by Rath Dalton
you ain’t got nothing. Good, real good. Now get out of the car.”
The overcoat man climbed out of his car, a worried eye on the gun. He raised his hands to shoulder height, shifting his eyes between the two men.
“Put your hands down, dammit. You wanna draw attention?”
Overcoat looked like he might be happy to draw attention but he lowered his hands just the same.
“Check him for I-D,” the big man told the suit, “and find out what’s in that pocket.”
The suited sidekick thrust his hand into one overcoat coat pocket and pulled out a cell phone along with a piece of paper.
“Holy shit, boss,” he said, unfolding the paper. “You gotta see this.”
The big man took it. Color rose up in his face as he studied it.
“Where the did you get this?” he spat. “Where the hell did you get this? Did you take it?” His eyes were wild.
“It’s just - a picture.”
“. . . of my daughter – and my wife - in your pocket.” He looked at the picture again, his hands beginning to tremble. The photo showed the girl sitting on a park swing, smiling, her mother in the background.
“How long have you been . . ?” His own anger cut him off. “Get in the car,” he hissed.
The man moved to get into his own car.
“Not yours, asshole - mine.”
Overcoat glanced at the open suicide doors, hesitated and shook his head. “I – no – ” He began to back away.
“Get him in there,” the big man said to the suit, his voice tight. “And give me that.” He snatched Overcoat’s cell phone and shoved it into his own pocket.
Suit punched Overcoat in the face, then once in the belly and shoved him into the car. The big man slid in beside him.
“Drive,” he said, slamming the door. “Get us out of here. Take Eight west.” He pounded the prostrate man’s head with the butt of his gun.
“Do you know who I am?” he screamed. “Do you know whose daughter you tried to fuck with?” He grabbed Overcoat by the collar and sat him up. “Take a look. Take a good fucking look.”
“You – ” Overcoat puffed, his face was beaded with sweat. Blood ran down from a cut. “You’re that - drug guy.”
“That’s right – I’m that drug guy; Ricky Gagliardi the fucking drug guy. No one buys or sells heroine on the east coast without my say-so. You heard any of the stories? What I do to people? Did you hear what I did to Baby Feet Farelli? They found him with those tiny feet shoved down his throat. I pounded them into pâté with a sledge hammer and rammed them down with baseball bat – had to use the little end, you know? Broke a few teeth but what the hell – you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet. That’s how the police found him; choked on his own feet for being a squealer. Now what do you think I’m gonna do to you for trying to fuck with my daughter? My child? The flesh of my flesh? Which part . . . ”
His cell phone rang.
“God damn . . .” He took his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. “It’s Franky,” he said, presumably to the driver. He touched the screen. “Yeah, what? We’re kind of busy. Son of a bitch. Where is she now? And the girl?” A longer pause. “You make sure of that, you got it? And Franky? Nice job. You’re the best. I mean that.” The conversation was done and he tucked the phone back into his pocket.
“They found Marita,” he said to the driver. “She was passed out in the bathroom. It’s the kid’s birthday and you’d think she could stay clean for that, but nope - she can’t even do it for a day. Musta’ made a score at Jumping Jax and went straight to the toilet. All the fucking money these rehabs charge and they don’t do shit. Bunch of huggin’ and cryin’.” He glanced out the window. “Take exit four - to the sandpit, Gino.”
Then, to the man next to him, “How ya doing there fella?” he poked overcoat with his pistol.
“I didn’t hurt your daughter,” the man said, his voice muffled, his arms wrapped over his head. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Ah, don’t worry about that. Everything’s gonna be alright. You’re gonna do fine.” After a moment Gagliardi said, “Hey, we still don’t know who you are.”
He patted the man’s coat pockets. “You got a wallet?”
Overcoat mumbled something unintelligible.
“Well, what the hell is this?” Gagliardi said, pulling a pistol from one coat pocket. He whistled. “Sweet thing. Lucky you didn’t have the balls to pull it. What is it - a Sig nine?”
There was no answer from Overcoat.
“Good thing I found it, you know?” Gagliardi said. “Only takes one guy with a gun to spoil a discussion. We’re gonna have a nice one. We’ll find the ID when we stop. We’re gonna have plenty of time together.”
They drove on, taking an exit and then a number of turns. Finally, they slowed as the tires rocked and bounced over a rough road. The car finally came to a stop.
“Okay,” Gagliardi said, climbing out, “end of the line.”
Gino opened the door and dragged the captive out. The overcoat man stood, looking around. They were in a building, a huge shed filled with earth moving equipment in various state of repair. There were tools, too and shovels and heavy rollers and augers and saws.
“Okay,” said Gagliardi, “Slow him down.”
Gino appeared right on cue, anticipating his boss’s request and slammed a pipe into Overcoat’s shin, shattering bone. The man let out a scream and collapsed to the floor.
“Hey, Hey.” Gagliardi twined his fingers in the man’s hair, raising his head. He patted the man’s face like an Easter ham. “Don’t worry about that, it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna take care of you. We just had to keep you from doing anything crazy while we talk. You get that, right?”
Overcoat groaned in pain but he managed to get words out. “I didn’t touch your daughter.”
“I know, I know. It’s all gonna be fine.” Then, to Gino, “string those hands together.”
Gagliardi hauled over a chainfall on an overhead track, hooked it onto Overcoat’s newly tied hands and hoisted him up to tiptoe height.
“Finally,” said Gagliardi, placing hands on his hips, “here we are.” He let out a breath as he looked at their handiwork. “We can have a serious talk. Maybe we’ll even get somewhere.” He began to pace. “I’m gonna ask you questions and you’re gonna give me answers. You’re gonna tell me what you were doing with my daughter. You’re gonna tell me where you took those pictures. You’re gonna tell me how long you’ve been stalking her and you’re gonna tell me which pies your aunt bakes on Christmas. You’re gonna tell me everything. You got it? And how you answer depends on how you die. It can go easy, or it can go the Baby Feet Farelli way. It’s all up to you.” Gagliardi smiled. “It’s good to be in control of your fate, isn’t it?”
The overcoat man groaned again but the groan ended in a small laugh.
“Yeah, funny, ain’t it?” Gagliardi said. “Right now I’m thinkin’ we rip your dick off with Vicegrips and if that don’t work, we move to your balls. What do you think about that? Funny right?”
The overcoat man laughed again and Gagliardi smiled.
“I’ve seen a lot of reactions to this situation but this is new. You mind explaining? You crazy? Did something bust in there?” He tapped his head.
“You . . .” Overcoat laughed. “You’ve got my cell phone in your pocket . . .”
Gagliardi smiled. “Yeah, ain’t that a hoot.”
“It’s got the ‘Silent Mic’ app.”
“The what?”
“I turned it on when I had my hand in my pocked back in the parking lot. You’ve got it in your pocket now.”
Gagliardi pulled it out and looked.
“They’ve got you on the web now – confessing to drug trafficking, the murder of Tony Toledo . . .”
Gagliardi swore and dropped the phone.
“. . . kidnapping,
crossing state lines while committing a felony . . .”
Gagliardi crushed the phone with his heel.
Overcoat laughed. “Too late, Gagliardi, it broadcasts and uploads. Those two last ones are federal offenses along with threatening the life of a federal agent.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“My mom was a lot of things but never a bitch. You should have checked my I.D first. Bad luck I guess – badge was in the other pocket. Theodore Reese, FBI. They sent me to pump information from your junky wife. That picture was a surveillance photo.”
“An FBI agent kidnapping a little girl?”
“Taking an abandoned minor into protective custody. It’s legal. Ask the judge if you make it to court.”
“Son of a . . .” Gagliardi pointed his pistol at Reese but the sound of sirens rose in the distance. He hesitated.
“You gave directions to the sandpit too.” Reese said, “Shoot me now and they’ll have you red handed. I’d take my chances fighting the confession in court if I were you.”
Gino shifted his eyes from Gagliardi to Reese, then off in the direction of the sirens. “We should get outta here, boss,” he said. “I got a wife and kids now – I can’t do any more time.”
Gagliardi gripped the gun and licked his lips. He glanced in the direction of the sirens too. Sweat rolled down his forehead.
“Running is bad idea, Gino.” Gagliardi said. “Let’s do this smart. Cut him down.”
Gino cut Reese’s bonds quickly, without question. When he was done, he looked up to find Gagliardi pointing a gun at him instead of the agent.
“What the hell boss?” Gagliardi