Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners: On Loan

Julian’s Bar and Grill sat at the cross section of Atlantic Ave and 14^th Street in Brooklyn and was a known hang out for members of what used to be the Capasso Family. In the back, away from where regular citizens would come in and order plates of pasta or Julian’s famous meatballs, Jack “The Carpenter” Carpicize, long-time consigliore to Don Giovanni Capasso was holding court.

Surrounding Carpicize were remnants of the old Capasso Regime, life long members who each equally shared a distaste and distrust for their new Diva. Martina De Rossi, though was in attendance at the funeral, many found her inaccessible and isolated.

“For twenty-two years I stood by Don Giovanni with all the decisions he made, I did my best to help steer this family in the right directions. But this I will not stand for,” Carpicize said from the head of the table. He was in his fifties, but looked forty with his jet black slicked back hair and narrow face. He wore a dark black and maroon suit, his fingers shined with various rings. Down each side of the table were senior members of the Family, each in their late 30s to early 50s, some fat some super skinny; killers and hustlers and thieves sitting around. Everyone not trusting the other more than they could see each other, especially in these tempestuous times of instability. “I will not have an outsider, especially a little girl, take control of the family. A family I worked so hard to bring back from the edge of death!” And Capricize slammed his fist down on the table, emotion splayed out all over his face. He received applause from the thirteen men sitting around him.

“But could it be so bad? I mean, I hear she’s done wonderful things for the Panera Family in Montreal?” A fat faced Italian said from somewhere in the middle of the table. Everyone looked at him and then back to the head of the table.

“You think this is good for us? She’s not a fuckin’ war-time capo even! The fucking Don’s funeral is front page news on the fuckin’ Post and Daily News! The fucking melanzane can read, Bobby! They’re going to know we’re a fuckin’ rudderless ship! Maddon’ if my father was alive to see this shit!” And Carpicize was standing now, leaning over the table. The fat faced Mafioso turned red and faced forward.

Carpicize sipped some wine and cleared his throat. “Now understand me here, I’m not saying I should be the boss, but I’m saying that the boss should come from within. And this little principessa needs to go.” His eyes grew wide to make sure everyone got the message. “She needs to go before she grabs on to too much. She needs to go before she meets with any other bosses in any other families. No allegiances can be made, nothing. She needs to be taken out, sooner the better for everyone.” And everyone dumbly nodded along.

“I know some guys up in Yonkers that could do it for us,” a skinny necked Italian said from the opposite end of the table. Carpicize nodded.

“Ok, we’ll talk here in a minute about that.”

Sean Clark walked into the 4-7’s Command Condo and found himself looking at the faces of NYPD’s top brass. He stopped short, slowly closing the door behind him, as three men in deep blue suits sat with their elbows on their knees, cups of coffee in their hands.

“Where’ve you been?” Captain Ramirez said from his office.

“Uh… I had a date?” Clark offered as he walked past the Commissioner and his two subordinates and into Ramirez’s office. He closed the door.

“The Commissioner wants a full report on the going ons with the Capasso Family since you’ve seemed to cozy up with this … new capo.” Ramirez said in a hushed tone.

“Heh, I got some news for you then,” Clark said. He picked up a coffee cup and filled it with black coffee. His face was still a mess, purple and yellow, jaw puffed out.

“Well, whatever news you do have, the boss has been waiting for an hour to hear it. I hope for your ass’s sake that this news you got is going to be good.”

“Oh, just you wait…” And Clark opened the office door and stepped out. The Commissioner Raymond Kelly stood up and smoothed his uniform as did his two aids. Clark stood before them with his coffee cup and smiled.

“Ahem, um, sir this is Officer Sean Clark, who’s been working on the Capasso Case.” And Commissioner Kelly extended his hand and Clark took it.

“Looks like you’ve been worked over officer,” the Commissioner said.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Clark offered.

“So what’s to report?”

“Heh, get ready for this,” and Clark sat down across from the men as they retook their seats. Clark wondered where to start, and sat in silence for a few seconds. He looked up and began the story.

“With the Capasso Family floundering as of late, Don Giovanni decided to look outside for some help to redirect the flow of money into the family. As we know, the Italians have been slowly pushed out from the major money making schemes in this city. But such is not the case in Montreal, where the Italians still flourish. Giovanni reached out to a young lady member of the Panera Family of Montreal to come in and do some consulting if you will. Before he died, Giovanni made her not only just a capo in their family, but THE capo, second to him. Well, as we all know from reading the papers this morning, the Don died from a heart attack at a flower shop uptown. So this means that,”

“That this lady capo is the new boss of the Capassos?” The commissioner said in slight awe.

“Yeah. That means it’s now the De Rossi Family,” Clark finished.

“De Rossi? What do we know about this De Rossi?”

“She’s twenty-four, Canadian National, has a huge apartment on the Upper East Side, well guarded. She’s somewhat clueless as to how much shit she’s in,” and Clark motioned towards a stack of papers that Ramirez was holding. The captain distributed the papers to the three men sitting on the couch, and each glanced it over.

“Is this credible information?” The Commissioner asked.

“Our CIs are some of the best in the business,” Ramirez said.

“I’ll give you the short version,” Clark began. “What’s left of the Capasso Family is going to form a splinter group, because none of them want to work for this skirt. Their leader, former consigliore Jack “The Carpenter” Carpicize is pretty pissed that he was passed over as the new boss. He’s going to put something into action to take De Rossi out of the picture.”

“’The Carpenter’? That’s a funny nickname,” one of the men with the Commissioner said. Ramirez and Clark exchanged a look.

“A ‘Carpenter’ in mafia-speak,” started Ramirez, “is someone who makes bodies disappear. ‘Painters’ do the hits, ‘Carpenters’ get rid of the bodies.” Ramirez said low.

“Oh,” said the man.

“Anyway gentleman, what course of action do we take in light of all of this?” The commissioner asked.

“Well, there’s pros and cons to the situation,” Ramirez started. “We could let them take De Rossi out. She’s the only real leadership element in their organization, and let Carpicize take over. He’s an ineffectual leader, and most of the Capasso Family is too dumb to understand that. Without strong leadership we could bury the major crime family members by the end of next year, and the scraps we don’t get will easily fall in with other families and pollute them from the inside. The other option we have is that we protect De Rossi and use our man here,” and Ramirez nodded to Clark, “to get in real close and expose the whole organization from the top down.”

“How close are you to this De Rossi, officer?”

“Um, I’m uh,”

“She’s taken a liking to him, you could say that,” and Ramirez smiled. The commissioner nodded knowingly.

“Then I say we use our asset here to get in close. I don’t see a need to draw blood over this issue. If things get too hot, we can offer her protection, maybe even turn her into a state’s witness, especially if she’s being chased around this city by trigger happy wops. From here on in, your officer wears a wire,” and the commissioner stood and his men followed.

“Uh sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Clark protested.

“Heh, if you’re going to be hanging out with your new girlfriend all day, officer, you’re going to be getting us some prime cut information, and that’s that.” And the commissioner shook hands with Ramirez and Clark and let himself out.

An hour later Clark’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He dug into his jeans and pulled it out to answer it, knowing it was going to be Martina on the other end.

“Hey,” he said as he answered.

“What are you doing tonight?” She asked. Her voice was rich and the accent always put a smile on his face. He looked around the empty condo, Ramirez had gone home for the night already, leaving him to type up some reports that he didn’t really want to do.

“Nothing, just hanging out, why what’s up?”

“I’m having a late dinner with Jack Carpicize at Tavern on the Green in Central Park, I’m wondering if you’d like to come with me?” Clark glanced down at the thin fiber wire and recorder next to his computer and sighed.

“Yeah, what time do you want to meet up?” He could instantly hear the happiness in her voice.

“Dinner’s at ten, so be there before that, ok? I guess he’s already reserved a table, so just use his name when you get there, ok? And make sure you look nice,”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” and he closed his phone, got up and started looking through his dressier clothes.

Tavern on the Green was the Mecca of fine dining in the city. Only the rich and famous could gain entry, where entres were a hundred dollars or more. The small restaurant sat in the lower section of Central Park, surrounded by millions of yellow daffodils. The clopping of horse-drawn carriages filled the night air, along with the usual bustling city sounds, cabs honking, people talking, and so on.

Clark arrived a little late wearing a black suit coat, designer jeans and a button up shirt that he left a little unbuttoned at the top. Even though it was night time he wore his Ray Ban aviators to help conceal the bruises on his face which were still healing. Under his expensive clothes he wore his Glock 19 on his waist, no holster, and deep down against his skin he had the tiny wire going from just under his throat down to the little digital recorder at the small of his back. Even wearing it made him excited and jumpy. He was sweating and swearing under his breath.

He walked in and the maitre d asked him if he was with a party. He gave the name Carpicize and was instantly shown to a table in the way back where Jack the Carpenter and Martina De Rossi were already seated, drinking wine and nibbling on an appetizer.

“There he is!” De Rossi said, a little tipsy already. She stood and gave Clark a hug, and Clark made sure that she didn’t press too tightly against him, and knock against the wire. She wore an elegant shimmering black dress which was low cut in the front and back, along with a black pearl necklace. The Carpenter sat looking on, his narrow face drawn in, dressed like a mortician.

“Hey,” Clark said and sat down opposite The Carpenter with De Rossi between the two of them. Carpicize leaned back to a man standing along the wall and motioned for him to come over.

“Controllarlo” and he pointed to Clark. De Rossi instantly protested.

“No Jack, no, you’re not going to pat down a friend of mine in front of me. That is a great insult where I’m from!” The goon stood behind Clark’s chair and Clark began to sweat hard. He popped a piece of gum from his pocket and stood up, praying that the goon wouldn’t feel the wire or the recorder pack that he stuffed way down into the back of his jeans.

“Well, welcome to New York City,” Carpicize seethed. He motioned for Clark to stand, and Clark did so, lifting out his arms like a human airplane. People eating around them gave a little notice, watching from the corners of their eyes. The goon only made a cursory search, patting down just the sides, but he found Clark’s gun.

He pulled it out by the grip and showed it to Carpicize. The Carpenter nodded and pointed to the table. A few of the other diners gasped at the sight of the weapon but there wasn’t much fanfare. Clark took his seat and the goon sat the gun next to Carpicize by his fork and knife.

“You weren’t going to use that thing on me tonight, were you sonny?” He asked across the table.

“No,”

“I didn’t think so, but for dinner, I’m going to hold on to it, ok?”

“That’s fine, as long as I get it back,”

“You know, I didn’t even want you here tonight, I wanted this to be a meeting of Family members, to discuss the direction of the Capas-, excuse me, the De Rossi Family. And now I get to look at your Mick face all night while I try to enjoy my chicken spiccola,”

“Ugh, you’re such an ass,” De Rossi said from her seat, and forked a ravioli into her mouth. Carpicize smiled at her and turned back to Clark.

“What is it you do in Boston, Mr. Clark?”

“I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that,”

“Mm, I love a guy who thinks I’m so stupid to think I don’t know when someone’s avoiding a question,”

“Last time I checked Mr. Carpicize, I didn’t report to anyone at this table. I’m just hear on loan,”

“Yes, yes, isn’t that the trend lately. Outsiders coming into town on loan, it’s very interesting,” And De Rossi cut him a look from over her wine glass. “Anyway, I’m going to talk in Italian to Ms. De Rossi now, so if you’ll excuse us for a moment?” And he turned towards Martina. They began to converse in Italian, and the exchange became very heated. Clark took this time to look around, sizing up the obvious security that was around their table. There were even a pair of guys two tables over having a meal that Clark was for certain he’d seen standing around the money cage at the casino last week. When he turned back to Jack and Martina, De Rossi was very red in the face as The Carpenter was smiling wickedly. Her bottom lip was quivering and it was clear she was on the verge of tears. She tried to cut her raviolis up but Carpicize kept talking to her. Eventually, she had enough, finished her wine and stood.

“I’m sorry it has to be this way, Mr. Capricize,” and she began to walk and wobble her way out of the restaurant. Carpicize smiled at Clark and slid his black blocky gun over to him across the table.

“Why don’t you go catch up with your mistress, lap dog?” And Clark stared at Carpicize through his aviators and didn’t move. “I’d watch at what you’re fuckin’ starin’ at, asshole, now get off my table. You’re smellin’ up the place with that dirty potato smell,” And Clark took his gun, stood and walked out, tucking it back into his jeans and covering it with his coat.

Outside Martina De Rossi was standing in her heels and dress, lightly touching her face with a napkin she took from inside. Clark walked up behind her and stood silently, looking for something to say. They watched the Denali slowly wind it’s way up the long driveway amongst the horse drawn carriages and idly walking people.

The truck came to a stop in front of them, and Michael (or was it Michael Anthony?) got the door for them. Clark let her slide across the seat first and climbed in after, letting the passenger shut the door for him.

“What’d he say to you back there, in Italian?” He asked.

“Nothing,” she said. Clark rolled his eyes. He’d been around women enough to know that “nothing” meant “something.”

“Bullshit, you’re not gonna tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell, so why bother?” The truck slowly pulled out into traffic.

“Well, Martina, I know something’s wrong, you’re crying. What’d he say?”

“Nothing, I’m fine!” Clark groaned and leaned away, looking out the window of the SUV. “You don’t even care anyway!”

“What’re you talking about? I’m asking you right now what he said!”

“But you wouldn’t do anything about it! There’s nothing you can do!”

“Listen to me, just tell me what he said and I’l” And suddenly there was a screech of tires and the driver, Michael or Michael Anthony cursed aloud.

“Merde!” And the front of the Denali was slammed into by a black Ford Five Hundred. The whole truck rocked up on to two wheels and came slamming back down to all four. Everyone in the truck, none of which wearing a seat belt were jolted violently. The front passenger leaned forward against the dash and shattered windshield not moving. The impact had come from that side.

“Are you ok?” Clark asked De Rossi. She was holding her head, as she bashed it into the door on her side. She nodded and leaned over to Clark. Clark took her in his arms as the driver got out to see what the hell happened. At the same time, the rear of the truck was rammed by another car. They all flew forward into the front seat on top of each other, with the driver still outside the car. “What the fuck!”

Suddenly gunfire burst outside and people started to scream. Clark could look out the open driver’s door at De Rossi’s French guard standing in the middle of the intersection with his pistol out. He was then cut down by gunfire, his head whipping back and legs going out from under him, and it was then that Clark knew what was going on. It was a hit.

He sat up and pulled De Rossi into the back of the truck again, where they had started out, telling her to stay down. He pressed her head down to his knees, and drew his pistol out from his jeans and tried to see what was going on outside. More gunfire, automatic sounding started to cut through the SUV, loud metallic pings and pops. Glass shattering around them. Clark got low over Martina’s body, trying to shield her.

He glanced up and saw a man in a black ski mask running up to the car and he got ready. The rear door where they were sitting came flying open and a man in a leather jacket with a ski mask leveled a shotgun at them. Clark fired twice into the man’s face, as De Rossi screamed under him.

“Go go!” Clark shouted and dragged De Rossi out of the car, down to the street over the dead thug with the shotgun. “Stay down, don’t move!” And he scanned the area. He handed the pistol over to De Rossi, “take this!”

“A gun, no! I don’t do guns!” She yelled over more clattering of machine gun fire.

“This is not an option, take the fucking gun Martina!” And he shoved it into her hands. He bent and picked up the pump 12 gauge shotgun and racked another round into the chamber, catching the unused shell in his hand and recycling it back into magazine tube. He looked back at De Rossi who was holding the pistol awkwardly and prayed that they got out of this alive.

Things got quiet with just the sound of crunching glass and cackling of fire. Slowly Clark, shotgun in front of him, inched to the rear of the truck where he could see two men in ski masks quickly moving in with AK47s in front of them. They had smashed a blue colored Toyota into their rear end, and both cars were stuck together. Clark stood up and whistled to get their attention, and as planned they both hesitated as they turned to face the whistle. Clark fired, pumped and fired again, blowing their chests out. De Rossi screamed again and Clark reached down for her.

“Come on, we gotta move!” Clark could smell gasoline. She dropped his gun and came running, her heels clacking and Clark looking over their shoulders to see if they were going to be chased. People on the sidewalks in the park were scattering, screaming. In one hand Clark held the shotgun, in the other he pulled De Rossi with him.

“Stop here,” and they pulled in behind a large granite block in the park. Sirens were approaching and Clark ducked around the chunk of granite looking back at the crash scene. Two more men in ski masks were holding something down by their waists and lighting it, but what it was Clark couldn’t tell. Then suddenly both of them threw the objects at the SUV and ran. Fire spread all over the scene, and Clark realized that they bombed the SUV with Molotov Cocktails, rudimentary incendiary explosive devices.

De Rossi was crying and slumped down against the rock. Clark watch the men run off down an ally way and felt as though they were in the clear. He unloaded the shotgun, and then broke the gun into two pieces by the take-down screw, making it unusable to anyone who found it, putting the shells and screw in his pocket.

“Ok, let’s get out of here,” and pulled De Rossi up.

They got back to her apartment, after taking a long hike to the north end of the park, and then a bus over to the UES. Once they got up to her place via private elevator, Clark told her to wait in the lift while he looked around the place. He hated not having his gun and was somewhat pissed that she dropped it, but he could replace it. Or even retrieve it from whatever dick took it into evidence.

He stalked around the three floors of her apartment with a fireplace poker and when he was satisfied that they didn’t have anyone waiting for them here he came back and got De Rossi.

They both had a drink in her library, by candle light and she clung closely to him. He played with her hair until it seemed like she was asleep.

He tried to move from under her, but when he did, she clung to him tighter. He sighed and then picked her up and carried her back to her bedroom where he laid her flat on her bed.

The bedroom had a big king sized four poster bed with sheer sheets hanging down. It also had a wall of floor to ceiling windows that showed the entire city and park lit up.

“You can’t go!” She said sleepily.

“I gotta,” he said back to her.

“Noooo” and she trailed off.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,”

“But I don’t want to be alone, stay.” And she tugged dangerously at his shirt by the wire. He groaned.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea Martina,”

“Why not? Do you have a girlfriend back in Boston?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s”

“So stay.” She looked into his eyes, hers being so dark in the low light.

“Lemme go change in the bathroom then,” and she let him go and he walked over to the bathroom which was roughly the size of his first apartment in Queens.

He stripped down to his boxers, tucking the wire into the back pocket of the jeans and came back out. She opened up the bed for him and he slid under the sheets next to her. He found her naked already and before he could say anything, she kissed him hard on his lips, her fingers tugging at his boxers.

“Why did you bother to keep these on?”

Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners: Recovery and New Alliances

The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and Sean Clark had finally given up on trying to answer it. He floated in and out of dreams seamlessly, totally unaware if he was awake or not. His head throbbed, and he didn’t know how long he had been in bed, out of touch.

From being dumped at the Embassy Hotel he managed to get a cab to take him to his apartment in Chelsea on the Westside. For a Vice cop he lived pretty well, being able to afford a two bedroom in Chelsea on his own, with off street parking.

The cab dropped him out front and Clark gave the Pakistani a wad of petty cash, not even bothering to count it and fell out of the back of the cab. The driver counted the money and waited for Clark to close the door so he could leave. He glanced in his rear view and then out the side of the cab, and saw that his passenger was laying down in the sidewalk.

The driver muttered something in his native tongue and got out and went around to Clark. He pulled him up to the stoop, rang a few of the buzzers at the door to his brownstone, and shut the backdoor to his cab and sped off.

Of course, this being New York, no one came to the door. A few people shouted into their intercoms, but being that Clark was only semi conscience and sitting away from the buttons, he couldn’t press one to ask someone to let him in. So there he sat for an hour until one of his neighbors came home and found his slumped against the door.

“Hey, hey asshole,” the neighbor said. “You’re blockin’ the door,” and gave Clark a little nudge with his foot. Clark groaned and managed to open his eye a little bit. Everything was in double vision and shadowed. He thought that his retina was probably detached from his eyeball.

Great.

Somehow, Clark got to his apartment and crashed on the floor in his living room. His cell phone kept ringing but he couldn’t answer it. From under him a faint buzzing could be heard more than felt. And it wouldn’t stop.

Eventually he got undressed, and propped himself up in the bathroom so he could take a look at himself. His face looked like it had be pulverized by a hammer, his left eye was swollen shut, his cheeks were puffed out, his chin was split, his lip was cracked and his hair was messed up beyond what was considered chic. It was also matted with his blood.

He tried to shower and bandage his face. It was nighttime now, and he retired to his bed amongst the buzzing of his cell phone.

Sometime the next day Clark could hear someone pounding at his door and yelling. He could barely lift his head, or even speak. Suddenly the door burst open and feet crunched across the floor, lots of feet.

Clark grabbed his Glock 19, his duty weapon and pointed it at his doorway, barely able to see to aim. He felt the gun shaking, but knew he could at least get one round through the door if he had to.

“Clark?” It was Tiger Ramirez’s voice. Clark lowered his gun and cried in relief.

Ramirez had been trying to get in touch with Clark since that night, almost two nights ago when he went AWOL from the casino. They now sat in Chelsea Presbyterian’s Ambulatory Care Unit, where Clark’s condition was stable. He had a slight infection in his left eye, and his jaw had to be wired shut for a week so that the bone could settle back into the socket. He had been lucky, the doctors told Ramirez after they observed him. His jaw hadn’t been broken, just dislocated. Another day in his apartment without food or water probably would’ve killed him.

“So when’s he gonna get out?” Ramirez asked the doctor.

“Give him a day or two to get his fluids back in order, his jaw reset and that nasty eye infection slowed down. He’ll be fine, he’s a tough kid,” and the doctor walked off.

Clark was sitting up in his bed, awake, bandages over his face, just a little patch left over his right eye so he could see. He flipped through tv channels and sipped ice water through a straw that stuck into the bandages. He was connected to an IV that was a mixture of painkillers and antibiotics.

“They were dredging the river for you, you know that?” Ramirez said as he sat back down. On the little table by his bed, Clark had two hard bound books, an iPod and a portable DVD player that Ramirez brought from home once Clark had been well enough to communicate.

“Really?” Came out muffled from under his bandages, but Ramirez could tell that Clark was genuinely interested in that bit of news.

“Really, we all thought you were toast. You know they found Milano’s and his driver’s body in his Mercedes yesterday? It was ditched out in the Rockaways, they were both naked and gutted.” Clark nodded as he sipped.

“I knew,” he managed to say. Ramirez looked out the window. “So what’s next?”

“You’re going to get better,” and Ramirez stood, “and maybe take some time off,” and before Clark could protest, his captain was out of the room.

At St. Luke’s in Roosevelt, some 20 blocks north from where Sean Clark was sitting up sipping water, Martina De Rossi arrived with her usual entourage of thugs. She walked briskly to the information counter and leaned across the table at an older black woman who was typing into a computer screen.

“I’m here to find out what happened to Giovanni Capasso,” she said. The black woman didn’t turn or even acknowledge De Rossi’s presence, she kept typing. “Excuse me!” And the woman turned back towards Rossi, looking at her from over her glasses.

“I heard you the first time, I’m busy. If you want to check on a patient’s status, you need to see the duty nurse down the hall. This is general information, ms.” And a thick slice of attitude was served to De Rossi.

“Are you family?” and without hesitation, De Rossi answered in the positive. The nurse gave her a once over, and then told her to sit down in the waiting area, a doctor would be there to talk to her shortly. She did as told and waited, sitting down between an old woman who coughed too much and a bunch of children arguing. She thought it was funny that she was called to this hospital in Manhattan and not to one in Brooklyn where Don Giovanni lived.

She cocked a denim clad leg over the other and let her Luis Vuitton heel dangling from her toe as she flipped through an issue of Time magazine. Her long jet black hair fell into her face and she whisked it behind her ear. A few minutes went by and she grew increasingly impatient. She ordered her men to go wait in the car, and they left without protest. Shortly there after, an Indian doctor called her name.

“Ms. De Rossi, what’s your relationship to Mr. Capasso?”

“I’m his niece,” she lied.

“Ok, well, I have some very tough news to give you. Mr. Capasso died this morning of a heart attack. He was brought here by ambulance, but he was gone by the time we could get to him. His brain had been without oxygen for about ten minutes and there was no activity once we had him hooked into machines. I’m so very sorry for your loss.” And De Rossi wobbled on her feet. Her head went light, and she went to sit down, but there was no seat under her. The doctor grabbed her and held on to her. She pushed away and walked back outside to her waiting Denali.

“Qu’est il arrive?” One of her men asked from up front.

“Il est morte,” she said absently. There was a heavy silence, and one of the men made the sign of the cross.

“You know what these means, don’t you?” The same man asked her.

“Yes, I absolutely know what this means,”

“la vie longue la reine,” and the trucked pulled out.

Sean Clark was back at his apartment. It had been a few days and the place stunk like a bloated dead body. He picked up his bloodied clothes and threw them away along with the bandages he found all over the bathroom floor. He eventually found his cell phone and plugged it into the wall because the battery had drained out of it. Once it went through it’s start up, he checked his messages. There were easily fifty missed calls from Ramirez, but there were also a few missed calls from a number he didn’t recognize. He thumbed through and saw the caller had called from that number six times in the last two days.

He rubbed his swollen jaw and wrote the number down on a piece of paper. He started up his computer and sent an email to his friend in Warrants to do a reverse look up on the number. He then set about to do some grocery shopping.

Clark dressed in his usual super liberal casual attire, a hip tattered snug fitting flannel button up in gray and black, with a pair of tattered jeans, his gun and badge under his shirt that hung just to his zipper. He had his old black hi-tops too, and his Ray Ban sunglasses over his eyes to help hide his semi bashed in face.

He bought a few frozen dinners and some beer, and returned to his apartment from the bodega down the street. He checked his email and his friend in Warrants came through.

All I can tell you is that it goes to a cell phone on the upper east side, but from there I lose track of it. You know how many cell phones are in that area? Let’s get beers soon.

Peace,

AJ.

He decided to give the number a call and see where it would lead him. He thumbed the number up and hit send, pressing the phone to his sensitive ear. It rang twice and then was picked up by what he would consider an angry woman.

“What!” Came De Rossi’s voice. Clark pulled the phone back from his ear and looked at it.

“Who is this?” He said into the phone.

“You called me asshole, you tell me who this is.”

“This is Sean Clark.” And there was a pause on the other end.

“Oh, Mr. Clark. I was starting to wonder when I’d hear from you again. Have you changed your mind on my offer?” Clark had to think about it, was it too soon to accept the offer and was the risk of getting in too deep too great? He rubbed his swollen jaw thoughtfully before going on.

“I dunno Ms. De Rossi. Your guys did a number on me. I was thinking of just cutting my losses and going home to Boston.” And there was another long pause.

“Why don’t you come by my place this afternoon and we can discuss any long term plans in person, where it’s far more … personable?” Clark thought this over too and decided that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to do some recon at her place.

“Ok, what time and where?”

He was announced by the door man at her Upper East Side address. Her suite was a three floor mansion that occupied floors 19, 20 and 21. She had a private elevator and when Clark stepped off, dressed slightly more formal, in a buttoned up dress shirt and designer jeans, he was met by one of her many maids.

“Ms. Martina will see you shortly,” the short maid said as she stepped away. Clark walked around the grand room and took in all the expensive art and trappings. The fireplace was inactive but was impressive marble. She had a real Cezanne hanging over it. Expensive looking grandfather clocks, leather chairs and couches, rugs and animal skins.

Off in the distance, he thought he could hear drums being played. Not like a procession of drums, but someone actually practicing them. He followed the sound down a hallway and up a set of stairs. He came into a big reading room with a few short couches and guitars mounted on the walls. Amplifiers were set up and computerized monitoring equipment was around. It was a musical studio.

De Rossi sat behind a full drum kit, dressed in a black tank top with a glittery logo on it and skin tight denim designer jeans. She stopped her drumming but didn’t bother to hold the cymbals. She looked at him from behind the drums and held both sticks in her left hand.

“Good afternoon Mr. Clark,” she said from behind the kit, watching him.

“Good afternoon to you too, Ms. De Rossi,” and she came from around the kit and offered her hand. He took it and gave it a slight kiss. She smiled. “That’s cool that you play the drums,” he said.

“I play the guitar too, and piano. I’m from a very musical family,” she walked away and turned slightly as she spoke. Her hair was up in a pony tail and he noticed she was sweating a bit. “Would you care for a drink?”

“Sure, what do you got?”

“Cognac, whiskey, beer, water, whatever. If I don’t have it, I’ll send someone for it,”

“Whiskey’d be great actually,” and she wandered off out of the studio to an adjacent room. He followed looking at her slender back and curves. She stood in front of a small serving tray and poured a glass of whiskey for him, as well as a cognac for herself. She turned and offered him the drink which he took, sipped, and made a little face. She giggled.

“I thought the Irish loved their whiskey, is that not true Mr. Clark?”

“It’s true, but we like Irish whiskey, not this Canadian club soda you’re trying to pass off on me,” and she frowned and went to take the glass back. He pulled back, holding it away from her. “I was kidding,”

“Mm, you should be more careful with your words, Mr. Clark, first impressions are everything.”

“This isn’t my first impression, my first impression was the other night at the casino,” She smiled, and he loved the way she smiled. He even let himself smile a little bit, even though it hurt is face. She picked up on his labored efforts and reached out and touched his chin.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t lose those boyish good looks, Mr. Clark. I apologize for the way my men treated you. Michael and Michael Anthony are very protective of me, you must understand.” She slipped away from between him and the cart and sauntered down the hallway. He tried to keep up. “Especially now that I’m the new Boss of the Capasso Family. Well, I mean, the De Rossi family.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Giovanni Capasso died this morning of a heart attack. Being that I am next in line, I now run what was the entire Capasso Family.” She smiled at him and walked back so that they were close. “Cheers to a new era?” And she lifted her glass. He tentatively touched his glass to hers.

“Are you sure that the rest of the family will follow suit? Not everyone’s hot to follow the lead of a female boss,” he said from behind her again. She looked back of her shoulder, a sly smile on her face.

“I have a way of dealing with men who do not like to take orders from women, Mr. Clark. What you suffered was just a love tap,”

“Have you ever killed anyone?” He asked her. She sighed and sat down on a leather couch in a small intimate library. Between them were low little white tables with candles and they were surrounded by books. He took a seat on another couch and put his elbows on his knees, looking at her through his sunglasses.

“Take those off,” she said. He did so, placing them on the table. She looked over his eye and smiled.

“Of course I have killed. It’s how things, real things, get done in our line of business, is it not? There are two types of people in the world Mr. Clark; those who listen to reason and those who listen to force. And it is unfortunate that most often in this life we lead, we deal with the latter than the former.” He nodded and sipped his whiskey. “Haven’t you had to kill?”

“Once, just once. I didn’t like it,” he said with finality. She nodded. He thought back to the kid he chased through a park two years ago. There had been shooting in his patrol sector, two blacks arguing over a 40 oz bottle of beer. One got heated and the other called him a bitch. That’s when the guns had come out. The first boy shot the second dead on the spot. His car was called to the scene, and when they arrived, the shooter was running down the street. Clark had jumped out and left his partner to take care of the victim. The foot chase ended three blocks away in Prospect Park, where the kid had turned and flashed the gun at Clark, and Clark buzzed the kid in the middle of his chest, exploding his heart.

The kid was 14.

Clark came back to reality and smiled a weak smile at De Rossi. She sensed something was wrong but didn’t want to pursue it.

“So let’s get back to business, shall we Mr.Clark?”

“Ok,”

“Do you want to work for me, or do you want to go back to Boston. Because you can’t have both Mr. Clark. You cannot operate down in my city and still belong to them,”

“What’s in it for me?” She smiled, blushed a little bit and took a sip of her cognac. She leaned in a little, giving Clark a good look at her cleavage.

“Whatever you’d like,”

Short Fiction: Immigrants and Out of Towners Part 2 (These Guys Are Cops?)

Captain Frank Blits was a twenty year veteran of the New York City Police Department, and hated the Vice Unit. He hated it in the sense that even being around the Vice Unit would give him gas. And it was gas that was troubling him all the way over to the apartment complex on East 8^th Street.

Vice, unlike other non-uniform details, didn’t report to a station house because they were strictly undercover. If someone saw a Vice officer step out of a station house anywhere in the city, instantly their cover was compromised. Therefore, Vice was one of the only units in the city that got to report to apartments as headquaters.

Blits had his driver wait outside as he walked up the three flights to the condo where the city’s 4-7 Vice Squad was quartered. He grumbled along with his stomach, as he made sure to break wind on every new flight of stairs.

The condo was accommodating, even to Vice standards. They had a large living room with leather couches that they used as a squad room, with the bedrooms and offices as private offices and seldom used interrogation rooms. Only in rare occasions did members of the 4-7 bring witnesses or suspects or even their bread-and-butter, Criminal Informants, or “CIs” back here. If word got out that the cops were laying low in a condo, everyone’s lives were at risk.

Blits knocked on the door to number 3H and waited impatiently. He looked around door the hallways and knocked again before cutting another fart. He groaned, knowing that the Chinese food he had at lunch wasn’t the only thing disagreeing with him.

After twenty long seconds the door unlatched and came open on it’s chain. Standing behind the door was a young man with shaggy black-as-a-subway-tunnel hair and green eyes who appeared not to be wearing a shirt looked out at him. Blits lifted his wallet badge and ID and showed it to the crack in the door without saying a word. The shirtless officer closed and unchained the door and opened it up.

After closing it he introduced himself and Blits could see he was only wearing a towel and wet.

“Officer, can you… can you explain, why…” and the young naked officer sniffed the air and turned his face down. “Can you explain to me why you’re out of uniform in the middle of your shift?” The dark haired officer looked over his shoulders as if someone were to materialize to help him answer the question, and when he saw no one he simply shrugged at the captain.

“Sorry sir, I just was in need of a shower, I guess?” And with that, the 4-7’s commanding officer, Captain Carlos “Tiger” Ramirez walked out of one of the bedrooms and stood holding his coffee. He smelled the air as well and looked down into his coffee cup, curious if the crème had gone bad.

“Captain Ramirez, I demand to know why your officer is out of uniform in mid shift!” Bellowed Captain Blits. Tiger Ramirez looked at his young officer clad in only a towel, and then looked back at the other captain. He sighed and gestured with the coffee cup.

“Officer Clark, why are you only in a towel, in mid shift?”

“Well sir, I needed a shower. I don’t see anything wrong with that,” Officer Clark said. He then excused himself to go get changed in the bathroom.

When the two captains were alone, Ramirez motioned that Blits follow him back to his office in the master bedroom.

The office was typical of what you’d find in most inner city station houses. A desk with a computer, a chair, filing cabinets, a big cork board with black and white photographs with pins and index cards stuck to them. Ramirez told Blits to close the door behind him and told him to have a seat.

“What do you want, Frank?” Ramirez said as he sat. He smelled the room again and his face went foul on him.

“Jesus, it’s me, ok! When I have something I hate to do, I get the shits, ok? Lay off!” And Blits went red in the face. Ramirez simply nodded, got up and opened a window and sat back down.

“So what do you want,”

“I’ve got the go ahead from Police Plaza to share this information with you, because those in charge think you might have something to offer us, in the grand scheme of things,”

“I’m listening,” Blits paused, choosing his words carefully and then looked back at his counter part in Vice.

“Last week, one of the guys down in Brooklyn Homicide picked up a case on two dead goombas in Red Hook. It looks like it was a planned hit out front of a diner. The guys were Capasso foot soldiers, low ranking little shits. But they were also the fourth Capasso men, particular to ‘Dollar Bill’ De Luca’s old crew to end up dead in recent weeks. When this dick out of Brooklyn Homicides started piecing together some facts from other unattended deaths that the city was looking at as suspicious, it started to paint an interesting picture.” Blits pulled out a manila folder and from it took some glossy color photos and laid them out on Ramirez’s desk. The Tiger bent over his desk and took a look at the grisly crime scene pictures.

The first was a rather large white man on his stomach, his back exposed, hairy pimpled, a pool of blood underneath him. Blits picked it up and tapped the man’s back.

“This guy here is Bobby ‘The Tooth’ La Dente, he was found in his basement in Brighton with his mouth and nose taped closed, and a razor cut across his neck. Initially it was believed it was a robbery homicide, but the dicks on the scene never found anything out of the ordinary. No windows broken, no doors kicked in, nothing stolen. Only this fat slob in his basement, taped and cut up.”

“Who tipped Homicide off, I mean, he could’ve been down there for weeks,” Ramirez said as he put the photo down.

“He was CIing for the Narcos on the Russians. So the focused naturally turned towards the Russians. This was three weeks ago. Then, we have Signore Ralphie Bambito,” and Blits pulled out the other photo, a glossy color of a blue faced older gentleman with obvious bruising around his neck. “He was found hanging in a meat locker at a deli on O Avenue. The owner of the deli didn’t even know he was back there until he went looking for a particular slab of beef, when he came across Mr. Bambito hanging from his neck. This time around it was unknown why Bambito was executed, and that was two weeks ago.” And Blits pointed to the final photo, Jimmy lying on top of Mikey, each with a wet patch in the backs of their heads.

“These two unlucky fucks walked out of a diner in Red Hook last Friday or Saturday night and were ambushed. Witnesses in the diner are slim picking, but word is that they were targeted. Now this is where the new intelligence comes in: Apparently the Don Giovanni Capasso is fed up with his weak leadership. He was never happy with De Luca, and since De Luca’s gone to Jessep, no one has really shown initiative to step up. So word has it that he’s contracted an outsider to take over the crew.”

“Ha, the Mafia’s outsourcing!”

“Believe it, they’ve brought in, get this, a twenty-four year old woman, who I guess is Queen Shit in Canada, to take over operations. And this did not sit well with a lot of the soldiers in De Luca’s old crew.”

“So you’re thinking that this dragon lady cleaned house?”

“Either that or Capasso ordered it himself, regardless, the Italians are making a move, and with them on the brink of being stamped out of this city forever, Police Plaza does not want them to regain any of the ground they’ve lost.”

“So how is this a Vice issue, Frank?” Blits picked up the photos and put them back in the folder and then produced a bound report and slid it across to Tiger. The cover was slicky produced with the NYPD logo and “Confidential” stamped under it. He flipped through it quickly, and then closed it. “Ok, and?”

“And we need someone from Vice to get in. It’s a gambling operation, and that’s Vice’s territory. It’s going to be multi-departmental, with Homicide running the show, Narco running the surveillance equipment, and Vice,” and Blits smiled “doing the leg work.”

“So why the 4-7?” Blits stood up, collecting his things.

“Intel believes the gambling den is going to be in the Meat Packing District, which is your jurisdiction. This is a short notice operation, so have your team prepped and ready to go by 2300. The rally point will be the roof top at 2372 West 7^th Street.” Ramirez stood and escorted the captain out through the living room/squad room, where Clark was sitting on the couch, now dressed, watching tv with his feet on the coffee table.

Blits stopped short of the door, holding his stomach and grimacing.

“Is this what Vice officers do all day? Watch tv with their feet up?!” He yelled, and Clark turned to face him, but didn’t get up. He looked back at Tiger who rolled his eyes and motioned for him to take his feet off the coffee table. Clark did so and soon Blits was gone.

“Wow that guy stunk, who was he?” Vice Officer Sean Clark asked when his captain returned alone. Ramirez sighed and slumped down next to his star officer on the couch.

“He’s a ball breaker. He was a ball breaker in the academy twenty years ago, he was a ball breaker as a sergeant, he was a ball breaker as a lieutenant. He’s a professional ball breaker, don’t let him bother you Sean.”

To say Clark was dressed casually would be an understatement. He was young, mid twenties, been on the force for New York for the last four years, with Vice for two and a rising star in the ranks. If Clark, who would easily convince people he was Red Sox pitcher Josh Beckett’s twin brother, wanted rank he’d easily be a sergeant by now. But he wasn’t interested in stripes or bars or even oak leaves, he wanted to make cases. That’s why he joined Vice after a short jaunt in patrol.

He graduated second in his academy class, first in firearms and physical fitness, second in testing. He was originally from a small town outside of Boston and moved to New York City for school and ended up here permanently after he graduated. He wore tattered jeans, a tight fitting Red Sox t shirt, with his badge hanging around his neck, and gun holstered to his hip.

Vice primarily was a “nickel and dime bust” unit. But what attracted Clark to the line of work was that he was in effect his own boss and he could dress pretty much how he wanted to. He even let his black hair grow out a little bit and sported stubble all day. He work black Converse canvas hi-tops and a digital sports watch. He looked like he could blend in on any campus in the United States.

Ramirez clued Clark in on the meeting he had with Blits, giving Clark the bound intelligence report that the captain had given him. Clark only really half listened, paying more attention to Sports Center high lights on the big screen tv, which was forfeited property from a drug den their seized a year ago.

“And this is going down tonight?” Clark asked after his captain recapped the events of the meeting. Solemnly Tiger Ramirez nodded. “Wow, that’s pretty deep, a female capo? Well, I guess even the wops have to accept that it’s 2007,” he said and reached for a bottle of water.

“I’m thinking of using you and Harper on the inside,” Ramirez said. Clark nodded and swallowed his water and flipped through the report.

“Yeah, but how are you planning on getting us in. It seems like it’s pretty exclusive company,” and Clark tossed the report back on the coffee table, where he replaced his feet.

“You know Jimmy Tattoo?” Ramirez said.

“Jimmy Tattoo, the guy that bar tends down at the Churro Lounge?”

“Yeah, he owes us a favor right?”

“Yeah with that thing, the heroin thing; we turned the Narcos off from sniffing around his boss’s place.”

“Let’s go pay him a visit, huh?” And Clark smiled.

They pulled up in front of the Churro Lounge on East 15^th Street and Broadway, a lowball place that served stiff highballs all day to the mostly punk-chic crowd that wandered over from St. Mark’s Street.

Being that it was middle of the Fall, Clark was wearing an Underarmor jacket which helped cover his gun, and he tucked his badge under his shirt. Ramirez was in a dress shirt and tie, being a bit older than his Vice star, he also displayed his badge and gun on his hip.

The two walked into the bar and found it empty, which wasn’t surprising being that it was before eleven in the morning. Behind the bar stood a big biker looking guy covered in ink. Jimmy Tattoo cleaned a glass and looked up as the door swung open.

“Hey Jimmy!” Clark yelled out as he pulled his badge out from under his shirt. The big inked freak stood stalk still and inched towards the register with his hand. Clark pointed with his hand at the bar tender, “hey! Don’t you fucking move asshole!” And Ramirez was quick to get around the bar.

“You’re coming with us, and if you do anything dumb I swear to god I’m going to make it so you piss out of your asshole,” Ramirez cuffed the hunk of colored meat and shoved him in front of them. The three walked out of the bar into broad daylight, and stuffed the thug into the back of their unmarked Crown Victoria.

They drove out to the Battery in Lower Manhattan, away from the docks and prying eyes of the tourists and uncuffed the oaf. He looked up at them and blinked with a “what, me?” look on his face.

“We heard something today that we thought was sort’ve interesting Jimmy,” Clark started.

“We heard that you might know how to help us out with it too,” Tiger said right after. Jimmy Tattoo looked from one to the other, his big wet lip quivering slightly

“I don’t know what the fuck you two are talking about,” he said. Clark nodded and rubbed his face.

“We know about the gambling casino in the Meat Packing District tonight and we know your boss has access to it. We know he’s going to be there tonight, and we know he told you where he’s going to be, because like the pimple on his ass, you’re never far behind him, right Tattoo?” Ramirez said.

“I heard something about that, yeah,” Jimmy brightened up a little bit and Clark smiled.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do, so listen up,” Clark smiled and took out a piece of paper from his pocket. “We’re going to bring you down to a station house and dump you off with some uniform prick. We’re going to tell him to book you on a jay walking charge you dumb son of a bitch. When you get punted out with your cite, you go back to the bar, and go talk to your boss Milano and tell him that you met this guy, and this is his number. He’s from out of town, you don’t know where, but not from around here. He wants to know where the big money games are and is looking to make a few new contacts for his Ecstasy racket, you got that you big dumb ox?” And Jimmy Tattoo nodded along.

“You fuck this up Jimmy and next time we take you out for a talk, it’ll be in East New York and we’ll let the homeboys cut the bacon off your back, you got it? Ramirez added. And again Jimmy nodded along, licking his big wet lips. Clark reached into the car and produced a hand held radio and keyed over to central dispatch.

“Charlie-One-Nine-Four-Seven, central” he spoke.

“Go ahead C1947,”

“Yeah I need a pick up, one ten46 male by the battery, could you send a blue and white?”

“Ten4 Charlie-one-nine-four-seven, you got a better ten20?”

“In the area of the uh,” and he unkeyed the mic and looked around. “In the area of all the seagull shit.” Ramirez shook his head and rolled his eyes. Clark chuckled and the dispatcher came back with a tinge of annoyance in her voice.

“Be advised C1947, you’re on the central channel.”

“Copy, ten4 central, ten20s going to be by the Waste Management Building at Cross Street, over,”

“Copy, Waste Management Building at Cross, over.” And Clark tossed the radio down into the car. A short while later an NYPD cruiser pulled up and took Jimmy Tattoo to whatever station house they came from while Clark and Ramirez went over their game plan.

It was on the rooftop that Sean Clark had a clear idea how big this investigation was going to be. It was a windy and cooler than usual night for October, and there had to be a dozen or so people standing around under a collapsible awning with tables of electrical equipment. Guys in NYPD windbreakers drinking coffee out of paper cups, flipping channels on closed circuit tv feeds, speaking into ear pieces.

Clark and Ramirez were the only members from Vice, but there weren’t too many dicks from Homicide either, as they were lead to believe. The bulk of the unit was guys from Narcotics who were busy tweaking their equipment.

The plan was to go like this: The number that Clark gave to Jimmy Tattoo went to one of the many dummy cell phone accounts the Vice unit kept with prepaid service. This made it easy to change out numbers on cell phones whenever they wanted. When Milano called the number later that afternoon, the script was already set up. Sean Clark was an Irish Mob member in town for the weekend looking to set up contacts for a shipment of Ecstasy he was looking to move. He wanted to rub elbows with the right people and was looking for new clientele. Milano of course, seeing an opportunity to make nice in the face of the new lady boss (as well as a chunk of profit), took the bait and invited Clark along. Milano was going to pick up Clark at the Embassy Hotel in fifteen minutes, which was across the street from the op center.

A narcotics officer walked over to the well dressed Clark, wearing a Christian Dior Homme chocolate colored suit and a plain black t shirt from Banana Republic with a tiny fiber optics cable and battery pack.

“What the fuck is this?” Clark asked both his commanding officer and the narco.

“It’s a surveillance recorder,” the narco said dumbly.

“I fucking .. know that, but I’m not wearing it.”

“Then, how are we going to know what’s going on?” Ramirez interjected.

“My man here isn’t going to wear a wire. I’m almost certain that if Milano doesn’t pat him down in the car, the goon at the door will. And if he’s caught wearing a wire, they’ll most likely kill him where he stands. Nope, no guns, no wire. That’s how Vice rolls,” and Ramirez crossed his arms. Clark nodded and crossed his arms too. The tech looked back at the table of monitors and computers under the awning and sighed. He coiled the wire around his hand and shrugged. “You better get down there kid, it’s show time.”

“It’s too bad Harper couldn’t get in on this,” Clark said. “Oh well,”

“Too many people in on a sting like this isn’t a good thing. Remember to just take note of everything you see, and come out in one piece. Don’t get cocky, don’t get arrogant, just observe, ok?”

Clark was outside the Embassy waiting under the awning, making idle chatter with the doorman when a black Mercedes SUV pulled up to the curb. A goony looking guy got out from the driver side and called out to Clark, while opening the door to the rear of the vehicle. Clark said good bye to the doorman to be polite and got in.

The interior was dark, but rich with the smells of leather and cognac. He sat across from a rather large man sipping on liquor and breathing heavy.

“You must be Mr. Milano,” Clark said from his side. In the dark the man just sat and nodded and sipped his drink.

“What family, up in Boston, did you say you were with, Mr. Clark?” Said the voice in the dark. He sounded like someone with thick phlegm in their throat.

“The Sullivans,” Clark responded. The man nodded again.

“I don’t know if news spreads up that way, but we have a new capo being introduced to our family tonight,” Milano said.

“Oh really, can’t wait to meet him then,”

“Her, meet her.”

“Her?”

“Mm, yeah. She’s this Canadian from our Families in Montreal. She I guess, has new ideas on making money. Don Capasso wants to restructure things, move into a more secure way of earning outside of the usual garbage truck routes and cabbie shake downs. It should be an interesting time to say the least.”

They pulled into a lot by the loading docks of a butchery factory and got out. It was quarter after midnight and a small line of well dressed people stood at the manager’s door by the big bay doors to the factory. Goons in pinstripes were waving metal detecting wands over party goers and waving them in slowly, eying everyone suspiciously. Without incident Clark and Don Milano were screened and sent inside.

Much to Clark’s amazement, amongst the cutting machines and meat hooks were tables of green velvet and chips. Women in gorgeous gowns and men in top tailored suits were standing around drinking and laughing amongst the obvious security prowling the floor.

It wasn’t a big casino floor, maybe a dozen different tabled games ranging from blackjack to roulette to poker. A lot of the men were old, and a lot of the women were young, maybe some still in high school. Clark caught a glimpse of some of the underworld’s heavy hitters, guys like Tony “Bats” Battaligia, a guy who did fifteen years back in the 1980s for numbers running and attempted murder of a federal witness. By the bar was Charlie “Two Shoes” Schemani, a pimp who broke the skull of an off duty city fire fighter who happened to try to stiff one of his girls. And then by the money cage, surrounded by four goons in Armani, Jeffy “The Croc” Carmella, an old war horse and alleged hitman for the Dibiase Family in the 1970s, who switched families after the Dibiases planned a hit on him in order to make things right with a family across the river in Jersey. This was a regular Who’s Who of the Tri-State Underworld.

Clark made his way over to a back jack table and bought chips from the dealer. He was issued petty cash from the department with the instructions that it was to be accounted for when the arrests were made in the case. He bought five thousand in chips, and started playing with the dealer and two people at the table. While he was waiting to hit or stay he glanced around at the scene, making note of the security cameras in the place.

An hour went by, and being up ten grand and a little tipsy things suddenly got very quiet and the gaming came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, the slight bent little old Italian man, Don Giovanni Capasso stood on top of a sturdy butcher’s table with his arms spread wide.

He wore rose tinted glasses, and a sharp suit with no tie, and he shook a little when he spoke. Close by was his right hand man, Consigliore Jack “The Carpenter” Carpicize who watched over everyone closely.

“Ladies and gentleman, friends and family, let me please be the first to introduce you to Ms. Martina De Rossi,” and from behind him through a small narrow dark door way, emerged De Rossi in a beautiful gown and diamonds. Her hair up, but curled, to Clark it looked like she was going to prom. She was so young, that he wasn’t sure if she was the new capo or Capasso’s granddaughter. She had a radiant smile and it seemed that all the air was sucked out of the room. She curtsied and then took Don Capasso’s hand and kissed his ring. The Don turned back to the room and continued his speech.

“Ms. De Rossi is going to be overseeing the earning in Brooklyn. She’s been in charge of many different money generating operations in her native Montreal, and she is on loan to us from the Panera Family. She is to be treated as a capo first, and a lady second!” And to this there were a few chuckles from the crowd. De Rossi beamed elegantly, her shoulders exposed and slender. Her lips the color of rosewood that matched her dress and shoes. “Most importantly,” he continued “I want you each to enjoy yourselves and of course, spend some fuckin’ money!” And he got a big laugh from those in attendance.

From behind, Clark’s ribs got a poke from Milano who had gotten next to him during the introduction.

“See, that’s what I was talking about. Some sight, huh kid?” And Clark nodded. He saw that she was making her way slowly around the room, introducing herself to people, shaking hands and being a typical hostess. She didn’t fit the typical archetype of the Mafia woman, who was usually held together in cheap knock off designer clothing and Aquanet. She seemed to have a stately presence, almost like Jackie Kennedy. Clark slid away from Milano and got himself close to the new lady capo.

De Rossi was just finishing a short conversation with another Mafioso when she turned to see Clark standing there, with his tailored chocolate suit and little green handkerchief planted in his breast pocket. She gave him a quick once over and then pasted on a fake looking smile as she extended her gloved hand.

“Martina De Rossi,” she said with a heavy accent.

“Sean Clark,” and he took her hand.

“That doesn’t sound very Italian, Mr. Clark.”

“It’s not supposed to be. I’m with a different outfit,”

“And what would this outfit be?” She was trying to stay composed but he could feel her boredom radiating off of her.

“I’m with the Irish out of Boston. The Sullivan Family actually,”

“Oh, and how did you hear about our little gathering this evening,” and De Rossi looked around the casino.

“I got an invite from a man named Milano, do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him yes, will you excuse me Mr. Clark?” And De Rossi slipped away to join another small cluster of men around a roulette wheel. Clark felt dumped and kicked all at the same time. He bit the inside of his cheek and walked back towards the gaming tables.

Things began to wind down and people were leaving. Clark had eventually lost the money but wasn’t sweating it much. He no longer saw Milano in the crowd and wondered where his ride went. When he left the factory floor to the lot outside, he still saw the Mercedes but the driver was missing too. Clark stood by the car, leaned up against it, taking note of the other people who were in attendance.

There was Micky “The Frog” Fattamia, who was linked to contracting jobs. He would sell under-spec materials to big contracting firms, who would then use the materials in non essential parts of big building projects, knowing that building inspectors will never get around to checking those parts. Another was Irving “The Slug” Santabello, known for getting shot in the mouth at a night club back in 1995. A metal filling in one of his molars stopped the bullet cold. An unusual party member was rapper/actor Millionaire, who was known for his catchy top 40 rap songs like “I Was a Burglar,” and “Bullets Don’t Phase Me.” Even a professional baseball player, an outfielder for the Yankees, was walking back to a car with two girls under his arms. If he didn’t play for the fucking Yankees, Clark thought, he’d go over and get his autograph.

After twenty minutes went by since the last car left the lot, and Clark was left alone standing at the Mercedes with no one around it, he decided that Milano wasn’t coming and he should probably head out on his own. He was wary of making any calls from his cell phone to the op center to send someone to pick him up, at least, this close to the Meat District. He decided to walk a few blocks back towards Broadway.

He got about two blocks when a blacked out GMC Denali came to a skidding stop in front of him on the wet pavement. Clark froze as the doors opened up and two shaved headed goons in windbreakers grabbed him on each arm and started to drag him to the rear of the SUV.

“Hey, what the fuck!” And Clark put up a fight. One of the men punched him in the kidney which made him go limp, and the other put a pillow case over his head with a drawstring and pulled it tight. Clark could feel himself being lifted and placed in the cargo section of the truck.

When they finally stopped, they hadn’t driven far at all, maybe a handful of blocks. Clark could sense that they were probably back at the butchery, and let himself be carried by the goons from the SUV.

He was sat in a chair and handcuffed behind his back. The hood was then pulled from over his head and he was looking up at De Rossi, the two shaved goons, and Don Capasso.

Clark didn’t know what to say or do, so he didn’t say anything at all. De Rossi walked up to him and pulled the Kelly green kerchief from his suit coat and balled it up in her hand. She walked over to one of her goons and whispered in his ear. The goon then marched over and slugged Clark in the face, rocking his head back.

Before he could regain his senses, the other goon was punching him too, and both men worked over Clark’s face til it was purple and puffy.

“Assez,” she said and both men stopped. Clark’s head swam and he tried to focus on De Rossi who was slowly walking over to him. Her heels clicked on the cement floor, and when she got in front of him, she dabbed the blood from his face on his kerchief.

“I know everything, Mr. Clark, so it’s in your best interest to tell the truth, capiche?”

“Ok,”

“Why were you here tonight?”

“I wanted to set up a trade market for some Ecstasy I’m running out of Boston,” Clark said by rote, hoping this was the truth she was referring to, and not his real story. She dabbed again.

“And you know that the Italians are no longer dealing in narcotics, no?”

“I wasn’t aware, I’m from out of town,” and he winced.

“This is why we tell you fucks to stay the fuck out of New York!” Capasso shouted from his corner of the room. “Are you trying to get us all indicted, Mr. Clark!”

“No, just trying to make money,” De Rossi smiled at him.

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Clark? Aren’t we all?.” She walked over to a freezer and pulled the door open. Her two goons walked in and wheeled out Milano and his driver’s body on two slabs. They were cut from their chins down to their testicles; eyes plucked out and mouths sewn shut. Clark didn’t want to look, but didn’t dare turn away either. So he fixated himself on Milano’s oddly shaped oversized nipples and wonder if he had cancer. “You see Mr. Clark, Don Milano didn’t tell the truth until it was too late, and he and his associate paid for it. You were wise and trusting. We can maybe make you a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

“You forget the drugs, and come work for us. I’m sure we can find something for you to do in our organization.” He looked from De Rossi to Capasso to the two goons who were waiting on the word to beat the shit out of him again. He glanced down and saw his own blood puddled under the chair. He sighed and looked up at the lady capo.

“Mm, work for you huh? Yeah, you can go fuck yourself. I’m not switching teams to work for some meatball cunt,” and to this De Rossi was stunned.

There was about five seconds were no one could say anything. Even Capasso was stunned, as were the two goons. But Clark was smart and he knew the game that was being played. If he immediately jumped ship from his “family” he would be viewed as a spy and possibly killed. He had to show some resistance.

“Ok,” De Rossi started slowly. She walked back between her two men. “That’s unfortunate. I hope you’ll have a chance to reconsider Mr. Clark. My two associates will make sure you get home this evening. A good night to you.” And she and Capasso left the room arm in arm to her clicks and shut the door. The two goons spent an hour taking turns beating on Clark.

As the sun was rising over the city, with it’s golden glow reflected off the glass facades of the buildings downtown, the blacked out Denali stopped hard in front of the Embassy in downtown Manhattan, and a beaten and bloodied sack of shit Sean Clark fell to the curb. The door slammed and the truck took off.

Clark rolled to his back and sat up, leaning against a trash can. His left eye was swollen shut, his jaw couldn’t move, and all he could taste was blood and teeth. He took a few minutes to get his bearings, as early commuters stepped around him on their way to work. He picked himself up, and sat on the stoop, watching the world start it’s day.