Rontego walked down the stairs and into the late night air of Buffalo. The blast of cold wind hit him like an anvil as he exited the heat of his building. To call the Cleaner he needed to get to the payphone at the end of the block.
Rontego wouldn’t let a phone line into his home. He saw too many wiser gangsters take twenty years in the pen for a careless word or two on the phone.
When Rafael got to the booth where the payphone was located, he entered it and pulled the door closed behind him, shutting out the snow, which continued to fall outside. He didn’t know the Cleaner’s number, but the great part was that he was listed in the yellow pages. Nothing like great service.
He flipped through the pages and found the ad he was looking for, “Busy Bumble Bees ‘Our Prices Don’t Sting’.”
Bullshit, Rontego thought.
This was going to cost him a pretty penny. Maybe he would go to Don Ciancetta, make him reimburse him.
Rontego inserted two quarters and dialed the number placed in the ad. After one ring a voice answered,
“Busy Bumble Bees. We’re closed for the evening. Is this an emergency?”
The voice was that of the Cleaner. He had a nasal voice that you don’t often forget.
Rafael replied, “Yeah, I spilt three gallons of grape juice all over my carpet. I need it cleaned as soon as possible.”
There was a long silence and Rontego wondered if the man still provided that type of service.
Just before Rontego thought he must have forgotten part of the code the voice replied, “Ok, payment on arrival, who is this?”
This might work out after all.
“Rontego. Need an address?”
“No, I know where you live. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
With that the voice hung up. A few minutes later and Rontego was back in his apartment looking at the guys he dubbed the Three Stooges.
The assassin sat on his Lazy Boy and though there were bodies littered across the breadth of his home, he found that he was tired. Killing always took a lot out of him.
He dozed off for what seemed like a second when he heard a soft tapping on his door. With a start, he took a glance out the window. There along the street was the Busy Bumble Bee carpet cleaning van.
Rontego checked his watch; twenty-five minutes went by. This guy was pretty damn punctual. Rontego went to the door and looked out of the peephole. Damn, he forgot that he stuck a dime in the way. All he saw was blackness. He pulled his pistol out and held it in his right hand behind his back.
Just in case, he thought.
With his left hand, he glided the door open a crack. In the hallway was a slight man. He was in his early forties and had brown hair with just a touch of gray. He was about five foot five and was in decent shape; he couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a black polo shirt that had a yellow logo of a bumblebee holding a broom. Under the shirt was a long undershirt that helped against the cold. He carried three large navy blue duffle bags; one that was quite full and the other two seemed to be empty. It was the Cleaner, but something was different. He used to have glasses.
Before Rontego could dwell on it, the man pushed himself into Rontego’s apartment and surveyed the scene.
“Quite a massacre, unlucky for them,” he stated.
Rafael Rontego fancied that he sounded like that to other people when talking about killing.
From the second he got there it was all business. He had a way of doing things and he expected Rontego to follow him with precision. Rontego didn’t mind, though, it was better than the alternatives, none of which seemed very pleasant.
“Five thousand a head, total of fifteen grand. Here is what you do, take guy one over there and bring him to your bathtub, but first lay this plastic covering along the path you’re going to take. We don’t need any more blood getting on the carpet.”
While he was talking he was handing Rafael a rolled up section of plastic and emptying the contents of the first duffle bag onto the living room floor. It was filled with saws, knives, clamps, things that looked like walnut crunchers, and picks. For the next three hours they were busy dismembering the bodies of the would-be assassins in the bath tub, one at a time.
At first, Rontego was told to “separate the limbs from the torso” by himself.
When Rontego looked at the Cleaner, he was told, “Ok, I’ll do it if you think you can re-carpet the sections of your floor that got blood all over ‘em. And must I remind you that you decided to let the blood out of those two in the living room like fresh hunted deer? Honestly, who slits a neck in their own home! The blood in here is ridiculous.”
A little taken aback, Rontego went in to the bathroom and began the gruesome task of sawing through chewy tendons, tough muscle, and bone; and sifting through layers of fat in order to pull the limbs off of their rightful owners.
The assassin looked over his shoulder and saw the Cleaner busy ripping up the carpet and stacking the contaminated sections in a pile in the kitchen. Every so often he would take a measurement and then cut out another section of carpet.
After a while of both of them cutting—Rafael bodies, and the Cleaner carpet—the Cleaner went down to his truck. He was gone a moment when he came up toting a bundle of new carpet which he then cut into the measurements he jotted down before. The carpet didn’t match exact, but it was close enough in the bad lighting.
After the first body was dismembered, head from torso, hands from forearm, shoulder from torso, feet from legs, and so on, Rafael needed to take a break and sat down on the closed lid of his toilet.
He smoked a quick cigarette and enjoyed each drag all the more, knowing it was an extra second away from the tub of blood to his left. He was looking down at his feet when he noticed a rustling sound coming from the living room. The Cleaner finished with the carpets and was now dragging the second body in from the living room along the plastic lining.
A few moments later and they were side by side on their knees, hacking and tearing, and sawing along in relative silence.
At one point Rontego asked, “Didn’t you used to have glasses?”
The Cleaner replied in between breaths, “Laser eye surgery.”
Rontego glanced over; the Cleaner sawed away, intent. “No shit? That stuff work very well?”
The Cleaner stopped sawing for a moment to wipe some sweat off of his forehead with his forearm.
“Yeah, worked real good, a lot of people get that done now.”
The Cleaner was happy to have a distraction as well, but he continued on cutting into the flesh.
“No thanks,” Rafael said. “No one is getting near my eyes with some damned laser. Want a smoke?”
“Don’t smoke”
Rontego shrugged. He lit one for himself, glad to have something besides the stench of iron filling up his nostrils. With a cigarette hanging from his mouth, he lifted up a hammer and he shattered apart a knee cap. It helped to separate the ligaments so that he could finish tearing the leg off of Sonne Pieri.
Rontego looked up at the Cleaner and noticed that he wasn’t paying attention to the work, just sawing and ripping, a clear method to the work. Rafael let the cleaner have most of the gold paraphernalia found on the bodies, but noticed that the family crest ring on Sonne’s right hand was still there. He supposed that no one, not even the Cleaner, wanted to try and peddle that ring and be attached to the murder of Sonne.
A thought came over Rontego and he stole a careful glance at the Cleaner, making sure he was not paying attention. When he was satisfied that the coast was clear, Rafael tore the finger, ring and all, from the hand and wrapped it in a white handkerchief he used to dab the sweat from his forehead. With a subtle shift in his weight, the finger fell into his pocket. A glass of water later, and it was chilling on ice in his freezer, until such time as Rontego decided it might be useful.
For now though, the hacking and sawing of bodies commenced.
After that, there was
very little conversation between them as they focused on finishing the task at hand. By the time they all three bodies were dismembered and stuffed in two of the plastic lined duffle bags, the floors, bathroom and tools bleached clean, and they were changed and showered, it was close to midnight.
Rontego stood in his living room wearing an all light blue jumpsuit, unzipped at the neck revealing a little gold chain that hung there.
“What are you gonna do with our friends there?” Wherever the Cleaner took the bodies, Rontego wanted to be sure that they wouldn’t be found, ever.
“Don’t worry. I’m gonna burn the bodies in my furnace, then after the fire dies down I’m gonna smash the bones with hammers until it becomes a fine dust. Then it’s just a matter of sprinkling the powder over Lake Erie.”
“And our clothes?” he asked.
“Burn them, too.”
The Cleaner‘s face looked gaunt. Even he had a threshold for this type of work. He gathered up the bags and supplies.
As he headed to the door, he turned to look at Rafael and said, “Hey, tomorrow meet me for dinner. We’ll discuss the disposal I’m doing. I have some things I want to go over with you, but I’m too beat right now. Good?”
Rafael nodded his approval and opened the door for the man carrying all three bags. He was stronger then he looked. Then again, maybe a bloodless body was a lot lighter than a normal one.
“Alright then. I know a great place to get some spaghetti and meatballs. Chef’s Pasta Place. Be there at eight?”
Again Rafael nodded his approval.
“Wait right here,” Rontego said.
Shutting the door, he slipped away and went to a compartment in the floorboard of his closet. A brown paper bag was inside, and inside that bag was the prettiest color Rafael Rontego knew.
Green cash.
He counted the money, left some in the bag and removed the rest, setting it back in the compartment. He rolled the bills into a tight ball and opened the door.
The Cleaner held out his hand, knowing full well what Rontego was up to. Rontego looked the cash into the Cleaner’s hand.
“Half now, half at dinner”.
Closing his fist around the green roll, the Cleaner tilted his head and left. Fatigue assaulted Rafael and he stumbled towards his mattress. He lay down on his bed, thinking that he could get some food in a bit. He lit a Sobranie, took a drag and then left the cigarette burning on the edge of his glass ashtray, next to the mattress.
Seconds later, though, sleep began to overtake him and he slipped into a dream. As he dreamt, the lit Sobranie cast an eerie gloom about his living room for a while, before it burned down to a low ember. Then it too was asleep as the last spark was distinguished by a brief gust of air. The smoke-induced gloom lingered for a while, then it dissipated and the room waited in stillness and quiet.
The rhythmic breathing of the assassin echoed in the otherwise silent room. Fast asleep; he swirled amongst dreams of slaughter houses and the ghosts of acquaintances past.
*
Frankie DeRisio rumbled with a heavyset frame and a wad of curled black hair precariously clumped on top of a very round and red, puffed face. It was on account of his reddish hue that people thought they called him Frankie Red. Though, if you asked him that, you better be ready to defend yourself from slow moving fists that would pulverize you if they connected.
Among his associates, when Frankie was around, the word was that he was called Frankie Red because he was fond of smoking Marlboro Reds.
“The only decent American nicotine,” according to DeRisio’s sworn testimony.
He was Alex Vaughn’s initial contact and the man who vouched for Victor Garducci at the beginning of Alex’s undercover operations.
They left his seedy apartment building several blocks from the vacant Bethlehem Steel properties and drove about fifteen minutes back toward Wizeguyz Billiards. Victor was hungry. Despite Sal’s bragging on getting Frankie to feed them, he was ill-prepared for company and a bag of potato chips was all they took with them.
It was apparent to Victor, the way Sal was fidgeting, that he brought Frankie along for support. Frankie and Victor, as far as Sal was concerned, were his guys. And unless he got called into a meeting one on one, he was not going to go anywhere without ‘his guys’.
Sal was driving his Escalade and Victor was in front passenger, courtesy of a well played “shotgun” call.
DeRisio shot back,”I’ll show you a real shotgun, up close and personal like.”
His voice was as thick as the lasagna he loved to eat and came out slow and purposeful. Though he didn’t stutter, he made you take time in order to listen to his thoughts, which developed as slow as the words which formulated in his mouth.
Frankie was sitting in the back middle and reshuffling his weight as they drove along; making it very noticeable how there was not enough room for his stumpy legs. Though the truth of the matter was that, he had problems getting his considerable belly situated on his knees. As the occasional sighs slipped out in breaths of disgruntled air from DeRisio, and the steady hum of the SUV’s heater added a constant background noise, Sal Pieri kept talking about the meeting with Aldo and Muro, and perhaps Falzone himself, waiting for him at Wizeguyz.
“Well, I’ll bet the big guys over at Wizeguyz will be happy as pigs in shit now. They needed proof I was with them after what my Uncle did back when he and Crazy Joe fought that war and my Pop’s got whacked…er died… when I was little kid. Kinda funny though that the proof these guys needed was that I would go against Leo Ciancetta. It’s ok though; my move wasn’t the only one going tonight. Muro Lucano was insistent on that fact. A few of Old Leo’s gunners needed taking out in the first wave. ‘Clean house right from the start, leave Ciancetta with no firepower.’ That’s what Muro said. Guess he learned something from the war with Uncle Joey and Ciancetta. They want to try and get the boss to hand over the reins, something about making it a matter of respect. They figure if they don’t kill the boss to become boss, then if something similar happens to them, they wouldn’t be the ones to get whacked.”
Sal was rambling about how his father, of the same name, played it smart. In his eyes, his father was a genius, but his short tenure at the top, and quick fall to the grave, would beg to differ.
Though there were a few exceptions, most of the big bosses had a tendency to be egotistical braggarts that get the top spot through killing and talking big. Most of them merely threw enough smoke and mirrors to get them up top, not to sustain anything of significance. That made it all the more interesting to Alex.
Joe Falzone, by all accounts, was as smart and crafty as they came. He’d been the underboss or consigliore for the better part of fifteen years and survived numerous shifts in power. He accomplished this by staying away from the top spot. Why had he now decided to go for capo di tutti capi?
Sal’s sudden, “Damn it man!” interrupted Garducci’s thoughts. “They better know I’m with them now. I hate meetings though. I’m all fucking nerves, Vic.”
Victor shifted in his seat and took a glance over at Sal. He was worse than he thought. Sweat was beading up on his forehead and his knuckles were white while they gripped the wheel. Victor studied the grip. Sal just torched the prized business of the most powerful underworld figure in the greater Buffalo-Ontario area.
“Don’t worry Sal-e buddy, me and Frankie are going with you. Everything will be fine, won’t it Frankie?”
Sal looked into the rearview mirror at Frankie.
“Yeah Sal, everything’s going to be fine. The big guys asked you to do it. If you said no, you’d be dead anyway. Now, they know you’re with ‘em. Maybe they’ll bring you up the chain with ‘em for this. This, this ain’t no small favor they asked of you. And when you move up, take me and Vic with ya, ya know? Make us all big guys.”
The way that Frankie spoke made Victor beg for an eventual end to his droning, but he noticed an opposite effect on Sal. It seemed that Frankie’s little speech calmed Sa
l down as he basked in the daydream of future power.
“Yeah, that’s right. Instead of us all working for them, maybe one day you two bums will work just for me.”
Sal was a little more relaxed now and he gave Victor a little punch on the arm and flashed him a smile.
“Still, it is good to see you. I’m glad the guys sent you to get me. Tonight is a big night for my whole family man. And on top of it all this shit with Falzone and Ciancetta.”
With that they pulled up to the abandoned parking lot in front of Wizeguyz. They exited the SUV and with Sal leading the way, Victor and Frankie went into the double doors of Wizeguyz Billiards.
When they entered the building, things were much they way they were when Victor left. Aldo and Muro were sitting in the rear left booth, the cigarettes piled up more and the smoke hanging above the pool hall stagnated. Jimmy Jacks and Tim Coughlin were no longer playing pool, but by the shot glasses stacked in front of them, and the way the heavy bartender was pouring out a line of fresh shots, it looked as if they nursed a healthy buzz. All of their backs were to the entrance, and the two old men were still very busy chatting amongst themselves.
The doors slammed shut behind them, causing Jimmy to almost fall off of his bar stool. Aldo and Muro strained around to catch a glimpse of who entered. They paused for a moment and then began discussing, in even more earnest, whatever it was they were talking about before. Sal didn’t take notice of them and went straight up to the bar and ordered a round of drinks.
“Three Wild Turkey shots, one for each of us. Fuck it, make it five and give these two bums one, too.”
He waved his hand at Jimmy and Tim who were too happy for the free booze to even regard being called bums. Victor stole a glance at the two elder Mafioso’s sitting in the booth, Muro seemed to be agitated and it was confirmed when he stood up for a moment and slammed his fist on the table. But as fast as he got up, he sat back down, and with a sharp word from Aldo, they resumed with their conversation.
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