Falling Into Place

by Scott Young

  “Tommy McCabe!” Luongo practically shouted as he approached the enforcer from his office. “Ol’ ’Two-Fists’ himself! How the hell are you, my man?”

  His voice snapped Tommy’s world back into place. Before he could protest, the crime boss wrapped Tommy in a huge bear hug, slapping him on the back multiple times. The fixer could see Harmony over Luongo’s shoulder. She was working on the office computer like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t even been introduced. Was she Luongo’s girl? Was she afraid to show any inclination that they’d been talking? And what were they talking about? Tommy couldn’t quite remember the past few moments, like a dream that fades after waking.

  “Come into my office,” Lucifer said. “Let’s get down to business.” His smile instantly made Tommy uneasy. It was an eerie combination of the Cheshire Cat and Norman Bates. He followed his new boss into the room, still reeling from his interaction with Harm and subsequent embrace from Luongo.

  Despite being in his 40s, Tommy McCabe still cut quite an imposing figure. He stood at 6’4” and weighed 265 pounds of solid muscle, with only a small beer belly and the growing bald spot amidst his blonde locks to remind him of the passing years. The most visible holdover from younger days was his goatee, which he considered his trademark look. Despite the company he kept, Tommy was used to being the most intimidating presence in any room, but Lucifer Luongo was in a different league. The sheer power of Luongo’s hug had shocked him. It felt like being inside a car crusher for a moment and Tommy’s ribs still ached from the pressure. There was more to this man than met the eye.

  Lucifer Luongo certainly wasn’t a huge man. He was only 5’10” but a solid 205 pounds. Still, the magnitude of his strength was in stark contrast to those pedestrian statistics. Everything about this man seemed slightly off in some way. He wore his hair shaved into what looked like 2-inch ram’s horns that ran from either side of his forehead back around his skull until the ends reached a point behind each ear. It was the oddest hairstyle McCabe had ever seen. It was the kind of haircut that screamed “I don’t give a fuck what you think.” He also wore a Fu Manchu style moustache, which reminded Tommy of Hulk Hogan during his wrestling heyday. Luongo’s demeanor seemed to be one of cavalier indifference to the way the world usually worked.

  Tommy couldn’t help but notice his new boss’s penchant for the finer things in life as well. The crime boss was wearing a meticulously tailored black, Kiton K-5 Italian suit, Barker Black Ostrich Cap Toe shoes, and a Pink Robert Talbott ‘Sevenfold’ Silk Tie. All of that was accentuated with the obligatory “bling,” including a Rolex Baselwood watch and a ring on his left hand that would make a Super Bowl Champion jealous. Tommy was sure Luongo’s outfit cost more than the fixer’s childhood home. It sure didn’t seem like he was worried about standing out in a crowd like most criminals, Tommy included. McCabe suddenly felt ridiculously underdressed in his simple white shirt, black slacks and blazer.

  Each moment Tommy McCabe spent in Luongo’s office felt stranger than the last. Don Gravanzano, the former boss, appreciated Tommy’s unique talents and utilized him as a first option often, so he’d been in that room hundreds of times. This time, it felt completely alien, like he’d never walked through the door before. The only familiar thing was the door to the private bathroom and Tommy suddenly wanted to wash his hands, but he swallowed that compulsion immediately. Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with old tomes, various urns, vases, knickknacks and small, clay figurines. The room also looked much bigger than he remembered, despite the addition of the bookcases. Even the air seemed oddly different. The fixer again tried to clear his head, but everything still seemed fuzzy.

  Lucifer offered Tommy a seat in front of his ornate, mahogany desk before walking around to sit in his custom-made, leather chair. As Luongo took out a Cuban cigar from his desktop humidor and lit it demonstratively, the fixer took the opportunity to further scan his surroundings. Tommy noticed the edges of the desk and bookcases both had gargoyles carved into the wood like some macabre series of totems while Luongo’s chair resembled a miniaturized throne with intricate and delicate carvings of skulls and birds in the wood surrounding the arms and legs. This guy sure does have some weird taste in furniture, Tommy thought to himself.

  Luongo puffed on his cigar and said, “Thomas, I know Don Gravanzano considered you his ‘go to’ guy, but I think you’re capable of more than that. Seems to me he only used you like a shotgun: pointed you at something and fired. I’d like to use you more like a scalpel.” Lucifer moved forward in his chair and locked eyes with his new employee. “You see, a scalpel can be used for delicate surgery or to cut someone’s throat if need be. You get me?”

  Tommy shifted a little in his seat and swallowed hard before saying, “Well, I understand the metaphor, Mr. Luongo, but I don’t get your implication. With all due respect, I’ve done well as a fixer, I’m good at it and I like what I do.” Tommy maintained eye contact with no discernible emotion on his face, despite a slight lurch in his stomach. “Exactly what is it you want me to do for you, sir?”

  It felt as if Luongo was looking directly into his soul. The new Don continued to stare across the desk at Tommy before smiling broadly once again. “Damn it, Tommy! I like a man who cuts to the heart of the matter without any bullshit. I could tell I was gonna like you, man. I truly did!” He blew a giant smoke ring up into the air as “Two-Fists” breathed a sigh of relief.

  Luongo continued more seriously now. “What we’ve got is a big problem, my man. A problem with the potential to cause a shitstorm like you ain’t never seen. You ever heard of Allan Westhoff?”

  “The politician? Isn’t he the one that’s been making a big stink about birth control the past few months? From – uh, Missouri, right?” Tommy guessed, unsure of Westhoff’s home state.

  “Michigan, actually and yeah, he’s been making a name for himself with the conservative right by condemning all forms of birth control,” Luongo replied. “He’s also pushing for mandatory drug testing on all government assistance programs including welfare, unemployment, even social security. The guy’s got a major stick up his ass, for sure.” Luongo smirked condescendingly.

  “Westhoff also happens to have a teenage daughter who’s gone missing. Naturally, daddy money-bags put his security team on her scent but all they came up with was a credit card charge for a bus ticket from Flint, Michigan, to, guess where?” the boss said while raising his hands in the air as if to present a showcase on The Price Is Right.

  “New York fuckin’ City.” Tommy said. “Where all the good little runaways go.” He managed a half smile.

  “Exactly, my man.” Lucifer Luongo stood up, walked to the window and peered out, his back to McCabe. “Now you see my problem. The Senator’s daughter is somewhere out there and Westhoff has brought his not inconsiderable weight to bear on the situation.” Luongo turned around, walked around his desk and leaned against the front. “A horde of private dicks, bounty hunters and personal security members have been flooding into this city to bring his little girl home and collect a big payday in the bargain. If little Miss Sandra Westhoff is discovered as the syndicate’s newest working girl or linked in some way to the family’s drug trade, the entire operation could be jeopardized. That can’t happen, Tommy.”

  “Understood, Mr. Luongo.” Tommy said, steely eyed. “You want her found or lost forever?”

  “Straight to the heart of the matter again huh, Tommy?” Lucifer said, smiling. He put his large hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “Find her, clean her up and anonymously drop her off at the nearest police precinct. If she’s already too far gone by the time you get to her, make her and anybody that knows about her a distant memory.” He patted McCabe’s shoulders twice for emphasis.

  “What about Digger, Boss?” Tommy asked hesitantly.

  “Let’s leave your partner out of this for now. The fewer people who know about Miss Westhoff, the better,” Luongo said, returning to his chair.

  �
��Yes, sir. I’ll get it done,” Tommy assured his new boss before turning to leave.

  “And Tommy,” Luongo added, just before the fixer got to the office door. McCabe paused. “Remember, more scalpel, less shotgun. Get me?”

  “Absolutely,” Tommy replied before turning, opening the door and walking out. As he passed Harmony’s desk, noticing it was empty, he thought to himself, “Whatever the hell that means.”

  Once McCabe was gone, two figures, one male and one female, emerged from Luongo’s private bathroom. They stood in silence in front of his desk as the new crime boss stewed in his own very private, very dark thoughts. After a few minutes, he looked up, taking another long drag on his cigar.

  Luongo stood and walked to the far bookcase. He opened an urn and removed a frayed, grey bag. “Harm, prepare the ritual,” he said to the woman as he placed the lid back on the container.

  “As you wish, my master,” Harmony responded as she scurried out of the room with her head down.

  “I need you to watch McCabe. Make sure he finds the girl but that’s all he finds. Get me?” Lucifer said in measured tones to the silent man as he made his way back to his desk. “I will have need of him before my plans reach fruition.”

  “It will be done, Lucifer,” the man replied running a comb through his jet-black hair, before walking out.

  This was the kind of job Tommy hated. Subtlety and detective work were not exactly his strong suit and he got the feeling Lucifer Luongo knew that fact just as much as he did. Still, Luongo was right about one thing. A quick Google search on his I-Phone told McCabe the junior Senator from Michigan had recently become the Republican Party’s newest golden boy, and was thought to be headed for an eventual run at the White House. If this turned ugly, like these things usually did, the firestorm of shit sure to come from Washington would need a fall guy. Tommy knew the new boss wanted to make damn sure it wasn’t his finely tailored neck on the chopping block. Is this all just a set up? he wondered. Is Mr. Bigshot-New-Boss looking to make ol’ “Two-Fists” his fall guy for this entire Westhoff crap? It bugged him enough that he couldn’t even make it out of the building without a trip to the lobby restroom to wash his hands.

  As he walked out of the bathroom completely annoyed, mentally venting his frustrations, Tommy noticed his partner, Salvatore DiSalvo, walking toward the exit from the elevator banks. “What the fuck is Digger doing here?” he muttered to himself. That question opened up a new series of suspicions in the fixer’s mind. “Was he listening in on my meeting? Did Luongo set him up as my tail so good ol’ Sally can take me out once I take care of the girl?” Whatever was going on here, it stunk to high heaven and Tommy felt more and more like a chump. To ease his increasingly suspicious mind, he decided to follow his partner on the sly instead of going back into the bathroom to wash his hands again.

  DiSalvo’s first stop was Enrico’s Italian Restaurant, a popular haunt for good fellas in Manhattan. Tommy kept an eye on Digger from across the street at one of the ubiquitous Starbuck’s seemingly on every corner of the city. After ten minutes, Salvatore came out, stuffing an envelope into his inside pocket. McCabe watched as his partner repeated this pattern four more times at various local businesses over the next hour. “Collection?” Tommy asked himself. “Why send a guy like Digger to collect protection money?” It made no sense. Still, he was getting the feeling that maybe he had jumped to conclusions and let his paranoid nature get the better of him. It didn’t seem like DiSalvo had any intention of looking for him so he decided to focus on his assignment and put whatever was going on with his partner on the back burner.

  It took “Two Fists” multiple conversations and the better part of the day to find out where a majority of the fresh-off-the-bus, teenage runaways inevitably found themselves: in the stable of Hector Guererro, one of the family’s best earners and most vicious pimps. Hector had worked his way up from a numbers runner in the early ‘90’s and, if nothing else, the creep had ambition. He pushed his girls hard and kept them in line through an effective mixture of drugs, intimidation and the occasional beat down. The ever-increasing profits were a testament to his “work model.” Once Hector got his hooks into Senator Westhoff’s baby girl, she’d be unrecognizable before too long. Tommy had heard through the grapevine that it usually took Guerrero around two weeks to properly break in a new girl. Sandy had gotten off that bus from Flint approximately six days ago.

  Tommy had crossed paths with Hector multiple times over the last few years and, despite being a lowlife degenerate, the pimp had always been straight with him. Of course, that might have something to do with Tommy’s reputation as a man who didn’t put up with bullshit. In fact, it was well known that he preferred to break various body parts with his bare hands than tolerate someone lying to him. It was the most obvious reason for his alliterative nickname.

  Actually, he’d first been called “Two Fists” by his high school boxing coach. Tommy had always been ambidextrous and capable of inflicting damage with either hand. Coach Hamilton had come up with the name after his first knockout. Tommy liked the moniker enough to keep it long after high school. Once he began his career in organized crime, he felt it gave an intimidating reputation, which allowed him to get things done with just the threat of physical violence, more often than not.

  In his younger days, Tommy had truly enjoyed taking someone apart just for the fun of it. Most people knew better than to test him and cooperated long before he needed to inflict any permanent damage. However, when Tommy was forced to lean on someone, he was a true artist in the medium of pain. This talent served him well as he made his own ascension up the ranks of the crime family. As he got older, “Two Fists” took a more diplomatic approach to problems, giving others a chance to talk before breaking something.

  In this case, he was prepared to use every technique in his vast arsenal to find out what happened to Sandra Westhoff. If Hector Guerrero or anyone else, up to and including his partner, got in his way, they would know a world of hurt unlike anything they’d ever imagined. It was the only way Tommy McCabe did business: to the fullest extent of his rather impressive capabilities.

  Hector Guerrero’s base of operations was in a newly renovated apartment building located in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. Despite the refurbishment, the complex remained a den of drug dealing, prostitution and other illegal activities. The Manelli Family spent the necessary money in bribes to ensure it stayed that way. Hector had an apartment on the top floor: his “penthouse pad,” even though it was little more than a one- bedroom flop house.

  As Tommy entered the building with the “work bag” he’d retrieved from the trunk of his car, a few of the haggard-looking working girls tried to sidle up to him. One look at his face told them it was “no sale.” He pounded on Hector’s door and waited, still and silent as death itself. After the third attempt, Tommy kicked in the door with the force of a howitzer. As the splintered doorframe cascaded to the ground, “Two Fists” entered the apartment and surveyed the scene. Slowly his lips twisted into a sneer as his face took on a slight crimson hue.

  The first thing he noticed was the small table to the right of the door, littered with razorblades, syringes, pills, bags of cocaine, heroin, and other drug paraphernalia. Tommy placed his bag on the table and headed deeper into the apartment. There was a girl dressed only in a wife-beater T-shirt and purple thong lying face down on the bed. Tommy couldn’t I.D. the girl because her head was turned away from him toward the three windows heading out to the fire escape. The left window was smashed, obviously from the outside judging from the pieces of glass littering the floor and bed. On either side of the bed were bookcases filled with various DVDs, jewelry boxes, magazines and crumbled fast food bags. The top shelf of each bookcase had various teddy bears and other stuffed animals. Across from the foot of the bed was a flat screen television sitting on a dresser with the frozen image of a buxom porn star having sex with two men. Someone had paused it and never started it again.

&nbs
p; Near the bed was an unconscious Hector Guerrero slumped over awkwardly, bleeding from his mouth. Blood was caked on his oversized moustache and his short, curly hair was covered in a fine, white powder. Probably cocaine, Tommy mused. He was dressed in a pair of N.Y. Knicks shorts, crew socks (the ones with the gold toes), and an average, Hanes, white V-neck T-shirt that looked like a family of four had used it as a napkin after a particularly messy meal. All in all, the pimp and his apartment looked like the aftermath of one hell of a party. As he made his way toward the bed, Tommy could hear the pimp’s labored breathing amid small, unintelligible grunts.

  “Sloppy,” he muttered to himself. “Just fuckin’ sloppy.”

  Before he could inspect further, the fixer noticed something odd. The bedroom closet was missing its door. It had been completely removed but with no apparent damage. The door stood leaning against the wall to the left of the closet, right next to the dresser with the TV on it. Upon closer inspection, Tommy realized the hinge pins had been removed and the still-locked door was simply taken out of the door frame and placed to the side. The door removal seemed strangely out of place amidst the other chaos and destruction. For no particular reason, he bent down and picked up the hinge pins, placing them in the right, inside pocket of his blazer.

  Stranger still was what he discovered in the closet. On the floor was a makeshift bed, with a small couch pillow, a filthy, hole- filled blanket and half of a thin, stained mattress. Next to the mattress was a half-eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, 3 soiled pairs of panties, and assorted empty water bottles. The closet itself stunk of urine, vomit and ass, a familiar combination to anyone who’d ever ridden the New York subway system. It was obvious that someone had been forced to live in there. Sandy Westhoff, maybe? Were these the lengths Hector went to break in his new girls? Tommy made a quick sweep of the rest of the apartment before finally making his way to the girl on the bed. He checked her pulse but didn’t find one. He turned her over gently and his world turned to shit. It was Sandra Westhoff.