I fell to one knee, avoided a blade of bullets as I rammed my fingers down my pockets for spare ammo. I spat a subdued curse when all I found was lint.
I got the feeling Marzio was nearby. I held my revolver up like it was loaded, hoped the sucker on the other end would buy my ploy. It would for a second.
I moved like a crab, took sidesteps cautiously.
My foot tripped over an object on the floor; I glanced down, saw a guy with spots blood sprinkled on his face like the measles. A small caliber revolver was still tucked in the palm of his icy hand.
My eyes lit as I clawed it out of the hand, checked the chamber. It was full, plus a box of cartridges in the stiff’s left-hand pocket.
The flour mist began to dissipate. The air cleared up. Smoke filled the air as several participants discharged black powder weapons.
I used the wall as my guide, slid quietly around the wall. I had no interest in the outcome. As long as I got Marzio. The G-men weren’t expendable, but I couldn’t play their messiah. Dozens of people had been killed already.
I felt the breeze of someone’s breath. I froze, played statue while I scanned my flanks. I heard the creak of shoe soles on empty shells nearby.
Whoever they were, they were stupid. They opened their mouth, made a demand. Nobody with a gun, in their right mind, made verbal demands.
“Don’t move,” the person said. “Keep ya hands where I can see ‘em.”
I smiled; it wasn’t intended for me. The ordered had been chucked at an individual on my left.
Chains clanked.
Marzio.
“Don’t shoot me,” he said in his suave, nonchalant drawl. “I am unarmed.”
I shut my eyes, imagined the interaction in my head; the mobster appeared too zealous, didn’t know the first rule of a shootout.
It wasn’t over until everybody was dead.
I took a few steps back, placed my heel down first. Still had that smug grin on my face.
It wasn’t over.
I got down on one knee, fired three times. A dash of warm red liquid landed on my nose. Unaffected, I wiped it off as I hurried to inspect my victim.
Too much smoke made it an arduous task. I split one of the white clouds with a hand chop, surveyed the remains of one of the G-men. I knew by the wound on his shoulder I hadn’t accidentally killed him. He must have been the one in charge of Marzio.
The keys to Marzio’s chains were attached to his belt. I unclipped them, held them tightly as I went over to where I had fired.
For an instant, I feared I had taken out Marzio instead.
To my half-hearted relief, I found Marzio on his knees. He gawked at the dead mobster I had plugged.
I tilted my head slightly, observed the mobster’s revolver. It had been cocked, but not fired. It was inches away from Marzio’s grasp; yet he didn’t go for it.
I came up to Marzio, dangled the keys in front of his eyes like a handful of carrots. I unlocked the cuffs, then the fetters. If Marzio had any gratitude, he held it back as he rubbed his sore wrists. The act of liberation changed his mannerism. He looked at me with a shared desire to live.
I picked up the revolver from the ground, placed it in my leather shoulder holster. Footsteps vibrated, human limbs created more whitish dust devils. I peered into the murkiness, couldn’t make out any definite forms.
“We must go,” Marzio whispered.
“No shit.”
Teeth gritted resolutely, I slapped the spare revolver in Marzio’s moist palm. I stared into his eyes solemnly.
“I ain’t screwin’ with ya, Don,” he warned. “Don’t screw with me. I die, ya die. That’s how it is. They ain’t gonna let ya live. I might. Do exactly what I say.”
“Very well.”
“Swell.”
Still wary, I led the mobster over to the hallway on the left side of the room. The blood mixed with the floor, created a slick surface. Once in the hallway, I looked down at my clothes, splashed with white like an angel’s gown. Marzio’s clothes didn’t do him justice, either.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Marzio asked worriedly.
“We walk out the front door,” I replied.
“Won’t there be others there?”
I rolled my eyes. “Ya askin’ me what to do? Ya a wop with a gun in his hand, a bunch of lowlife scum in his way, and ya askin’ me what to do?”
“I didn’t think we would resort to violence like this.”
“Where the hell have ya been hidin’? This is Beverly, or did ya forget the time ya was sittin’ in ya fancy freakin’ mansion?”
We found another dead mobster around the corner. His horrified expression said he had gotten a decent look at his killer just before death.
The deed had been done at close range. The killer had left an untidy mess for somebody to clean up.
I pushed the body over, perplexed when I found a police-issued Tommy gun underneath the corpse. I picked up the Tommy gun, cocked it. I then rummaged through the man’s pockets. This time I found something. A small folded note with an address on it. It had to be where they were located currently.
Someone had talked. An informer who worked with the G-men, probably.
But the police-issued gun troubled me.
Marzio watched my introspection with an ambiguous look. His moustache twitched. He scratched it, turned his head to the side. His bushy black eyebrow rose inquisitively.
“You seem to enjoy this, detective,” he noted. “Am I wrong?”
I didn’t care to give an answer.
The scene at the front of the building was familiar; three men at the door, two at the counter, one outside. They had worked too hard on their pretenses, acted as though they had legitimate business there.
I turned to an angst-filled Marzio, nodded my head with assurance.
“Relax Don,” he said. “These brunos ain’t half the caliber ya boys were.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I approached the door, grabbed the knob, my Tommy gun held vertically in the air. I grinned eagerly.
“No? Well what do ya know?”
“No time to speak here. Let us get to my office. I will let you everything there.”
I didn’t like the setup. I wanted to rendezvous with the G-men, if there were any of them left alive. I wanted to play this by the rule book. But the book had been burned a long time ago. Now I had no constraints. I could deal with Marzio as I pleased.
When I was finished with him, I would then decide whether to kill him or not.
***
Marzio’s old office had been ransacked; desk tipped over, papers scattered like snowflakes, carpet ripped up. A hammer had smashed the walls.
It wasn’t hard to figure out who had done it or why.
After we had squelched his goons, Hardy had sent officers to pick Marzio at his home. The house had been deserted, his bedroom bare; the next place his biggest business front, Eastland Toys near the Essex Bridge.
It was the greatest irony of Marzio’s life. Nine-year-old girls had played with his toys displayed in the windows, while another girl waited for her old man to get from one of his brothels. For every child Marzio had brought joy to with his toys, he had put another one in misery.
Marzio stood in the doorway, apprehensive. I laughed off my fear, checked the office out alone.
We had only met for an hour, but we had made our impressions already. He was what I had expected, mostly. I had to admit, I was somewhat disappointed. He wasn’t like most mob bosses. They normally started in crime, ended in crime. They had started out small, worked their way up. In Marzio’s case, Eastland Toys had been his first venture. The bootlegging had come later, when thousands of dollars hadn’t been enough to fill his bank accounts.
Additionally, Marzio had no stomach for violence himself. In our flight to his office, we had encountered a straggle of mobsters. Marzio had fired his revolver clumsily, missed one of them a mere three feet away. I had had to empty my revolver to save him
.
A close inspection of the office came speedily. I moved with additional enthusiasm. I had more than my allotted hour to spend with Marzio with the G-men were out of the picture.
Now I had all the time in the world.
“It’s safe,” I said finally. I approached the desk, turned it back on its legs, then brought a chair over to it. I looked at Marzio, pointed at the chair imperviously.
“Sit,” I commanded.
Marzio seemed incompliant.
“Where are my clothes?” he demanded. “I want them.”
I aimed my gun at the chair.
“I don’t give a shit about ya clothes,” I spat. “Sit.”
“We had a deal.”
I grabbed at my hair, gritted my teeth to maintain what little composure I had. By then I had reached a break point of exhaustion. My hour or two of sleep since yesterday supported me like cracked pillars.
I snarled, returned to the toy-laden vestibule to grab the suitcase. After I found it, I stopped to look more closely at the room.
I angrily dragged the suitcase out of the vestibule, back into Marzio’s office. I threw the suitcase on the desktop, glanced at him with contempt.
“Don’t waste time,” he said.
Marzio obeyed. He chucked his worker’s clothes to the side, dressed hastily. He seemed to belong in a striped suit; the padded shoulders gave him a bigger form, the wide lapels a charismatic appeal. It had done its job in the past. His tastes in fashion had dazzled reporters, attracted women, inspired envy in his rivals.
“Hurry up,” I growled.
Marzio slipped his tie around his neck, walked over to his chair as he completed the knot. He smoothed out his suit as if to finalize the transformation. He looked around as he tried to imagine himself back in control of his empire. His chin elevated, his sharp nose directed at me.
He cleared his throat, took a seat in his chair gracefully. It was as if we were in a business transaction. Mere physical appearances made it seem as though I had come in hat-in-hand.
Marzio had pride. Too much. I aimed to reduce it.
“Don’t test me,” I said. “I ain’t in the right mind for it.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who is in their right mind, period.”
“Ya know what, Don? Ya right. I ain’t in the right mind. That said, ya wanna make a guy like me angry?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Marzio said.
“Good. Now talk.”
“Where’s my wine?”
“Ain’t happenin. Talk.”
“My wine, first, please.”
A long pause transpired.
I snapped; I didn’t know what caused it. Maybe it was Marzio’s vanity. Maybe it was my own pride.
Or maybe the full weight of years of hardship, endured due to this scum, finally fell on me.
I took out my two-page list of questions I had compiled for Marzio. I tore it in half in front of his nose. The mobster threw out his hands apathetically.
That did it for me.
The bastard acted like it was nothing, like the world revolved around his desires, like my presence was an inconvenience. He was a pampered, delusional, ignorant fool, unremorseful for what he had done.
I screamed as I kicked the desk over. I didn’t let Marzio recover from the abrupt violence as I grabbed my Tommy gun, shoved it up into his left temple.
“Listen to me, ya lousy wop piece of shit! I didn’t drag ya ass out of that bakery so ya could sit back and enjoy a glass of wine over dinner! I got ya out for one reason, one reason only. Ya know what I wanna know. That’s all! I don’t give a shit about ya clothes, ya wine, or ya freakin’ dago stupidity! I ain’t playin’ any games, Fredo! Ya waste my time, I swear to Christ I blow ya head into the wall, got it?”
Control. Control. Maintain discipline.
To hell with that. Give him a piece of the mind.
I went on. Years of repressed bitterness spilled out of my mouth.
Marzio’s complexion lost its color.
“Put the gun down,” he ordered.
I smacked him with the butt of my Tommy gun, left a bruise on his right cheek. I smiled sardonically. I couldn’t help but enjoy this moment to its fullest.
“Ya ain’t the toast of the town no more, Fredo,” I roared. “Ya got nothin’! Nothin’, ya hear me? Enough of the bullshit! Either ya talk right now, or I’ll make a deal with ya old pals. It’ll be a first-class ticket on the express train to the world hereafter.”
I laughed wryly. “Ya know all about them deals, right Marzio? Somebody wants ya dead, don’t they? Ya know it, I know it. No way gettin’ around it. The only way outta this place is by levelin’ with me.”
The conversation restarted; Marzio dabbed his sore cheek, miffed, resisted the urge to chide. He gestured, implied he would cooperate.
I felt the blood in my cheeks simmer. I collected myself, pulled up a four-legged chair, sat close to Marzio. As a gesture of good faith, I placed the Tommy gun underneath my chair.
It was a ruse. I had my revolver tucked inside of my arm sleeve, should the need arise. Marzio wouldn’t try his luck. Not when he had seen how lucky I had been that day.
“Consider me at your disposal,” Marzio stated begrudgedly. “Ask, and ye shall receive, correct?”
“Swell,” I said. “Which one of ya associates was behind the riots? And why?”
Marzio asked for a cigarette. I agreed, slid a pack over to him. He grabbed a Lucky Strike, lit both of our cigarettes. The effects took root in my nerves quickly.
Marzio smoked anxiously, consumed two cigarettes within three minutes. He grappled the pack with a tense hand; his brows furrowed as he mulled over it silently. He gazed at me. I stared straight back at him, tapped the table impatiently.
“Come on, Fredo,” I said. “It ain’t hard. Ain’t nobody here but me.”
“He found out where those federal agents held me,” Marzio said solemnly.
“Who?”
“Follow me.”
Marzio led me to what appeared to be a small closet. He opened it, stepped inside. He pulled at a water boiler against the wall, then pushed it to the side to reveal a hidden corridor. He walked it, with my gun pressed closely against his neck. I didn’t trust him an inch. I still suspected an escape attempt.
We walked for a short distance. Eventually Marzio brought us both into a larger, yet narrowly confined room with a low ceiling. A row of cabinets abutted a large safe by the wall across from them.
Marzio approached one of the cabinets, opened it from a concealed clasp on the bottom. He then ran his fingers through the thickly packed folders. His back turned to me, he muttered to himself. He seemed excited to be of use.
I stood off to the side as I peered around the room.
“What do ya got?” I asked.
“One moment,” Marzio said.
“Look faster.”
Marzio unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolled them up as he dug his hands deeper into the mess. He had a nervous look, the kind of nervousness criminals get when they suspect a double cross.
It was a criminal’s twisted logic. The protocol for a hood: they apprehended a man with guns, leaned into him until he coughed up what they wanted, then eliminated him, covered up the loose ends.
“So what happens to me after this?” he asked me.
Marzio peered over his shoulder, had a serious glint in his eyes.
I rolled my eyes, refused to play the pretense.
“Unlike ya wops, I ain’t a backstabbing sonuva bitch. I said I would let ya sorry ass go, and I will as soon as ya give me what I want.”
We looked at each other; Marzio took a long pause to decide if I had been honest.
Apparently satisfied, he then approached me, handed me a large stack of folders.
“Everything you want is here,” he said. “Any questions you have will be answered there much more adequately than I could.”
I lifted one of the folders. It was a decoded, plain script rec
ord of payments made to officers within the Beverly Police Department. As I flipped through the pages, I saw dozens of payments made to former officers, many of them dead or retired.
I found one thing curious; up until the end of March of that year, Hardy had accepted payments. He had gone clean shortly after Costa’s demise.
Marzio stood tall, his shoulders high with a sense of self-dignity.
“If that is all,” he said, “may I go?”
Before, I had figured I’d keep my word, let Marzio go wherever the hell he wanted. Who cared where he went? I had my documents, the list, the confession. Marzio had complied with my demands.
It couldn’t have gone better.
But then I remembered all my years as a cop in Beverly. The total sum of his crimes piled up on one scale, tipped it down from an unbalanced distribution of weight.
Justice would not be served if I let him go. I had sworn to uphold justice. I had done so from my first day on the job, no matter what the cost. The desire for justice, the promise I had made to my father, had kept me alive.
And now I was about to let the man responsible for the greatest amount of injustice in the whole city walk free.
I slipped my revolver out from my coat sleeve, brought aimed it with a perfectly straight arm at Marzio’s forehead.
Marzio’s eyes widened in terror. He remained as calm as a man can when he knows he’s about to eat a bullet.
Would he beg for mercy? Or would he go out as proudly as he had come in?
“Please,” Marzio whispered. “Just make it quick.”
“Are ya gonna beg?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t listen.”
With my arm as stiff as a thick tree limb, I appeared totally resolute. But inside I hesitated. To survive, I had dressed like a mobster, talked like a mobster, carried myself like a mobster. I had never acted like one.
I couldn’t shake loose of what I was.
“No,” I said gruffly.
Marzio moved his head slightly. His hands came down tentatively, unconvinced it was over.
“No?” he inquired.
“No. Not like this. Not this way.”
Marzio let his nerves settle, a glimmer of hope on his face.
I grabbed him, led him over to the entrance to the corridor. There, I gave Marzio a final shove.
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