Buffalo Soldiers (An Upstate New York Mafia Tale Book 2)

by Nicholas Denmon

  The advisor to the most powerful man in the greater Buffalo-Ontario area decided to switch gears.

  “Our friend the White Russian returns home today.”

  He took a slow pull on his Labatt’s Blue; the frothy liquid cooled his throat and removed some of the perpetual tickle that lived there. The Don shuffled his feet and took a large cigar out of his shirt breast pocket. He had thick hands and the big cigar almost looked small in his sausage-like fingers. He didn’t light it, but put it in his mouth and sucked on it. A nervous tick the consigliore knew all too well.

  “Christ. Are the arrangements in order?”

  “I sent a car. He should be here in a few hours.” The Pope felt the cough coming on again but he drowned it in another gulp of beer.

  Maybe if I drink enough alcohol I’ll kill the fucking thing.

  “Good because I won’t have that man coming after me. He was very adamant that we take care of this guy.” The Don seemed to have relaxed enough to pull out his lighter.

  “Well, he should be adamant. The guy kept his mouth shut and did eleven years for him. To be honest, we need to make a show of treating the White Russian well, too. We need to show that loyalty will be rewarded.” The Pope held the Don’s gaze for a moment to make sure he got the point.

  The Boss nodded. “We’ll take care of Ivan. Besides, we have some vacancies after what Joe Falzone pulled.” The Don chuckled and flicked the lighter, pulling a drag through the cigar in a series of puffs.

  “There they are,” the Pope stood up and leaned against the wooden railing that lined the bar’s property. It had the healthy habit of keeping drunken assholes from falling into the bay.

  “Oh no! Those cock suckers.” The Don stood up too and straightened his suit. He turned and looked into the parking lot towards where the Pope indicated with his handkerchief.

  A small SUV inched to a stop just at the edge of the lot, the nose poking just beyond a telephone pole at the corner. If the Pope hadn’t been looking for it, there was a good chance he wouldn’t have noticed them.

  The two men began to walk towards a little pier on the side of the bar.

  “Do we have any idea who they are yet?” The Don pulled on his cigar doing his best “it wasn’t me” impression as they meandered towards the pier, sipping on what was left of their Labatt’s.

  The Pope coughed again, catching it in his red handkerchief. He found the red material hid the most damning nature of his illness. “No. Well, we can deduce at any rate.”

  The Don smiled and waved his cigar at his consigliore as they walked. “Deduce away, my friend.”

  “They ain’t Buffalo P.D., that’s for sure. I asked around with those swine that sometimes eat at our table. Since their undercover unit was infiltrated and that crazy cop Alex Vaughn quit, they haven’t had time to restructure. It could be months or years before they get an operation up and going again.”

  The Pope caught the Don smiling as they hurried towards the pier now, picking up their pace. The two men jumped into a small motorboat tied off to the pier there, and Don Ciancetta unraveled the line from the mooring in quick circular motions.

  “It’s not good news, Leo.”

  The Don ignored him and, pointing to the motor, said, “Start it up.”

  The Pope started the motor and the boat lurched as it cut through the waves.

  The two men in the SUV got out of their vehicle when they heard the motor and began running through the parking lot, trying to catch sight of the mobsters as they motored past the restaurant.

  “Christ that little one is fast,” the Don said, standing up on the boat. Cigar clenched in his teeth he extended a middle finger at the pursuer. He stood that way until they rounded a bend in the shoreline, leaving the men behind.

  Don Ciancetta sat down facing the Pope and took another series of puffs from his cigar. He eyed him with those green eyes that laughed at the world from behind a mound of ash.

  “Tell me Chris, why is it not good news? You just told me we have the Buffalo P.D. in shambles.”

  “Because Leo, if it isn’t the Buffalo P.D., it’s the FBI.” The Pope had suspected it was the FBI but he couldn’t be sure. If they were gangsters they would have been dead by now. If they were the Buffalo P.D. they would have heard about it through their informants. The FBI though, that was some serious shit. Now though he gauged his friend’s reaction.

  A bit of concern seemed to creep over the Don’s face, his smile twitched, but then the eyes continued their smile even if the grin was a bit more forced than a moment before. Then he leaned forward, locking eyes with the Pope. “So the fuck what? We knew this would happen one day. To be honest I figured it woulda been sooner. Pig fuckers. The way I see it is we had three enemies. Falzone and his carcass friends, the cops, and the FBI. We took out two of ‘em, right? So tell me, consigliore, what do we do about the FBI?” He leaned back and stretched his arms the length of the boat while the Pope stood up and steered the prow away from the shoreline.

  White seagulls squawked in the distance as they circled over a school of fish swimming beneath the surface. One by one, they took turns diving into the water to come up with a beak full of dinner. The sun was beginning to crest in the distance and all the while the Pope fought off the cough that lingered just below his Adam’s apple. He said nothing, trying to let his thoughts come to him.

  “Chris? We can beat this, right? We can beat the FBI.” The Don stood up and placed an arm around his friend. “Just tell me how.”

  “We can win Leo. We can. But you have to be smart. You can’t talk business anymore. You either get on the boat like right now or you don’t talk business ever. If you have to talk on land, you sweep that office for bugs, you turn up the volume on the radio and you whisper it in one ear and one ear only. With the Patriot Act we gotta assume they hear everything. I don’t even wanna know what satellite they have pointed up my asshole when I go to sleep at night.”

  The Don nodded his head. The cigar was burning on its own now and threatened to go out altogether if the Don didn’t pull on it soon.

  “Also, we have to make it clear to the capos to cut out the stupid shit. The bullshit has to stop. No expanding the business for a while. We hang out with old reliable and that’s it. Anything new that comes up we have to assume it’s because the FBI made it come up. Eventually, there will be somebody who comes to you with a too-good-to-be-true score. A once in a lifetime opportunity. That guy, the one who comes to you with that shit, has been turned and has to go.”

  “You think they can penetrate our crew?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s not do what the BPD did and underestimate the opposition. If the FBI wants in your crew, they’ll get in. Speaking of which, we don’t fucking taunt them either. Last thing we want is another cop with a hard-on disrupting shit, only this time with an FBI badge.” The Pope’s throat gave way to a cough that racked his spine and made every muscle in his body scream like he had been on a fifteen-mile jog, only it happened in a millisecond. When his eyes stopped watering the Don gave him another look that was half apologetic, half disgusted.

  The Don hated weakness. Perhaps he hated it even worse when he saw it in his oldest friends and there was nothing they could do about it. The man had never even stepped foot in a hospital. He viewed the whole building as a contagion of weakness.

  “We do all that and you think we can get past this?” The Don looked to his old pal for answers.

  “Well, it isn’t going to just go away because we outlast it, you know.”

  “I know that,” he said. His voice had a bite to it.

  “What we can do though is give them so little that the Feds get impatient and bring a weak case against you, one that I can put holes through like fucking Swiss cheese. Best-case scenario, you beat those charges, whatever they bring, and they have to start a new investigation. Then we do the whole damned thing over again.”

  The Don pulled on his cigar as the Pope navigated the boat towards a small dock he had built e
arlier in the month. Out here on the lake they could talk business without fear of being heard. The waves, the motor, the wind, and the distance all made it as safe of a place the old veteran advisor could devise. As they pulled alongside and the Pope put the boat in idle, the Don reached an arm towards the pier and pulled the boat closer to the wooden structure. He grabbed the rope, and cigar still hanging from his mouth, muttered, “Fucking Feds.”

  “Fucking Feds,” the Pope echoed.

  *

  Kira grabbed her leather bag and slung it over her shoulder. It weighed a ton laden with books that she probably would never read. It wasn’t that she didn’t care; it was that she already knew the material.

  She ran to the front door and nearly slipped in her haste.

  “Fuck.” She composed herself and grabbed a set of keys for her Escalade off of the stand by the door. Her sunglasses fell off of her brown hair and onto her nose as she bent to grab her cup of coffee. Kira flipped her sunglasses back onto her head and paused in front of the full-length mirror next to the entryway. Her hair was tangled in her sunglasses and a splash off coffee fell out of the cup and onto the floor as she rushed. She blew the hair away from her face and brushed a long tress back behind her ear.

  I hate high school. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

  Kira took in a deep breath and pulled her white blouse tight across her chest with her hand still clutching the keys. She rolled her head to the side, cracking her neck, spun about, and walked out the front door. As much as Kira hated high school, she loved money.

  Speaking of which…

  She ran down the stairs that led to the parking lot and prayed she didn’t run into anyone on her way out the door. All they ever wanted to do was talk. Emerald Green was a great place to live, but some people there just didn’t understand being in a rush. Rich assholes always valued their own time but didn’t seem to think a seventeen year old could or should have anything important to do.

  Kira clicked the button on her keychain and unlocked the door to her black Escalade. She threw her bag onto the passenger seat and grabbed her iPhone out of the side pocket. She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was habit, because when she pushed the engine to start, the phone connected to the car, making the need for it to be out of the bag unnecessary. Turning the volume up on the car speakers, she backed out of her parking space and out of the condominium complex. As she pulled onto the highway and accelerated towards Frontier High School, she hit a button on her steering wheel and a familiar mechanical English voice spoke to her.

  “Phone. Please say contact name.”

  “Call Uncle Dick.”

  The phone rang and Kira pulled up to a red light. She glanced again at herself in the mirror and wished for a moment that she had put on some eyeliner. The worry with her appearance evaporated, though, as she heard the familiar weathered voice answer.

  “Hello.”

  “Uncle Dick. It’s Kira.”

  Her uncle cleared his throat on the other end. She could tell he had just woken up.

  “Did I wake you Uncle?”

  He snorted. “What? No. Of course not child.”

  Kira smiled. Uncle Dick was well past his seventieth year and he had slowed down a bit as of late. He was too proud to admit that he slept in past eight these days.

  “Good, Uncle. Because what was it you always said to me? Oh yes that’s right. An hour asleep is an hour…what was that, Uncle?”

  He sucked in a breath on the other line. “An hour asleep is an hour wasted. You kids don’t remember anything.”

  Kira heard him snort again, indignant as always.

  “Uncle, I start my last year of high school today. You know what that means.”

  There was a long pause on the other line and Kira waited impatiently for the reply.

  “Uncle?”

  “Yes, yes I’m still here. I know very well what that means, child. I will transfer your money accordingly.”

  Kira grabbed the steering wheel and couldn’t help the grin that crept across her face. It evaporated though as the old man droned on.

  “It’s a lot of money, Kira. True enough. But remember to get the full amount you must graduate. Try and keep focused this year. Last thing this world needs is another kid with money running around doing bat-shit crazy things. Fucking Paris Hilton and those ass-clowns that carry dogs in their purses. A dog in a purse. What the fuck is that? A dog should rip a man’s throat out or it’s fucking useless.”

  Kira laughed. “You know I’m not like those prissy bitches, Uncle.”

  “I know, I know.” He cleared his throat again and Kira grimaced at the sound the phlegm made as it worked its way through the man’s windpipe.

  “Thanks Uncle. I’ll look for the funds this evening.”

  “Fine. And quit calling me your uncle.”

  Kira smiled again. His protestations always amused her. “Why shouldn’t I call you Uncle old timer? I like calling you that. Uncle Dick.”

  “Fuck woman. You know I hate being called Dick. Call me Uncle Richard.” He raised his voice but it was so cracked and aged that it came out in more of a wheeze than a yell.

  “Okay, Uncle Richard.”

  “Damn it. Don’t call me Uncle Richard. Call me Richard.” Kira imagined the vein that creased his forehead growing and his face getting red.

  “But you said…”

  “I know what I said, child.”

  “You might be going senile, Uncle.”

  Kira bit her lip to keep from laughing.

  “Fuck you, Kira.”

  “I love you too, Uncle.”

  She clicked the phone off from her steering wheel and connected to her iTunes via Bluetooth. Lyrics blasted from the speakers as she arrived at Frontier High School.

  She smiled as she pulled into her senior parking spot at the front of the lot.

  Hundreds of kids were filing into the school. They walked in small groups and cliques of four and five. Occasionally kids would hurry along by themselves. They walked with a purpose that seemed foreign to Kira. Popularity, sports, little kid crushes. It made her sick. While these kids were worrying about algebra or some unimportant essay, she had real world problems. They didn’t understand the underbelly of the world around them. A world that she had known existed since she was six years old. All of them were just sheltered kids leading sheltered lives.

  Kira lifted her sunglasses off her nose and onto the top of her head and grabbed her bag, slinging it back across her shoulder. Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, and all the kids began to swarm about like a bunch of cockroaches.

  She felt her own pace picking up too.

  A small blonde girl ran up to her as she hurried across the parking lot.

  “Kira, wait up.”

  Kira wiped the disdain from her face and put on her best cheerleader-like smile. “Hey Gina!”

  I. Hate. High. School.

  *

  Sydney Price ran under the Interstate 190 overpass and picked up her pace, sprinting the final blocks through Buffalo’s commercial district and past the Pearl Street Bar and Grill. She could see the Buffalo and Erie County Naval and Military Park looming ahead. The run from the Roswell Park Cancer Institute was just less than two miles and served multiple purposes for Sydney.

  Usually she could run the distance without stopping. When she strapped on a pair of running shoes it was as if wings grew out of her feet. But today she stopped twice on the way.

  Tears have a way of screwing with the program.

  Sydney slowed down as she approached the naval park. The place was beginning to feel like home as of late. The tears still stung at her eyes and refused to go away no matter how much the sun decided to shine on her as she stood facing the water’s edge. The Sullivans loomed large before her and she made her way over to a plaque that read:

  U.S.S. The Sullivans: Named after five brothers who lost their lives during the Battle of the Solomon Islands in World War II

  Motto: We Stick Together.r />
  Sydney reread the motto and felt the moisture begin to clutch at her eyes again. She leaned forward, telling herself she needed to catch her breath when she noticed the tear fall off the tip of her nose and onto the pavement between her running shoes. She straightened up and blinked at the salt water, bidding it to retreat, when her cell vibrated in the pocket of her gym shorts. Sydney swallowed and cleared her throat, hoping to shake the grief from her voice.

  “Special Agent Price.” She held the phone away from her face as she let out a low steadying breath.

  “Sydney, it’s me Scott. I just heard. I called the hospital hoping to catch you there.” Scott paused on the other line before continuing. “I’m so sorry Sydney. Did you make it in time?”

  Sydney felt her throat tighten and she had to clear it again to get words out. “Thanks Briggs. I appreciate it.” She blinked away a few stray tears and continued without answering Brigg’s question. “What’s the status with the field ops?”

  It was Briggs’ turn to clear his throat, but his voice sounded like someone pinched his nose all the same. It always did. “Well, um, it’s not good Sydney. I took a team to his hotel room but he wasn’t there. Other than the door we knocked off the hinges with the ram, it didn’t even seem like there was a struggle.”

  Sydney closed her eyes and pulled her fingers through her hair as she began walking back towards her car at the Roswell Cancer Institute’s parking lot a few miles down Pearl Street. “Jesus Briggs. You couldn’t just get a key card?”

  “We could have Syd. But well, you know how it is. The guys wanted to use the ram.”

  “I’m going to have to expense the damages, Briggs.” Sydney felt the frustration mounting and tried not to lay her personal problems on the shoulders of her best agent. Briggs might be a bit boyish and brash at times but he knew how to get the job done.

  “Sorry Syd. I know this is the last thing you need right now. I took down the mailing address for Salvatore’s Grand Hotel though. We can send a check. But seriously Sydney, there wasn’t a sign of a struggle or anything. From everything I can see the man drank a glass of scotch and left. I think he left town.”