by B C Bell
Later that night, after putting April to bed, June shivered in her kitchen, despite it being summer and still 85 degrees out. The description Terrance gave made her scared all over again. If such a thing was out there, it wasn’t natural. But then, the thought of it attacking only mob guys gave her pause. Maybe it had its reasons. And anything, June realized with morbid fascination, that hurt The Giordanos made her happy.
Could this thing be all that bad?
Five months ago
Gory finished putting the dishes in the sink and stated running water. June admonished him.
“Gordon, you don’t need to do that. You just finished the season yesterday. You’ve got to be tired. I’ll do them.”
He blocked her from reaching the sink. She tried to dart left, then right, but despite his massive bulk, he was too quick for her. “You did all the work cooking and serving, Doll Face. This one’s on me. You go relax in the other room with April.”
She faked him one last time, but only to get in close for a hug. He wrapped her in his tree trunk limbs and carefully hugged back.
“How’d I get so lucky?” they both said in unison, then laughed. April peeked into the kitchen and giggled at the sight. Her mom turned just in time to see her Shirley Temple curls dart back out of sight.
“Okay, Mister. You win this time, but don’t make a habit of it. I like to spoil you. You get too many people who want to break you on the field. I just want to pamper you when you come over.”
Gory started his task, speaking over his shoulder, “Oh, you’ve broken me, alright. I’m like a wild mustang who’s now more comfortable in the stable.”
June liked that, thinking he was more comfortable here. Once he got his end-of-season pay, they’d run off to the courthouse and get married. She’d had the big wedding once and he didn’t seem to mind. April loved him, and he her, so the sooner they got hitched, the better impression it’d make on her, give her a daddy again. She barely remembered her real daddy now, only seeing him in dreams occasionally. Since Gordon had entered their lives, the ten year old was more alive than June could ever remember.
After listening to Burns and Allen, Gory gave his sweetness a short but promising kiss goodnight. April safely tucked in bed, June watched from the window as her future husband hailed a taxi. As it pulled away, she thought she caught movement in the back seat, but it was out of sight too quickly.
She figured she’d just ask him about it tomorrow.
Now
Antonio “Big Papa” Giordano couldn’t believe his own ears.
“Charlie! Come here! Please tell me there’s some clam sauce or something stuck in my ears because I could not have heard this dead man clearly.”
Charlie, Big Papa’s nephew approached the patriarch and carefully looked in the old man’s right ear. “Nothing there, Big Papa.”
Big Papa turned from his seat at the head of the enormous table he sat at and cuffed Charlie upside the head. “Doofus! That was one of those rhetorical questions. Can’t you tell the difference? Geez, Louise. A million schmoes out of work and I get this one.” Charlie slinked back to his corner just off center from his boss.
Pick gave his hyena-like chortle, while his partner Axe stood stone-faced as always. The man in front of Big Papa tried to smile, however it came out more as a grimace having locked onto the “dead man” comment. The mob boss’s two enforcers kept him on his knees.
Big Papa readdressed the penitent man, “So, you really want me to believe, once again, that some sort of monster is trying to single-handedly destroy my empire? Choose your next words carefully, as they will make the difference to your future within this organization.”
The man, a low level pimp in The Giordanos’s hierarchy, swallowed hard and told his story once again. “I swear to you on my life, Big Papa, a guy as big as a mountain busted through the doors on my hotel. He smashed my counter like it was Lincoln Logs. I grabbed my shotgun and I unloaded a round right square in the chest. I swear on my mother’s grave,” the man crossed himself, “the guy didn’t even flinch. His jacket and shirt were blown away and I could see his skin. It was metal.”
“You mean he had some sort of steel shirt underneath his clothes?”
The pimp shook his head, “No, Big Papa. His skin, it was metal. It moved and flexed as he did. I’ve never seen nothing like it.”
“Tell him what you told me,” Pick said, a mad glee in his eyes.
“He said he had a message for you, Big Papa.”
Big Papa leaned forward expectantly, “And that message?”
Again, the man swallowed. He looked at Pick, looked at Axe, hoping to see some sort of reprieve in their expressions. No help coming, the man gave up the ghost.
“He said to tell you he was getting closer. Gridiron was getting closer to you.”
The Patriarch sat back in his oversized chair, fingers laced across his massive gut. He closed his eyelids, but the eyes beneath moved rapidly, as if he was experiencing a nightmare. Without opening them, he lurched forward and, with a massive meat-hook, slammed all the plates filled with pasta to the floor with a thunderous crash. Charlie and the pimp both reeled back in surprise, but the Enforcers were stoic in their places.
“Get this peon out of here!”
Axe, so named as he was the man Big Papa called on when he had an axe to grind, grabbed the purveyor of flesh by the collar and dragged him from the room. Big Papa steamed, his breath escaping from the snarl on his face. “That’s three, Pick. Three! Somebody’s got a death wish if he thinks he can mess with The Giordanos and get away with it. I want this thing, this Gridiron. I want it dead. And not just dead, Pick. I want it chopped to pieces if you have to take a blowtorch to him. I want to know who its people are. Cut them into little pieces, too.”
Pick loved this type of assignment because he got to be creative. “Whatever you say, Big Papa. This will be fun.”
The mobster calmed down, knowing his enforcers would take care of this menace. “Nobody messes with my family… Nobody!”
Four months ago
June sat at Gordon’s bedside and looked at her fiancé for the umpteenth time, hoping to see movement. And for the umpteenth time, there was only the rise and fall of his chest. The continued noise of his labored breath through the oxygen mask was the only comfort she drew from the situation. As long as he breathed, there was hope he’d wake. It’d been a month since the mob took Gordon right from her doorstep. Maybe if she’d acted faster, the police would have rescued him before they did their devil’s work. She’d live with that guilt forever and only hoped she could make it up to him when he came out of his coma.
She could hear the police officer guard snoring in the hallway. Some help he’d be if Big Papa sent any of his enforcers to finish the job they started. He was really just there to report when Gordon awoke more than for any serious protection. Federal agents had already questioned her. Now they wanted to grill Gordon as soon as he woke up. They would give him no time to grieve, no time to think. They wanted his raw reaction when he woke and saw what shape the mob had left him in. June was sure they thought he’d immediately tell them everything and they could bring down Big Papa once and for all.
But June had learned a lot at the paper; most of it from Mr. Johnson, Terrance, the sports reporter and a friend of Gordon’s.
“They let him live for a reason,” Terry had sagely spoke while they both sat vigil, “They want him as an example to other athletes that when Big Papa says ‘dive,’ you dive!”
“But what if he wakes up and remembers who did this to him, Terry? Won’t he go to the police?” An increasing tremble in June’s voice came with each question, “What if they kill him before he can go to trial?”
Terry had put his hand on her shoulder, “I doubt he’ll talk to the police or the Feds. The other reason they let him live is
they’re sure he won’t squeal.”
June looked confused, and Terry’s face pained as he told her what he suspected. “Gordon has a blind spot, hon’. They beat that weakness into him, made sure that if he woke he’d remember it. Gordon knows that if the mob can get to him, they can get to… you.”
Terry was right, and June felt even guiltier that she might be a weight around this good man’s neck. She might be the one that brought the mighty warrior down, like some Greek tragedy. June accepted the fact that they would be cowards. They’d run away together, all three of them, and start over someplace. Gordon would find a different line of work, as would she. They’d focus on love and put all this mob stuff behind them.
A groan slipped quietly from Gordon’s lips, nearly unheard beneath the oxygen mask. June listened closely to make sure she hadn’t misheard. A second louder noise, this one with feeling, followed the first.
“Gordon? Gordon? Can you hear me?”
There was nothing to substantiate the noise, at first, but then came an almost imperceptible twitch of his hand. Little movements followed; his eyelids, fingers, shoulders. It was like a house warming up floor by floor, room by room. Gordon’s eyes opened a crack then shut again, pinched against the pain of light. June closed the blinds so only a fraction of daylight leaked in.
She tried again, “Gordon? It’s me, darling. It’s June. I’m here”
June debated getting a nurse. She knew as soon as she did, the circus would start. She wanted to be alone with him for a few moments first.
“If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
With very little strength in his mitts, Gory gave her a squeeze.
“Good. Now, don’t try to talk yet. You’ve been asleep for a long time and your voice will be hoarse. Just listen. Before I get the doctors, I want you to know something.”
He squeezed her hand again. This was the moment. She steeled herself and leaned in close.
“I know what they did to you, my love, and it doesn’t matter. I love you just the same. You’re alive and back with me. We’ll find a way to adjust. Just know, I will be with you, forever.”
A tear dripped from Gordon’s still clenched eyelids. The pain of his injuries, the pain of remembering, it must be tearing him up inside.
“And I know what they must have told you. Big Papa probably threatened me or maybe even said he’d hurt April, right? But we’d be okay if you didn’t testify.”
Gordon didn’t say anything, but his breathing increased.
“Well, I’ve time to think about it, and I want you to know how I feel.”
She leaned in even closer to his ear, so that her lips touched them, and whispered,
“Make them pay, Gory. Make those bastards pay.”
When she leaned back, Gordon “Gory” Burrell’s eyes were wide open. June smiled down at him with trust and affection. His eyes softened and relaxed. Then, he too, gave a knowing smile back.
Now
The Everett Herald bullpen meeting was never what anyone viewing would call orderly. The Chief yelled out to reporters telling them where they were going and which shutterbug to take with them.
“Clausen? You’re down to the Mayor’s office regarding the new water treatment plant. Don’t leave until you get a yes or no from him. I don’t want him sitting on this until after the election. Take Elmer with you. See if he can find some polluted water to snap.”
With a quick, “Got it, Chief,” Clausen was out the door.
This continued down the list and Pointer was getting restless. It was one thing to not give him the assignment despite all the reports he’d brought the Chief, but to just not cover it, well, that was un-American. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“Chief?” Pointer shouted, “What about the Gridiron reports? Who ya going to assign to it?”
All turned to their boss, whose eyes burned with a fire of embarrassment and rage. Not wanting to make a scene, he brought his temper down and addressed the sports writer.
“Oh, we’re calling it ‘Gridiron’ now, are we? Why not Bigfoot? Or the Martian Man?”
This brought a chuckle from his staff, which helped with the Chief’s attitude. Pointer was not to be dissuaded.
“I got it from a tip from a guy who knows another guy who’s sister to the bookie that got squashed. It was the only word the police got out of the guy before he went back unconscious. So, that’s on the official police report.”
“Okay, Johnson. Let me get this straight. We’re dealing with the worse collapse of industry since the country started, mob violence running wild, and people whispering war in Europe and you want the paper to spend what little money we have on chasing the boogie man?”
The Chief was hoping to belittle the reporter into slinking away, but Pointer was ready for it. “But that’s just the thing, Chief. It is bad out there. And the government, and the cops, they can’t or aren’t doing enough to make it better. Then, out of the darkness comes this thing out of someone’s nightmare.”
Pointer looked around and saw that he had everyone’s attention. He had his moment and it was now or never. He pulled out a chair and stepped onto it.
“But it’s not out of some kid’s nightmare, no! It’s out of Big Papa’s!”
“I heard,” shouted one editor, “That he’s ten feet tall!”
Another chimed in, “I heard he can fly!”
“This girl I know saw him,” added a secretary, “and she said he wasn’t even human! That he walked like a man, but his face was like Frankenstein’s!”
“This thing,” cut in Pointer, wanting to get the focus back on himself, “man, beast, whatever, is single-handedly dismantling The Giordanos. He’s shut down half a dozen mob fronts, put two dozen criminals in the hospital or behind bars. Big Papa keeps offering bigger and bigger bounties on his head, but no one’s even come close to hurting him.”
The reporter crouched down on his haunches, “People are talking about him, that he is some sort of demon, but I say, no. He is not a demon. He is a vengeful angel. That’s why bullets bounce off of him. He is exactly what the people need; an unstoppable force.”
Standing up again, Terry “Pointer” Johnson pointed his finger towards the grand city out the window and with conviction said, “They need a hero! Let’s give them one!”
The assembly broke out in applause and whistles of support. Even the Chief had to laugh. “Okay, ‘Pointer,’ you’ve made your point. You can have the Gridiron story.”
“Yes!”
“BUT,” continued the Chief, “you still have to cover sports and you’re not getting a cent more per word.” Under his breath, he said, “Not unless it sells papers.”
Pointer jumped down from his chair and shook the Chief’s hand, “Yessir, you won’t regret it, sir!”
He spun around and spotted Massey, their newest and least experienced photographer. “Massey, you’re with me. We’re going to go catch us a gargoyle.”
Three Months ago
“Mr. Burrell, can you again recount the events of the night in question?”
The D.A. cast a quick glance over to the jury, several of which he was sure Big Papa had already gotten to. They appeared nervous and sweaty. Almost all looked like they’d rather be somewhere else. Doing your civic duty might get you lunch for a week, but it wouldn’t put food on the table. The attorney was sure Big Papa offered them more than that. His only hope would be that the severity of the crime might stir something in these twelve people to convict Big Papa’s enforcers and maybe then the feds could get them to turn state’s evidence on the patriarch himself with racketeering charges.
All the prep work; from convincing the police to arrest Pick and Axe, to working with the FBI, to convincing a judge to give them a speedy trial before too much got in the papers and Big Papa could reach all the jurors
, meant nothing. Everything hinged on Gory’s testimony.
Gory cleared his throat, took a drink of water, and from the stand told the story he’d told a dozen people since he began his crusade.
“I’d just left my fiancé’s apartment and hailed a cab. When I got in, I didn’t notice, at first, that there were two other men in the car.”
“Are those two men in the courtroom today, sir?”
“Yes.”
“And can you point them out to the jury?”
Gordon pointed to where Pick and Axe sat in their defendant’s seats.
“Please make a note in the records that Mr. Burrell pointed to Patrick ‘The Pick’ Ziegler and Axel ‘The Axe’ Acciaroli.”
The court reporter made the note, looking as nervous as the jury did. This is the closest the City had ever gotten to Big Papa and whether directly or indirectly, he’d made it known that if his enforcers went down, there would be payback.
“What happened in the taxi?”
“The skinny one…”
“Patrick?”
“Yeah, weasel face.”
This got a chuckle from a couple people, who then looked shameful afterwards.
“He draws a gun from the front seat. His troll partner…”
“Axel?”
“The troll covers my mouth with a towel soaked in some smelly fluid.”
“Chloroform?”
The defense lawyer stood up, “Objection! Leading the witness!”
Gory ignored him and rapidly got his thought out, “Whatever. I’m trying to push him off me, but next thing I know, I’m getting sleepy.” The judge reprimanded Gory and the prosecutor, who said they’d do better. “I wake up sometime later, tied to a board.”