Lawless Measures: Vigilante - The Fight Continues

by Lyle O'Connor

  With Anna’s disappearance, I’d adopted the project as my baby. I owned it. I wasn’t going to wait for closure; no such reality exists. The term was a myth perpetrated by psychobabblers. What I intended on doing was kill with bitter resolve anyone responsible for Anna’s mysterious disappearance. The sex and illegal immigration rackets were the criteria for Society Palatini’s engagement, but that had changed for me—my priority was elsewhere.

  Chapter 3

  “… the law was made for the lawless, but powerless to prevent criminal behavior.”

  —Walter

  I waited by the luggage carousel to greet Max. I remembered the days when you could meet someone as they deplaned, but those days were lost forever. Max would have to run the gauntlet of Customs and the newly formed Transportation Security Administration (TSA) to gain admission to the United States. If Max had a turban on his head and clenched a Quran close to his heart, he more than likely would have walked right through unscathed. It was the governments’ new approach to security since September, 2001. The beacon of freedom for the world didn’t want to be perceived as profiling, so they searched and scrutinized the young and elderly alike. However, searching Max might not have been such a bad idea. He likely had killed or was responsible for more dead people than any living Jihadi.

  “Hello,” Max said. He sounded cheerful but looked burdened. His broad smile was overshadowed by a frown. “Let’s make haste to our safe house where we can talk in private.”

  I’ve learned to read human behaviors like footprints in the sand. They were directional. In Maximillian’s case, his behavior displayed something heavy he had to unload. My guess was he either needed my help to carry the load, or I was the problem. It could go either way at this point. With Anna’s disappearance foremost in my thoughts, it created a level of anxiety I didn’t need.

  Idle chat wasn’t on the menu for the cross town trip from the airport. I opened the door to sanctuary and invited Max in. “Please have a seat,” Max said. I pulled out a chair from the little dining table and motioned for Max to take the other chair. “I have Intel I’ve picked up through a very reliable source. He is a Crown prosecutor and has been very forthcoming with viable information.”

  “Okay.”

  “Authorities believe they have found Cal.”

  “Found?”

  Canadian police agencies have matched Cal’s fingerprints to a body. Police will release very little information to the public. They are not obligated in the same manner as in your country, but we have a friend as I said.”

  “What happened?”

  “It appears he was bound, gagged, and executed with a small caliber weapon.”

  “Typical modus operandi for mobsters,” I said.

  I’ve noticed when people pause in conversation, they unknowingly create emphasis on the next thing they were about to say. Such was the case as Max continued.

  “He was tortured. The report described multiple burns, lacerations, and signs of blunt force trauma to the head and torso. The body was discarded in a mall dumpster in Toronto. I believe it was intended to be found quickly. It appeared to be an intentional message; otherwise he would have been buried in a field.”

  What followed Maximillian’s report could only be termed an uncomfortable silence. The air felt thick, thick enough to cut with a knife. As saddened as I found myself over what transpired with Cal, it only served to heighten my concern for Anna’s safety.

  “What do you know about Anna?”

  “Scythian.”

  I was all ears. It was my Palatini name, the symbol of my authority within the Society’s Order, and call-to-arms. We were going into action. And Max undoubtedly had a plan. Why else would he address me in such a formal manner?

  He continued, “I think you should be prepared for the worst. With Anna’s vanishing and the video you saw of her leaving, it is very likely Cal said something of Anna’s involvement. It doesn’t look promising.”

  I am a man of uncompromising character, or so I’ve been told. Anna told me that and at times with a degree of disdain and slightly different definition for my qualities. This day, my inability to compromise, would stick out like a sore-thumb. “Without our knowing differently we need to launch a rescue operation for Anna.” It was my turn to emphasis with a pause before ratcheting up the intensity of my position. I said straightforwardly, “Max, I’m telling you, there are no other options. Raise hell if we have to, but we have the ability to ferret out anyone responsible for her disappearance and find out where they are holding her.”

  “I think you should contemplate the danger you are personally in, as well. Assuming for a minute they put Anna under duress, they might well have extracted a sufficient amount of information on our operation and perhaps the Society overall to put all of us in jeopardy. They are Mafioso. I believe they have a great deal more resources than we do. You see the dilemma, don’t you?”

  I knew he was trying to appeal to my better senses, but that in itself was a problem—I’m Walter. Taking a tuck-tail and run away from a fight was not my forte. I didn’t like the general drift of the conversation; I demanded a clear and concise answer. Max was reluctant to engage me, and it was apparent. My pulse surged and I found myself short of breath; a convulsive trembling below the surface followed, until my anger burst out, “Abandon Anna? Is that what you are saying?”

  “No, heavens no man, I think the right course of action would be to work our resources. We have contacts in both the Crown and New York State law enforcement. It’s not necessary to engage in a war or risk anymore Palatini assets until we learn what has happened to Anna.” Max paused briefly, “Scythian, we need to tie off the project and proceed with caution. Like you American’s are fond of saying, ‘until we get our ducks lined up in a row,’ we should hold off making any plans.”

  “Not a chance!” I fought my emotions, trying to keep the rage within. If those responsible escaped it would be dangerous for all of us. I’d erupted in the past, but Max had never seen me that way, or he wouldn’t have pushed it. I was a nice guy, but I had my limits. “That’s a great idea Max.” Max preferred to be called Maximillian, but when I slap somebody down, I didn’t care about how I sounded. “Let’s get all the ducks lined up, Mob ducks, like targets in a shooting gallery, and start plunking them. They’ll talk, I guarantee it.”

  “I was only suggesting we become better organized, make preparations, and work out the smallest of details before we proceed.”

  “I know what you’re saying Max. I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.” I wanted to smash my fist down his throat and rip out his larynx. Max wanted to fold the hand we were dealt; I wanted to play it. What Max suggested went against everything I believed in, and made me who I am—Walter. My pent up sentiments continued to surge as I repeated the phrase, “Not a chance,” adding expletives between each statement.

  Max attempted to placate my anger, but unknowingly added fuel to the fire. “Control yourself man, I understand—we all loved Anna.” His thoughtful and comforting past-tense reference to a love for Anna rang hollow in my ears. There was, in fact, nothing he could say that would assuage my passion.

  With a forceful tone my demands were set forth, “I need manpower and resources. No stone will go unturned. I want every Palatini available here and on the hunt. If need be, we’ll kill every last one of these pukes, whether they’re involved with Anna’s disappearance or not. I won’t rest until I get the answer I’m looking for.”

  “I don’t think your listening Walter. I’ve taken over the project. I’m tying this operation off!” Max countered with a forceful resound as he continued, “A man with a hammer sees every problem as a nail. You have to learn to use something other than a hammer. Otherwise, you will never be anything other than a cretin.”

  “I’ll put down my hammer alright, but when I do, I’m picking up my gun. I can kill a lot more of those ducks with it than a damned hammer!”

  “You are going to get yourself kil
led, and for nothing.”

  “Die—perhaps. But, if I do, it will be to save Anna or to avenge her death—and I will die with honor.”

  Max exclaimed, “You cannot succeed!”

  “You’re a walking cliché! You make me sick. What are you going to say next, every cloud has a silver lining or some other crap? You’re a doddering old fool to think I would abandon Anna.”

  Max attempted to interrupt, but I refused to yield the floor, “This is now my project, do you understand? I’m calling the shots, and I’m going to see it through to the end.”

  “And what end might that be,” Max asked.

  “A blood-bath if it has to be. If you ain’t got the stomach for it, bail now.”

  “As you wish…I will not endanger Palatini assets or waste money on this dead project. There is no win-win to be had.”

  “I gotta tell you Max, I’m surprised you would let this end in a defeat?”

  “Defeat, I do not think in such terms. Walter, you should be very proud. You’ve accomplished so much on this project. You have broken up their racket. Sometimes that’s the best we can do is disrupt the process.”

  The gist of his argument was transparent, unconvincing, and above all, inconceivable. I opened the door for Max, turned my back, and walked to the window. The seemingly endless palaver had ground to a halt. I was numb to the core. I could barely think, let alone continue the dialogue without doing some head cracking.

  I was aware when Max had left the suite, not from his closing of the door since he had not done so, but from the clacking noise of his cane as it drifted into the distance. How did he get back to the airport or where did he go? It wasn’t my concern. He was capable of finding his own way as I was capable of doing what I believed was necessary without him.

  I sifted through the materials Anna had packed until I located Cal’s work on the soldier who befriended him, Joey Naccarella. The Toronto faction of the Abbandanza crime family was considerably different from that of Buffalo. Capo Santo De Luca, the renowned kingpin of Toronto, was a made-man and member of the Administration under Alfonso Abbandanza. He was one of the capos who selected Salvatore to assume the role of Boss of Bosses when Alfonso passed away. Naccarella was an “earner” and thereby an integral part of De Luca’s illicit profit machine.

  According to Cal’s police source, narcotics and designer drugs boomed in Toronto during the early ‘90s, but De Luca didn’t see the gains. His crew lost profitable territories in the West End to well-known street wranglers like the Bloods and Crips. In most cases, a change of leadership would have followed, but not so with De Luca. The elderly man kept his capo title and in all probability his life, due to his extreme loyalty he displayed to Salvatore.

  The Toronto crew was forced to expand into new business ventures to make up for losses in drug revenues. The result: they cornered the market on prostitution, kidnapping, and human smuggling throughout Ontario. The Family as a whole closely followed the increased profits in Toronto and determined proliferation to their New York State factions would be beneficial. This was what the Feds called an illegal immigration racket. I was baffled by the term. It didn’t have anything in common with immigration. It was another government misnomer that led away from the truth. Consequently, no one rode herd on the racket.

  Naccarella was a fiftyish-year-old Canadian citizen with multiple felonies on his rap sheet. His previous human trafficking conviction caught him minimal time in the joint. Cal wrote, “Joey wore the felony like a badge of honor.” It should have put a damper on his illegal activities or, at minimum, put him on a watch-list for authorities, but neither happened. Cal’s notes indicated Joey enjoyed border crossings at his leisure. Cal’s police source confirmed the mobster’s records were never properly coded to prevent entry into the United States, and they had no way to influence the decision. The “fix” was in for Joey.

  The law was made for the lawless, but powerless to prevent criminal behavior. In a nutshell, the value of the law was wrapped in deterrence and penalty. With the modern movement to vacate punishment from the law, deterrence was non-existent. The law was therefore, meaningless. Naccarella crossed whenever he felt like it because the penalty had not been applied.

  Anna had focused her attention on Joey Naccarella as the lead domino in the Toronto phase of the takedown. Despite his conviction, he had continued his involvement in sex rackets and was grooming Cal for a position with him. Naccarella’s name topped the kill list in Anna’s area. He would top my list now. He had a grievous amount of suffrage to answer for.

  My attention, however, diverted to the pressing issue of finding someone by the name of “Jokester.” He was my best lead. There were a few notes on an associate of the family, Nunzio “The Jokester” Lippa. The photo Cal had obtained was unreliable, given that it was an older photograph from a driver’s license and severely faded. He also had compiled a small dossier that gave me the impression Lippa was an insignificant small time hoodlum bringing very little to the crime family’s table. He had a reputation as an on-again-and-off-again drug addict. It made him a liability. At least that was Joey’s perspective, but Jokester had ingratiated himself to other De Luca members with his supply of underage girls for their Toronto brothels. Some of them, according to Cal’s investigation, were kidnapped from the United States. Cal’s proof; the two girls he helped to escape.

  I felt I had established enough of a rapport with Ryan, the young security officer at Cal’s apartment complex, to revisit him with the aged picture of Lippa. If he could make a positive identification of “The Jokester” and the fellow he knew as “Joker” to be one and the same, I would be in business with a positive identification of at least one of the abductors. If, in fact, my target were Lippa, I would use the information from his dossier to arrange a little get-together. It wasn’t likely he’d take kindly to my questions or voluntarily give up what I wanted to know. I would be prepared to extract it regardless of his level of cooperation.

  Secondary issues of concern were sleuth-hounds. Feds had been sidetracked with terrorists for months, but sooner or later, they would come back to the business at hand, organized crime. Law enforcement at all levels had money thrown at them to combat potential raghead terrorist threats. The influx of finances had already translated into advancements for sophisticated spying technologies. In an effort to pacify the fears of the American public, the régime released some of their new advancements in electronic surveillance. According to news sources, these new gadgets were already being employed in fighting crime. Besides the new technologies, the government was also financing more confidential informants. Assuming this was true, it would further complicate things for me. I didn’t want to accidently kill an undercover cop. Inside syndicates like the Abbandanza family, it was impossible to know who was who. I couldn’t just start blasting. I had standards.

  I made the trip to Cal’s apartment complex, and waited in the lot until I saw the security vehicle pull in. It was, as I’d hoped, Ryan Vaquero. He’d remembered me from our previous rendezvous. He seemed apprehensive at first to look at the photo, perhaps thinking he would be in violation of some moral or ethical code of his employment. However, money always talks, and so did my new best buddy.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Vaquero said.

  “Any idea where I could catch up with this guy.”

  “I don’t know where he lives or anything like that, but I saw him about an hour ago a few blocks from here at a place called Tine’s auto garage.”

  “Thanks brother, I appreciate that.” I followed up with a couple crisp double-sawbucks for his troubles. Whether Ryan knew it or not, we were essentially on the same team. We both sought the same results, a safer community through our actions. We just went about it in different and unique ways. Maybe someday, I’d show him how to take care of business, my way.

  I wasted no time finding Tine’s garage. He was not the usual target, or at least not yet. There would be no shoot and kill. I wanted him alive and verbal. We neede
d to discuss a few things. As I waited for a glimpse of Jokester, I became self-absorbed in thought. My altered mental state became quite enjoyable as I educed the desired responses via gentle inspiration; I found myself completely lost in distraction. It was by sheer providence I saw a guy matching Lippa’s description cross the street on foot a hundred feet in front of me. He walked on the sidewalk; his bebop was cool and carefree. A couple blocks later he slipped into an alehouse. From his nonchalant attitude, I gathered he was oblivious to the executions I conducted in Buffalo. If he was aware, perhaps he’d lived too long under the umbrella of the syndicate, and felt untouchable.

  I decided to close in—Jokester had no idea what was in store for him, and I liked it that way. I couldn’t wait to see his face when reality set in. It wouldn’t be a joke, not at all. Lippa was a street hustler that lived on the lowest limb of the crime family tree. He had made money any way he could, short of an honest job for wages. My impression of him, he would be an easy mark. All I had to do was let him believe there was money to be made off me. I would make myself available to be scammed, play along, and he’d do the rest. I parked in the lot adjacent to the alehouse and entered through the back door. I could have easily accessed the pub through the main entrance on the street side but people customarily shoot a quick glance and tend to ignore your presence. In my experience, I have found a person entering through a back entrance, subconsciously demands greater attention. I wanted Lippa to take that second look and size me up.

  I bellied up to the bar and asked for a cold brew on tap. There were a dozen or so patrons scattered throughout at small tables. From the corner of my eye, I could see Lippa eyeballing me. He was a business man looking for business and predictable. I was either an easy mark or an undercover constable. In Jokester’s world everyone fit into one of three categories, family, marks, or cops. By the time he figured out which one I was, the joke would be on him.