabbed me by the collar, dragged me over to the machinery and stood me up. Vinny was my dancing partner. I guess he liked to lead. Cheech did a similar tango with MacClough. Robby “the Boot” bounced on over, doing an excited little tarantella. Gee, how festive the promise of torture made everyone.

  Vinny put me in a head lock and towed my stiff torso over to the iron mouth of the wood chipper. The old don joined us there, took out a straight razor and slit my left sleeve up to the shoulder. Musclehead switched holds and clamped my bare arm, forcing it to fully extend. I began to struggle. That only seemed to excite my dancing partner. Good thing I didn’t beg or he just might’ve come in his pants.

  Roberto Gandolfo cupped my wet beard in a cold, bony hand. “Your friend came here to kill me, Mr. Klein. That I cannot forgive.”

  “Yeah, and what was that song and dance before about saving my life and his?” I was stalling. The thought of having my arm food processed while I was awake and still attached to it gave me sufficient motivation to stall.

  “A white lie, Mr. Klein,” he gave my face an affectionate pat. “Please forgive me. Now your choice is a different one. I will keep you alive until you tell me what secret my son was willing to jeopardize this organization for, but life can be very painful. You and the cop can go peacefully or in pieces. The decision is yours.”

  “Can you give me thirty years to think about it?”

  “No, but I can help you understand your situation better,” the old don moved his hands away from my face. “Vinny,
help Mr. Klein.”

  My arm was in the chipper’s throat before the echo of the don’s voice had stopped pinging around the corrugated steel building. I could feel the wind of the blades blowing back the hair along my forearm. I balled my hand reflexively, but too late to save the tip of my index finger. There was no immediate pain, but the realization gave me a burst of strength to retard the chipper’s appetite and to knock Vinny slightly off balance. When the pain did come, someone screamed. I noticed it was me.

  MacClough, feigning unconsciousness till that point, caught Cheech enjoying the show and broke free of the fireplug’s grip. Naturally distracted by Johnny’s charge, Vinny eased his hold on me and braced himself to absorb MacClough’s blow. I pulled my left arm free of the dragon’s teeth and drove the back of my head into Vinny’s nose. I went down, squeezing what remained of my left forefinger in my right hand. MacClough’s shoulder dug deep into Vinny’s ribs. The pony-tailed bodyguard stumbled, throwing a careless arm out for balance. It was the last time he’d throw that arm out for anything ever again.

  The chipper made fast work of the muscle boy’s appendage, spitting out bits of bone and flesh against a corner of the shed. The machine, however, did not seem satiated by Vinny’s arm. Apparently, his leather blazer had got caught up in the blades and the chipper used it to pull its quarry further and further in. Eventually the teeth bit into something they could not digest and the blades stopped churning. The old man rushed to shut the chipper off, but he was way too late. The bodyguard’s legs hung limply as a rubber chicken’s from the mouth of the machine.

  Cheech was literally sitting on MacClough’s back, holding his 9 millimeter to Johnny’s ear.

  “Shit!” morgue-eyes slammed the chipper and actually kicked the soles of Vinny’s dead feet. “Stunad! Idiot!”

  “See what happens when you don’t pay attention in metal shop,” MacClough chided and was rewarded by having his face scraped along the concrete floor.