For Nothing

by Nicholas Denmon

  The van pulled under the structure and Elliot, Hi-Def and Alex piled out. As they exited the rear of the garage, Alex noticed Hambone securing a tarp over what appeared to be another vehicle.

  “Come on, I have something to show you.” Elliot waved for Alex to follow and made his way towards the house’s back door.

  It was a yellow door with scuff marks along the bottom where a kick plate should have been installed. But it swung open with no trouble, and Hi-Def and Hambone fell into line behind the two men as they entered the building. They entered through a kitchen that was neglected as was evidenced by the Chinese takeout and pizza boxes that littered the counters. They proceeded through the kitchen and into what might have functioned as a living room, but was set up as a de-facto headquarters for this unit.

  The blinds were pulled shut in an obvious attempt to keep prying eyes at bay. There was a card table with dual laptops on it, connected by a series of wires which is where Hi-Def made his home. He plunked down behind his screens and began tapping on the keys.

  Ninety degrees from him were a pair of corkboards placed on top of easels and several known Mafioso’s’ black and white mug shots graced them in an effort to outline the two warring factions. Under each ‘family tree’ several members were listed as deceased. Notable among the Falzone crew were Sal Pieri and two of his men. All three had a large red X crossing over their faces.

  Elliot wasted no time as they came in, and he picked up a red marker laying on the edge of the easel. He crossed an X through both Sonne Pieri and Frank DeRisio. Alex noticed that of the dueling factions, Joe Falzone’s crew seemed to be taking the brunt of the damage. Most of Falzone’s losses were being accrued at the officer level. Don Ciancetta lost only a handful of hitters, low level thugs for the most part.

  A small desk was cattycorner to the easels but was not burdened by much in the way of paperwork. The place was set up for a quick exit. One thing caught Alex’s eye as he plunked down on an uncomfortable plastic chair, the kind you would get for a few bucks at a discount shop. He noticed that there was a chart of monetary shipments that were made at varying times to varying mobsters on both sides of the war.

  Most streams, at a glance, seemed to flow independent of one another, each to their perspective sides of the family. It seemed that Don Ciancetta and his crew made quite a large amount more than the other faction, but that could be expected as he was the boss. Beyond the monetary flow of several thousands of dollars here or there, one large payment leapt off the page, causing Vaughn to leap out of his seat almost as soon as he sat down.

  He thought to go over towards the easel to study the outline in more detail, but Elliot came forward and flipped the easel around revealing a chalkboard with the name “Jack” scratched across it in chalk. There was the date of his murder, just several days earlier and a list of facts that were uncovered as of today. There was a photograph of the 9mm bullet that pierced Jack’s lungs along with its dimensions before and after the bullet flattened during its destructive course. The Sobranie cigarette was listed along with both locations the brand was sold.

  It caused Vaughn to do a double take when he noticed a picture of himself, but then again, why wouldn’t they have documentation of him in action. There was the useless photograph that Hi-Def showed Alex earlier that they believed was Rafael Rontego.

  Rafael Rontego.

  They had been so close. He was long gone by now. He could have been in another state. If they knew what the fucker looked like, they might be able to put an APB out for him and head him off. If they knew what he looked like.

  Alex took another look at the red X’s that crossed the faces of men he spoke with just hours earlier. He felt his face pull up into a grimace as both the thought and the ache of his head wound assaulted him. He put a hand to his forehead tracing the outline of the cut. It was not as large as he thought; the amount of blood misled him.

  Alex could imagine how he looked at that second. Coming back to the moment, he brushed his long brown hair backward away from the wound. A few strands stuck at first, but the momentum of Vaughn’s hand tore them away, reopening the wound a little. Alex noticed that Elliot was giving him a serious look; his lips were pursed together again. He walked over to the picture of Alex and drew an X across his face. Vaughn, flabbergast, just about choked.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Elliot stood a bit straighter. “Alex, what happened tonight was damn near a disaster. We can’t have you getting killed.”

  Vaughn felt heated rage well up inside of him, threatening to boil over. “My work’s not done yet,” he said.

  Still, Elliot stood toe to toe with Alex, resolute. “Alex, think about it. Victor Garducci has already accomplished what he set out to do. It was you that called in who the killer is. Rafael Rontego killed Jack. That is a huge place to start. There is no need for you to be undercover and risking yourself. What purpose would it serve?”

  Alex placed a hand on the easel and looked at the red X over his face. How large it loomed to him at that moment. He had, in fact, almost lost his life.

  Vaughn felt the presence of someone else coming up to him and it was confirmed when a maul of a hand rested on his shoulder. Alex gave a slight turn to see that the size thirteen shoes staring up at him were Hambone’s. His voice seemed thick even if he was, in some small measure, trying to soften it and seem friendly.

  “You did a hell of a job up there, man. I mean, I haven’t seen anyone survive a blast like that. You got Angels sitting on your shoulder.”

  There was a pause as Alex digested the brute’s words. It seemed that Elliot thought that was his cue. “Besides, think for a moment about the position you were in. What would you have done if you saw Rafael Rontego up there? Would you have pulled the trigger yourself? Would you have let Sal or Frankie pull the trigger? Or were you gonna pull out your badge and arrest them all?”

  Alex stood up and turned around. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

  Elliot pursed his lips again. God, how Alex hated it every time he did that. He glanced at Hi-Def, who shrugged.

  Elliot continued on. “Face facts man, that explosion was the best thing that ever happened to you. That was a no win situation up there.”

  Best thing that ever happened to him. Alex winced as the image of Sal Pieri resting on the floor, still smoldering and with Alex’s bullet embedded in his brain, flashed across his consciousness. Alex shook his head in affirmation of his resignation. Hi-Def, reading the body language began pounding on his keyboard.

  “Ok then, Victor Garducci died in the blast. That makes four.”

  As he spoke the words he spun the computer around to face the three men.

  A case file on Victor Garducci flashed on the left side of the screen “DECEASED.” On the right was a list of newspaper agencies that were at the same time emailed officer notations on finding multiple dead bodies on the scene. Listed were Sal Pieri, age 46, Frankie DeRisio, age 43, Victor Garducci, 28 and Muro Lucano, age 58.

  “Muro?” Elliot and Alex questioned at the same time.

  “Yep. Officers on the scene found a body near the back entrance. Seems a winner is starting to emerge in this war. Muro is a huge loss to Falzone.”

  Hambone let out a low whistle. It seemed whistling was his thing.

  “Two guesses as to who got the drop on Muro.”

  Elliot clenched his face and you could tell he was thinking hard. His lips began to purse together again and Alex watched it hoping to God he wouldn’t do it again.

  “For God sakes Elliot, it was a joke. You know it has to be Rontego.”

  Elliot let out a laugh and it interrupted his puckering. “It’s not that, I was just wondering how Slate was doing. We haven’t heard from him in a bit. I am sure he is fine.”

  Alex nodded his head, but made a mental note to make a call to his friend the second he was away from these rodeo clowns. Alex looked at Hi-Def. “So, Victor is dead?.”

  Hi-def leaned back.
“Victor is dead.”

  His mind made up, Alex Vaughn pulled out his pistol and replaced the bullet he lost in Sal’s brain matter. With the resounding click of his magazine, he walked towards the door.

  “Where are you going?” Elliot asked.

  “I’m doing what I should have done to begin with. I’m going to Jack’s house to see what I can find.”

  Elliot strode towards the door and into Alex’s path. “You think we haven’t been there? You think the rest of the Buffalo P.D. hasn’t been there? They found nothing. We found nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, you people don’t know Jack like I did.”

  Elliot saw that he was not going to win this battle. Backing down, he crunched his lips together, “At least bring Hi-Def with you. Besides, how are you gonna get there?”

  Elliot tossed the keys to Hi-Def. “Keep an eye on our cowboy here.”

  Hi-Def walked out the door Alex was holding open for him. As he strode past, Alex heard him mutter, “More like he is gonna keep an eye on me.”

  Alex let a small smile creep out and pulled his tattered leather jacket in tight around him. His smile crept out and the cold crept in.

  Hambone’s voice echoed back to him as the door shut behind “you got Angels sitting in your shoulder.”

  Maybe he did. Alex decided to let the Angels guide him. He let a puff of heated air escape into the dark night. He had some detective work to do.

  Chapter 23

  Rafael Rontego sat in a leather chair, his foot resting on his opposite knee in the spacious living room of Christian ‘The Pope’ Biela. This condo was the lap of luxury. A window lined the outer curve of the floor and created a one hundred and eighty degree arch of glass that provided a spectacular view of the city.

  The night lights danced up the fifteen stories and reflected inward, casting a pale light across the polished dark tiles. Mahogany furniture filled in the voluminous dwelling and a large glass bar resided a dozen feet from the grandiose entryway.

  The assassin took the liberty of pouring himself a scotch and was sipping it. His pistol rested on the arm of his chair, within easy reach. Oddly, the killer was relaxed and enjoying the moment of solitude. A strange calm overtook Rafael Rontego since he decided on a specific course of action. The hardest part of doing something was the indecision that often preceded it.

  A few moments passed, and his thoughts were so focused inward that the assassin almost didn’t hear the rattle of the lock as a key lifted the deadbolt. His eyes, already well adjusted to the gloom, noticed that The Pope arrived, though that infernal cough would have announced it even if Rafael wore a blindfold.

  The Pope glided into the room. He was wearing his well-pressed suit, blue with thin pinstripes, which was a little ruffled from a long day of work. His briefcase was in one hand and with his free hand he searched the wall looking for a light switch.

  Having found it, he flipped the switch inside the entryway expecting illumination. The bulb was out. The assassin maximized his advantage of darkness by unscrewing the bulb from the socket, just enough to prevent a connection.

  Chris Biela walked toward the bar and pulled a cord on a tiny lamp. Still facing the bar, with his back to the assassin, the consigliore placed the briefcase atop the bar and began to pour a drink. As he poured the tonic, he flicked his briefcase open, still oblivious to the assassin waiting behind. He stirred his tonic with one hand and rummaged through his briefcase with the other. After a few moments, the consigliore spun around with a tiny derringer in one hand and smooth vodka in the other.

  Rafael Rontego didn’t flinch. He just took another sip of his scotch, his pistol pointed at The Pope and resting on the arm of the leather chair.

  “I guess I won’t need this,” The Pope remarked with an annoyed smirk. He lowered his miniature pistol.

  “What makes you so certain,” Rontego asked. He took another sip of the scotch. It was a fine drink.

  “You and I both know that if you wanted to kill me I would have never known you were here.” The Pope looked the assassin in the eye and took a sip of his tonic. “So that begs the question, what does bring you here?”

  “Two things,” Rafael said as he took his hand off his pistol and went into his jacket pocket. He pulled a matchbook out and flicked it toward Don Ciancetta’s right hand man. The Pope snagged it out of the air and flipped it over. “Muro is dead,” the assassin stated. Christian Biela walked into the living room and sat in another chair across from Rontego.

  “That explains much.” The Pope seemed to be lost in thought for a moment but then he continued, “We received an offer a couple of days ago, for a sit down tomorrow with our friends Joe Falzone and Aldo Marano.” He let out a low wheeze that grew into a steady cough. He brought his sleeve up and caught a bit of spittle before it flew out into the stratosphere of the room.

  “It shouldn’t be related.” Rontego kept a straight face trying to hide how disgusted he was with the man’s physical imperfection. “I killed him just a few hours ago.”

  “But it is.” The Pope took another sip on his drink and looked again at Rontego. “If they killed you last night, or me tonight, or the Don’s son Joey, or Don Ciancetta himself, they would hold all the cards come tomorrow evening.”

  “But they just came after me,” Rontego said, hoping to learn more from The Pope.

  “This means, more than likely, we are all open targets. Or we were until Muro was killed.” The Pope retreated within himself again.

  “Well, the good news is you simply have to stay alive for another eighteen hours then,” Rontego remarked. “But let me caution you in the words of Magaddino, may he rest in peace, ‘Beware the dinner invitation from a hungry wolf’.”

  The Pope took in the advice and nodded his head. Then shifting gears, he shook his head and coughed. “So, two things brought you here, I assume one is to get paid for the Muro thing. Fair enough. But what now can I do for you regarding the other?”

  Rontego downed the last bit of scotch in one gulp and declared, “I’m retiring. I want out.”

  Christian Biela almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat as he looked at the assassin and realized he was serious. The piercing glare coming from the assassin made the consigliore shift uncomfortably in his seat.

  “But why?” he asked.

  “Why not?” The assassin asked. “There is bound to be a lot of heat coming down on me after all the work I have been putting in. Also, you and I both know that the Don gets a little bit squirrelly in a crisis. I don’t need him second guessing my tenure. What I want from you is a guarantee that no one comes looking for me. I put in my dues. Who knows, maybe this is just a laying low period for me. But as far as anyone is concerned, I am calling it a retirement.”

  “I see,” The Pope said. He turned inward again. After a few moments, he smiled and said, “It’s not good business to go after you, Raf.”

  The assassin stood up and walked towards the door. He holstered his pistol and placed his fedora atop his head. “Good. Just make sure the Don sees things your way.”

  The Pope got up and followed him towards the door. “But where will you go? What will you do?”

  “I think I have a friend to stay with, in Canada.” Rafael stepped out into the hallway and turned around. “He has a little cabin by the water. I think I might do a little fishing.” The assassin smiled.

  “Ah, I think our friend is mutual. I know of a friend of ours who recently made that trip. Tell him Chris says ‘Hello.’ What of your payment for Muro?”

  “Keep it. Keep it as a down payment on your promise.” The assassin twirled around and walked past the bewildered guard in the hallway.

  “You have my word, Rafael. No wiseguy will look for you,” The Pope called out after the assassin, spurring a tiny hiccup of a cough. The Pope shot a glance at the useless guard in the hallway as Rafael rounded the corner of the building. “Next time, do your fucking job.”

  *

  A slight rain began to slip from
the mournful and overcast sky that seemed to be perpetually bound to the city of Buffalo, New York. The snow banks absorbed the hint of moisture in a way that created a glistening effect off of the street lamps in the quiet Hamburg neighborhood, a suburb just outside of the city. The soggy lumps of white seemed to get even more amorphous as the rain drops melted the freshest layers of ice and snow.

  To make matters worse, Hi-Def’s ride didn’t have heat. Alex Vaughn and Hi-Def wrapped their jackets tighter around them and rubbed their hands together as they sat outside of Jack’s residence and worked up the courage to make a run for the doorway. They parked several doors down so as to not draw attention to a parked car in a dead man’s driveway.

  Alex always liked coming to Jack’s place. The two-story home was built on a brick foundation while the second story was protected by side paneling. It felt like a second home, even if Charlotte hesitated to accept invitations here. Vaughn couldn’t blame her though; it was set less than a hundred yards from a large cemetery. They would be putting Jack in the ground, within sight of his home, sometime in the next few days. Alex shook his head and clapped his hands together in an attempt to get circulation moving in his frozen digits.

  “Ready then,” he declared more than asked.

  Hi-Def, uncomfortable, mumbled something in reply, but Alex wasn’t listening.

  He opened the car door and took off in a jog. In a few moments, he was under the overhang in the doorway and his fingers were feeling along the top of the outer doorframe. He felt some debris which he imagined were the remnants of bugs or bits of dirt until his fingertips slid across the smooth surface of something metal.

  Hi-Def came running up behind him and as he exited the rain he asked, “A key?”

  Alex brought his hand down and showed the trophy of his find before inserting it into the lock.

  The second Alex stepped in the home, a flood of memories wafted over him. Christmas parties, sharing a beer, playing cards, watching football; they all assailed him and for a moment, he felt the loss as poignantly as when it first occurred.