THE CHARM OF REVENGE

by Tom Secret

  Marcus looked away, his face ashen.

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s the same look you had this morning.”

  “And I told you then, nothing’s going on.”

  “Don’t do that. It’s all over your face!”

  Marcus pushed the laptop aside. “Son, I think we’ve stumbled into hell on earth.”

  Brad slapped the granite table. “That’s why I never give a straight answer, because I learned it from you!”

  Marcus rose from the nook. “We need a drink.”

  Brad rubbed his stinging hand and followed him from the kitchen. “At least tell me what happened with your cop buddy.”

  “Still waiting for him to call with the results.” Marcus pushed open the heavy library door and crossed to the wet bar. “Whiskey?”

  Brad collapsed into the deep cushioned sofa by the open fire. “If I must.”

  Marcus held out a glass. The liquid gleamed like amber in the firelight.

  He eased himself down beside Brad and took a slug as he stared into the crackling flames. “Did your mother tell you why we separated after you left home?”

  “What happened to hell on earth?”

  “I’m getting to it, did she?”

  Brad took a sip and grimaced. “She talked about you sometimes; not about that.”

  “Figures.” Marcus studied his drink. “Did you ever wonder?”

  “Wonder what? You were never there, and when you were, you argued nonstop until you left again. It didn’t take a rocket scientist.”

  “Did you know she’d been having an affair?”

  Brad twisted around to face him. “You’re lying! Since when?”

  “Since you were a boy.”

  “Bullshit, Dad! Why are you telling me this crap?”

  His father’s expression was solemn, his lips pursed in silence.

  “Hang on… with whom? Not…, no, no way, not, Black? Mom was with Damian Black since I was a kid?”

  Downing the remains of his drink, Marcus rose, crossed to the open hearth and laid another log in the middle of the flames, then recharged his glass.

  “When did you find out?”

  “You were four, as I recall.”

  “Four! You both kept this secret my whole life?

  “Not exactly; she didn’t tell me who it was until six months before she died.”

  “But she got Black to invest in Revolution!”

  “Why do you think I was so upset?”

  “Because I lost your money.”

  Marcus shook his head. “Because she introduced him to you, and you never told me.”

  “How the hell would I even know to tell you? He was just an investor. Why did you never tell me about Mom?”

  “Seemed no point before now. Anyway, we both had our secrets.”

  “More secrets?”

  Marcus looked away.

  “Was that why Black threw me to the wolves and made Revolution go under?”

  “I don’t know, it’s possible.”

  “Jesus, Dad, Daisy died because of them!”

  “I’m sorry, Son.”

  “And he did it to get at you? Why?”

  Marcus stared at the glass in his hands.

  “Dad?”

  “I refused to give your mother a divorce.”

  “Is that why she used one of your guns to kill herself? To lay the blame at your door?”

  A tear ran down Marcus’s cheek. “I think so.”

  “Holy shit! Do you know what this means? Mom was having an affair with a guy who traffics children and Lola just killed one of his men!” Brad tossed his whiskey into the fire. “What the hell are we up against, Dad, the frigging Mafia?”

  40. ONE MORE WORD

  Wednesday, 6:30 a.m.

  Donatello wiped the chrome hot plate of his vintage 1952 Gaggia espresso machine, placed the saucer on the tiny breakfast bar, and took a sip, trying to shake off the nightcaps that had ended with him passed out in his chair. His own snoring had awoken him at four a.m. half frozen and curled in the fetal position, the hammer of his trusty Colt.45 jabbing into his ribs. He’d remained there another half hour, thinking of Allegra. She was always his first thought of the day, and his last.

  He took another sip, hoping it would lift him above the fog of depression that had settled around him. Though he wouldn’t admit it to Wilkes or Colby, he wanted out; a new life where every waking hour wasn’t spent chasing the scum of the earth and catching nothing but flak for his troubles.

  Muffled shouting drifted from the apartment below. Crazy fools. Six-thirty a.m. and they were already at each other’s throats. People never learned. Arguing over differences instead of enjoying their time together, and before they knew it, wham, they either divorced or died. He and Allegra had never argued—not like that, anyway.

  More sounds pushed into his tiny apartment as the city hit its stride. Donatello’s mind drifted to the properties his mother had left, and he felt a ray of hope; perhaps they were his ticket out. But then Ivor’s tax comments flooded back. He glanced at the red file on the table by the front door where he had stowed the tax demands, and could sense their tentacles reaching out through the binder, defiling his mother’s memory, grabbing at everything she had worked and died for.

  The first one arrived yesterday, and just the recollection of it made his blood boil afresh. Bad news wasn’t meant to come to his door; he was the bad news that went to other people’s doors, yet the invasion had begun regardless, and already his home no longer felt like a haven from the sickness of the world. The plague of rats was upon him.

  The doorbell chime snapped him out of his funk and made him glance at the clock. Six forty a.m. Who in heaven’s name! He crossed to the door, checked the peephole, and instinctively touched his holstered cannon as two bulbous eyes stared back from the other side. He left the chain on and cracked the door.

  “I’m looking for Donatello,” the voice said through the gap.

  “Who wants him?”

  “My name is Mr. Castro, and I’m from the IRS.”

  Here we go, thought Donatello as the blood rushed to his chest and arms. He slid the chain off and opened the door, looking the cheap suit up and down.

  “I’m here on behalf of the IRS to offer my congratulations!” the acne-scarred face said.

  “For what?”

  “For your recent bereavement.”

  “You mean condolences, surely,” Donatello said.

  “I mean congratulations on your recent inheritance, for which you now owe two hundred sixty-eight thousand, four hundred thirty-three dollars in death tax, which I’m here to collect.” He shoved the tax demand in Donatello’s face as though he were blind as a worm.

  Donatello hesitated. Could this be a practical joke or a setup? Was Colby behind this somehow? Or that dirtbag Cilcifus? Either way, he couldn’t subdue the feeling he was about to launch this pile of shit through the wall. He snatched the papers, took a deep breath, and pretended to read while he composed himself. “You know, a court would treat this as harassment, turning up on someone’s doorstep at this hour demanding two hundred and fifty grand!”

  “It’s two hundred sixty-eight thousand, four hundred thirty-three dollars, and I’m IRS, so you don’t get to tell me shit!”

  Donatello felt something snap. “My name is Lieutenant Donatello, and you speak to me like that again, I’ll put you through that wall, understand?”

  “Is that so?” The man stepped to within a foot of Donatello. “A tin badge and a gun—you think you have power? You’ve got forty-eight hours to pony up, or else you’ll see real power! I’ll launch a tax investigation on the grounds you’ve been receiving illicit cash payments. I’ll freeze your bank accounts, seize your assets, and flush your life down the toilet, Lieutenant Donatello!”

  Donatello’s vision blurred as he reached forward, grabbed Castro’s lapels, and hoisted the little shit-weasel off his feet, shoving him into the
drywall behind him. “Threaten me again. Please!”

  Castro grabbed Donatello’s wrists and wrestled to loosen his grip. “You can’t touch me! I’m IRS! I’m so high up my ass gas smells better than you!”

  Donatello shifted his stance, keeping the man pinned with his left hand as he drew the .45 and pushed the barrel beneath the man’s jaw. “One more word!”

  The man chuckled. “Colby!”

  41. UNTOUCHABLE

  Wednesday, 8:02 a.m.

  “Can I come in, sir?” Donatello poked his head around the door.

  Inspector Wilkes looked up from the file he was reading, but his expression wasn’t the one Donatello was hoping for.

  “What is it?”

  Donatello stepped into the glass-fronted office and closed the door. “There’s been an incident this morning I think you should know about.”

  Wilkes flipped the file shut and placed his palms on the edge of the desk as if blocking Donatello.

  “What part of ‘you’re on your own’ did you have trouble understanding, Donatello?”

  “The part where an IRS agent turns up at my door at six forty-five a.m. threatens me, and then gives me Colby’s name when I stick a Colt 1911 under his chin, sir!”

  Wilkes leaned back in his chair. “And now you’re here. Do I look like the school principal?”

  “You don’t seem surprised?”

  “I told you Colby’s connected.”

  “So he was behind it.”

  Wilkes folded his arms. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Donatello. I said I liked you. I didn’t say I’d drown with you.”

  “Okay, it’s sink or swim, I get it. But are you going to turn the same blind eye when I have to resolve this myself?”

  “I didn’t say that, either.”

  “Then what are you saying, sir?”

  “I’m saying that if you know of a nuclear bunker, it would be wise to get inside it.”

  “That isn’t really an option.”

  Wilkes sighed and motioned to the chair next to Donatello. “You may as well sit down if you’re staying. Did you get his name—the one that visited you?”

  “Castro, sir.” Donatello lowered himself onto the chair.

  “His real name?”

  “The tax demands were real enough.”

  “Humph! That figures.”

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, other than that your life expectancy just got considerably shorter.”

  “They can’t just get rid of me. What about my rights, my union rep?”

  “You’re in way over your head, Don.”

  “Are you saying… wait, what are you saying, sir?”

  Wilkes rubbed his fingertip back and forth across his lips, his sharp eyes scanning Donatello’s face.

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve said more than I should already.”

  Donatello leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees. “Did Colby have anything to do with Jonah’s death?”

  Wilkes glanced through the glass behind Donatello to see if anyone was within earshot. “That I don’t know.”

  “But it would explain why he’s been riding my tail ever since.”

  “You were a thorn in Colby’s side.”

  “I wanted to see justice done for Jonah.”

  “A crooked cop.”

  “He was still a good cop.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the straight arrow I know.”

  Donatello sat back. “Considering what you told me a moment ago, sir, I’d say all lines just got blurred.”

  Wilkes glanced behind Donatello again. “Now, listen, none of this can go beyond these walls; you got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My guess right now is that you’ve just double-pissed Colby off, but if he thinks you’re onto him for real, it will be a bloodbath.”

  “A bloodbath?” Donatello folded his arms.

  “I’ve seen photos of him big-game hunting with known crime bosses. Just not convicted ones.”

  “What does that have to do with that IRS creep visiting me?”

  “Open your eyes, Donatello. Think of the investigative powers they have. They make us look like puppies, for chrissake.”

  “You’re telling me they’re connected?”

  “Damn it, Don, think like a cop! They built Washington on top of a swamp, and it’s still a swamp. The Nixon administration used the IRS to harass activist groups and political figures, and they aren’t the only ones that have done so. Remember how they brought down Al Capone? Tax evasion! The IRS has unlimited power, but organized crime has the muscle, and more money than Croesus, so connect the dots. No crime boss wants to go the way Capone did, and neither do the politicians, so they keep the enemy close.”

  “You’re saying organized crime controls the IRS?”

  “Even I wouldn’t go that far. But a few powerful rogues that can stop or start a tax investigation at the push of a button, sure! And who knows what else they do with all that power.”

  “If you know all this, sir, why is Colby still here?”

  “Because he can pull a handful of circuit court judges out of his jacksie, not to mention a busload of politicians, so, you need to run hard or get digging, fast.”

  “Colby?”

  “Donatello, trust me, unless you find a dead body and a smoking gun with Colby’s prints on it, he’s untouchable.”

  42. TARGET PRACTICE

  Wednesday, 10:42 a.m.

  Randall grimaced as he shifted his butt cheeks to keep his aching tailbone from touching the cushion.

  “Sir?”

  He looked up at the face of Clarissa’s replacement. “What?”

  “There’s a Captain Colby here to see you.”

  “I’m busy!”

  Colby pushed his 240 pounds of officious flab past the secretary and strode over to Randall’s desk. “I want a word with you!”

  “Come on in, Captain. Oh, look, you already did!”

  “I haven’t got time for your smart mouth, Cilcifus. Who do you think you are, sending your goons to my lieutenant’s home first thing this morning?”

  “You mean the police-brutality lieutenant that dragged me out of here in handcuffs and that you’ve been looking to get rid of since Jonah got exterminated?”

  “Don’t play clever; I know who gives the orders around here.”

  “How could you not, Captain? My resources always serviced you well until now.”

  “You’re saying Castro didn’t visit Donatello at dawn this morning?”

  “Oh, you mean Oswald!” Randall forced a smile. “Why didn’t you say so? Sure, I sent him to mess with your little lieutenant.”

  “Listen up, Cilcifus! You make my skin crawl, and the filthy scum working for you are worse than shit. So, back the fuck off, because if I even suspect you’re drawing attention to me, I will bring down a world of hurt on your head, capisce?”

  “Tut-tut, Captain, that sounded like a threat. How would you like me to make a few dozen videos of you and your political bum-chums performing abhorrent acts with minors to go viral, hm? No? I guessed not. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ve taxpayers to fleece.”

  “You filmed us, you sicko?” Colby hissed.

  “Insurance, Captain, and judging by the videos, I’m not the sick one!”

  “You’re a dead man walking.”

  “And you are a disgusting pedophile who’s about to become infamous, so get out of my office before I add an investigation for tax fraud to your list of woes.”

  Colby lunged forward, eyes bulging as his finger stopped an inch from Randall’s nose. “You’ve made an enemy of everyone that matters in this town!”

  “Tutti-bye, Captain. Don’t bump your planet-sized ass when you shut the door; there’s a good fellow.”

  Randall leaned forward, grimaced again, and hit the intercom as Colby stormed out. “Oswald, in here, now!”

  Moments later, Castro appeared. “Yeah, boss.” />
  “Guess who just tore me a new one?”

  Castro looked around like a village idiot. “Do I get a clue?”

  “You’ll get a smack upside the head, you stupid maggot! Colby already had a bug up his fat behind about us, and you’ve shoved the whole Hornet’s nest up there with it!”

  Castro flushed. “I was only doing what you told me to!”

  “Pull a file together and put pressure on, I said. Not turn up at sparrow’s fart to shake him down!”

  “But I figured that’s what you wanted.”

  “If I’d wanted you to have a thought, I’d have given it to you! Now, to make amends for the grief you’ve caused, you will do something for me.”

  Castro shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s that, Boss?”

  “Check the file on Fairweather. Find out which school his little bastards attend, take Snyderman with you tomorrow, and grab them going in, out, or on a break. Take your fake IDs, wear hats and shades, and keep your heads down—there’ll be CCTV.”

  “Why d’you want to take them when we’ve completed the order?”

  “It’s personal, Oswald.”

  “A vendetta’s what it is, and you’re putting us all at risk.”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Snyderman, I see.”

  Castro pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms. “No.”

  “No?” Randall raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s what I said. No.”

  “Do I detect an insurrection.”

  “You can detect all the erection you want. I’m not going on some fool’s errand because of your grudge.”

  Randall smoothed his cowlick, considering how best to deal with this new mutiny.

  “I understand, Oswald.”

  “Uh?”

  “After my little encounter the other night.” He fingered the tender skin around the scabs on his scalp. “It’s true my emotions have rather consumed me.”

  “Oh! Well, good. Can I go now?”

  “In a minute. You were also correct to call me on my, what was the word you used?”

  “Vendetta.”

  Randall bobbed his head. “That was it. My vendetta. So I’ve got a proposal. You do this for me, and convince Snyderman to go along, and I’ll give you ten grand from my share of the last shipment.”