Anarchy (Alfonzo)

by Frank, S. W.

  Feet slightly apart, Alfonzo casually assessed the men. They were gang members. The identifiable double R tattoos boldly etched on their forearms represented their affiliation. These were guys he once shot hoops with as a teenager. From their blood-shot eyes they were high.

  Juan’s trio boxed him in, eyes upon him, lips curved smugly. Alfonzo didn’t answer. He was busy deciding on which motherfucker to put down first.

  Juan became emboldened by Alfonzo’s silence, “What’s the matter cat got your tongue bitch, what you think karma wouldn’t hit your ass after what you did to my cousin?”

  Alfonzo didn’t attempt to deny the allegation. It didn’t matter, anyway. Carlos was dead and Juan wasn’t interested in chit-chat, no, he wanted retribution. Alfonzo remained unaffected by Juan’s bold talk. Cowardly mother-fuckers always got cocky en masse or when they’re strapped –but Alfonzo wasn’t intimidated. Juan didn’t have a piece, the club boasted metal detectors. All he had was liquid courage and a trio of lapdogs.

  He smirked at the thought of breaking bones before going down, “Karma visits everybody, pendejo!”

  “Fuck you!”

  He decided Juan should have the pleasure of his closed fist. Alfonzo’s knuckles caught Juan in the jaw sending teeth flying out of his mouth along with ounces of bloody spit. Juan stumbled and Alfonzo thrust an elbow into the chest of the man coming in from the right and stopped him cold. The others rushed him, throwing wild blows that felt like butterfly taps due to his heightened adrenalin. He pivoted to cold-clock Juan again on the side of the temple then Juan’s boys grabbed his arms. He swiveled out of their grasp, head-butt one in the face so hard the dude bitch screamed as he fell. Then the fight turned in their favor. An angry fist connected with Alfonzo’s abdomen and he coughed but stood his ground. Blows pummeled him from every direction. Their bodies were blurs of clothing as he blocked, weaved and sought an opening. He found one, catching one of the tallest men in the throat, knocking the fight out of him.

  Suddenly, a geyser of something warm hit him in the chest. He saw it, a spray of blood, at first thinking he’d been shot, then realized it was Juan. He watched Juan’s body tilting in slow motion then rapidly hit the ground. Juan’s crew sought cover, but were hit and collided with the ground. Alfonzo experienced a sense of dejá vu as the wind moved. He dived next to his car, seized the handle and reached into the hidden compartment on the side panel for his piece. He gripped steel, crouching low, trying to ascertain the direction of the shots. A final succession of whooshing sounds cut through the air. The projectiles struck the final member of Juan’s entourage with lethal accuracy as he ran down the street.

  He listened and waited. There was silence. From his vantage point he could see the doors of the club. The people he passed earlier were nowhere in sight. They must’ve hauled ass during the commotion. He took a risk and shot his head up. Nothing. The shooter must’ve split.

  Alfonzo cursed, “Shit!” This didn’t look good. He scrambled inside the car, threw it in reverse before making a three sixty. The last thing he needed was to get caught driving with a loaded gun and blood on his clothes.

  The sniper lifted from his prone position on the rooftop. He watched the Audi make an escape. Calmly, he disassembled the high powered rifle, placed each piece in the specialty case then descended the stairs, disappearing into the blackness.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Selange awakened to movement in the room. She squint in the dark, until her eyes adjusted to the shadows. Alfonzo stood in front of the bureau, his back to her as he removed his watch. He placed it inside the jewelry box alongside his collection of expensive chronographs. In the stingy moon light she noticed the brooding disposition.

  She sat forward. Something was wrong; she could tell. “Hun, Is everything okay?”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, quickly pulled the bloodstained shirt over his head and balled it in his hand, “Yeah…yeah…sorry I woke you babe.”

  She lay back down as he entered the bathroom. There, he inspected his trousers and found large traces of blood on them. Hastily he bundled the clothes together and quietly searched the linen closet for a disposable bag. He found one and shoved the soiled clothing inside then pushed it in a far corner beneath the sink until morning. His chest pounded out of his chest, disbelief consumed him. This was bad…really…incomprehensibly…bad!

  His concerns weren’t of jail or even getting killed, nah, he didn’t sweat any of that, if it happened then so be it. What mattered was the safety of his family. They were his top priority and always will be. He’d sworn to steer clear of the mob life but it seemed past transgressions might ultimately become his undoing.

  In the mirror he caught a glimpse of his reflection. A angry red welt on the side of his face stared back at him. His tattoos hid the bruises to his trunk but he could see them clearly. The circular contusions weren’t part of the design. His eyes glowered, he was completely fucked!

  He took a long shower then donned blue boxers before retiring to bed.

  “Are you sure, everything’s okay?” His wife enquired.

  He turned on his side and stroked her bare arm, “I’m sure…what about you, how are you doing?”

  “Better.”

  “Good.” He pulled her in his arms and closed his eyes then softly said, “I’ll feel better when we’re home.”

  “I called Anita, she’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “Why’d you do that, I thought we were leaving?”

  “Alfonzo, the plan was to stay until Sal returns with your mom, which is only two weeks.”

  “I can always fly to L.A. and bring Sal home; we don’t need to wait around here. My business is done, plus you guys are sick and I’d rather get you all home.”

  “I’m feeling better…” she yawned, “I promised Shanda we’d go shopping.”

  “Seriously, since when have you become addicted to shopping?”

  “Shanda’s an addict. I’m only getting shoes.”

  “Aye!” He grumbled.

  He heard her soft exhalation as she drifted to sleep and frowned. Tonight’s incident wasn’t something he was ready to discuss with his wife, although they made a pact to never keep secrets. He considered telling her, then changed his mind. It’s best she didn’t find out. She’d only worry.

  Exhausted, he pushed his head into the pillow and tried to grab some shut-eye. The shooting continuously replayed in his mind like a scratched CD. How could he explain to Selange what happened when he wasn’t sure himself?

  True, Juan and his crew might’ve stomped the shit out of him, a serious possibility whenever there’s a street brawl. Murdering unarmed men to avoid getting his ass kicked though, wasn’t Alfonzo’s M.O. Besides, Juan wasn’t looking to kill anybody, he was likely seeking to exact payback.

  Selange snuggled closer and his pulse slowed. The threatening headache dissipated. Funny, Selange always had that effect on him. He strained his neck to glimpse her face and smiled. Man, he loved her…more than anything…more than life.

  His weary head fell against the pillow but sleep eluded him. His mind returned to one subject; the shooting. It’s obvious the sniper was a professional. Only a seasoned pro could have taken out all four men with such accuracy. He hadn’t received a single bullet scratch in the mayhem, which led to one conclusion; it was a trained professional. The mob continuously interfered in his life.

  His cell phone rang and his eyes blinked open. The ringing stopped and a light indicating a voice message flashed like a warning beacon. He wrestled with whether to answer or not and the debate ended when his cell lit up again. Curiosity brought him swiftly out of bed and grabbing hold of the device.

  “Yeah?” He grumbled irritably, making his way out the door to the privacy of the hall.

  “Yo, you alright?”

  It was Danté. “I’m cool, why?” He answered in a conspiratorial tone.

  “After you left man, those dudes clocking you were shot.”

  “Word?”
>
  The sound of police activity could be heard in the background. “I came out the club and the DT’s were questioning everybody, asking if we heard anything. I overheard somebody say there was a fight across the street then bullets started flying.”

  Alfonzo feigned surprise, “Really?” He peeked in his daughter’s bedroom then headed to the staircase. “That’s crazy.”

  “I’m just checking to make sure you’re good.”

  Alfonzo hurried down the stairs and paced the floor. Danté’s concern was appreciated but he wasn’t about to divulge anything to anybody. He didn’t give a shit how far back their friendship went. The only people he trusted was his family. “Me? I’m good.”

  “Okay, man that’s all I wanted to know. Take care.”

  “Yeah, you too, bro.” He replied then leaned against the wall running his fingers through his short cropped hair in agitation. A marked car suddenly cruised alongside his car. It stopped.

  Alfonzo pushed off the wall swearing, “Fuck!”

  The officers got out and circled the Audi. They touched the hood, peered through the windshield, talking and pointing inside. He scowled; he screwed up by not inspecting the car for damage. Undoubtedly, this is what the officers were doing, searching for evidence to link him to the shootings. He gripped the cell phone, mouth firmly closed, and decided to go upstairs and confess the truth to Selange. The possibility of going to jail was almost a certainty. He grimaced, “Damn…I’ve been set up…shit!”

  He heard muffled laughter and turned to find the officers smiling as they returned to their patrol car. When they pulled away, Alfonzo’s shoulders collapsed, they hadn’t come about the shootings, they were only admiring his car. However, his gut told him to get the fuck out of New York before the police came calling. Tomorrow, they were leaving. To hell with shopping, he wanted to maintain his freedom!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Boris Giuliano stood on the edge of the pier counting the barrels as they were loaded inside the refrigerated truck with a huge Constantino’s Seafood logo on its door. Secreted below the large containers of fish, concealed in a false bottom was another type of ingestible commodity estimated at eight million dollars. Packaged, sorted and ready for distribution.

  The buyer smiled, “The college kids love the stuff.”

  “Um.”

  “I’m making a killing. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He replied then walked away from the businessman to avoid further small talk.

  This was a predawn shipment. Cops were often asleep or changing shifts at this time. Then, after their briefing, they’d stop to get coffee, to wake them before hitting the streets on patrol, by then the trucks were on the road, halfway to its destination.

  The demand for the specialty product grew, so did profits. Millions of dollars poured in each month, a lucrative haul for a simple formulary whipped up by a greedy chemist. The last of the trucks rumbled down the dock and he climbed inside the shiny black car, settling beside his stern-face boss.

  Boris brokered each deal on Dominick’s behalf. The interested buyers were eager to partake in a commodity with a guaranteed high yield of return. They were surprised by the success of their new revenue stream and began requesting greater quantities, for which they were completely willing to pay. In Florida, Don Fiorello didn’t employ corner street drug-dealers, no way; his pushers were licensed pharmacists behind counters of legitimate businesses. Many, already sold pain medication to junkies, and dispensing Dominick’s drug was only another service they offered. Of course, their incentive was money. Greed is an untamed monster once it gets a taste of something good. What can you say, supply and demand is the basics of economics, right? The more the people want, the more you supply.

  Dominick said nothing as the vehicle rolled away from the unloading area. His piercing brown eyes remained straight ahead. He finally broke the silence when they cleared the area, “How’s the deal coming along?”

  “We closed last week.”

  Dominick nodded, “Good.”

  Boris served as middle-man, none of the buyers met Dominick or knew his identity; anonymity was preferable. He didn’t consider himself a drug dealer, the word alone held a negative connotation. He preferred the term pharmacist. He simply filled the prescription for the human ailment. Hypocrisy.

  Every major dealer on the west coast was pushing the product and the coded messages on the social networks assisted in spreading the word. Their product was now in major cities, being distributed and sold by low ranking underlings to suburban kids attending Ivy League colleges. Sons and daughters of politicians and lawmakers. Children of the same rich white elitist who took bribes under tables, prospered from insider trading deals and stole money from the pension funds of hard-working Americans, yet sought to crush La Costra Nostra.

  They fooled the masses with their silvery tongues, had Americans fighting each other, meanwhile they stole, lied and cheated, and held themselves out as examples of morality. Dominick scoffed, let the bastards get a taste of their own medicine!

  Money laundering, loan-sharking, illegal gambling and prostitution weren’t as lucrative with The Organized Crime Task Force cutting the mob off at the knees. The time arrived for the syndicate to exert their presence and regain prominence once more –but first he needed to quickly amass money, lots of it.

  It’s ironic, he formulated the idea from watching how easy it was for his pill popping wife to get hold of prescription drugs. She ate them like candy until she sedated herself into sweet heaven.

  Money bought people, doctors, cops, lawyers, pharmacists and even politicians. Money also bought allies; he gained several with this new venture.

  Boris spoke, “The message was delivered.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful.”

  A wide smile transformed the stern face. He could sit back and watch the fun begin.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “How do I look?” Jessica asked.

  Emilio lifted his head to see the outfit then shoved his cell back in his pocket after checking his messages. Jessica stood in the center of the hotel room wearing a short blue dress and bright platform shoes. His eyes traveled up her shapely tan legs and settled on her pretty face. He tried to stay impassive, after-all the pretty young woman was his boss’ cousin.

  Impatiently, she tossed her brown hair with blonde highlights to one side to glare at him, “Well?”

  “You look nice.”

  “Nice?”

  Emilio shrugged, “Yes, what’s wrong with nice?”

  She frowned, “Everything. I wanna look hot, not nice!”

  His eyes exhibited no outward emotion. Jessica was hot…too damn hot!

  This was the sixth outfit she modeled. She’d asked him to help decide what to wear tonight and when he declined, she simply entered through the adjoining petition into his hotel room carrying a load of clothes. He felt uncomfortable but went along, that is until he realized she was making him aroused.

  “Time to go.” He stood and gestured, “Take your stuff and go back to your room. You’re turning my down time into a fucking fitting room.”

  “Hold up a minute,” she said then darted into the bathroom leaving Emilio standing there with a scowl.

  Jessica and her friends were a handful. He’d spent yesterday following a group of wild young women around at the beach. The blonde hair one Beth was the worst. The cute perky blonde from a privileged home lacked moral values. Promiscuous and undoubtedly an angel in the eyes of her doting parents. Her continuous flirtations were annoying, the chick just couldn’t take a hint. He didn’t like her…one bit.

  He shuffled his feet listening to Jessica moving about in the bathroom. Emilio frowned, the truth is, he liked Jessica. Tonight he was escorting her and her wild friends to a rave, yes a rave, not a salsa club but a party with a bunch of unruly college kids, screaming and acting like fools. He hated the scene because most of the kids were flying high on something or passing out from heat and alcohol. He preferred a Lati
n or Hip Hop club, at least there you’d have good dance music and not the alternative funk or techno. The killer part, he had to suffer through hours of watching a bunch of uncoordinated, rhythm deficient clubbers jerking on the dance floor like they’d gotten electrocuted or something. However, he was getting paid to watch after Jessica and if she wanted to go he’d take her.

  “Come on Jessica, get out of there!” He grumbled.

  She emerged from the bathroom wearing a different outfit. The party dress revealed more cleavage and a lot more skin.

  His mouth dropped open and he coughed trying to hide his reaction.

  “Now, this dress makes me look hot, right?”

  He couldn’t tear his eyes away. She was smiling at him, moving seductively closer, intentionally seeking to ignite the spark in his groin. The palm of her hand touched his cheek and singed his flesh. What the hell is she doing? His mind screamed.

  “Dame un beso.”

  The demand for a kiss weakened him. He tried to ignore their chemistry, tried damn hard but with her so close…so sexy…so tempting. Quickly, he stepped backward to put distance between them. “No, Jessica. Stop it!”

  She persisted, “Emilio, we both want the same thing.” She smiled, “Let’s stop pretending. We’re both adults and nothing’s wrong with hooking up.”

  It was physically painful to be near her, “Jessica, this is serious. Stop playing around, we can’t.”

  “Why, what are you afraid of?”

  “Losing my job for one and secondly getting my ass kicked by your cousin.”

  She smirked, “My brother Domingo’s actually the crazy one. He’ll shoot you and ask questions later.”

  “See, you think this shits a joke, pero no es!”

  Jessica’s eyes lowered to the rising bulge between his legs then slowly ascended to his face. “Come on guapo, I want you so much.” She pressed her body to his and her breasts felt like soft cotton against his hard chest. The sharp intake of breath which escaped his mouth emboldened her actions. Her hands rubbed up and down his thighs. Emilio could no longer resist the temptation.