Mob Lust

by Nova Rain

  Joe’s pride.

  I knew him too well to figure out that it’d taken a huge blow. Because of that, I laughed when I read some of the press’s theories.

  “Terrorist attack.”

  “Jihadi’s are trying to take over America.”

  “Muslim hate for westerners behind mall bombing.”

  Blah, blah, blah… If any one of those morons bothered doing some research on the guy who owned that place, they wouldn’t imply anything like that. Instead, they would find out some details about Joe’s past. The answer they had been looking for was in there. This wasn’t some Arab organization; there was no doubt about it in my mind. Joe, Bryan, and I had stepped on a lot of toes. Hell, we were still doing that. We were a man down, sure, but in the years we had been working for the Mob, we’d hurt lots of people. At least one of them was bound to retaliate. The question was “who” was it.

  To find out, the three of us had to think long and hard. We had to assess the situation and study the bomber’s M.O. And this was exactly the reason why discovering who it was, would take a while. Bryan and I saw each other almost every day. Discussing it with him would be a piece of cake. Things were very different with Joe. We met once or twice a month, went to a racetrack, had a cup of coffee a few races later, and that was it. Afterwards, we had to forget about him for two weeks or even more.

  My old Cadillac skidded through Maltese’s wet driveway, its tires spreading gravel and dirt over the concrete. Unlike most of my other visits where I had to wait for his maid to open the door, I spotted him out on his doorstep. With Bryan behind him, he had focused on his tablet, concern written all over his face.

  “Have you seen this?” he asked, flipping the device around. It was a report from the scene of the bombing, titled:

  “Fire too hot for firefighters”

  “The first responders to the fire on 8th street last night were baffled when the fire grew more intense. Despite their best efforts to put it out, the temperature in the ruins of ‘JM’s Sports Factory’ rose so much that they had no choice but to leave the site.”

  “There’s something else, too.” Bryan interjected, moving around the Don. He scrolled down, revealing a large picture of the blown-out entrance. A steel girder sticking out from the pillar was bent, its edge glowing orange in the dark. Part of it had melted and was dripping down to the floor. “I was just saying to Don Maltese what can cause this. Thermite.”

  “What about the fire? Why did it get so hot in there?” I wondered, lifting my gaze up to his.

  “Again, because of the thermite,” he stated, the confidence in his tone not leaving much room for doubt. “It contains its own supply of oxygen. Those firefighters had to work in unbelievable heat. The melting point of steel is two and-a-half thousand degrees. I’m not saying it got that hot in there, but you get my point.”

  “So, that fire is still burning?” I asked, furrowing my brow.

  “Yep.” Bryan’s answer came fast. “It won’t stop until all the oxygen’s burnt off.”

  “Someone’s very pissed at Mancini,” Maltese concluded, easing the tablet away. “They knew the bomb could fail in getting him and they planned for it. How long will it take for that oxygen to burn off?”

  “Four, maybe five days,” Bryan’s words made my jaw drop. “It’s a good thing the bomb was small. Otherwise, it would take a lot longer.”

  “Right,” Maltese added, pursing his lips. “It will take the cops another two to three days to go over the rubble and find what’s left of the bomb. In the meantime, rain will ruin any evidence left at the scene.”

  “They’re covering their tracks and they’re stalling him,” I spoke in a firm voice. “He won’t be able to rebuild for a while.”

  “Exactly,” the Don agreed. “If I was going to hit someone, I wouldn’t change a thing in that plan. It’s thorough. Ruthless. It covers all the bases, and it’s got a certain whiff of the organization. Did Santone have any relatives?”

  “Not that I know of,” I shrugged my shoulders. “Even if he did, they don’t know who whacked him. Boss, it’s got to be someone else from back in Joe’s days in the organization. We used to rough up a lot of people together. That Matheson guy was scared shitless every time we paid him a visit.”

  “That old fart couldn’t have done this, and you know it,” Bryan spoke his mind. “Don Maltese is correct. This bombing’s got ‘Mob’ written all over it.”

  “Boys, I’ve got a big shipment coming in from China tonight,” Maltese announced, his voice gaining in volume and nerve. “The ship’s name is ‘Angelica.’ It’s under the Panamanian flag. I want you to head to the docks. Make sure everything’s copacetic. If there’s a problem, you know where to find me.”

  “You got it, boss,” I said, recalling what was in the containers the last time he had given us this sort of assignment. I loved that stuff. In fact, I liked it so much that I was tempted to steal some pieces for myself. But, unless you have a death wish, you don’t steal from a Don, especially from someone who’d been nice to me and Bryan. Maltese was one arrogant bastard, but, other than that, he was okay. He paid us more than twice the pittance Santone had, including task bonuses. The next day, Bryan and I would get at least five hundred bucks each for a three-hour job. Betraying that generosity just didn’t feel right.

  The veil of darkness engulfed New York, and with it, came a nasty surprise that was guaranteed to make the night much harder than I thought. A storm broke out over the city, soaking everything in its path. On my way to Port Newark with Bryan, the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. It was like an invisible man was throwing buckets of water at my car every second or so. Cracks of thunder caused its windows to vibrate, the brilliant lightning flashes illuminating drenched roads and highways.

  What the hell am I doing out here?

  I asked myself that very question five times during the drive. I hated going back and forth in this weather. I would much rather be in a cozy house, sipping some whiskey by the fireplace and listening for more rumbles of thunder. Company? Sure. I’d like some of that, too. My buddies would do just fine. I preferred the old Joe, though. The outlaw. The guy who’d been like a brother to me all these years past.

  Nearing my destination, another thought sent shivers down my spine. Joe and Bryan disappeared from my little fantasy. In their stead, came an image of Ava. Wearing her usual, smug smile, she leaned over and whispered in my ear:

  “You three will never be the same again. Suck it up, big boy.”

  “Are you okay, man?” Bryan’s voice put an end to the nightmare. “I’ve been talking to you for like a minute and you haven’t responded.”

  “I’m fine!” I barked out, noticing the side of the ship Maltese mentioned earlier. Rust had started to wear away the hull. The letter “e” had been wiped off its name. Powerful lights helped me find a suitable spot to park, just past the four trucks that were about to take on its precious cargo. By the time my Cadillac came to a halt, one of the containers was dangling from a crane.

  “Let’s roll,” I told my friend, popping the trunk open. A sea breeze hit me in the face when I left the warm interior. Raindrops whipped my skin in the few seconds it took me to reach the raincoat. Without wasting any time, I put it on and pulled the hood over my head, water bouncing off the roof of my car.

  “Donny, wait!” Bryan shouted while I raced towards the crane. “How are we supposed the check anything in this rain?”

  “We’ll find a way,” I yelled, the crane operator easing the container down on the ground. Its steel surface made a clanging sound once it hit the wet surface. I turned to the operator, shoving my hand into my pocket. “Rob, help me out here!” I urged, maintaining my loud voice.

  Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut and pushed one of the levers forward. The container lid slid upward, before I reached up. Grabbing its edge, I pulled myself up and raised my leg over it. Looking down at a row of boxes, I shoved my hand back into my pocket. The flashlight of my cell phone revealed
the—lovely—contents. The word “Uzi” was written on the top of the boxes. Right below it, a photo of one of the best submachine guns ever was enough to convince me.

  “Alright!” I called out, hopping off. “You’re doing that next.” I said to Bryan, using my thumb to point back at the container.

  “Who does Maltese sell all those guns to?” He wondered, the noise of a diesel engine getting louder as one of the trucks approached.

  “I don’t know, but my guess is they’re sold all over the country,” I continued. “There are four containers here. One of them can arm all the gangs in New York and Jersey. All of them. Blacks, Latinos, skinheads, you name it…”

  “Maltese makes Santone look like a cigarette thief,” Bryan remarked with a smile. “This stuff is worth millions. He had us chasing after civil servants and chefs for change.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, my gaze roaming the dock. Everyone was on our new boss’s payroll. Truckers, Port Authority employees and the entire crew of that huge ship. This whole operation gave me a clue of his power. He controlled the docks; there was no denying that. He was getting sixteen tons of weapons, and no one was molesting him. There were no cops around whatsoever. Neither would there be, because he had made them partners. Not all of them, but enough to let him do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

  Almost three hours later, we left the docks, tired and soaked to the bone. My feet were numb, and my fingers were killing me. I had to rub my hands together before I could set off for New York. And as if that wasn’t enough, Bryan’s first question was how great it would be if it were three of us out there, instead of two. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, but still, he was opening the old wound.

  Old? No. It wasn’t. It was still fresh; but discussing Joe’s absence didn’t allow it to heal. Bryan kept mentioning the fact that we had to respect his decision. On some level, he had a point. Joe was a new man, going down a different path. He had decided to lead a clean life, without the worry of getting shot or arrested. I wanted to accept this; I really did. Yet, doing things without him wasn’t easy. I missed that flamboyant son of a bitch. Rough around the edges, but loyal to the death, Joe Mancini was a dear friend. I could rely on him, the same way he could rely on me and Bryan.

  Stopping at a traffic light just outside the city, I leaned back in my seat, desperate to go home and wear some dry clothes. The unrelenting rain lashing against the windshield, I saw a car speeding down the road to my left. My Cadillac’s headlights illuminated the shape of a silver BMW M3 as it roared past. Its driver looked to the right, our eyes meeting for a split second. Her long, black hair and her beautiful face shattered my hopes of going home. Less than thirty yards behind her, a black Porsche was hot on her tail.

  “Isn’t that…?”

  “Ava Rockwell,” I finished Bryan’s sentence, putting my foot hard down on the accelerator. I swerved right and overtook two, stationary cars, before turning into the road those two were on.

  “Dude, what the fuck…?” Bryan exclaimed. “They’re too fast. You can’t keep up with them.”

  I wished I could argue with that. My Cadillac had a 5-litre V8 under the hood, but it was much too big and heavy to compete with those speed demons.

  I slammed my foot down, the bellow of the engine growing louder. The Porsche swerved left and into the opposite lane, overtaking a van. I checked my rearview mirror first, closing on that vehicle. To my disappointment, there was another car in the opposite lane. Just after it sped past me, I eased left and overtook the van.

  “Are you carrying that Glock with the silencer?” I asked Bryan, spotting the Porsche’s triangular taillights.

  “Always,” he nodded, opening the glove compartment.

  “This is as close as we’ll get. Shoot that prick’s tires,” I urged, the throttle meeting the footwell. By then, we were thirty yards from each other. Rolling down his window, he stuck his head out, freezing air rushing in. Bryan squeezed the trigger once. The sweet sound of a tire bursting gave me a sense of satisfaction. I watched the fancy car swerve right and left, the rest of its tires squealing as smoke rose from the rear one. Then, the Porsche stayed right, heading straight for the barrier. The sound of metal to metal pierced my ears, sparks flying up in the air. A front light smashed into the concrete, causing the fancy car to spin. Completing a circle, it flipped and began to roll over, bits of aluminum and glass breaking off and littering the road. With its lights destroyed, the Porsche surrendered to momentum and gravity. I lifted my foot off the accelerator, knowing that its crazy course would soon come to an end. Its roof bending in the middle, its windshield smashed, it flipped back on its wheels, making me hit the brakes. I pulled over at the right side of the road, my gaze glued to what used to be an expensive supercar. It was vertical to the road, most of its body in the opposite lane.

  “She’s gone,” Bryan announced. “I can’t see that Beamer anymore.”

  “Go get that casing.” I advised, watching steam rise from the Porsche’s hood. “This needs to look like an accident.”

  I jumped out of my car, darkness in the opposite lane filling my view. We’d been lucky. It was almost 2am; the chances of anyone witnessing this were slim. The driver’s head was resting on the steering wheel. I reached in and tipped it back, until it hit the headrest. Blood was gushing out of two wounds on his forehead, leaving trails down his face.

  “Alright, you little fuck,” I grumbled, leaning my head into the Porsche. “Why were you chasing after that girl?”

  “Fuck off…” he wheezed, cringing in agony.

  “You’re five minutes away from bleeding out,” I smirked, reaching into my waist. I gripped the handle of my gun and thrust it up to his temple. “I can call 911 or put a bullet in your fucking head. Your choice.”

  “She…” The stranger coughed up blood. “She works for me.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, my voice rising in intensity and volume alike.

  “Smoking Lace,” he whispered, his breathing becoming faster.

  “I found it,” Bryan interjected, jogging towards the mangled Porsche. “Did he talk to you yet?”

  “Yeah. Call an ambulance,” I requested, leaning back out of the car.

  “What did he say?” My friend had picked a wrong time to get curious.

  “Just call a goddamn ambulance,” I groaned, striding back to my Cadillac.

  Stripper no more my ass… Why he had chosen to run after her was still a mystery, but that wasn’t the point. Ava had never stopped being “Peaches.” For some reason I couldn’t understand, she had lied to me. Did I want to know? Maybe, but I wasn’t going to go to her for answers. She had already kept something from me. I had no doubt she would feed me more and more lies.

  Chapter Four

  Donny

  God bless the internet.

  Once I got home that night, I read about that “accident.” Sadly, for the driver, he was pronounced dead at the scene. His name? Carlton Hackman. He was fifty-two.

  His story checked out. Indeed, he was a shareholder at “Smoking Lace.” In less than an hour, I was able to dig up some more information about him. There were stories about his arrests, reaching as far back as 2003.

  Trafficking.

  Racketeering.

  Cocaine smuggling.

  Assault.

  Possession of illegal firearms.

  It was like reading my own record, minus the trafficking and the cocaine parts.

  And this meant that Ava was in over her head. She had messed with a scumbag. He might have been dead, but… This guy couldn’t have been working alone. He had to have partners and lapdogs. Most likely, one of them or even all of them knew what had happened between him and Ava. What they would do next wasn’t hard to guess. They would accuse her of his death. It wouldn’t take them to long to go after her.

  This was what I feared the most. Michelle, Ava, and Helena were very close. Those three went out together all the time. Sooner or later, they would be caught in the middle of a te
rrible situation, which could cost them their lives. I couldn’t imagine what Michelle’s loss would do to Joe. The one thing I knew, was that he would never be the same again. He found purpose in life with her. She had shown him a different way of living than what he’d learned in all his years in the organization. I didn’t like it, but he loved it. The worst part of all this, would be for him to find out that I knew about Ava’s issues and had not told him. He would never forgive me. In fact, he well could take his anger out on me. In that case, one of us would die, and the other would go to prison. So, by the early morning, I realized that there was just one way forward: Talking to Joe.

  Purple and pink colors of twilight were up in the sky when I left New York. My first thought was calling him and setting up a meeting. Yet, that meeting could well be next week, because he was a busy man. As much as I didn’t appreciate driving thirty miles, I had to go over to his place in Westchester. This was another result of his relationship to Michelle. The two of them couldn’t—or wouldn’t—live in the city. No. That stupid bitch was too good for a single house in Manhattan or Brooklyn. She had to take him thirty miles away from the streets he once ruled. And that schmuck had to follow her.

  Laying eyes on their house, I smiled to myself. Joe Mancini was maybe the last person in the world I expected to live out here. Lost in one of the tree-ridden neighborhoods of Westchester, it felt like a storybook kingdom. Its doorways were arched, just like the four windows at the front. Just past the huge lawn that surrounded the house, was ample space for umbrellas. Beyond them, a large swimming pool promised to make summer nights special. Leaving it behind, I saw Michelle’s most favorite thing about their estate. Incredibly, it featured its own, private lake, elm and pine trees gracing its shores.

  I rang the doorbell, unable to get rid of that smile. But, once Michelle emerged from inside, the stiff look on her face took care of that.