At one point Aldo Marano looked up and nodded at Victor, who nodded back and put his hand on Sal’s shoulder. This seemed to shift the conversation a bit, but Victor didn’t think much on it as Sal was proposing a toast of sorts, well a toast for Sal at any rate. Sal stood up a bit from the rest of them, making himself appear important.
He cleared his throat to ensure the effect of his words as he eloquently began. “Here’s to the breezes that blows through the treeses and lifts the girls’ skirts above their kneeses and shows the spot that teases and pleases, and yes, spreads diseases, oh jeezes. Here’s to the snatch, down the hatch.”
Victor heard him make the same toast a dozen times. So had Jimmy and Tim, Victor heard it with them every single time. Sal didn’t drink with anyone else, except his son.
Jimmy and Tim didn’t care, though, they laughed as if they heard it for the first time. In fact, Victor was pretty sure they were laughing harder now. Perhaps it was the booze speaking, or perhaps it was the nature of Sal’s work this evening that had huge promotional value written all over it. Victor looked at them hard for a moment and he thought that maybe, just maybe, there was some brown shit on the tips of their noses.
Victor shook his head; he was the only one still holding his shot. Sal looked at him and made a look towards his shot glass hand. Victor looked at it a little sheepish, then in one gulp swallowed the whiskey down, for a moment letting the last drop fall into his mouth. He must be getting tired. He felt irritable and his mind was wandering.
Sal couldn’t help jabbing him for the delay and Garducci could hear him muttering something about “First New Mexico fries his brain then it makes him forget how to take a shot like a man. What the fuck?”
Then he heard something indiscernible and Sal was taking down a second shot. The liquor and being on his home turf, or at least his own little island of security, was doing wonders for Sal and he was starting to regain his cockiness.
He put an arm around Victor and his other around Frankie and whispered into their ears, “To the top boys, to the top.”
As he whispered his dreams of glory into their ears, Aldo lifted a hand, and in a calm voice said, “Hey Salvatore, can you come over here for a moment? We have things which we would like to discuss with you.”
With that Sal whispered one more time into his comrade’s ears, “To the top.”
He whirled around and walked over to his superiors with long strides. After a moment they sat down and started discussing what transpired. Victor noticed how tired he was as a yawn escaped his lips. It was time to get some sleep.
Victor Garducci lingered there for a moment, had another shot, and then stood up to leave. He waved to Aldo and Muro, letting them know he was leaving and then walked out of the double doors at the entrances. Those two were some tough old gangsters. That’s why when he was a few blocks from home; it didn’t surprise him to notice that a second sound of footsteps was shadowing his. And it surprised him less when he rounded a corner and stole a glance over his shoulder and noticed Tim Coughlin in the distance, minding his own business.
Garducci wasn’t worried though, he was pretty sure Aldo just wanted to make sure that he wasn’t running to Don Ciancetta with all that he learned that evening. It would be best to report to the billiards hall in the morning.
Victor walked on for a few moments then decided to take a left, where a right would bring him home. A few blocks later and he was getting a room at a local motel. It promised a rate of thirty-five bucks a night and free HBO. More to the point, it offered an immediate bed. He registered under the name John Smith and after a suspicious and yet indifferent glance from the clerk; he got a key to room 126.
At least I didn’t have to walk up any stairs, he thought.
He entered the sparse room which contained a bed, a nightstand with two drawers and a small bathroom. The T.V. was set on top of the nightstand across from the foot of the bed. The sheets on the bed looked like something out of the seventies, but that didn’t bother the exhausted Victor Garducci. In the morning he would report to Wizeguyz, and then find his way over to Inhaled Imports.
It was there that my journey is sure to begin, he thought.
He began reminiscing taking shots with Sal at the bar. The last time he drank with anyone was with Jack at the Old Irish Pub outside of Angola. Sal’s face began to morph into that of Jack’s and the toast morphed into the soothing lyrics of Lynyrd Skynyrd as reality succumbed to dream. A few moments later, and he was asleep on the rough mattress that made it feel almost like home.
Chapter 10
The sun drifted in through the bend in the blinds covering his living room window and set upon the assassin’s closed eyelids. He lay there for a minute, knowing that the sun had risen and was the reason for the warmth he felt even as winter continued on in Buffalo.
After a moment or two he blinked his eyes open and strained his neck to the left and heard a satisfied crack as his joints released the pressure that built up inside of them during the night. He was surprised that he fell asleep so deep and for a moment he worried about his carelessness. What if Falzone sent another hit squad after him?
As the assassin stood up and stretched and walked toward his fridge to drink some milk, he began to think with a clearer mind on the events which transpired the previous day. The thing that bothered him the most was the issue concerning the attempted hit on him. What if Ciancetta arranged the hit, to do away with someone with as much knowledge as himself? Knowledgeable personnel had a way of becoming an ill-affordable luxury, especially with the turn coats like Sammy ‘The Bull’ Gravano in the Gotti crew, or the Henry Hills that were running rampant all over La Costa Nostra.
Perhaps the wary Don decided to do away with Rontego. Perhaps Sonne Pieri was lying all along. He knew he was a dead man, perhaps he wanted Rontego to fly off the handle and make a mistake.
However, Falzone was smart. For years he succeeded in manipulating the politics while staying out of the limelight. He even helped clean the crews of informants who worked to link his guys to undercover police and FBI units, most of them anyway. He served Ciancetta in a fair and faithful manner and used his clout in the unions as a rare bargaining chip. And if a war was indeed going on, then what if Sonne was trying to stir shit up by having Rontego think it was Falzone, when all along it was Ciancetta? All he had to go on was the word of a dead man that he bound in his kitchen, not even a dozen feet from several of his dead friends.
Rafael was contemplating what his next move would be when it came to him. He hadn’t even taken a moment to look at the matchbook Don Ciancetta gave him at their last meeting.
A few strides took him to the kitchen counter where his wallet was resting. He slammed the milk carton down on the counter and some of it splashed out on to the counter top. With his left hand the assassin scooped out the matchbook from the side pocket of his wallet and flipped the little white cardboard flap up. On the inside was written a name in cursive script: Muro Lucano.
As Rafael Rontego read the name he stepped backwards and leaned on the counter. Sonne was not as smart as Rontego assumed. Neither was Joseph Falzone. Ciancetta wanted a hit done on the muscle of Falzone’s crew. That meant war. Either Ciancetta had a leak, and Falzone was moving to eliminate Ciancetta’s muscle, in other words Rafael Rontego and maybe another couple of the Don’s hitters, or the old don heard about Falzone’s hostile takeover and was acting to eliminate the threat.
Either way, the assassin had to kill Muro, a mob veteran, and that would be no easy task.
He lifted his hand to his head and rested his forefinger on his pursed lips. He had no clue how he was going to get close enough to the tough gunner of Falzone’s. Even if he could get to him, the implications here were tremendous. War was going down, and it was never a profitable enterprise, always ego on ego. Well, for Rontego it was profitable but the risks were exponential as well. And Muro, he was a guy that Rontego always respected, even considered a kind of mentor.
Then with a
sudden realization, he decided, Fuck Muro.
That bastard knew about the hit on Rontego, and he would get what was coming to him. It would have to be planned to perfection. Muro would die, that was for sure. For now, though, he needed to report to Ciancetta and let him know about what transpired. The lines were drawn, and Rontego was curious to find out what he could discern about what other events occurred last night while he was busy. He also needed to remember that he had to meet with the Cleaner for dinner that night at Chef’s and garner what information he could from him.
The next few minutes were busy with the assassin taking an Italian shower, which consisted of cologne being squirted over his clothes and a fresh application of deodorant. He slipped on his second favorite Armani, black with grey pinstripes and a dark blue shirt. He strapped his guns to his sides and tossed on his jacket and felt hat.
Suits were the few extravagant items he purchased, as he saved most of his money in secret hiding spots around his apartment and in other safe houses he set up.
He walked over to the door and noticed the broken string across the doorway; the bastards broke his early warning system last night. He retied another one and stepped over the breakaway thread. He shut the door and descended the spiral staircase of his apartment.
As he came outside, he was pleased to note that the snow subsided for the time being and with a clear blue sky overhead, it was a bit warmer. He saw his breath come out in wisps of white smoke, but at least some of the bite had been taken from the chill.
The snow pushed up against the side of the street by the snowplow was stained black by the filth and grime of a city, and the sidewalks were bare except for a sprinkling of salt that most businesses placed in front of their shops out of courtesy. Rontego supposed that business wouldn’t be as well off if the customers were breaking their legs as they attempted to purchase their goods. Here and there though, there were patches of fresher snow that melted with the newfound warmth of the exposed sun and glistened with a certain purity which contrasted with its more noticeable surroundings.
Rafael paused there for a moment just outside the entryway to his building and pulled out a fresh cigarette. He shielded the flame of his lighter as a gust of wind swept by him and lit the tip of his Sobranie. The flame licked at the tip and then, catching to the black paper, it leapt a bit higher, then simmered back down and, with a slow burn, it traveled up the cigarette as Rontego took a drag and inhaled the sweet nicotine.
He stopped at the newsstand to his left and grabbed up a copy of the Buffalo News. He didn’t read it; it was more a matter of habit. With another puff of white smoke, he kicked his heel around and started on the walk towards Rumors and Ciancetta.
The day was nice and the walk seemed to go by in a matter of minutes. He passed Shea’s Theater and didn’t even notice what was showing. In truth, it was closer to a half hour later. Rontego knew it because he already smoked through two cigarettes. He walked past the bum that was always begging in front of the night club. He tossed him a five dollar bill without taking notice and was about to push open the club’s doors when he paused.
He walked around to the corner of the building and peered around the side. There were quite a few more cars in the parking lot than usual. The place buzzed inside.
Only one way to find out why.
He walked through the double doors, and without pausing for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he darted towards the door of Don Ciancetta. When he got halfway there, his eyes came into focus and he noticed that the place was indeed in frenzy. The back office was open and five guys were sitting there talking and smoking cigarettes. Two guys from the bar to the left were coming towards him, fidgeting at the bulges in their hips. Another, larger man was at the door of the Don’s office, obstructing any entrance into the boss’ room. The two men coming towards him were not sure who he was and were still advancing on him in order to ascertain his business.
Rontego snapped his head around to face them. He cast a narrow glare on them and patted the gun at his hip with an ease that shook any confidence they might have. His black stare made them feel quite sure that their weapons were mere toys and they looked at the man in front of the Don’s door as if asking for direction.
The glance was not lost on the assassin and he snapped his head back around, not sure what to expect from the guardian at the door. Perhaps Ciancetta ordered the hit after all. A moment later though, his fears were brushed away as the guardian raised his hand and waved the now ridiculous looking men away.
The man pushed the door open and let Rontego inside, where the Don was busy discussing things with Leonard Ciancetta Junior and a capo that he recognized as Christian ‘The Pope’ Biela. The guy was half WOP and half Polish, talk about a disorder waiting to happen. Despite the odds stacked against him in his heritage, the guy was damn smart. He was Don Ciancetta’s consigliore and a lawyer when he was being ‘legit’.
It must be bad times for sure if this guy was being called in. He sported dark hair, but more of brown than black. He worked out and wore his suit well, not loose like so many of the gangsters did. He carried himself like a professional, as did Rontego, and there was a certain sense about him that Rontego respected.
He wasn’t sure if it was in a mutual respect for the devious demands required of them both, or if it was just the no-nonsense attitude that they shared. He spoke in a definite structure and a handshake that a businessman would have. He spoke with a slight southern touch to his voice, but not that of a redneck. He was here now, and that meant that the Don was worried.
*
The knocking on the door of room 126 came again and louder this time. It woke Victor up from a sound sleep. He rolled over, still groggy, and looked at the clock on the television set. It was six minutes after five AM. Wearing just a wife beater and a pair of boxers, the undercover officer approached the peephole of his squalid motel room door. He grabbed his old friend, the nine-millimeter Beretta still inside of its holster, by the grip and curved his index finger along the double action trigger. It looked goofy but the leather wouldn’t stop a bullet if he needed to squeeze off a few rounds of lead. He looked through the peephole.
With a start, two things grabbed his immediate attention. One was that Sal Pieri was glancing back at him and hammering on the door. The second, his hair was wet and matted to his forehead. He unlocked the door, twisting the deadbolt around. The moment the door was open, Sal came in. It was raining outside, he tracked a puddle indoors and got Victor wet when he shook his hair from side to side tossing the water from his frame.
Sal shook with agitation. He began pacing around the room while Victor closed the door behind him. Garducci turned around and ran a hand through his hair. He was unsure of what to say. Sal stopped his pacing and sat down on the bed. He looked up at Victor and his expression cut deep frown lines into his brow and cheeks. Something was eating at this man. Victor decided to wait and still he clutched the Beretta in his hand, standing there in his boxers. Sal dropped his head to his hands and he remained that way for some time. He stayed like that for so long that Victor began to think that maybe Sal dozed off to sleep.
After all, he noticed with a twinge of annoyance, it was quarter after five in the morning. He waited another moment and then began to shake Sal to try and wake him. The whole thing was surreal and the drowsiness was beginning to get the better of him. Then he noticed Sal’s slumped shoulder’s moving up and down in slight spasmodic shudders. The man wasn’t asleep at all, in fact, he was crying.
Victor couldn’t help but feel awkward. Here he was in a motel room with a grown man who was crying on his bed, while he himself was standing around in his boxers trying to make sense of it all.
What the hell is going on, he thought. Victor’s patience wore through and he shook Sal firm on the arm.
“Hey Sal, what’s going on?” He asked it as gentle as he could but he knew that the tone of his voice did not conceal his aggravation.
Sal didn’t notice for a long moment.
Then he looked up at Victor, and with all the anguish that a human can endure, cried out, “He’s dead, Victor. They got him. If he isn’t dead he will be. They didn’t come back Vic. They’ll never come back!”
As soon as the statement passed his lips he renewed his open sob. Garducci winced at the spectacle. He needed to keep Sal talking; he wasn’t sure how much more of this crying he could take.
“Who's dead, Sal? What are you talking about?”
Sal looked up and attempted to control himself.
“Oh God Vic, it’s a big mess. Tonight was supposed to be huge, bro. Me and Sonne, we were gonna make these big moves for Falzone against Don Ciancetta. We had this whole idea of restoring credibility to our family name after Sal, my father got… ousted. And you know how my uncle Joe was removed from the top spot and made to retire by Don Ciancetta. Well, this opportunity came up and, man, we couldn’t resist. All I had to do was that thing with Super Nova pizza and Sonne….”
Here he began to tear up again and fought down his emotions to continue. With considerable effort he went on.
“And Sonne, he had to get rid of this guy that Falzone says was Ciancetta’s muscle. You gotta understand man; this was our chance to get back IN. No more of this scraping together a living on the scraps from Ciancetta’s leftovers. So we took it. But now, Sonne hasn’t come back. I thought well, maybe he is just hung up or something you know? So I sat there with those two Sicilians, Aldo and Muro, and waited. ‘Bout an hour ago they decided that he was either gone or he jumped town to stay clear of the mess. But Vic, he’s my boy. I know he didn’t jump town. He had his two guys with him and they were planning the job these past two nights. So I walk on over to the fuck’s place who it was they were supposed to deal with and I saw the light still on at his place. I thought that maybe they got the drop on him and were still conducting business inside. But I stood across the street watching for a bit longer then I noticed this man drive off in a carpet cleaning truck. Vic, this is when my heart sank. I recognized that truck, but more important, I knew the guy driving it. He’s the Cleaner. And I know now that I’ll never see my boy again. Even if I were dead Vic, I know the curse of hell is on me and the flames of that curse will keep us apart even in death.”
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