The Damascus Chronicles

by Dominic R. Daniels

  Chapter 3: The Nightmare begins again

  A strange vortex of blues, reds, and greens surrealistically pulled Michael in, floating and falling through a strange portal of the past. The day became night, and he found himself in a home with European flare; black marble tile floors, white marble pillars that stretched down an endless hall that was lined with a burgundy carpet trimmed in gold. As Michael approached a great marble door, he saw a ghoulish sight. The white walls began to bleed streams of blood and the twisted statues on the wall seemed to come alive. They looked at Michael with their eyes glaring a hideous green, while some stuck out their tongues with a serpentine look. A woman screamed in terror and the room filled with the sounds of gunshots blasting through the thick trails of smoke released by the emptying gun barrels, the shell casings falling to the ground in slow motion. An old man appeared, wearing a fine suit of aristocratic appeal and European cut, a boa constrictor crawling up his hand that quickly turned into a pipe. A sinister seal tattooed on his right hand appeared in a twisted veil of darkness. The old man started to speak, but silence was all that Michael heard as the dark figure disappeared. The monolithic doors opened, revealing a man clothed in a deep navy suit, his eyes covered by a white mask, his hair golden blonde like the morning sunrise. He held a pistol aimed at a lovely woman dressed in an aquamarine dress. Her right side gushed blood as the man in blue fired three shots, blowing bullet holes through his innocent victim. Her blood spurted out on the white wooden walls of the old study and she fell to the ground dead, her blue eyes open and her body limp. Michael looked up at the killer’s left hand to see a gold ring that bore a strange insignia. Then, he felt the flash of a ghastly red, the hot light of terror. ”Katrina!!!” Michael screamed as he woke up in deep horror, disorientated and perspiring heavily, rivers of sweat running down his forehead. “Katrina,” he whispered softly. Shaken and disturbed, Michael walked into the bathroom, staring into the sink and mirror while splashing water on his face to cool the fire that had been burning his blood with fear. Lighting a cigarette, he sat down on the edge of the bathtub and gazed out at the nighttime metropolis of Sin City. He took a long drag and let the smoke flow out as he released his thoughts. Coming out of the bathroom, Michael got dressed, putting on his black leather jacket, black silk tie, red dress shirt, and black suit pants with belt. He pulled on a pair of black leather boots. His mind raced with thoughts of the last 24 hours. “Yeah, it’s been a hell of a day.”

  Chapter 4: A Punk and a Junky

  Michael noticed the note that Serena left him on the coffee table. He smiled a little after reading it, then headed out the front door. He checked his cell phone, noticing a message to meet Jackie at Marty’s Lounge down on 26th street. Lighting up another cigarette with an old pack of matches he had in his pocket, Michael strolled down the street, the sirens of police cars rolling mingling with the sounds of the happy drunks walking along the dark boulevard. The street corners were decorated with lovely girls, the local denizens of 26th street showing off their nightly for-sale flesh to easy customers. On the other side of the street was an open alley where street people warmed themselves over trashcan fires.

  A few local street punks stepped in Michael’s way. One of the big ones wore a red spiked Mohawk and was dressed in black jeans and a chain covered T-shirt. He started getting cocky. “Hey, buddy! This is our street.”

  “I don’t see your name on it, pal,” replied Michael gruffly.

  “Hey Joey, this guy’s looking for trouble,” said one of the other punks.

  “I think we should give it to him,” said another punk, laughing at Michael.

  “Get him!” yelled the big punk.

  Michael cross-kicked the big one, knocking him down hard and breaking his two front teeth. A skinny punk wrapped his chain around Michael’s neck but Michael reversed the attack, throwing the guy down and breaking his right leg. “Fuck!” squealed the skinny punk in pain.

  “Okay smart guy! Die!” screamed the big punk.

  Michael whipped out his switchblade and back flipped behind his big opponent, holding the razor-sharp blade next to his throat. “Back off creep! Or I slit your throat!”

  “Okay, okay man! We were just joking, don’t need to get serious,” whined the big punk.

  “Come around here again bothering innocent people, and if I see you guys, I’ll rip out your guts and make you swallow your own spleen. Now get out of here!” raged Michael.

  “No problem man, we’re going!” they all said, backing away slowly.

  Michael released his grip from his captive; the street punks took off running up the street like little cowards. “Damn punks!” Michael said to himself. He brushed off his jacket and continued on to Marty’s Lounge. He stepped through the door and at the back of the dark, candle-lit bar, seated in a red booth, was a young man in his mid twenties, dressed in a black sports coat and tan pants, with slick black hair and light brown eyes. He signaled Michael to come over to the booth. “Hey Mikey!” called the young man happily.

  “Jackie! How’s my little kid brother been doing?” Michael asked as the two hugged.

  Jackie Santerini was the inside guy, the wise ass, the hot headed kid with a love for shooting first and asking questions later, the guy that would make you laugh then kill you laughing, the trickster at heart. “I’m good, man,” replied Jackie. “What kept you?”

  “I had to deal with a few pricks that came my way,” replied Michael.

  “That’s my brother, always looking for a fight!” said Jackie.

  “Better to finish a fight when someone else starts one!” Michael said in return.

  “What are we standing up for, please sit down. Hey Marty!” Jackie called over to the bartender, who was cleaning a glass. “One screwdriver and a dry vodka martini, secret agent style, for my friend here!”

  “Yeah sure!” said Marty in return as he quickly mixed the drinks.

  “Here you go boys, take it easy tonight, okay?” said the pretty waitress as she handed over their drinks.

  “Thanks honey,” said Michael, grinning slightly as he slipped her a five-dollar bill.

  “So tell me, what happened to you, you were supposed take care of that thing with Franco Scarfo?” Jackie was serious.

  “I got most of his guys, didn’t I? Besides someone interfered,” said Michael.

  “Who was it? DEA? Feds?”

  “No one, just some nobody being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s not good,” said Jackie, concerned.

  “But don’t worry, the problem has been neutralized,” said Michael.

  “Good, glad to hear you took care of it. Anyway, Don Felice wants you, Anthony, and me to pay a little visit to one of Franco’s guys uptown.”

  “Who is it?” Michael asked.

  “A little weasel I like to call a true pussy. The guy is practically scared of his own shadow.”

  “Let me guess, Pete Rangoon. He’s a chump, a junky. What do you possibly think you can get out of that loser?”

  “There have been rumors floating around that Giorgio Scarfo has gotten some new heavy associates. We confiscated looted money three nights ago,” said Jackie, being careful to speak. His suspicions about bugs in a room made him uneasy at times.

  ”You think Rangoon was in on the heist with the guys who jacked us?” asked Michael.

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  “Yeah!” said Michael, getting the drift. “You know our job was a lot easier back when the Costa and Moretti Brothers were running things.”

  “That’s because there was no shit going down like today. Back then it was just smoke and blow, come and go. The business wasn’t as messy as it is now. Today it’s a whole new story. Why are we bringing up this old shit?” Jackie was annoyed.

  “I just miss the old days sometimes,” said Michael wistfully.

  “I miss them sometimes too.” Jackie smiled. “Anyway, why would this new thing bother the Don? Godfather Scarfo is always fi
nding new people,” said Michael.

  “These aren’t the usual muscle the godfather uses. He’s using people in high places and the word is that they’re corrupt Feds, politicians, maybe higher, I don’t know,” said Jackie.

  “Do you think Rangoon will know anything?”

  “If he doesn’t, I think we might be able to get him to tell us someone who might. Besides, the important thing is getting that fucking money back.”

  “Okay, let’s go!” said Michael. They rose and hurried out of the bar.

  Chapter 5: A Thrill to the Kill

  Racing down the urban streets in Jackie’s blazing red firestorm sports car, Jackie and Michael picked up Anthony Santerini at the Scarlet Lady Gentleman’s Club, which Anthony owned. Anthony Santerini was the baddest motherfucker of all in Vegas. He owned all the strip clubs in town, had tabs on every hooker who worked his streets, and had the tongues of the pimps that shook down his girls cut off before their very eyes. He crushed their heads with his own hands, which caused him to also be known as “Crusher”. One thing was for sure, never fuck with Anthony Santerini.

  Approaching the long doors of the car came a big, haughty well-built man in his mid-forties, with a rough face that bore a few scars from the many bar fights he had been in. He had a nice clean thick head of black hair and wore a silver ring on his left pinky and a shining set of brass knuckles on his right hand. He was dressed in a black suede jacket, a brown and black silk shirt, black suit pants, a rich brown leather belt, and slick black dress shoes. “Hey Assholes! How are you two?” laughed Anthony.

  “Get the fuck in here, wise guy,” laughed Jackie.

  “Sorry boys, I couldn’t resist. So tell me, where is our little friend tonight?”

  “Sal gave me a call. Rangoon is at Nick’s Pool Hall Bar in the Red Light district,” replied Michael.

  “How the hell can you believe anything that tightwad prick ever says!” Anthony exclaimed.

  “Hey, don’t disrespect Sally. I know he’s a greedy bastard and a miser, but when it comes to taking care of business or making money, you know his word’s as good as gold,” said Michael.

  “My ass!”

  “All right! Shut the shit up! I’m trying to drive here,” yelled Jackie, annoyed as he sped through the city streets.

  “Enough you guys, we’re here,” Michael cautioned.

  The car pulled in quietly to the rundown parking lot at the rear of Nick’s Bar.

  “Now remember, were just going talk, nothing more, nothing less. Got it?” said Michael firmly. “Got it,” replied Jackie and Anthony.

  The trio got out of the car and stepped briskly to the back entrance of Nick’s and entered the shabby bar. Thick cigar smoke filled the dilapidated cesspool’s air and the rotted wooden floorboards emitted the smell of moldy mothballs. Michael gave the greasy bartender a hard look. The bartender pointed his index finger to the basement door. Down here was best place to find any junky; the basements of such shit hole back alley bars were notorious for harboring drug dens, and this one was in particular the perfect spot to find a two-timing loser like Pete Rangoon.

  Down the stairs the trio moved, to the den where the hookers and drug addicts found heaven, an absolute bliss reached by indulging in crack, heroin, and cocaine. Michael spotted the slimy, grungy guy, about 28 years old, in the back corner, snorting away among the wasted dopers. His hair was long and greasy, his clothes featured an assortment of mysterious stains, and his jeans were dirty with splits all over the legs. On his feet was a pair of old sneakers with holes in them.

  “Rangoon!” called Michael.

  “Hey baby, look. It’s Mr. Rock Star!” laughed a hooker sitting next to Rangoon, as she snorted blow.

  “Shut the hell up, whore!” said Anthony, pushing her to the floor.

  “Stupid guinea!” yelled the whore, struggling to stand.

  “Get outta here, bitch!” yelled Anthony, smacking her across the face. The hooker ran off frightened.

  “Snnnah! Who the shit are you supposed to be hot shot, Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed a very wasted Rangoon.

  “Okay cokehead, I want some answers, and I want them now!” yelled Michael, angrily picking up Rangoon and pressing him hard against the badly chipped brick wall.

  “Fuck you!” mocked Rangoon. Michael threw Rangoon across the small room, where he landed on a small wooden table, breaking it in two and knocking over a glass candleholder, which shattered on the floor.

  “Oh shit! Call the cops!” screamed the dopers in the room, running away from the action.

  “I got nothing to say to you!” Rangoon spat angrily.

  “Anthony, break his arms in two!” Jackie commanded firmly.

  “With pleasure.” Anthony grabbed Rangoon from the side and locked him tight in a deep grip, immobilizing him. Slowing Anthony began to pull Rangoon’s right arm back, the sound of the bones in his arm cracking as Rangoon screamed in agony. “Pete, don’t fuck with me, you know your boss doesn’t give a fuck about what happens to you. Now who the hell made the drop on the big job!” yelled Michael.

  “What?” asked Rangoon.

  “Don’t play cute with me,” raged Michael, bashing in Rangoon’s head and breaking his nose.

  “I don’t know man!” yelled Rangoon as blood flowed from his broken nose.

  “Anthony!” signaled Michael. Anthony tightened his grip on Rangoon’s arm. Rangoon again screamed in pain.

  “Who?” yelled Michael.

  “It was Steiner! Fucking Morey Steiner!!” screamed Rangoon.

  “Next! Who the hell is Godfather Scarfo’s new muscle?”

  “What?” said a dazed Rangoon.

  “Who are Scarfo’s new people?” Michael yelled in Rangoon’s face.

  “I don’t know!” screamed Rangoon, barely able to withstand the intense pain. “AHHH!!!!!!!” cried Rangoon as his right arm snapped, dangling broken like a chicken with its head cut off.

  “Where is he?” Raising his gun under Rangoon’s neck, Michael cocked the trigger.

  “Forget it D! He knows nothing. Let’s go,” said Anthony.

  “The Deuce Motel!” said Rangoon, wriggling in pain.

  “You say anything about this and you’re dead, you fucking junky!” Jackie kicked Rangoon in the balls.

  Michael, Jackie, and Anthony left Rangoon squirming in pain on the dirty floor of the drug den. Back in the car, frustration built between the three men.

  “Do you really believe that bullshit back there?” asked Jackie.

  “Not a damn bit,” replied Anthony.

  “Morey couldn’t have been able to fully organize a job like that, he’s too much of an idiot to be that clever. No, this heist was pulled off by some higher up guys. I can feel it,” said Michael. “The question now, is who and where does this lead to Scarfo’s secret connections?” Anthony mused.

  “There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go pay a visit to Morey,” said Michael.

  “Hold it, the deadbeat will recognize us from the last time we shook him down. Remember, he owed Joey Boseta ten G’s from the race book,” said Jackie.

  “Yeah, he’s right. Mike you’d better take care of this schmuck. He doesn’t know you,” suggested Anthony.

  “Drop me off near Brooks Street; I have to pick up some things,” said Michael.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Jackie.

  Chapter 6: Code of Silence

  Michael headed up the stairs of the abandoned storage yard on Brooks Street. He unlocked an old safe that was hidden in the corner of a rooftop loft. In the distance behind him on the upper roof of an adjoining building a mysterious figure was spying on him. Michael grabbed his equipment from the safe and jumped onto the fire escape. He was headed to The Deuce Motel. The mysterious figure followed stealthily behind him.

  Hotwiring an old beat up car on the street, Michael sped off to locate his quarry. Pain preyed on his mind; he could not get his nightmare from the previous night out of his head, his sister murdered by the masked face so
n of a bitch pulling the trigger. “Who are you, asshole?” said Michael to himself, still hearing his sister’s screams from the dream.

  Michael climbed out of the car and once inside the rundown motel he headed upstairs, to room 23, where he saw through the room’s entrance window Morey sleeping. Morey was a middle-aged man and a slob to boot; the room was old and looked worn down. Pulling out a pick, Michael opened up the door discreetly, and as he let himself into the room he noticed it was empty. The bathroom door was closed, so Michael lay in wait behind the thick green curtains that hid the windows.

  Morey emerged from the bathroom and began to pour himself a drink from a bottle on the nightstand and Michael came behind him, grabbing him and shoving a pistol to the side of his captive’s head. Morey was stunned.

  “Tell me exactly what I want to know and you might just live,” said Michael sternly.

  “Just don’t kill me, please,” begged Morey. “Who did Scarfo use to organize the heist that let my client’s capital get taken?” interrogated Michael.

  “You know I can’t tell you that, if I do they’ll kill me.”

  “If you don’t tell me, you’re dead right now where you stand,” said Michael angrily, pushing the gun hard into Morey’s temple.

  Morey was gripped with fear. “I just know I saw a guy with blonde hair wearing a blue suit and a white mask speaking to the boss. Besides, what does it matter, a few days later someone else hit our organization and made off with it,” stammered Morey.

  “What!” Lighting struck Michael’s spine. “Give me a damn name!”

  “I don’t know!” screamed Morey.

  “Don’t push me! Tell me now, or you get a bullet.” Michael cocked the trigger.

  Morey elbowed Michael in the stomach hard, causing Michael to drop his gun; Morey then grabbed a steak knife from the dinette set on the table and lunged at Michael, slashing his coat. Michael kicked the knife out of Morey’s hand and Morey fell to the floor. He crawled to grab Michael’s gun where it lay. Just as he was about to aim, Michael pulled out his other pistol and shot Morey in the chest. In a furious rage, Michael continued to fire, pumping bullets into Morey’s legs, paralyzing him, as Morey screamed in agony. “You asshole!”