Blood of a Boss II: The Streets Is Watching

by Askari

  Carmine Gervino, the new boss of The Gervino Crime Family, was seated at the head of his dinner table. His underboss, Alphonso Picatti, was seated at the other end of the table, and six of his capos were seated in between. After fifty two years of bad blood and hostility, Carmine had managed to do what his grandfather and uncle couldn’t. He crippled their enemy. At the young age of thirty three he was sharper than most, but to the older members of his Family, he had much to prove. Despite taking an oath of loyalty to his grandfather, Angolo Little Angolo Gervino, these old school gangsters resented the fact that Carmine was the new boss. They couldn’t have cared less about his bloodline. To them, he was nothing more than a snot nosed pretty boy and they openly despised Angolo for handing him the position.

  Carmine stood to his feet and looked around the table with a weird smile on his face. His black hair was slicked back, and his cold dark eyes were tucked behind his gold Versace frames. He knew that some of the older members of his Family were waiting for him to fail and that a few of them even wanted his spot. Tonight, however, their felonious aspirations would prove to be detrimental.

  “So this is the thing,” he addressed them in his thick Sicilian accent. He grabbed the bottle of champagne that was sitting in front of him, and held it up with his right hand as he continued speaking. “I wanna propose a toast to me and the new generation of this Family.”

  His capos looked at one another with smug expressions. Once again, their so called, Boss, was getting beside himself.

  “Awww, come on guys,” Carmine chuckled. “Why the funny faces?” He glanced at his Audemars Piguet. “In about six hours, a 38 count indictment is comin’ down, and the moulinyan that you old fucks couldn’t control is finally gettin’ his just due.”

  Luca Andolini, his sixty two year old capo from South Jersey was livid. His over tanned face became bright red and he couldn’t control his tongue. “The nerve of this fuckin’ kid,” he said to Junior Dillagio, the sixty year old capo of the 6th Street crew.

  Junior shook his head in contempt, and then looked up at Carmine. “What’s da matter wit’ you? This was supposed to be celebration ova here. Where’s your friggin’ manners?”

  “That’s right Junior. You tell him,” Tony Bruno, the capo of the 27th and Morris Street crew encouraged him.

  Carmine took a swig of his champagne, and then slowly walked around the table. When he approached Luca, he stopped walking and stood directly behind him. He placed his left hand on the old man’s shoulder, and then looked around the room. “You know what gentlemen, it’s time for a moment of truth.” He swung the champagne bottle and cracked Luca on the right side of his head.

  Crash!

  The bottom of the bottle shattered to pieces and Luca’s face slammed into the table.

  “Carmine!” Tony Clemetti, his capo from Camden, New Jersey shouted as he hopped up from the table. “What the hell are you doin’?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Carmine snapped. “You shut the fuck up and you watch!”

  He banged Luca’s face into the table, and repeatedly stabbed him in the neck with the rigid edge of the broken bottle.

  “Carmine, that’s enough!” Junior bellowed. “You’re gonna friggin’ kill him!”

  Carmine smirked at him, and then stabbed the old man once more, burying the broken bottle deep in his neck. Luca slid from his chair and fell to the floor. As he rolled around in pain, Alphonso stood to his feet and removed the black .10 millimeter that was tucked in the small of his back. He aimed the large barrel at Junior’s face and squeezed the trigger.

  Pow!

  The bullet ripped through the old man’s forehead and a bloody mist erupted from the back of his skull. He rocked backwards, and then slumped forward before melting to the floor.

  Carmine looked at his remaining four capos, wishing that one of them would make a move. His chest heaved up and down, and his nostrils flared like a bull. “You’s thought I wouldn’t find out about this shit? Thought you’s could go behind my back complainin’ to my fuckin’ grandfather? Well, here’s a fuckin’ news flash!” He reached inside of his suit jacket and removed the Colt .45 that was nestled in the small of his back. He looked down at Luca, who was still rolling around in pain. He aimed the nickel plated beauty at the old man’s face and fired.

  Boca! Boca! Boca! Boca!

  “If I ever—”

  Boca!

  “Hear some shit like this again—”

  Boca! Boca!

  “I’ll kill every last one of you motherfuckers!”

  Boca! Boca! Boca! Boca!

  “You’s got that?”

  Terrified, the four old men looked at him with pleading eyes, but neither one of them said a word.

  “Good,” Carmine continued in a calm voice. “Now, clean this shit up.”

  Chapter Three

  For the past twenty months, former Detective Adam Smith enjoyed the fact that he avoided prosecution for attempted murder and police corruption. The only thing that rubbed him the wrong way was that his downfall came at the hands of his own partner. He often thought of the night that he gunned down Sheed on the corner of 5th and Cumberland. Although it was nearly two years ago, the look of confusion that covered the young man’s face, still gave him an intoxicating feeling. He could still smell the gunpowder that hung in the air, and he vividly remembered the thoughts that ran through his mind at that very moment. His first thought was to shoot him in between the eyes, his second thought was to make a clean get away, and the third thought was wrapped around the money that Grip would pay him for eliminating one of his problems. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as he anticipated. As he hovered over Sheed, preparing to separate his soul from his body, he was blindsided by his own partner. After being shot in the leg and placed under arrest, he sold his soul to the devil and the price was cheap.

  As a result of being on Grip’s payroll for the past twenty years, he had more than enough information to put the old gangster behind bars for the rest of his life. He provided a signed statement that covered everything from tax evasion to murder. As a result, he was given immunity, with the condition that he testify before a federal grand jury. An hour ago, he received a phone call from U.S. Attorney, Andy Clavenski.

  According to Clavenski, his case against Grip and The Moreno Crime Family was going before the grand jury in the morning, and his testimony was needed.

  As he prepared to take a shower and get ready for bed, the incessant barking of his German Shepherd deterred his plans. Irritated, he stuck his head out the bedroom window, and shouted at the large K9.

  “Goddamnit Wolfy! Wouldja knock it off!”

  Roof! Roof! Roof!

  “You’re not comin’ in the house, so don’t even think about it! Now, shut the hell up, and go to sleep!”

  Roof! Roof! Roof! Roof!

  “Wolfy, I swear to Christ if you make me come down there I’m gonna kick the shit outta ya! Now, knock it off!”

  Roof! Roof! Roof!

  “Alright!” he continued his rant, and then threw on his bathrobe and a pair of house shoes. “You asked for it!”

  He ran down the stairs and darted out the back door, only to find that Wolfy was still barking.

  “Goddamnit Wolfy! Just what in the hell are you barking at?” he questioned, realizing that the dog was desperately trying to break his leash and get to the shed on the other side of the yard. Smitty looked at the shed, but the only thing he saw was a stray cat running away at top speed. He returned his gaze to the large German Shepherd.

  “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me! All of this fuss over a friggin’ cat?” He shook his head from side to side, and then burst out laughing. “I swear to Christ, if you weren’t the only family that I had left, I’d chop you to pieces, and sell you to a Korean restaurant.” He patted Wolfy on the head and smiled at him. “Now, settle down and go to sleep. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.”

  As he turned around and headed toward the house, the bone chilling sound of Wolfy shrieking
in pain stopped him in his tracks.

  Urn!

  He spun around and couldn’t believe his eyes. Wolfy was laying on his side and a Bowie knife was protruding from his neck. On instinct, he reached for the .38 that usually occupied his waist, only to discover that the gun wasn’t there.

  “Goddamnit!” He cursed himself for leaving the house without his pistol. A mountain of fear permeated his heart, and his body began to shiver. “W—W—Who’s there?” He stuttered while frantically looking around the back yard. “I—I—I’m a cop, and I’ll lock your ass up!”

  A dark figure emerged from behind the shed and slowly walked toward him. Whoever it was, they were dressed in all black, and their face was covered with a ski mask.

  “Y—Y—You stay right there, and don’t take another step!” He turned around, attempting to run, but a Louisville Slugger crashed into the side of his head.

  Whack!

  He stumbled backwards and another blow landed across his back.

  Whack!

  He fell to the ground and curled up in a ball. Another blow crashed into the back of his head and everything went black.

  Approximately fifteen minutes later, he was awakened by the warm sensation of a tongue massaging his dick. He looked in between his thighs, and was surprised to see a beautiful Spanish woman going up and down on his shaft. He tried to push her away, but he couldn’t move. His naked body was strapped to his dining room chair, and his hands were tied behind his back. He his head was throbbing and warm blood trickled down the right side of his face.

  “W—W—What the hell is going on? What are you doing to me?”

  Murder lifted her head, and made a slurping noise as she released his four inch dick. “Ay yi yi,” she smiled at him seductively. “Take it easy papi. My boss will be wit ju in a minute.”

  “Your boss?” he shouted at her. “Who the hell is your boss? And what the fuck does he want with me?”

  Murder smiled at him and stood to her feet. She kissed him on the forehead, and then walked toward the kitchen where Malice was standing at the stove boiling a pot of water.

  “Goddamnit! Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on? If it’s money you want, you can have it! I’ve got a quarter mil’ stashed away, and if you let me go it’s all yours!” He pleaded while desperately trying to free himself from the chair.

  After a thirty second struggle, he calmed down and searched his mind for answers. He quickly put two and two together, and the image of an old, light skinned man with piercing blue eyes and a salt and pepper beard invaded his thoughts, Grip!

  No sooner than he came to this dreadful conclusion, the front door opened, and Grip strolled into the house as if he paid the mortgage. He was dressed in a white Prada button up, beige Prada slacks, and a pair of brown, wing tipped Alligator shoes. A mocha colored Kiton topcoat was draped over his shoulders, and his brown Fedora was slightly cocked to the right. He closed the door behind him, and then walked over to Smitty.

  Smitty bucked back and forth, but he couldn’t break free. He looked at Grip and began to cry.

  “M—M—Mr. Moreno! T—T—They had me by the balls!”

  Grip towered over top of him, and looked at him with a blank expression. In his deep voice, he said, “Now, you know I’m disappointed in you, right?”

  “J—J—Just gimmie some time to make it right!” Smitty pleaded with him. “I promise you, Mr. Moreno, I can make this shit go away!”

  “Oh, is that right?” Grip shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with the diamond ring on his right pinky. “And how the fuck do you plan on doin’ that?”

  “All they have is me. If I recant my statement and refuse to testify, they’ll never secure an indictment.”

  Grip reached inside of his Prada slacks and pulled out a Cohiba cigar and a gold cigar cutter. After clipping off the ends of the stogie, he held it to his nose, and inhaled the sweet tobacco scent.

  “So, let’s get this straight,” he said while placing the cigar in his mouth. “You said they had you by the balls, huh?”

  Smitty nodded his head fervently. “They left me no choice, Mr. Moreno. I didn’t wanna do it, but those cocksuckers in the DEA’s office, they made me.”

  Grip nodded his head as if he understood Smitty’s position, then in the blink of an eye he swooped down and grabbed his shriveled up dick.

  “Oh my God! W—W—What are you doing?” Smitty bitched up.

  “Didn’t yo’ funky ass just tell me that they had you by the balls?” Grip snarled. He placed the head of Smitty’s dick through the hole in the cigar cutter, and added a little pressure. “Well, now I got you by the dick!”

  “Please, don’t do this, Mr. Moreno! I’m begging you!”

  Snip!

  “Aaaggghhhh!” Smitty screamed in pain as the head of his dick fell to the carpet, and blood decorated his thighs. He looked at his decapitated penis and began to shiver. The gory sight, coupled with the excruciating pain, made him pass out.

  After releasing the grasp that he had around Smitty’s shriveled up dick, Grip reached inside of his back pocket, and pulled out a white handkerchief. He wiped the blood away from his hand, and then reached inside of his coat pocket and pulled out his gold lighter. He held the blue flame to the tip of his cigar, and a cloud of smoke quickly appeared in front of his face. “Murder! Malice!” he called for his beautiful enforcers. “It’s about that time!”

  A couple of seconds later, they emerged from the kitchen with Malice leading the way. She was carrying the pot of boiled water, and the liquid was so hot that beads of sweat trickled down her light brown face. As they approached Smitty’s naked body, Murder smacked him in the face with the back of her hand.

  Whack!

  He regained consciousness and looked at her skeptically.

  “Ahn ahn papi,” she waved her index finger in front of his face. “No sleeping! De best is yet to come.”

  Smitty shook away his dizziness, and then looked at Malice. For a split second, he wondered why she was holding a pot of boiling water, and then reality set in.

  “Oh my God!” he cried out. “For the love of Christ, I’m begging you! Don’t do this!”

  Splash!

  “Aaaggggghhhhh! Somebody wake me up from this fucking dream!” His pale white skin turned beet red, and starting at the top of his head, it slid down his face like melted cheese on a hot pizza. As he continued to scream, he bucked so hard that the chair tipped over and he crashed to the floor.

  Grip looked at him and flexed his jaw muscles. He knew that this day was coming, and now that it was finally here, he refused to waste any more time. He looked at Murder and slightly nodded his head. Without an ounce of hesitation, she pulled a .357 Magnum from her Birkin bag, and aimed it at Smitty’s forehead.

  Boom!

  Chapter Four

  The Following Morning…

  At the federal building on 6th and Arch, Clavenski was staring at his Cartier watch, and nervously tapping his ink pen against his desktop. It was l0:00 a.m., and former detective Adam Smith had yet to arrive at his office. He was scheduled to appear before Judge Johnson and a federal grand jury over an hour ago, but so far his star witness was a no show. After persuading Judge Johnson to grant him a two hour recess, he sent DEA Agent Terry Long to Smitty’s South Philly residence, and with ten minutes left on the clock, he still didn’t have his witness.

  “Goddamnit Terry, where the hell are you?” he asked himself while subconsciously fiddling with his Purple Label necktie.

  Just as he was about to call it quits and prepare himself for the embarrassment of standing before the court unprepared, his Blackberry vibrated on the desktop. He picked it up and saw that the caller was Agent Long.

  “Terry where the hell are you? Please tell me that you’ve located Smith, and that the two of you are just now pulling into the parking lot.”

  “I wish that was the case, but it’s not,” Agent Long sighed. “Me and Monica are standing in front of Smitty’s house, and t
he crime scene unit won’t let us back inside.”

  “Crime scene unit? What the hell are you talking about, Terry?”

  “I’m talking about Smitty. We found him about forty five minutes ago. I should’ve called you sooner, but…”

  “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me!” Clavenski rudely interrupted him. “Goddamnit! I knew we should’ve put him in witness protection!” he continued shouting, and then banged his fist on the desktop. “Do you realize how bad this is? He was all we had, Terry!”

  “You’re absolutely right, Andy,” Agent Long admitted, “but we can still build a case against The Moreno Family. All we gotta do is redirect our investigation. Let’s shake a few trees, and see what we can come up with. For now, I just need you to have a little patience”

  “Patience? Really Terry? You want me to have patience. Fuck patience! I want Gervin Moreno! Do you hear me Terry? You bring me Moreno!”

  Click!

  ***

  In North Philly

  Pooky was inside of his trap house on Delhi Street. He was weighing cocaine in denominations of four and a half ounces, and packaging the work in sandwich bags. As he sat at the dining room table with his eyes glued to a digital scale, he felt the energy of someone else in the room. He looked up and noticed that Heemy, the seventeen year old son of the crack whore who owned the house was standing on the other side of the room with an aluminum baseball bat clutched in his right hand. The young man was scowling at him with a burning rage, and his body language exuded hostility. He was sick and tired of Pooky taking advantage of his mother’s addiction. Crack head or not, she was still his mother, and he was determined to keep dudes like Pooky away from her.

  Pooky looked at him and started laughing. “Yo Heemy, you better put down that mutha’fuckin’ bat, and go play somewhere.”

  Heemy didn’t budge. Instead, he gripped the bat with both of his hands and casually closed the distance between Pooky and himself.

  Pooky got up from his seat, and removed the titanium .38 that was tucked in his shoulder holster. “Let’s try this again. If you don’t put down that bat and go play some damn where, I’ma clap ya lil’ ass!”