Three Shorts
Matthew Iden
Copyright 2011 Matthew Iden
Smashwords Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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For Renee, who makes all things possible.
ONE GUY WAS a complete screwup, in trouble all the time for botching jobs. Another had been hopping in the sack with the capo's twenty-five year old wife for the last six months, and knew if he got found out more than his head would get cut off. Two were ambitious, though one was smart and one was just tough. The last was a good soldier who only wanted to do the work and get paid, but he was a fourth-generation Mafioso and knew that being loyal and doing your job wasn't always enough.
All of them were nervous, because one of them would be dead by the end of the day.
Jerry Zigarelli, their capo, had pulled them in for a meeting at his restaurant, no reasons given. The afternoon's last angled rays lit the restaurant's front as they met near the door, clapping backs and exchanging kisses. They submitted to a quick pat-down from the doorman with smiles and coarse jokes, then broke bread in the private room in the back, dripping marinara sauce on scarlet napkins tucked into their shirts.
Jerry Zee told stories and poured the Chianti, which only bald Squeaky DeAngelo didn't drink, because he prized his self-control above all else. Joey Dardanelle, short and with fat hands, knocked the carafe over before they'd gotten more than a taste anyway, spilling the garnet-tinted wine across the table and almost into their laps. Tense seconds hung in the air until Jerry made a joke out of it. Everyone laughed, including Joey, since even he knew he was a complete buffone, beyond help.
They were suspicious men by nature, so the meal started with short words and sharp glances, but Jerry's genteel hospitality and patrician good nature gradually put them at ease. So much so, that when the last fork was laid on the plate and the mingled blue and white threads of cigarette smoke and espresso steam rose toward the ceiling, they thought he was kidding when he said he knew one of them was a cop. Bonesy Carmiglia actually laughed until he realized Jerry was serious, then squeezed off the sound of his own voice like there were hands at his throat. They sat in silence. The only sound was the muffled clink of glasses being washed in the kitchen. The smiles and sense of contentment drained away. Some stared at their boss, a few shot looks at one another. The smart ones let their eyes drop to the table.
"What's the word, Jerry? You got someone on the inside?" This from Frank Molitano, whose family had come from Sicily before Lincoln was president. He had a creased face with a gray mustache thick as a broom. His hands were busy turning a glass salt shaker, matching the opposite points with his thumb and forefinger as he talked.
Jerry glared at the men gathered around his table, his prunish face pinched and yellow. The gleam in his eyes, which they'd mistaken earlier for mirth, now looked feverish. "A friend at the DA's office heard something about one of you. The office kicks off work at six, but my friend, he's gonna stay late to do some extra work and call me. We should know in about--" he checked his watch "--an hour who it is that's been screwing us for the last year or two. Unless any of you want to confess?"
The table was silent. Jerry laughed, a sound like two broken cogs grinding together. "I didn't think so. Okay, fellas, one of you's a snitch, the rest are good guys. We'll know who's who in a little bit. So, go to the bar and wait it out. Drinks are on the house."
Mike Sacco, Jerry's Number Two, hated Squeaky and his college education. He made a point of walking to the far end of the restaurant, where he started a game at one of the corner tables. A new deck appeared from his pocket. He sat, split the plastic wrapper with a thumbnail, and shuffled the cards with sleepy, disinterested eyes. Bonesy and Joey joined and Sal, one of Jerry's guns, sat in as a fourth, even though he might be the one that put two slugs in the back of the snitch's head. Which is to say, someone who might be sitting at the table. But business was business, so there was no need to sweat it until they knew who it was.
Smiling, his teeth bared like a shark's, Mike nudged Sal and started telling him about the time Joey backed a truck full of cigarettes into a police cruiser at a rest stop on the Garden State, then jumped out of the cab and took off jogging down the road to get away. Sal laughed until the skin around his eyes turned white. Joey licked his lips and laughed, because that's what he did when he was nervous. Bonesy was oblivious, staring at his cards while he ran a hand through his hair.
Mike watched him as the laughter died down. "Hey. You in or out?"
Bonesy raised his head, focusing from a million miles away. He traced the outside of his cards with his thumbnail, then threw them down. "Out."
He tapped a cigarette from his pack and lit it, cupping his hands around the flame out of habit. Joey noticed the shaking hand as the smoke jiggled away and glanced at Mike, who shrugged, then turned his cards over. Sal swore.
Mike flashed his teeth as he reached out to scoop up the pot. "Watch it, fellas. I'm feeling lucky today."
Frank was restless and paced around the restaurant, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. Every few steps, a hand would come out to stroke his mustache, then return, only to come back out a minute later. His meandering took him too close to the front door and one of Jerry's guns, dressed in a dark suit and wide as a vault, moved to block his way.
"Can't go outside, Frank. Jerry's orders." His voice was apologetic.
Frank raised a hand. "I know, Jimmy. Sorry. Just antsy."
He wandered back towards the center of the restaurant, fiddled with the silverware on one of the tables, then went over to watch the card game. Joey was down fifty bucks already, Bonesy had gotten his well-coiffed head into the game too late, and Sal was as dumb as a bucket of rocks, so Mike Sacco had a mound of cash on his side of the table.
Mike said, "You want in, Frank? These clowns could use the help."
Frank shook his head. "Two things I ain't no good at: cards and women."
"Kinda like Bonesy, huh?" Mike said, smirking. "Well, he ain't good at cards, at least."
Bonesy shot Mike a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Gimme a break. They call you Bonesy for what you got in your pants, man, not for the guys you put in the ground."
Bonesy swore, talking about Mike's mother in a way that would've normally gotten him punched in the throat, but Mike laughed it off and the moment passed. Frank watched him deal another hand, then moved off to start his pacing again.
Squeaky stood at the bar, drinking a Perrier and talking to Babbo, the bartender. Squeaky was tall and slim, with swimmer's shoulders and a waist that could still fit into his high school jeans. His shaved head gleamed in the diffuse bar light of the club. He spoke softly and dressed in trim, conservative suits, refusing to be lumped together with the loudmouth paisanos that were so in love with their own cliché that they made the movies look good.
As he talked, he watched Frank wearing grooves into the dining room's plush red carpet. Squeaky held up a finger for Babbo to wait a second, then turned. "Frank, have a drink with me."
Frank hesitated, then walked over and leaned against the bar. Babbo measured out two fingers of Beam and put it down on a green paper napkin, then went to the far end and started washing clean glasses. Frank sipped from the tumbler, put it back down.
Squeaky smiled. "You're going to walk the bottoms of your shoes off."
Frank rested his forearms on top of the bar, stared into the mirror behind the bottles. "It's a hell of a thing, what Jerry said."
Squeaky shrugged. "Always going to be snitches. We break the law, cops try to stop us. The easiest way to do that is from the inside. It's inevitable."
"You don't sound too busted up about it."
"It's part of the business structure, like overhead or operating expenses. If you act like it doesn't exist, like Jerry did, then it'll sneak up on you and put you under. But if you take it into account, build it into your business plan, you can use it to your advantage."
Frank brought the glass to his mouth, drank, put it back down on the wet ring on the napkin. "Yeah?"
"It's information, like anything else. After you've planned for it, the important thing is, what do you do with it? How do you commoditize it?"
Frank looked at him. "Hell you talking about?"
"Economics, Frank. Here, look at this." Squeaky reached into a breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to Frank, who squinted at him, then opened the flap. Inside were twelve photos showing Bonesy and Mrs. Jerry Zigarelli having intercourse in a variety of positions.
"Jesus," Frank said, shoving the pictures back in the envelope and pushing them at Squeaky. "I don't want to see that. Why are you showing me that crap?"
"Just an example, Frank. These pictures are a resource. I could toss them in the can and nothing would happen. I could show them to Jerry and Bonesy would be in a cement mixer by tomorrow morning. Or, I could show them to our friend and have him in my back pocket for the rest of his natural life."
"So what'd you do?"
"I gave Bonesy a peek behind Curtain Number One, right after we ate," Squeaky said. "That's why he can barely hold onto his cards over at the table. He's wondering if the whole snitch thing is a cover to have him snuffed and put in the garbage chute out back with the tomato cans."
"What if he's the snitch?"
"He's not." Squeaky paused, then put his glass down on the bar with care. Watching Frank, timing it, he said, "So. How're Linda and the kids?"
Frank froze, then he made a spastic move to straighten up. Squeaky's hand clamped down on the other man's wrist and pinned it to the bar.
"Relax," Squeaky said quietly. "Frank, relax. If I wanted to rat you out, you never would've seen it coming."
Frank strained against the hand for a few seconds, then he let his muscles go slack. Squeaky held on for a few seconds, then let go, patting Frank's arm. He took another sip of his ten dollar water, letting the tumbler mask his eyes as he glanced at the dining room in the mirror.
Frank stood there, hands resting on the bar, then finished his bourbon and signaled to Babbo, who came down and filled his glass before returning to the far end.
Frank said, "How'd you know?"
"Not important. The real question is, what are we going to do with this information? Remember what we were talking about before?"
Frank was quiet for a second. Laughter erupted from the card game in the corner. "You want us to cut you a deal?"
Squeaky smiled. "No, Frank. That would be a waste. You don't have anything on me, anyway. No, I'm offering to cut you a deal."
Frank turned his glass, napkin and all, on the bar top, thinking. "What is it?"
"Answer a question first. Are you wearing a wire?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Humor me, Frank. The life you save could be your own."
Frank said nothing, but a small bead of sweat formed at his hairline and followed the skin down the side of his face. He gave a short nod.
"So, I'm on the air right now?" Squeaky asked, smiling wide.
Frank nodded again.
"Here's the deal. And your friends can listen in. Go to the bathroom, take the wire off, and put it behind the tank of the middle toilet. Then come back out and start pacing again. It's that simple."
The muscles in Frank's jaw bunched tight. "Then you tell Jerry and he tells Sal to put a bullet in my head? No thanks."
Squeaky shook his head. "I'm not going to do that. Trust me. Believe me. Do what I say and you'll walk."
"What if I don't?"
Squeaky looked at him. "Frank, I know you've got backup, but will they get here in time?"
Frank pinned Squeaky with his eyes, trying to read his mind, but it was like staring into a well. He raised his glass and knocked back the second round, then turned without a word and headed to the bathroom. Squeaky sipped his water and went back to watching the card game in the mirror.
There was no clock in the dining room or above the bar and no one wanted to be seen glancing at a watch, but they all knew it had to be past seven. Frank had stopped his pacing and sat at the far end of the bar, turning a cardboard coaster around in circles. Squeaky lounged at a table, his long legs splayed out, checking something on his phone. The card game had lost steam and Mike called last hand, then everyone groaned when Joey turned over kings, taking the pot. Mike fired off a joke at Joey's expense, then stood and headed for the bathroom. Squeaky glanced over, put away his phone, and followed a few steps behind Mike, catching the swinging door as it started to bang shut.
Later, Joey would remember seeing Frank slide off his stool and start moving even before things went to hell, but it was an idle memory, and one that didn't mean anything to him then or later. If he'd been a more perceptive man, he would've realized that he'd seen the face of someone who'd put a puzzle together too late to do anything about it.
Shouts from the bathroom and the sound of glass breaking snapped everyone's head around, then there were three gunshots, flat and loud like pieces of plywood being slapped together. Everyone in the restaurant froze, then--their nerves already stripped raw from the wait--launched themselves toward the back.
The little hallway was a riot of pushing bodies and mingled shouts. The capo's gunnies had their pistols out and started grabbing collars, dragging people out of the way. Babbo vanished into the kitchen. Jerry Zee appeared from his back office, an old .45 in his hand, ready to shoot the hell out of the place until Jimmy shoved him back inside for his own good.
Somebody dragged Mike Sacco out to the dining room by the legs. Blood blossomed over the front of his crisp white shirt, as though he still had a dinner napkin tucked in his collar. His eyes were half-shut and glinting and he still sported the shark's grin, but his breathing was fast and uneven and he died on the floor while they watched.
Jerry Zee came out of his office again, pushing Jimmy away impatiently. He glanced down at the body, at the blood pooling on the floor of his restaurant, then turned to the half-dozen men. "What the hell is going on?"
Squeaky, a cut on his forehead, held out a tiny box no bigger than a pack of gum. Attached to it was a wire that ran to a small disk the size and thickness of a dime. "Boss, I found Mikey trying to flush this. When he saw me, he pulled a holdout. I got it away from him and..." He gestured towards the body.
Jerry held his hand out. When Squeaky gave him the box, he turned it over in his hands, examining it, then dropped it on the ground and smashed it with a heel. He stared at Sacco's body for a long moment, then turned his glare on the half-moon of men gathered around. "I got the call a minute ago. Turns out my guy on the inside couldn't get a name after all. Guess we don't need one, now. Frankie. Yeah, you. You deaf? You and Squeaky clean this garbage up, take it out back. Joey, Bonesy. Grab some bleach and some towels from the kitchen. Jimmy, you watch the front."
Squeaky and Frank wrapped Mike Sacco in garbage bags and crab-walked the body between them out the back door, then hoisted it into a fifty gallon drum in the alley behind the restaurant. Mike had been a big man and Frank leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. Squeaky, in better shape, stood there waiting, his breathing almost back to normal.
"You played me," Frank said. He lit a cigarette, coughed at the first lungful. His breath steamed in the air.
Squeaky shrugged. "Just using the information I had."
They stood there, looking at each other. Frank said, "Jerry's guy on the inside. The one that couldn't come up with the name of the snitch. He's yours?"
Squeaky said nothing, smiled.
"And the gun?" Frank continued. "Jimmy on your payroll, too?"
"I plead the Fifth, Frank," Squeaky said. The smile on his face split wider.
Frank shook his head, then took another drag and blew the smoke towards the sky. "What now?"
"Sacco's fish food, Joey's a moron, Bonesy's in my hand, and Jerry's days are numbered once word gets out he let the cops get this close. Things are looking up."
"It ain't that easy, partner," Frank said. "You forget I was a cop?"
"Not for a second, Frank. But why stick around? Mikey took your fall. They all think he was the snitch, so your cover's still good. Move on. It'll take me a while to build things up here and there's plenty of Cosa Nostra to go around. No one would blame a smart wiseguy like Frank Molitano if he went hunting for greener pastures. Set up your sting somewhere else and reel in some goombah who doesn't know any better. Stay here, though, and I'll have to ace you myself. You know that."
Frankie looked at him for a second, then nodded. "Nice work. They should call you Slick, not Squeaky."
Squeaky spread his hands, accepting the compliment.
"You know I gotta come after you sometime, though, right?" Frank said.