by Dan Ames
Loreli grabbed Ted by the front of his shirt. “Where is Liam?”
“Dexter took him to scare me,” he said, his eyes pinched shut. “Don't worry. I‘ll get him his five grand. All I need…”
Before he could finish the sentence, Loreli slapped him. The blow rang out in the quiet of the room. Ted’s head snapped back, then lolled to the side. She stepped back and drove a fist into the middle of his face. Blood poured from his nose. Loreli raked her nails across Ted’s face, her teeth grinding so hard she felt a small piece break off in her mouth. She spit it out, then grabbed a handful of Ted’s hair with her left hand and smashed her right fist into his mouth. His lips split and blood gushed from his mouth.
Loreli turned and ran from the house, her car keys in hand.
Behind her, Ted’s head sunk to his chest.
FOUR
“I’m not happy with you,” Vincenzo Romano said to the doctor. It was the tone of voice that he’d used to scare his enemies into submission, or to keep his lieutenants in line. The doctor, a talented oncologist and surgeon and a normally supremely self-confident man, suddenly felt unnerved.
“The procedure…” the doctor began.
“Was nothing like you’d said it would be,” Romano interrupted. “I distinctly recall you saying things like, ‘minor pain,’ and ‘inconvenience.’ What I’m feeling isn’t minor and it’s a hell of a lot more than inconvenient.”
“There was significantly more bleeding than we’d expected,” the doctor said, his voice softer and lacking the assertiveness most of his patients experienced. Patient Romano was special. They didn’t teach him that in medical school. It was a skill handed down through the ages; it was called survival instinct.
“I’m very sorry if you’re in pain, we’ll get you on the proper medication and make sure your recovery is smooth and as free of pain as possible.”
Romano looked at the doctor, then softened his gaze. He wasn’t used to another man hurting him. The few who had were now at the bottom of the Detroit River. The doctor had done his job, if the procedure had a few difficulties, he would let it go. He wasn’t about to whack the guy. Besides, the most important job the doctor had was ongoing: no one was to find out what kind of procedure the head of the Detroit mafia had received.
A mastectomy.
Romano pictured himself at a rally, surrounded by women all with their arms around each other singing folk songs. And there he’d be, ol’ half-tit Romano, legendary crime boss now emblazoned with his new moniker: breast cancer survivor.
“Let me talk to you about maintenance,” the doctor said. Ordinarily, Romano would have an underling here to take notes. But everyone had been led to believe that he was in Vegas. Gloria knew, but that was it. And that’s the way it would stay. A thing like this could undermine his reputation and in his business, a reputation was sometimes more important than what you actually did. When he’d found the lump more than two months ago, he hadn’t thought twice. In fact, it had become a nervous tic, in meetings or on the phone, he’d found himself gently caressing his left breast. Finally, at his annual check-up, he’d mentioned it to the doctor.
In no time, he was under the knife.
“So we’ll expect to see you back in a week, Mr. Romano.”
An hour later, he was discharged and in a cab, headed for home.
•
Romano sat stiffly in the big leather chair in the living room, his eyes staring straight ahead. His face, usually splashed with color and an underlying ruddiness, was now pale and wan. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out along his forehead.
Nick Falcone walked into the room with the hesitancy of a dog caught stealing the master’s shoe.
“How you doin’, boss?” he asked.
"Shut up Nick."
His voice was thick. His words came out soft but harsh. The doctor had told him that he had to take it easy for a few days. Rest. Relax. Try not to get upset over the fact that his left breast had been completely removed. Sure doc, he thought, ol' Don Half-Tit was going to just relax. Romano stared at Nick Falcone. He felt the black rage rise within him, the kind that doesn't heed the advice of doctors and significant others.
“What the hell were you thinking, Nick?” Romano said.
"Boss," Nick began, but Romano cut him off.
“We got a million bakeries in Grosse Pointe! We are the goddamn bakery capital of the free world. We got scones and éclairs and bagels and donuts and every other kind of baked good coming out our asses."
"I know, Boss, but-"
"Then why in the name of God would you let Tommy Abrocci talk you into driving all the way out to Birmingham for some goddamn scones? Are you insane? Have you completely lost the ability to think for yourself?”
"But he said Mrs. Romano-"
"Nick." Romano's voice was low and even. "This is what they call a rhetorical question. Don't bother making excuses. Mr.-drive-to-Birmingham-for-scones-so-Tommy-Abrocci-can-rip-me-off."
Falcone opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it closed just as Gloria walked into the room.
She had on blue jeans with a black belt and black leather shoes. A magenta blouse clung to her body, revealing her flat stomach and large, firm breasts. Her face was a true Italian beauty with olive skin, full lips, luscious brown eyes and black hair.
Romano contemplated his wife. They’d met through their families. Her father had owned a fine food grocery store that catered to all the Mob – or the Combination as it was called locally – functions. He’d met her when he was still a young man, had asked her to dance, and six months later they were married. That was nearly fifteen years ago.
He still desired her, but the feeling was faint and faraway. The doctor had told him that his hormones would be all over the place following the surgery and that his emotions might be up and down. He felt that way, but looking at Gloria, he felt calmed, the black rage passed from his body. Even though he had several mistresses and his marriage had become a joint figurehead, he could still admire her beauty. Even as she aged, Gloria didn’t become more beautiful, it was just that her beauty was different. More refined. More statuesque. More about the form of her face, the shape of her eyes than the youthful glow of her skin.
His ruminating was interrupted by the sight of the small bandage on the side of her forehead, slightly buried beneath the rich black hair. The inner peace he’d felt turned out to be fleeting. The rage came back. Tommy Abrocci cold-cocking his wife in his den, stealing his money. The bastard had to die.
The doctor had checked out Gloria. She needed rest and plenty of Tylenol.
Other than that, she would be fine.
Romano knew that Gloria had wanted to come to the hospital, to be there when he got out of surgery, but he'd vetoed the idea. Only a handful of people knew why he was at the hospital: himself, Gloria, the doctor, the surgeon and a few nurses. Romano had every intention of keeping it that way.
"Do you want anything?" Gloria said. "Tea? Espresso?"
Romano shook his head.
"How are you?" she asked. She sat on the arm of the club chair – his favorite because it faced Lake St. Claire and was close to the fireplace.
"I'll be a lot better when I find Tommy Abrocci. He didn't hurt you, right?" He reached out and stroked her back. She didn’t respond to his touch. Hadn’t for a long time. He felt a wave of sadness but pushed it aside. It was too late for all that.
Romano could see that she was hurt he'd put it in that order. He realized, after the fact, that he'd put her second in the equation, that a normal husband would first ask about his wife, then express the need to find the man who'd ripped him off. But he’d spent all his life putting business before everything. He wasn’t about to change.
He was just surprised that it still seemed to matter to Gloria.
"I'm fine," she said. "A little-"
"Boss," Nick Falcone said. "We're ready for you."
Romano heaved himself from the chair, winced at the pain that seemed to sting
his chest.
Gloria didn’t wait, just stood and walked from the room. He followed and was almost through the doorway when he realized that Gloria had been saying something.
He was about to ask her, but she was already gone.
Too late.
He kept going.
FIVE
In Romano’s study, Nick Falcone slid back the oak panel of the entertainment center to reveal the flat-screen plasma television located behind it. He picked up the remotes and pressed buttons until the tape began to play.
Romano stood in front of the unit, not bothering to sit down. It wasn’t worth the pain. He slid his hands into his pockets and glowered at the television.
The footage was shot from the overhead security camera located in the corner of the office. The image was black-and-white, and showed Tommy Abrocci with a gun pointed at Gloria's head. It showed Tommy going to the safe, getting the money, then putting the gun to Gloria's head. Their mouths moved, then Tommy smashed the gun against Gloria's head. The room was silent as Romano and Falcone watched Gloria slide from the chair and collapse onto the floor.
Romano felt the black rage rise within him again. "Bastard," he said softly.
Falcone fast forwarded until Gloria attempted to regain consciousness. She slumped forward, moved a little bit, then sagged back down onto the carpet.
"That's all there is," he said.
"It's enough," Romano said. He looked out the window, saw the thick branches of the massive cottonwood tree swaying gently in the wind. In the sky, a few stars twinkled and he could just make out the half-moon hanging in the sky.
"Let me think," Romano said.
Falcone left without a word, closed the thick oak doors behind him. Romano walked to his desk. It was a sprawling oak job with a smoothly polished surface. Nearly ten feet wide, the beast had to weigh a few hundred pounds. A phone, unused for years, sat on the edge. In the center, sat his cell phone.
Romano sat in the leather chair behind the desk, winced at the pain that spiderwebbed across his chest. There was just no fucking way to sit or stand without it hurting. Christ, this was awful. He thought again of how the doctor had minimized the procedure. He ought to break the idiot’s hands.
Romano drummed his thick fingers on the glass-like surface of the desk.
What would make Tommy suddenly decide to rip him off? What would motivate a man to sign his own death warrant? Romano was worried. He’d known Tommy for a long time. Their fathers had been friends. Tommy had been a loyal soldier. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. But Tommy was loyal and mean. More than willing to dispense violence as he, Romano, saw fit.
Romano didn’t like what he was thinking. Had the Feds gotten to Tommy? If so, had they sanctioned the robbery? Or had Tommy gotten into some kind of financial trouble? That wouldn’t be it. You couldn’t pay your debts off if you were dead.
He had a pretty good idea what Tommy was up to, but needed to receive a phone call to be absolutely sure. That phone call would also tell him where he needed to send the solution he had in mind.
The problem, as he saw it, was that if he wasn't able to act quickly enough after he got the phone call, he could be in some serious, serious trouble.
He had to lay the groundwork now.
Then, once he got the call, he could implement the solution immediately. It would be a rush job, no two ways about it. Romano didn't like rush jobs, too many things went wrong. Shit, things went wrong on the most well-planned jobs. But sometimes rush jobs were a necessary risk. And taking this risk was absolutely necessary.
Romano picked up the cell phone.
It was time to bring in Jack Cleveland.
SIX
Tommy Abrocci sipped from his cup of coffee in the back corner of the Java House in Ann Arbor. It was one of those ultra-trendy places, just a few blocks from the University of Michigan.
The coffee was good stuff. The Colombians didn't know shit about what it took to operate in America. But they could make some mean coffee. He sipped again, savored the rich, full-bodied flavor. As good as it was, in Tommy's mind it didn't come close to some strong Italian espresso. Now that was some powerful shit. The kind that could have you heart doing an up-tempo bass line in minutes flat. Tommy smeared a thick layer of butter on his croissant and stuffed half of it into his mouth. The thick, flaky crust melted in his mouth. Tommy momentarily closed his eyes as the flavor spread over his tongue, through his palate. Tommy felt good. No, check that. He felt better than good. He felt downright great. He had parked his sweet ass directly on top of the world, and he was planning on sitting there for a long, long time.
He’d made the drive out of Detroit in good time. Although the small city of Ann Arbor was only forty-five minutes from Motown, it was a different world. It felt very far from the chokehold of Vincenzo Romano’s empire.
Tommy took another sip of the coffee and let it warm his stomach. The caffeine was giving him a steady buzz of energy.
The cash, like everything else he held truly valuable in this world, was between his legs. He was just beginning to relax. On the road, he’d been so tense he’d noticed that he was literally white-knuckling the steering wheel. Now, tucked safely in a small place in a small town, he felt like the old Tommy. He almost laughed out loud. No one would think to look for him in Ann Arbor. There weren’t any real wise guys here. A few small-timers, but it was a college town. Full of Wolverines and nerdy kids with their snotty noses buried in books.
He turned his attention to the paper sitting on the table. He went to the sports section and skimmed it for news of his beloved Lions. Talk about your losers. Most of the other fans Tommy knew referred to the team as the Lie Downs. More like the Bend Overs, Tommy thought. Just drops their pants and grab their ankles for whatever team they came up against.
Well, Tommy thought, my days of being a Lions fan are just about over. With his new life, maybe in Florida, he'd have three choices: the Dolphins, the Buccaneers or the Jaguars. Then again, there were quite a few retired wise guys in Florida, especially Miami. He might have to opt for South Carolina. Or North Carolina. The Carolina Panthers were a decent football team. And they had just as good a chance as getting to the Super Bowl as the Lions. Shit, anyone had as good a chance as the Lions. Better, actually.
But the Panthers were in Charlotte, too far from the ocean. Tommy wanted to be near the water. To fish, snorkel, lay around and get tan, look at the college girls in their bikinis.
Tommy finished the sports section and looked at his watch again. It was almost time. He breezed through the last of the paper, put it on top of the rest of the sections, then scooped them all up and set them in the chair next to him.
This was the good part. Thinking about his new future. Not worrying about Romano and all the bullshit his life had become. Now, it was gonna be all broads and booze. Bloody Marys in the morning, banging a hottie all day, then shrimp cocktails and ice cold beer in the evenings. A big cigar and a glass of Scotch to polish off the day. This was the life he’d always dreamed about. The life he always knew he deserved.
He drained the last of his coffee, set the cup down and checked his watch.
It was time.
•
The Prescott Hotel was in the heart of Ann Arbor, at the intersection of First Street and Main. It was a turn-of-the-century beast, Federal style, with a porticoed entrance. Black shutters framed white windows. Four stories with sixty rooms or so.
It was the kind of hotel Vincenzo Romano would never think of. In fact, it would be the last place anyone would look for a Mob rat, Tommy thought to himself. Internally, he winced at the word "rat." But that's what he was. The kind of guy his former comrades would love to perforate and drop into Lake Huron. Tommy didn't care. Better a live rat than a dead wiseguy.
Besides, how many other rats got to stay in luxurious hotels like this one?
He entered through the revolving door complete with brass handles and brass kickplate. The noise from the street ended abruptly. T
he lobby was plush with a thick Oriental rug and a deep leather living room set. A burled walnut coffee table held magazines and a phone. A small piano sat to the right of the lobby. A front desk was on the left. It was made of dark wood and on the wall behind it were two modern paintings. A short brunette was typing on the computer with a phone in the crook of her neck. She had on a blue blazer with a nametag featuring the logo of the hotel. The name tag said, "Connie." She glanced up as Tommy passed and gave him an automatic smile. He ignored her and headed straight for the elevators.
Tommy hit the up arrow and waited. He took in the rich, polished wood. The marble floor. It lived up to the descriptions he’d read on the Internet. ThePrescott.com touted the hotel as a five-star treasure, a place called by Midwest Living magazine as a “luxurious haven for those with a strong desire to get away from it all and be pampered.” Well, Tommy reasoned, he wanted to get away from it all, and he definitely wanted to be pampered. His idea of pampering though, was probably different from what the hotel concierge had in mind. For the kind of pampering he had in mind, Tommy would have to look for services outside those listed on the hotel’s guest guide.
The elevator arrived and Tommy stepped inside then punched the number nine button. The elevator swiftly bore its sole occupant to the ninth floor, whereupon the doors opened and Tommy stepped out onto thick burgundy carpet.
He took in the elegant table upon which sat a lamp that looked to be made of delicate porcelain. A striped wing chair sat next to it.
Tommy walked down the hallway slowly, listening to the complete absence of noise. This was what he wanted. Totally different from the Motel 6 kind of hotel he was used to and that pompous jerk Romano insisted his men stay at on the road. Where you stepped out into the hallway and were immediately greeted by the sound of screaming children and blaring televisions. While he, Romano, stayed in places like the Four Seasons. Piss on Romano, Tommy thought.
Tommy was done with the Motel Sixes and the Super Eights forever. This would be the kind of place he stayed in from now on. A place that had class written all over it.