Exit Zero

by Neil A. Cohen

  Tony Soprano never looked up, just smiled and kept reading a twenty year old People magazine. Virgil sensed there was someone in the chair next to him. He looked over and John Gotti was getting a straight razor shave, and the barber looked like Big Paul.

  Big Paul Castellano was a friend of V’s grandfather, but both his grandfather and Big Paul had been dead for years. Tic-tic-tic went the scissors, snipping away behind Virgil’s ears.

  The old barber spun the chair back around so V could get a look at his haircut in the mirror. Standing behind V, the old man’s voice turned somber. “I’m sorry, kid. There hasn’t been a hit carried out in my barber shop since they whacked Anastasia, right there in that very seat.”

  V looked down at the sheet and saw it was soaked in blood at his midsection. He had been shot in the stomach. He vaguely remembered the trench coat wearing men who rushed into the shop, shooting him and running out. It was only then that he realized how much pain he was feeling in his stomach. He could feel the bullet burning inside him. Still, the barber kept talking and Tony Soprano kept reading and the scissors kept snipping tic-tic-tic.

  Virgil opened his eyes and looked around. He was lying on the floor in the custard shop off the tourist strip of Cape May. He tried to sit up, but the shooting pains in his stomach were the only part of his fevered dream that was real. He lifted his head and grabbed his stomach, looking for the bullet wound, but there was none. No blood, no bullet, no barber, and no mob hit.

  He did notice something he had not seen in a long time while still lying on his back: his shoes. He hadn’t been able to see his feet for quite some time. Now, he could see his shoes where his stomach used to be.

  He stood himself up and spun around as he heard the sound of the barber scissors going tic-tic-tic. It wasn’t scissors, it was the sound of Skells; a half dozen of them, looking at him through the glass window and door, their fingernails, rings, watches striking the glass as they looked for the man they had chased into the building. They could not figure out how to get through the glass, and having lost his scent, they were not sure why there were even looking through the window in the first place.

  V stood up and got his bearings. He remembered it all: the escape with Angela and Rita from their home; the drive during which Angela showed Virgil the bite mark on her shoulder from the “psycho bitch at the salon” as Angela referred to her attacker, had bitten her; the car radio news reports emerging about the pandemic spreading through victims attacking one another; Angela projectile vomiting black bile onto the dashboard as soon as they arrived in Cape May, and when V tried to help her, her biting off his finger with one chomp; how he pulled his hysterical daughter from the car and locked his wife inside; how he got Rita off to safety in the sub and then led the zombies away from them, finally ending up in the custard shop before he passed out.

  Now he felt okay. Not great; his hand hurt where his finger had been bitten off, and his stomach felt like he had swallowed a full jar of tabasco sauce, but other than that, he felt fine. Not crazed, not hungry for human flesh. Not that hungry at all actually.

  He looked at himself in the mirror behind the counter. His normal 300 pound frame was down to about 130-140 pounds tops. Could this virus have burned itself out? The virus took on Big V and realized its little virus eyes were bigger than its stomach, and it ran out of steam trying to consume all of him?

  He needed to call someone and let them know he was alive.

  He needed to call Gary Ragu. Then he remembered his last conversation with Gary, how he thought he was not going to survive and how he’d told Gary everything about him turning informant, about the information he had been gathering on Max, even providing him the name of Special Agent Schaffer to trade that information for his safe passage out of this zombie infested hellhole.

  His joy ended as soon as it arrived, and Big V realized he was a dead man walking.

  Chapter 44

  K Street Mafia

  The young woman stood staring out of the second floor of the Rayburn House Office Building one block from Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. She watched the heavy presence of Capitol Hill Police, Washington, D.C. Police, Secret Service and even some National Guardsmen setting up barricades and checking IDs for anyone venturing near the Capitol Building. The last of the tourists were being shooed away in preparation for the president’s address to the nation tonight. All members of Congress and the Senate had been requested to return to D.C. to attend this speech, and whenever the lawmakers are all gathered together, the lobbyists were not far behind. And the way the K Street crowd got their prey into their sights was to host a reception in the Rayburn Building and provide lots of free food and booze to draw the lawmakers in.

  The young woman had prepared many such events in this building, setting out the linens, utensils, serving plates, and high end hors d'oeuvres. Catering was a great part-time job for a full-time medical student at Georgetown University.

  “Fiona, honey, I need you to get those tablecloths set. We have to get the chafing dishes out soon, the food will be arriving any time,” the catering manager said when she saw her young employee was lost in thought.

  “I’m sorry, I am on it now,” Fiona Sullivan responded and moved away from the window.

  “Fiona, I know you are worried about your family in New Jersey, but I am sure they are fine, and whatever is happening up there will be over shortly. Besides, from the stories you have told me about your brothers, I am sure they will be more than able to take care of themselves.”

  “I wish I could reach them, or knew where they were, or even what is happening up there. Do they need medical staff? While I am not a doctor yet, I’m close to getting my degree, and if there are sick and wounded people up there, I would volunteer to go.” Fiona straightened out a linen tablecloth across a series of tables that were pushed together to accommodate more than a dozen food warming dishes.

  “Your place is right here, focusing on your studies. Today your focus should be on helping me finish getting this room ready. There are going to be over a hundred guests in here a couple of hours from now. All the D.C. royalty will be here— congressmen, senators, Supreme Court justices,” Fiona’s supervisor said with excitement in her voice. “I even heard the vice president may come by for a snack before the speech.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry, I am a scatterbrain today. Okay, we are ready for the warming trays. What’s on the menu tonight for this shindig?”

  As she spoke, the delivery vans which had left New Jersey the day before arrived at the security gate of the government building. A Capitol Police security sweep of the vans revealed no sign of weapons or explosives, just Styrofoam boxes full of frozen steaks that would be grilled for the guests tonight at the pre-speech cocktail party. The lawmakers and cabinet members needed to get their stomachs filled before they entered the secured hall of the Capitol building and got locked securely inside for the entirety of the president’s speech. After all, this was a time of national crisis, and all of the Congress, Senate, cabinet and Joint Chiefs of Staff would be in attendance, and once inside the chamber, they would be sealed safely in that room for what could be hours with the doors locked tight. But first, they must be fed.

  Her supervisor looked at her with a smirk. “You want to keep this crowd happy, you don’t serve sushi or salad. What do you think men of power like to eat? This crowd eats meat.”

  Chapter 45

  Militarized

  Jersey Reader newspaper

  Federal weapons charges were dropped today on Hazlet resident Wendell Dennis. Mr. Dennis, who has a local access TV show under the name Wendell Dee, was arrested last month while trying to purchase assault rifles from undercover federal agents. Charges were dropped by the government today due to a technicality.

  This is not the first run in with the law for the controversial host and blogger. Wendell Dee had been arrested before, last year when he held a protest without a permit against what he calls the militarization of local police departmen
ts.

  He claims that the repurposing of military style equipment from the Army to local police departments was not charitable, but pre-positioning of military grade equipment around the country in advance of a military coup of the United States.

  Mr. Dennis had gathered a large crowd to protest in front of the headquarters of local defense contractor Post Conflict Restoration Corp (PCRC), which won the contract to oversee disbursement of excess and out of date military equipment to local police department and SWAT teams around the country.

  Pentagon officials dismissed the accusations, claiming the program has been ongoing for years and has saved local jurisdictions hundreds of millions of dollars by repurposing outdated equipment used in Iraq and Afghanistan to support local law enforcement.

  The pentagon claims the recent uptick in equipment donations was simply due to our nation’s drawdown in foreign wars.

  Chapter 46

  Appalachian Meeting Revisited (Mafia vs Zombies)

  The meeting had been hastily arranged, but the location had been given careful consideration before being chosen— a hunting cabin, not far from Leeds Point in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. The Pine Barrens were as remote and rural as any area within the state. It was the birthplace of the Jersey Devil, permanent residence to the Piney, a backwoods, uneducated, and sometimes inbred group of people who lived off the land, and final resting place for the corpses dumped by the Jersey and Philadelphia mob. If there was one thing that the South Jersey and the Philadelphia mob families could agree on, it was that the Barrens were prime real estate for taking care of business in private.

  The cabin was the perfect spot for this sensitive piece of business that needed to be discussed. Secluded, hidden from view, zero cell coverage, no TV or radio, it was cut off from the rest of the world. No distractions and no outside communications allowed.

  Although only a couple of miles off the Garden State Parkway, it may as well have been in the Brazilian rainforest. A canopy of trees hid the cabin from any type of FBI spy drones, helicopters, and other types of surveillance. It was in a cellular dead zone, which prevented any type of undetected listening device or GPS tracking. There were no phone lines, so no wire taps, and no internet access, preventing texts to enter or leave the area.

  What the cabin did have were a couple of fishing rods, two rifles, two shotguns, and a box of tools in order to skin, gut, or filet a deer, a duck, a fish, or whatever was the kill of the day.

  The location was as remote as the chance that everyone attending this meeting was going to leave alive.

  Around the rustic oak wood table in the dining area sat the three New Jersey mob capos. It was agreed upon that each capo was allowed to bring two, and only two, associates to the meeting. Inside the cabin, each member could have a trusted confidant and enforcer, who was to loyally and silently stand behind their respective capo, serving as both protection from, and warning to, the other attendees. There was no pretense this this was going to be an easy sit down. However, these men knew that the danger was not just sitting across from them.

  Outside the cabin, each capo had stationed a single guard, each one well-armed and willing to walk point, and take the first shot if either the feds tried to raid the place, or one of the other capos had organized an assassination against the other two.

  The unusual level of security for a meeting between three men who had known each other for over thirty years was due to the seriousness of the discussion and the ramifications of the outcomes that would be decided today.

  The reason for this meeting was that recently, rumors had surfaced about the New Jersey family boss, Virgil “Big V” Ganado. There had been some unexplained absences and periods where his whereabouts were unknown. He hadn’t been spending as much time at the social club as would be expected for an attentive and engaged leader, and when he did cast his large shadow in the club, he was there for planning and payment meetings, but chose to skip the nights when it was just the guys playing cards or getting high. It was those more casual nights that provided the type of social bonding which, while seemingly insignificant, was essential to holding together the social fabric of the crew. In this type of family, absence created a vacuum.

  Sometimes when a boss got old, they lost touch with the street. They no longer took part in the informal interactions of ball busting, bragging, and trash talk. It was when they started to lose their grip on the organization’s throat that their loyalty started being questioned, their perceived value began to diminish, and other, younger, tougher, more dominant soldiers began to exert their influence within the pack. Next thing you knew, bing, bang, boom, the old boss was lying across the back seat of his Cadillac, or sprawled out on the ground of some Hoboken restaurant, riddled with bullets. Lower members moved up, and the vacancy was soon filled. The circle of life, Jersey style.

  But V was not an old Don. In fact, he was probably the youngest mob boss in the history of New Jersey mob bosses. Perhaps even the entire history of the mob. It was a quirk of fate and timing. The sudden death of his father, one of the most powerful dons to rule the Jersey families, and the respect that his old man garnered, had reflected on V due to proximity. There also was a leadership shortage at the time, as an unrelated series of arrests, murders, and disappearances had eliminated most of the other more senior and seasoned mob candidates for boss. The books were opened and Virgil seemed like the perfect choice at the time, and while there were some grumblings and resentments, in the end, no one challenged the decision and Big V became the boss of New Jersey.

  Now there had been serious accusations launched against V, and his three capos, three men who had been loyal to him for over a decade, had decided it was time for a change in command.

  The spark that lit the fuse for this meeting originated from Louis “Gas Pipe” Dispensa. Dispensa needed authorization to carry out a on a hit on a crewmember of another Jersey family, a request that was refused by Big V. While V was never one to kill or order a killing easily, his refusal to sanction a hit on Jerry “Huggie Bear” Tropea was seen not as squeamishness or even weakness, but was interpreted as if he no longer wanted to be involved in such matters. And to Gas Pipe, it was seen as a direct insult.

  The “Huggie Bear” nickname came from the old goombas who thought Tropea reminded them of a pimp character from some 70s cop show. The younger guys felt the name fit him because Tropea often wore a Free Hugs t-shirt when dealing pot.

  Huggie was the crew’s main drug runner. Most of the crew had known him since he was a kid. His mom was pure Italian, but she had a thing for the dark meat. Mixed race dating did not go over too well in South Jersey, even back then in anything goes 1970s. The Studio 54 attitude never did reach the Jersey shore.

  In those days, when a girl from a connected family pursued a guy that was not pure Italian, the girl was referred to by the derogatory term of Mud Shark, as in, “stay away from that girl, she’s a mudshark”.

  Huggie Bear’s daddy split pretty soon after he was born, leaving a single mom with a half and half kid to fend for themselves. Growing up in the neighborhood as a mixed race kid, he was such an oddity that he may as well have had two heads.

  As a grown man though, what Huggie really needed was two dicks to keep up with the amount of trim he pulled down. An endless supply of pot, coke, oxy, and a rumored huge package that was his only inheritance from his father only fuelled his reputation.

  However, slinging dick without regard to who you’re hooking up with can get you dead in certain neighborhoods. Gas Pipe Dispensa had gotten wind of his 25-year old daughter being a drug client of Tropea. It wasn’t the smack that Huggie injected into her veins, it was the mulatto prick that he injected between her legs that raised the ire of Dispensa.

  If word got out that Gas Pipe’s daughter was a “mudder”, he would lose the respect of his men. Tropea had to die and die quickly, but in the sit down with Big V, the requested hit was denied.

  “This ain’t no fuckin’ Romeo and Juliet shit here,”
V told him. “Your daughter is a big girl, well over the age of consent, and she can make her own bad decisions. Besides, Huggs is both a good earner and supplier.” So the hit was refused.

  This did not sit well with Gas Pipe. Then again, nothing did, thus the moniker Gas Pipe.

  Louis Dispensa, Sr. was the first to hold the moniker Gas Pipe. He worked with the Pipefitters Union and somehow, no one remembered how, he got the name Gas Pipe. When the old man died, Louis Jr. took the name over and it was a perfect fit, but not for the same reasons. Louis Jr. had major digestion issues, a condition that would cause long, loud, and noxious flatulence. He was not shy about it and would release these bombs whenever and wherever he so pleased.

  The Pine Barrens meeting was as good a place as any. Gas Pipe lifted his left cheek and let out a long baritone fart that reverberated off of the hard wooden chair like a machine gun. The smell was noxious.

  Across from him sat Roman Valente and Bartholomew Rizzi, who backed their chairs away from the table as if another six inches would be enough to escape the foul stench now permeating the room.

  Normally, a fourth man would always be present when these three men met to discuss business. Underboss Gary Ragu was Big V’s eyes and ears, and would have been in attendance to express the wishes of the big boss, but Gary was kept out of the loop for this meeting, as those involved saw him as too close to Big V to be trusted at this stage of the planning.

  The purpose of this gathering was to determine if V had been compromised or flipped by the feds. Everyone in attendance had already arrived at that conclusion before they walked in the door. Even if the evidence was circumstantial they had to err on the side of caution. It was agreed upon that Big V had been compromised and had to go.