The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook
Page 24
Florida, Monarch Beach, clean, blue water, big beach houses, side by side, on the Inter coastal. Grand kids in good schools, nice big 40 foot Bertram Cruiser, parked at the pier in the front yard. They loved to fish, family more, no more filth from the street, they were set for life.
Glad to get out, had watched as the streets deteriorated. Russians, from the gulags, cannibals, from the broken Republics, wholesale death. They were getting out just under the wire.
They drive up, to The Pony Club, park in the Red Zone and exit the sedan. Two of New Jersey’s finest, thirty more days, one last payoff, they deserve it. Both of them know it. No more cold night, stale dough nuts, putrid coffee, drug addicts and kids stuffed in micro waves, life looks sweet.
Check of the 9-millimeters, Kevlar vests in place, suit jackets. One never knew what was going to go down, especially at The Pony Club.
There was always danger, always lingering around The Fat Man, like cancer. One more favor for him, one more pay off. They open the doors, hear the music and see the neon and shadows, last time, they walk through the door.
They enter, Sgt. O’Grady pats the envelope, in his breast pocket, sighs, the information seems useless to him, though Tony wanted it, seems real bad. Learned long ago, something valueless to one man, was another man’s gold.
Tony had made the call. O’Grady and Gallo weren’t in the question asking biz.
Tony wanted some info. Tony got it.
Both cops thought Fat Tony wanted some info on the murder of Mario DiCaprio, one of Tony’s competitors. Nope, just information on driving violations, stuff like that, on his sexy girlfriend, one Mandal Beckwith. Both cops new the trick well.
Okay, Tony gets what Tony wants, no prob.
Early, music, loud, strobe lights blinking, some deviants, scum, float-sum, nursing morning drinks sitting around the circle stage, dollar bills, some young nude idiot, naked, dancing on the stage, pugs pushing dollar bills in to her cunt. What else is new?
No hurry, Gallo, O’Grady knew the rules, wait at the door. Tony is eating, red booth, copula huge thugs, black leather bombers, broad I beam shoulders, no necks, lingering around him. Both cops knew never bug the Fat Man when he was eating.
Between chomps, Tony picks them up, waves for them to giddy up. Eyes alert. They walk, cop sensors perked, bad men everywhere, Kevlar their friend. They idle up to the table, two soon to be ex cops. O’Grady lays the computer print out in the envelope on the table, takes a step back.
Tony swallows, morning wine, food on his chest, both cops want to wretch and watch as Tony’s pudgy fingers slip out the printout, eyes scan it. He nods, reaches down, lifts a fat envelope, pushes it across the table to his bent friends.
“Thank you, detectives.” Is all he say’s.
Nods from the cops, no smiles, O’Grady, real slow like, grabs the twenty G’s, stuffs it next to his 9-millimeter, waits, maybe something else. Tony digs into a sirloin steak, crushes it between his fat lips, back hand waves the cops to leave.
Both Detectives turn, real quick like walk across the club, open the door and are very glad to see the morning Sun. Back into the sedan, they thumb the cash, giggle, just enough, a nice aloha gift; some spare change to get that brand new inboard Volvo engine for their Bertrand water craft.
A month later, both men retired with families intact, never to grace NJ with their bodies again.
Anthony Uruguay swallows, washes the dead cow down his throat, a little red wine, lifts a cell phone, unfolds the print out, hit auto dial and waits.
“CLICK.”
His face twitches.
“Yeah Bobby...This may help...DMV printout...She’s....”
The information age, no matter how genius a tricky broad braniac may think she is, yeah can’t fuck with fiber optics, ram, copper wires and silicone, which the blond cupcake from New Jersey was soon to find out first hand.
A Selfish Moon
THE NIGHT swallowed me whole as the selfish moon fell within the margins of the world before I could see it do so...It prevented me one more from remembering, how they connected, love and the moon, life, touch, of a women, as I tried to think of what love was, how it felt, a timeless long ago, yes, for me...I am staring into the golden crystal ball, biding sacred time, delaying living again, for they have told me that patience is essential within matter of love. But, if I have forgotten, it’s face, touch, smell, it’s taste and breath, then might it pass me by so easily as Luna again has fallen behind the stratosphere there, within the future I beg to secure one last glimpse of...I do not know how love feels any longer...I have lost the memory of its look. What a simple smile from a woman can do for my heart, soul and mind, a fire of memory every evening as I rush to the edge of the world trying to see the moon before it vanishes as my life did, within that fire...My horse flail at me in splendor, yelling at me. Go, look, she is there, we will be fine.”...But, if I remember only parts of love, or try to do so, before burning skin scorched the skin from my soul, how shall I ever recognize love face, ever again...Can I ever think any woman will ever think that I am sane again?...And I try, and I cry, and I die and break apart as Sun turns to Moon, and moons eclipse into solar flares, as I think of how fate, as dealt Tarot Cards, as the wind whispers whisper to me, that without love, the forests die, the rivers dry, and air turns to soiled skies, and my
heart, does its best to live, and survive, or perhaps it tries.
SHE GASPS, sits on the edge of the bed, Angel at her feet, tears streaming down her face, his blue bound manuscript now closed, pressing against her breasts.
The love story, images, of tragedy, filled with imagery, color, woven words, the journey decimates her heart as her tears fall down her chin, splashing on the blue paper.
He is her, she is him. They are similar.
Except he is a gifted artist and she is a whore. It is impossible for her to comprehend. It is an experience she has never had before.
Her body trembles, she feels ashamed, her face lifts; reflection in the wall mirror, her face becomes grief stricken, she whispers. “I could never write like this.”
Her hands falls along the floor, her small chin to her collar bones. She begins to sob as Angel, feeling her grief, licks her hand with her loving pink tongue.
She is paralyzed. After time, is there such a thing to her, her face lifts, stares into the mirror again, face reflecting in the mirror.
Reflecting back what?
What she sees is revulsion, a memory, of the seven year old girl, a silenced Beretta, terrified eyes like broken diamonds gawking at her, cringing as her mother kneels, holding her from the White, naked Orchid of death, towering over them, silenced automatic welded in her hand.
Her mind video focuses, as she, in a black limousine pulls up to an Old World Italian Restaurant that reads:
D’ANGELOS BISTRO.
Mandal blinks as her face turns to stone, being washed by tears, she remembers.
Many years, with Anthony Uruguay, her heart dead, he could not control her, make her say those fucking elusive words every sap in love wants to hear.
I love you.
Years earlier, Jamaica had been a bust. The orgy with the black basketball men, on the yacht, a failure too, she of course knew that. Tony had set it all up, one more thing to break her. She had no limits, couldn’t be broken, had broken his nuts. She would, could do anything, and did.
She had never said the words “Thank you” either.
Never in his violent mind, did he think he could love someone, as he adored her. Nothing humbled her, nor could he ever say “NO” to her and he had lost control, a first time in his life.
Desperate lovers do desperate things.
He knew that he had to break her; she also knew that he knew that she did not care if she lived or died.
How does a guy in love control some
thing like that? He had no clue.
In a last ditch effort he would force her do something despicable, horrible, make her say “NO”.
Thus he sent her out to do such an abominable thing, that he knew that he would either keep her forever, or she would die finally from defying him.
Mario D’Angelo was a rival, to Tony, a syndicate of crime, killers, extortion and was a world class lothario. Tony knew that, all the gumba heads did.
Women were his Achilles Heel, thus the plan was set.
As if a Trojan horse she would slip in, do as she had been ordered, if she said “NO” then that problem would be rectified. If she did say “Yes” then she would die, fixing his other problem finally.
No eyes blink, she had lit a cigarette, smiled, and had agreed to pay a visit to Mario D’Angelo.
BLINK, Blink, Blink, she stares into the motels mirror, staring at the reflection as she begins to play it all back.
Final Play For A New Girl
New York, night, Canal Street in Little Italy.
D’Angelos’s, a jewel of an Italian eatery, the diamond beveled into the center strand of pearls of other bars and eateries was shimmering; it was notoriously chic, even for Gumba Ville. The boys loved it, Made or otherwise. The spaghetti La Daviola was primo, the lasagna thick, house wine rich, great for the pallet and the veal white and never over done.
It was midnight, another hour to go and the crowd were sparse, few suits finishing up, weapons checked at the door, lots of laughter still. The teak and leather bar glistened from racked crystal on the racks above it, Sambuco, Grey Goose, Anisette, the usual suspects, tantalizing liquors glowing from a blue back lit neon.
The rest of the place, sparkling, mahogany colored leather booths, white table clothes, real silver and English bone white china; world class stuff.
Mario D’Angelo had spared no dimes tricking the haunt out.
Mr. D’Angelo, ahhh, 50ish, 6ft 2, slender, black shock of hair, graying at the temples, hawk nose and delicate chin, blue eyes that forever sparkled. He had the mandatory tan, black suit, white shirt; red tie was a class act, as far as Little Italy went. He ran whores, numbers, hits when called for it, extortion whenever it showed. He was a Made- Man, no one ever fucked with him.
Sitting at his usual slot at the end of the bar, he glanced at Mikey, his barkeep and, then at his materi dei, William, tuxed out, grey hair, sophisticated, standing at the door, talking up some wop pug who had thieved enough to afford a meal at his bistro.
Off at a booth, two slabs of sausage, massive man, Mario’s men, linguine set right before them, chests like kegs of beer, sat, eating, chatting, eyes never far from Mario. He being the soul reason for the continuation of their breathing on the planet.
Mario smoked, sipped at a Sambuco, thought of a trailer filled worth of slag furs his crew had hijacked the night before. His girlfriend, Ginger, blond, aerobics to death, bought tits, Brighton Beach idiot, could suck the tiles off a one of Mario’s johns, if ya asked her. She was lofted up in a slick condo he owned in Mid Town. Mario knew she would love one of the furry delights, as would his wife, who was just leaving for Rome for a couple of weeks of family, with his daughter, both which he adored.
All that changed of course when SHE walked through the fucking door.
Gasping, Mario’s blues flicked, blinked, he wasn’t really quite sure his fucking eyes were seeing what he thought they were seeing.
She was smiling, white teeth, tall, unbelievably elegant, thin blond, super short hair, tiny nose, sharp jaw, heart break legs, blink blink, that’s how white her skin was. She owned blue eyes, seemed almost invisible they were so clear cut. She was poured into a slit at the side white skirt, white blazer, white silk camisole, white Manolo stilettos, which must have made her 6ft 1, at least, was smiling and chatting up William at the door.
Mario stuffed his Galois out in an ashtray, adjusted his tie, fiddled at his diamond pinkie ring, watched as William, bowing, scraping, led the spindle blond across the room to the end of the bar. Once there, she sat, crossed bare legs which a stealth bomber could have landed on they were so thin and long. Peeling off her white silk jacket, she laid it off to William, who did more bowing, scraping and, then backed off, saying hosannas as he did.
“FUCK.” Mario whispered.
His eyes bolted out of his head. Now the princess was in a sleeveless, white silk body shirt, small breasts, wide shoulders, collar bones like carved white ivory pressing through her sheer skin. So fucking thin Mario could see each and every one of her rips silhouetted against the white shirt.
Simply said, he had never seen anything so exotic and beautiful in his life.
Instantly, Mikey the barkeep flicked eyes at Mario. He nodded, messed with the shirt cuffs, watched as his Mikey walked over, smiled and began the chit chat with the doll. She was friendly, a gorgeous twist, smiled a smile that could of lit the Twin Towers. That is if those fucking suicide bombers hadn’t knocked the fucking things down, Mario thought.
Lips no bitch should ever have, no lipstick, the color of wheat, full and pouting, Mario felt dazed and then the erection. He was a stud, the girl, seemingly very down to earth, chatted up Mike, went back and forth and, then decided on a Grey Goose martini, like Bond, shaken not stirred.
Mario was a fucking goner.
Like Achilles, beauty was his weakness. So, as Mikey lit her cigarette, no filter, Galois like Mario, mans smoke and the haze pearled out from those casaba lips, Mario zeroed in, a U-boat, torpedo’s armed, ready to blitz the blond.
Sidling down the bar he said his hellos, introductions.
“Mario, my place, welcome.”
“I am Mimi.”
No attitude, invites fluttered from her lips. Mario accepted the sit down.
Mario slotted a bar stool and, then she spoke perfect Italian, fucked up Mario’s mind. He answered in dago. She smiled, laughed, Mario was fucked. He was in love. Fucking Italians, go figure.
Time flapped away like her blond eyes lashes. One Grey Goose, two, three is better.
Yes, they both loved London, yet, to have the true European experience, Paris was a must for food, fashion, Milan a close second, Canne for play, though in winter nothing could surpass Gastaad. Yes, she was just stalling out, the limo outside, Kennedy at dawn, Zurich, then Neuchatel, skiing, had heard of D’Angelos, more laughs, it was as elegant as her driver had said.
Touches on Mario’s arm, more smoke like a guillotine flowing past her white teeth and yes.
One must live in Italy, for it was the complete package of ambiance, no passion, no life without a visit to Milan.
They both agreed, as the martinis flowed like platinum dreams.
Mario was hypnotized, fucking mesmerized, she, down to earth, slit at the side, bare legs getting more naked by the moment, more touches, smiles could melt mercury.
Let’s make a deal.
He suggested his mansion on Long Island, just for drinks.
You know. A nice place, kick back, chill a little, just until the jet fucking whacked off from Kennedy in the morning.
No problem, she was open, a dazzler, she seemed to adore everything about him, erection super ceding his mind, a few lies, why not.
No need for her to know, wife gone, just left, Rome and, then on to Naples. Real Gumba stuff, old women moaning in black, Grappa, just like the movies; Let’s do it, and they did.
Fluffing of his muscle, two guys with no necks, handguns bulging against barrel chests, agreements were bartered, absolutely, her limo was fine, they could hardly wait to mate, and out the door they went.
STANDING naked, the white strand of ribbon stood, water blue eyes, almost translucent she was so ocular.
Mario, nude, engorged cock, eyes dazed, laid on the down, big bed. Massive room, rare art on the walls, happy, unable to break the mark.
Her tiny tummy is swelling, Mario blushes, he feels like a fucking kid again, testosterone unlimited; fuck until his eyes bleed.
Slinking over, slow, seductive, like some kind of albino constrictor, she sits on the bed, reaches fingers so elegant out, wraps the tendrils around his penis, squeezes, smiles, and swallows. Mario wants to bitch weep he is so happy. Increased breathing, Mario, blood jerking off in his brain, crazed and thinking about a divorce lawyer; one his gangster friends had used to jettison his own wife. His brain begins to leak madness like a kid with a new pop gun, staring at a bird on the front lawn.
She smiles, just a little, parts those lips, pouts, a look like a lioness, a hungry one and, then she lowers her lips, kisses his cock tip. Mario winces and, then lower and lower still.
Fuck, no fucking way.
Jilting strikes of thought, his penis is down her goddess throat, up and down, tongue playing some kind of melody. Around and around she goes, don’t stop, don’t leave, test pattern thoughts, bitch has no gag reflex, throat swelling each push down.
Mario now knows the face of God, he’s a fucking woman.
She sucks out, straightens, on knees now, straddles him and holds his penis with awe.
She’s ghostly pale, blue veins leading from her stomach into her cunt, smiling again, Mario is a child again. He is stunned, paralyzed, blood pumping his cock up, hands now, on her tiny breasts, pink nipples, her evident ribs, the glowing tummy, her arms raised to the canister of the four poster bed, swaying, humming, dreamy like, steamy like, heat emanating from her skin.
Up a little that tiny ass, now a guide, his penis, large, prominent, a Made Mans Dick inside her. Mario drugged, winces, feeling her cunt burning, nothing like it before, she’s a fucking extraterrestrial, he’s fucking sure of it.