“God, what the hell was I thinking,” he groaned aloud to no one in particular.
The bottle of Jim Beam smirked down upon him, Alex Vaughn, its latest trophy. Alex rolled into a sitting position and shook his fist at the bottle. It won this round.
Alex cleared his throat and looked back at the clock. It was 9:00 a.m. He grunted again; his captain would be pissed. Lucky. He was between undercover gigs or this would ruin everything. Alex picked up the phone and dialed in to the precinct. They wouldn’t mind him taking a few days off; after all this was a personal tragedy. It was about to get a lot more personal too.
After a brief conversation with the desk sergeant, Alex hung up the phone and went into his travesty of a kitchen. Still in his boxers and plain white tee, Alex mixed together some instant coffee, extra caffeinated. He saw his answering machine blinking. Twelve messages and one guess what they were all about. He ignored the blinking red light.
He threw on a pair of jeans, his snow boots, took his weapons off his nail in reverse order and put on his brown leather jacket.
Still, the blinking light assaulted his eyes. He picked up the phone and looked at the caller I.D.; she called. Twice. He flipped open his cell phone. She was one of very few people who had that number. She called there too.
Charlotte.
One message. Her voice sounded musical, as it always did.
“Alex, I heard. Jesus Alex I heard. If you don’t want to go tonight, that’s fine. I don’t even know if it’s a good idea. I mean, what are we doing anyway? We should be moving on. Christ, I hate voicemail. Call me.”
He looked out his window. It was beginning to snow, and with an annoyed huff Alex went into his bedroom closet and grabbed a pair of brown leather gloves and his brown beanie.
He flipped open his cell and hit a button to return the call. She answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
She sounded even better in real life.
“Charlotte, it’s me Alex.”
She gave a nervous giggle. “I know Alex; it says it on my phone. How are you? I’m so sorry.”
“I’m alright. It wasn’t me that was shot.” The words sounded hollow. He knew she wasn’t fooled either.
“Okay? I just wanted to let you know it’s okay if you don’t want to go tonight.”
Alex felt his grip tighten on the phone. “No, it’s okay. I’ve been trying to get you to meet me for weeks now.”
Alex walked over to his nightstand and pulled out the two tickets to Shea’s Theater. Bribing her with tickets to a musical was the only way she would agree to see him, even on her birthday.
“I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”
“I’ll see you there at seven.”
Alex hung up before she could protest. The truth was he needed to see her. He felt numb. He studied the tickets for a moment and then put them in his jacket.
Alex looked around. He was forgetting something. He glanced at his nightstand one more time and a Saint Christopher medallion hanging on a silver chain, tossed over his bottle of Bean. Not only had the bottle smacked him down, the damn thing looted him while he was in his sleep as well. Alex Vaughn walked to the bottle and grabbed his chain.
“Mine,” he said.
Alex stepped out of his bedroom with the chain safe, tucked under his jacket and white T-shirt. The coffee was ready. In a whirl, Alex grabbed his steaming mug and walked out of his townhouse apartment.
He got into his Ford Taurus. After two attempts at getting the engine to start, it rolled over with a moan. Alex drove through the city streets; he was heading back toward Walden Avenue, the scene of the crime. He already knew what he had to do, with a smirk he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the cigarette butt from the scene.
“Ah, MY latest victim,” he said with satisfaction.
This little baby was going to give some information to work with. This was a rare cigarette, Vaughn was sure of it. All he needed to do now was go into some convenience stores and ask around, ask who knew a guy that had a very particular taste in nicotine. Once he found out whom, it would officially be on.
*
The assassin stood still in the gloom of the night club. His eyes needed a moment to adjust as the blackened double doors closed behind him. As his eyes came back into focus he noted the familiar surroundings.
Off to the left was a bar that came out into the center of the room in a semicircle. In front of the gunman, extending outward from the bar was a dance floor that was settled underneath a twirling disco ball. At the head of the dance floor was a DJ booth that was enclosed by a metal cage on three ends. On the right, after two doors leading toward separate gender restrooms was a door that led to a manager’s office.
Rafael Rontego swept his hat from his head and tucked it under his arm along with the newspaper he purchased earlier; with his free hand he brushed his hair back from his face.
Two large men came out of the back office, but with one look at Rontego, they nodded their heads and went back inside. Rafael walked up to the office door and raised his hand to knock on it.
Before his hand could lie to rest on the sturdy oak door, he heard the expected “Come in,” from within.
The assassin eased opened the door and slipped inside.
“Hello Rafael. I have been waiting for you,” said an old man at the desk.
The man was slender but had strength built into his frame that age developed. The veins that stretched tight under his thinning and aged skin obscured his corded muscles. He wore a suit, but the jacket was hung over the back of his large mahogany chair and his white shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His right hand was somewhat yellowish in color and the large cigar that was half smoked in the ashtray explained the discoloration.
“I supposed as much Don Ciancetta. However, the business of which you and I discussed previously is now complete.” As he spoke to the Don, Rafael tossed the newspaper on the old man’s desk.
Circled in black ink on the lower right hand column of the front page was a headline that read Local Cop Slain in Shooting.
“Hmm, I see our little friend is no longer a problem.” The Don shifted the paper and started reading the caption under the headline.
As he read it, Rafael studied the old man’s eyes. Though his eyes were a light green and might even be considered kind, Rafael knew the deception hidden beneath that gaze and marveled at the contradiction. Those green orbs of his were set deep into the angular features of his face. He was always clean-shaven but Rafael was almost positive that it was because he didn’t want the gray of his beard to show. Speckled into the Don’s slick black hair were patches of gray that brought a distinguished look to the boss.
“Because of the nature of the target’s position and the inevitable fallout surrounding its completion, I am going to have to ask for double my usual rate,” Rontego said as a matter of fact.
With a cough, Ciancetta looked up at him. “Of course, my friend. It is a well earned twenty.”
He reached down under his desk, into a drawer at his side. Rafael heard the drawer slide open. Ever the soul of caution, Rafael shifted his weight so that he could angle sideways toward the old man; even as he shifted he dropped the hand behind his hat backward toward his hip, until he felt the cold steel of his pistol brush up against his palm.
At that instant there was a rush of air at the assassin’s back. With a quick and fluid motion, Rafael spun around, pistol in hand. His gun was level right at the forehead of the interruption.
“Holy Shit!” said the young man with his arms raised wide at his side.
Rontego recognized the youngster as the son of Ciancetta, and with a death-cold stare at the boy, holstered his pistol.
“Jesus, Rontego!” yelled Don Ciancetta. “Here’s your fucking paycheck”, he said as he tossed a bundle of cash at Rontego.
The assassin caught it in the air, even as he finished holstering his pistol with his other hand.
“Damn, you are fast m
an,” stammered Joseph Ciancetta as he let out a long breath of air.
“Just be careful who you’re pointing guns at Rafael. My boy should be viewed as if he were me,” Don Ciancetta said. His voice flat and even, his way of issuing a threat.
Rafael hated when the old man threatened him, the vein in his head throbbed along his jaw line with an unnatural pulse. He was afraid that one day it would burst, then all the other Guido’s in the place would pin the death on him and then he would have his hands full.
“I understand, Don. I just always watch my back, comes with the territory.” Rafael tucked the money away into his jacket and flipped his hat back onto his head. “Now Mr.Ciancetta, with your permission, I take my leave.”
“Sure thing. Rontego, I have something I want to talk to you about, later.” With that Don Ciancetta stood up and extended his hand.
Rontego took the Don’s hand and felt the expected foreign object embedded in his palm. He grinned with the realization of that feel, relished its implications. With a deft motion, Rafael slipped the object into his own palm and brought his hand into his pocket.
With a nod and a quick tip of his hat, Rontego pivoted and left the room. As the door shut behind him, the assassin quickened his step and with a flourish, was out the entrance and back onto the quiet city streets of Buffalo. He checked his watch. He had a play to catch.
Chapter 5
Alex drove for about three miles, down into the heart of East Buffalo. Walden Avenue wasn’t much to look at during the day, and at night it was a downright nasty place to be. The need for survival oftentimes turned on the predatory switch that caused some human beings to treat other human beings like crap.
Alex did a stint as an undercover narcotics officer in this district several months back. At the time he went by the name of Victor Garducci. When Alex was about one key piece of evidence from being able to get an indictment against the Mafia crew in which he was embedded, they yanked him from his post. He found out later that there was an unsubstantiated rumor that his cover had been compromised.
Vaughn was displeased. In the name of ‘Alex’s safety’ the higher-ups decided this was the correct course of action. Alex felt that it was all politics. The force could ill afford another undercover agent to be revealed and executed.
A string of deep agents were discovered as of late and the Internal Affairs people, as well as the Feds, were all over the situation but came up blank. Years of posturing, maneuvering, gaining the confidence of several gangsters all resulted in wasted time and free information for the lucky soul that inherited Alex’s case file.
Alex pulled up to a Gas and Go convenience store. He grabbed his cigarette butt that was now in a Zip-Lock baggy and entered the store with a RING as the door chimed to announce his entrance.
On the right of the inside were rows of various goods that the gas station sold, with a freezer in the back for beverages. In front of Alex was a fountain machine for soda and on the left was the clerk counter where cigarettes and lottery tickets were sold.
Alex walked up to the fountain machine and filled up a large cup with root beer then proceeded to the counter. There, he encountered a large and round Haitian man with a jovial face and a pair of thick spectacles that hung around the tip of his nose. The man had curled gray hair and wore a yellow T-shirt with “Gas and Go” in bright red letters. His name tag read ‘Enrique’.
“Hey there...Enrique,” Alex said, reading the man’s name tag, as he leaned on the counter.
The clerk was preoccupied adjusting some things beneath the counter. Without looking up he said, “Hey yourself, what can I do you for?”
Alex reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He wanted to get this man’s attention. With a flip of his wrist he tossed out the back flap on his wallet, revealing his metallic police badge, ID number 4977.
“Just have a quick couple questions and a pop that I want to buy.”
Enrique glanced on the counter and saw the badge, he stopped in mid business. Still paused, the clerk moved his eyes upward from the badge and looked at Alex Vaughn.
“What kind of questions?” he asked.
“The kind that need answers, it will take just a moment,” Alex said as he replaced his wallet in his back pocket.
He continued, “I need to know where I can find a cigarette like this.” He pulled the Zip-Lock containing the cigarette butt from his side and tossed it on to the counter in front of the clerk.
Enrique picked up the bag and held it up to the light. “Well, officer, I hope you don’t need any of this right now,” he said with a chuckle as he peered along his nose and through his goggled glasses.
“Why’s that Enrique?” Alex asked. His interest was piqued now. He felt his list of targets was about to narrow in drastic fashion.
“Well sir, to be honest, there are just two places that sell these, if my eyes serve me right. This cigarette you have yerself here is a Sobranie. The only two places you can get these is Smoke ‘n Stuff over in the village of Hamburg. And the other place is a specialty shop downtown.”
Enrique put the bag back on the counter and looked with triumph at Alex. He was milking the attention like a weatherman that knew the forecast. Alex indulged the man, however.
“And good sir, what might the name of this specialty shop be?” Vaughn put the baggy in his coat pocket.
“How’d I know you were going to ask that?” Enrique laughed. “The name of the shop is Inhaled Imports and is about five-ten minutes north of here. Go down Genesee a bit I think.”
“Thanks Enrique, I know the place. You have been a tremendous help.” With that Alex turned to leave the store. He had business to attend to.
Alex was interrupted though; hand on the door, with a cough from Enrique. Alex, tired of the clerk’s games, turned around and with an undertone of annoyance questioned, “Yes?”
“That’ll be a dollar six sir,” Enrique said with his eye on the root beer in Alex’s hand.
Alex, more than a little embarrassed, pulled a five out of his pocket and put it on the counter. “Keep the change, man.”
With that Alex got in his car and pulled out of the gas station. His mind was abuzz with these recent developments.
He knew of this place called Inhaled Imports. It was a Mafia owned business. It was right next door to the pool-hall that he frequented while undercover.
It was the same pool-hall that contained members of Old Joe Falzone’s crew.
Falzone was the consigliore, or advisor, of Papa Leo Ciancetta and was the current underboss of Leonard Ciancetta Junior, the current Don. Old Joe held a lot of power in the Buffalo-Niagara underworld. The least of this power was not in the local unions. Hell, Local 210 in Erie County was about as corrupt as a union could get.
The power that Old Joe Falzone held due to this Local was quite significant and was a base of power that, in the hands of an ‘aspiring’ underboss, could very well undermine Don Ciancetta. The fact that Falzone was allowed to operate that particular union, unchallenged, showed one of two things. It either showed Ciancetta’s faith in Falzone’s loyalty, or it showed a covert power struggle of sorts with Ciancetta not being able to harness enough power to wrest control of the union from Falzone.
Interesting possibilities in either case.
This was the very crew that Alex attempted to infiltrate. When he was pulled off assignment, a few undercover cops in other operations dropped the hint that he left town, to sources known to report to Old Joe.
The word on the street was that ‘Victor Garducci’ owed an unhealthy sum of money to an old associate out in New Mexico and would be gone for several months. The higher-ups in Alex’s precinct figured this would give the Buffalo crews enough time to either forget Victor ever existed or enough time for whatever trail remained, leading to Alex, to vanish.
Well, just maybe, it was time for ‘Victor’ to come home. First he had to meet Charlotte.
*
Rontego walked towards Shea’s Theater.
The building stood just a bit off of the boardwalk and off-white stone with carved dramatic faces rimmed large arching windows. Perpendicular to the street, a sign read “Shea’s” at the top and the word, “Buffalo” ran the length of the thin sign from top to bottom. The green sign was lined with bright white lights that cut through the crisp evening. Rontego shoved his hands into his pockets as he approached a group of huddled patrons in their long jackets and thick coats shuffling inside. Rontego pushed past them. He wasn’t here to catch a show. Tonight was all business.
Without a glance to either side, he walked into the building, where an usher greeted him, but upon recognizing him, let him pass. Rontego kept his hat tilted forward and he hunched his shoulders, looking at the ground as he walked. He hated large crowds. Not the crowds so much, just the people. Ignoring the beautiful interior and the plush carpets that lined the marble floors, he bound up a flight of stairs covered with a red trailer. He knew where Muro Lucano sat. The brute never missed a show. Always, he sat in the same seat. Rafael Rontego shuffled through a door that led to the main balcony overlooking the stage, and sure enough, he saw the large man’s back. He reclined in a seat facing the stage, and only a few other people dotted the balcony. Rafael took a seat behind the set of broad shoulders. He saw the pinstripes that rolled downward and the jacket draped over Muro’s lap. He opened his mouth to speak, but Muro beat him to it.
“Rafael. How are you, old friend?” Rontego saw something shuffle under the jacket on Muro’s lap, and Rontego’s hand drifted inside his coat out of habit.
“Well enough. I’ve been conducting business.” Rafael felt himself smile. He knew the grizzled veteran would understand what he meant.
“So I hear.” Muro threw the words. It seemed as if it was just another thing to say, but Rafael felt the weight.
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