by Aaron Cohen
“I really don’t see the need for violence,” Cecil says while safe on the opposite side of the gate.
“Just let us go on our way,” Luke says, hands in front of him, trying to show he’s calm.
“You will wait here until the police arrive.”
“Just let me make sure my friend isn’t hurt.”
“Medical assistance will be rendered as required.”
“To you maybe,” Artie says and springs off the ground, his fist shooting toward the guard’s crotch.
Even though he has come to hate the guard, just the idea of a cock punch from a burly midget makes Luke wince with sympathy.
Artie’s fist lands but instead of a resulting in a soft thud and a guard groaning in pain, which is what Artie had come to expect after years of cock punching people, there is instead a hard knock. Artie’s fist has hit something hard.
The guard looks down at him. “Kevlar cup,” he says.
The guard pulls back his left hand and then lets fly with a back-handed slap so hard that Artie leaves his feet and flies for a second.
“Now really, was that needed?” Cecil says and ducks underneath the traffic gate. He holds his hands up to show he means no aggression. He wants to be friends, for everyone to calm down before someone gets really hurt.
“Sir, I suggest you go to the other side of gate,” the guard says.
Cecil extends his hand for shake, a smile on his face.
“I congratulate you on your passion for your work,” Cecil says. “Let us collect our friend and we’ll be on our way.”
The guard grabs Cecil’s wrist, twists it violently, forcing Cecil to spin around and drop to his knees.
“Owwww! Geezus H Christ what the hell is the matter with you!” Cecil yells in a voice forged in the bowels of Newark, New Jersey.
The guard pushes up and there is a loud pop when Cecil’s shoulder dislocates.
He screams in anguish, dropping to the ground.
“My arm! You pulled my arm off!” he screams.
Luke has had enough. He advances with his left arm up, ready to block the iron rod, and his right fist cocked, ready to knock this motherfucker out.
Without seeming to even think about it, the guard goes low, swinging the rod in a swooping arch, making contact with the side of Luke’s right knee, which immediately buckles.
Luke drops to his hands and knees, re-evaluating his decisions, something he has been doing a lot of lately. Maybe the landscaping business isn’t so bad.
He gets a look at the toe and laces of the black, steel-toed, polished combat boot before it connects with his nose. There is an explosion of pain and fireworks go off in front of his eyes…red, yellow and blue.
He’s now looking up at the sky, and can’t quite figure out why he’s on his back. Wasn’t he just on his hands and knees? Everything seems slow and fuzzy. So hard to think. Why is the world spinning?
The guard stands over him, filling Luke’s vision. From this angle, the guard looks like a giant, like a giant with a thin, iron rod in his hand.
“You must stop resisting and follow instructions,” the guard says.
He lifts the iron rod to the sky, as if he’s about to take a golf stoke with it. Luke realizes his head is where the ball would be. This is going to hurt.
The guard smiles, breaking his military bearing for the first time. The bastard is having fun, probably the most fun he’s had since he left whatever war zone he ruled over.
The rod begins to drop. Luke wonders what hospital they’ll be taking him to. He closes his eyes.
“Back the fuck off,” shouts a gravelly voice.
Luke opens his eyes. He’s still conscious. The guard is looking forward at something, the rod still in the sky, not descending.
“I said, get your goddamn grunt ass back into your fucking rent-a-cop shack,” says the voice.
“Yes sir,” says the guard. He steps away.
Luke sees sky and then sees a graying old man with a goatee and wearing a red velvet track suit. The guy has some years on him, but is definitely keeping in shape.
“I’m Ben Costa,” he says. “What can I do for you?”
“Are you Ben Two-Cans?” Luke asks.
“Been a long time since I’ve been called that. It’s hot out here. You want to come inside or lie out here bleeding all over the asphalt?”
Chapter Nine
Ben sits in a huge black leather recliner, as big as throne. His home’s cathedral ceilings make the place feel open, airy, and majestic. Light from dozens of windows illuminates an elegant space filled with rustic Tuscan furniture on a faded pink tile floor.
It is exactly how Luke imagines a well-to-do family in ancient Italy would live, in a home at once impressive, yet simple and comfortable, full of light and warmth.
Luke’s nose is filled with cotton balls soaked red with blood.
Artie, tucked into an easy chair, has a bag of frozen peas pressed to his face, soothing the scrapes caused from bouncing on the pavement.
Cecil got the worst of it, a dislocated shoulder. He sits on the floor. Luke stands over him, a firm grasp on Cecil’s extended right arm. Luke is about to jam it back into its socket. Cecil looks up with pleading, pathetic eyes.
“This is going to hurt, but only for a second,” Luke says.
“Perhaps, we don’t have to do this, though thank you for your kindness, perhaps it will move back into its socket on its own accord, I was thinking…”
Luke lifts Cecil’s arm and then pushes down violently with all his weight. POP!
“Arrrrrgh! Geezo H. Balls and Cock!” Cecil yells like a teamster from Newark, two tears running down his cheeks. He takes in two big, slow breaths, opens his eyes, and is back to being Sir Cecil with the royal accent. “Good lad, I think that did the trick. Cheers.”
As much as his nose hurts and his knee aches, Luke has to work to push down his excitement. He is in the presence of an actual made man, a leader of The Organization, someone who made a name for himself by living outside the law.
Luke takes a bag of frozen blueberries from the coffee table and applies them to his aching nose. He falls back into a big fluffy couch. He’s a little woozy.
“I don’t think your nose is broken, not enough swelling,” Ben says. “No permanent damage. Don’t worry, handsome, the girls will still like you.”
Artie whistles with relief and says, “Hey, that’s good news. Could have been worse!”
Luke looks at Artie and thinks about shoving the bag of peas down his throat. But instead he settles for giving him a “shut the fuck up” look.
“So you’re Luke Cielogirello,” Ben says.
“I am.”
“Your name used to mean something in this town.”
“Cielogirello? It doesn’t mean anything these days. I mow lawns.”
“Owen ever tell you about your father?”
“Just that he was a big deal once, then skipped town three days after I was born. Something about his enemies catching up to him.”
“I knew your father.”
“You knew him?”
“He was a good man.”
“He left me stranded here.”
“That is a simple and small version of a complex story. Your uncle has kept you from the truth. And for good reason. Some knowledge is dangerous.”
“He left me, left me and didn’t look back. I’m telling you, my dad was a…”
Ben lifts his hand and gives him a stern glare. Luke goes quiet.
“There are good reasons you don’t know anything about your father. I can’t tell you much. He used to be my friend.”
“Andrew Cielogirello. You’re talking about my dad, Andrew Cielogirello.
“That’s the man. He is dead now.”
“Who killed him?”
“He was killed by a guy with no respect for The Code, a guy who sold out and betrayed us all.”
“Who?”
“You know, your father gave me something that I think you s
hould have.”
“What?”
“One moment. Let me get it.”
Ben stands and goes to a polished, wooden box sitting within a huge set of wooden book cases. He opens the lid and takes out a gleaming pair of brass knuckles.
“This is a weapon from a different time, elegant, brutal, and still effective,” Ben says. “It’s a weapon to settle arguments with, but not to kill. You can make a point with a set of brass knuckles, but everyone lives when the argument is over, most of the time. It is a weapon of The Code.”
Ben hands the brass knuckles to Luke, who stares at them with wide, amazed eyes. He holds an object seen only in movies, a mythical device, a tool used by The Organization. It is also the first and last gift from his father.
He slides his four fingers into metal holes, his palm wrapping around the cold brass core. The thing weighs about two pounds. He closes his fist and feels like hitting someone just to see what happens. He feels like he could knock out an elephant.
“The Code is what we all live by, whether we realize it or not,” says Ben. “While governments and religions tell us how we should live, The Code recognizes the reality. Those knuckles serve one portion of The Code.”
Luke has tried to find out about The Code for years, but always came up empty, no matter how much Googling he did. He can’t believe this old guy is about to tell him all about it, the old guy who knew his father, and knew who killed him.
“What is The Code?” Luke asks, flexing his fist around the knuckles.
“It’s a way of living, a point of view, a way of doing business. The Code is based on the idea that all men are ruled by three things: Greed, lust and fear. Using The Code, you can gain power, wealth, pussy, and anything else you want. The knuckles are used to cause fear, but you can also get what you want if you pay a man, or get him laid.”
“You make men sound like selfish douches. What about the men who do good by others, who sacrifice to make the world a better place?”
“That’s just a different kind of greed, the greed of feeling useful, of feeling good about yourself, the power that comes from being seen as a savior. All greed isn’t about money. It’s about satisfying whatever need you have within you. The truth is we are all working for our vices, no matter what those vices are.”
Luke pauses, thinks for a second. Too many questions. What did he need to know right now?
“Who killed my father?”
“Another guy I used to know, a former friend, but he went the wrong way, betrayed The Code. A man named David Vaddio.”
Artie whistles out of surprise.
“David Vaddio has been trying to keep us from getting you a message,” Artie says.
“Message? Well then, let’s hear it.”
“It’s on this data stick.”
Artie holds it up, a little thing the size of two sticks of gum.
***
Uncle Owen and Aunt Beri sit at their dining room table and ponder what to do with Luke.
“You can’t keep him here forever, Owen,” she says. “You know that.”
“How am I supposed to run the business without him?” he asks. “Why does he need something more than this? He’s paid well. He lives for free. In a few years, I’ll retire and he can have the whole damn thing. What’s so bad about that?”
“Did you want to mow lawns for a living when you were his age?”
“It is not just lawn mowing. It’s desert landscaping.”
“Everything a young man dreams of, moving rocks into attractive arrangements.”
“Point taken. But still. He owes us. Damn it, he does and his father does too.”
“The boy will find his own path.”
“You see it every once in a while, that craziness his father had. The wild energy, the need to be something, but not sure what.”
“Oh nonsense. Luke is nothing like his father, never hurt a fly. His entire life he’s been a caretaker, a builder, a creator. He will do something special. I know it.”
“You forgot man-whore.”
“Will that Cecil person be coming back? He’s a charming man. What area of England do you suppose he’s from?”
“Newark I’m guessing.”
“There’s a Newark in England?”
“No, there is not.”
Chapter Ten
Luke, Cecil, Artie and Ben are gathered around Ben’s computer, Artie’s memory stick in the USB port.
“Alright then, let’s see why you chose to endure such a thorough ass kicking,” Ben says.
Ben slides the mouse around, selects the video and presses play.
Leanne’s pretty face fills the computer screen.
“Hi Ben,” she says. “We got it. It was expensive, but we got it. On this data stick is what you need to bring down David. It’s worth a billion dollars, so be careful. Take it to our friends. And hurry, we are running out of time. Ben Two-Cans, you are our only fucking hope.”
The video ends and the screen goes to black.
Artie whistles, going from high to low, a bit of dread in the sound.
“Who is she talking about,” Luke asks. “Who are your friends?”
“Her father and a few other friends who are working to stop David,” Ben says. “Care to head out to my second favorite strip club?”
“Strip club?” Cecil asks. “Which one? Ragtime? Leave it to the Beavers? The Bush Company? Slippery Nipples?”
“The Booby Hatch,” Ben says.
“One of my favorites,” Cecil says.
“Care to meet a few real, live members of The Organization, Luke?” Ben asks.
“I want to, but my uncle will be pissed,” Luke says. “We’ve got three crews heading out early tomorrow morning and one of them is brand new.”
“Come on, Luke!” Artie says. “You’ve taken us this far, you should go all the way. Don’t you want to meet Leanne?”
“It’s my family’s business, and it is important,” Luke says.
“That’s your uncle talking,” Ben says.
“Let me give him a call,” Luke says. “I’ll let him know I’ll be home late.”
***
The executive conference room of The Dark Star Resort, Casino and Pleasure Spa cost more to decorate than it takes to build most hotels.
The most expensive video and sound system possible, speakers made in Germany, carved from illegally imported Madagascar ebony, tuned and balanced by a living descendant of Wagner. Extreme-high-res 3D video screens developed in a secret Japanese lab working on reality simulation rooms, something Empire Gaming is heavily investing in, in the hopes that entertainment and pleasure can be delivered by computers instead of humans, which are expensive and need constant care.
A round black marble table dominates the room, carved from an asteroid found at the center of a massive crater in remote Siberia. You could park two cars on top of the thing. So black it doesn’t look like matter but anti-matter, a hole full of inky depth that looks like you could dive into it. Tiny chips of mica and quartz make it look filled with stars.
Around the table are the most advanced and (in theory) comfortable chairs in the world. (In truth, most executives never figure out the dozen knobs and levers that shape the chair to the perfect form for the sitter. So they sit in upright stiffness, not wanting to be the first one to ask the embarrassing question, “How do these chairs work?”)
On every wall are paintings worth uncountable millions, a Picasso, a Rembrandt, a Warhol, a Van Gogh, a Pollock, and a Renoir. Alongside those, one painting would fetch maybe $25 on EBay, a grainy, primitive portrait done in grays, blacks and dark reds. It shows a man with a sword climbing a mountain. He’s about half way up, and looks determined even though the rest of his climb looks impossibly steep. At the bottom of the mountain are the bodies of other men, the swords and shields they once carried lying beside them. It’s not clear what killed them. Did they fall down the mountain? Or did the only living person in the painting slay them, the man now halfway up the mountain? O
nly David Vaddio knows, as he is the artist, and the designer of this room.
Around the table sit David’s team, the nine men and one woman guiding Empire Gaming to become the greatest entertainment company ever (at least that’s what the company mission statement says). They fancy themselves generals, commanding vast resources and revenue. They guide a company built to give people exactly what they want (no matter how socially unacceptable), exactly how they want it, at the highest possible price. And better yet, they make people feel good about what they truly want because they wrap it in a package of class, distinction and good humor. They take the guilt out of vice, coat it in chocolate and feed it to their customers with a golden spoon.
They sit within the heart of what will be the new corporate headquarters, The Dark Star, located about 20 minutes from the Las Vegas strip. With 10,000 rooms, it will be the biggest, most expensive, most lavish resort ever built. But its size is not what will justify the cost of the $5 billion enterprise, not what will bring billionaires who will drop millions of dollars in the span of a single weekend. It will be the services that it offers, extremely special services.
A meeting is underway, but getting nowhere because David hasn’t arrived yet. The executive staff tends to squabble a bit when left to their own devices. In his office, David listens to the petty arguments though listening devices planted throughout the conference room. The idiots have no idea they are being listened to.
“Until we officially open, we are vulnerable and the $5 billion it is taking to build this place is at risk,” says Larry Mott, executive vice president of operations, the guy in charge of making sure the money, licenses, government approvals and staffing are in place. In other words, he could take the blame if anything goes wrong with the on-time opening. “The unions, the environmentalists, the liberals, feminists, the religious right, the political bloggers on both sides, even what’s left of The Organization …they could all stand against us, and if they do, they will be dangerous.”
“Dangerous only if they ever decide to agree on something, but they won’t,” says Dwight Taggart, COO of Empire Resorts, the guy who runs the worldwide business and who has learned not to stress over the small stuff. “They hate each other. Give them knives and they will slaughter each other. Eventually, someone will say the word ‘abortion’ and they will start squabbling and screeching at each other. Or better yet, ‘Gay Marriage Legalization.’ Those three words will have them fighting it out for a year or more, while we quietly get our agenda passed in the legislature.”