What The Guy Sitting Across From Me on The Bus, Reading 'Maxim' Magazine, Is Probably Thinking:

Dude.

Dude.

DUDE...!

Oh my god, dude, seriously, this chick is so fucking hot. Look at her tits, and her legs and her ass. Damn. I wish I could find a girl like that. And she looks so natural too. 'Maxim' girls are so REAL. They don't air brush their models, no way.

I mean, I guess there's a number I can text and she'll get it, but it'll probably go through some sort of screener or something and get all fucked up in the process.

Let's see, what else is in here...

Wow, this chick is hot too. Where does Maxim find all these hotties, seriously dude? I mean, I live in this big city and I never see chicks like these. They must all live out in Long Island or something. Wow, look at this car on page 57. If I had a car like that, I could totally bang a chick like the one on page 93...

Let's flip ahead to the fashion section. Or should I say fag-tion section. Heh, seriously, who wears this shit? See, this is where Maxim gets it all wrong. Girls don't want a guy who dresses like he's attending some board meeting or something. Chicks want a dude who keeps it real. Like how I keep it real with my t shirts and jeans and Adidas sneakers.

Oh, the best part, the joke page. Hahaha, 'what did the lesbian vampire say to the other lesbian vampire? See you next month!' Hahaha, where does 'Maxim' come up with this stuff, seriously dude!

This has to be the best men's magazine ever. I mean, it's the only men's magazine I've ever really looked at. I mean, I looked at a 'GQ' one time at the doctor's office in the waiting room, but it seemed kinda gay to me. But 'Maxim' gets me. Maxim knows what every 19 year old needs to be told. Without Maxim, I'd probably never score hot chicks.

Or have the chance to, I mean.

Oh, what's back here... an Axe Body Spray sample. Dude that smells awesome! I'm so going to buy that shit at the Duane Reade next time I go in to pick up my allergy perscription. And I'm going to make sure I spray half the bottle all over myself too, just to make sure people can smell it and be like 'oh my god, what's that awesome smell?' from across the room. And then I can be all like "it's me dude, that awesome smell, it's me."

It's orangy dude, like an orange grove. That's probably what California smells like. And Cali's full of chick's dude. Hot ones.

Is that dude reading over my shoulder? What the fuck dude! Get your own 'Maxim', you dick... that's so not cool -to read over someone's shoulder. He's going to try to steal the pick up tricks in here and talk to that brunette up front over there before I do. Hold on, let me just finish reading this... It says I should 'break the ice' with a joke. Apparently, chicks like it when you insult them right off the bat. I should say something like 'Your hair looks better up,' or 'that's really not your color' because it takes them off their guard and it's better than 'hey can I have your number because I think you're hot,'

It also says something in here about only paying for the first date, and unless she brings you home for some 'hot bangin' after the first date, all bets are off. Ok, phew, ok, is she looking over here... wait, let me ... ok, no, I think she's checking out that other guy. Or did she just miss her stop? Or is she looking at the cover of the 'Maxim' to see Jennifer Love Hewitt's picture? I don't know.

You know what, I'm not going to talk to her after all. She's not nearly as hot as the Hometown Honey on page 122.

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?”

G-Dub's Itinerary for July 8th, 2007

It's not like our current President has much to do now-a-days, since all the focus is on the up coming election. So what does he do all day? I was handed this exclusive itinerary from a confidential source. Check it out.

0945- Just wakin' up, tell Laura to get us some coffee, the Mini Page, and to let the dog out.

1030- Half-way finish my Sodoku For Kids, decide on which tie to where with what suit.

1130- Finish getting dressed, pick out blue tie with gray suit. Laura makes me put the brown shit kickers back.

1200- Send out one of the guys to get some wings from Hooters for lunch. At the same time, have Mitch in Secret Services drive by Arianna Huffinton's house all slow-like a few times. Heh-heh.

1245- Write letter on Presidential Stationary to FOX News, ask why they haven't picked up that Colbert fella from Comedy Central yet. He's good.

1315- Log on to WOW, try to build my Elf Paladin to level 75.

1555- Call up the girls, ask if they're still virgins.

1610- Walk down to the basement and see if Dick's battery needs to be changed out.

1705- Reorganize 'Top Friends' on my Myspace page, move McClellen to bottom of list!

1730- Dinner in front of tv

1845- Browse craigslist for fishing poles, new aids.

1930- Have someone explain to me what 'Katrina' was all about anyway, make plans to stand next to some sand bags in midwest flood zones for pictures.

2000- Private viewing of new Indiana Jones movie in theater, try to put moves on Laura during the boring parts.

2200- Call England, see what Tony's been up to. Rip on that new guy that took his job.

2245- Lights out, sleep with clear conscience.

Short Fiction: Turn Key Operation

Jim has said on more than one occasion how proud he is of this piece of work, and we're inclined to agree. This short fiction was inspired by a television show he had watched last summer about the booming (no pun intended) tourist industry in Israel, and he took it and ran. It originally ran on his myspace.com blog back in June of 2007. And we're running it here because it's Jim's day off and he doesn't feel like being cooped up in the office in front of his computer. -ed.

At 11:00 pm it would’ve looked like any bar in New York City, with its bright orange neon lighted sign, the patrons out front smoking, chatting idly on a Friday night. Only this wasn’t New York City, this was Tel Aviv, and these weren’t trendy New Yorkers, but Israelis, Greek tourists, employees from the near by British Consulate, what have you.

I bought the bar five years ago from an army buddy who was getting out of Israel. He lost his son in a bus bombing that summer, and since then didn’t have the heart to keep up the nightlife lifestyle. He sold it to me, totally turn key, for a song. I was happy to have something to invest my time in since leaving the IDF.

It needed a lot of work; the floors were scuffed and horrible to look at, there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment. There was a small stage towards the back, but the amplifiers were blown out and there was only one tv in the whole place, directly over the bar. I won’t even start on the condition of the bathrooms.

So I spent three weeks, every day, for about fourteen hours a day remodeling the place to my specifications. It took my entire life savings, over forty thousand dollars to get the place the way I wanted it. I put in plasma screen tvs, bought new speakers, new fixtures, hired some new staff, restocked the liquor, bought some new signs and renamed the place from Koffa’s to The Ocean.

And it was a good name because we were in essence right on the ocean. There was a tiny strip of other clubs and bars along the water, and mine now faced out so that during the middle of the day the place was nice and airy, and at night there was a gentle breeze that would blow in through the front double doors. It was literally paradise.

That was until tonight.

It’s 02:00 am now, and the paramedics, army personnel, police, everyone has finally left. The front of the building is black, the cars across the street are black, the ground is wet. At first it was an oily slick of hot blood and body parts, now it’s with water from fire hoses. The lieutenant responding to the scene explained to me that it would take a while to get a guy with a flatbed wrecker out here to get the cars, so it’d be likely morning before the charred automotive remains would be off the street. He suggested that I get home and get some rest if I wasn’t going to get checked out at a hospital. And then he told me that I should probably put my gun away.

I hadn’t even noticed it, until he mentioned it. I had been clutching a Berretta that I kept behind the bar in my right hand the whole time, the whole hour. My hand was numb, my arm throbbed, my face coated in a filth that consisted of blood, dirt and tears. I tucked the gun into my waist band and walked back inside.

There had been over two hundred people inside the bar when the bomb had gone off. I had been behind the bar, pouring a Bombay Sapphire Gin into a martini glass and flirting with a young American girl, much to my girlfriend Sara’s distaste. I remember pouring the drink, turning to see Sara standing at the other end of the bar, holding her waitress tray, a few empty glasses, apron tied tight around her slender hips. She was shooting lightening into my eyes and I shrugged sheepishly, grinning at her.

She was beautiful, long black hair, 5’6, slender body. During the reconstruction of the bar she had come in in the middle of the day to ask about tabling on weekend nights, she was 19 at the time, I was 27, and I was in love with her.

We dated off and on, mostly on, seldom off. We were always hot for each other, and we would do the most absurd things to make each other jealous. I’d flirt with the young tourists, she’d allow herself to be pawed by the male patrons to get better tips. But even when we were off, I’d always walk her to her apartment at the end of the night. And if we were on, I’d follow her up.

So here I am, standing there, holding a bottle of gin looking at her. She simply shakes her head and walks on over. She leans across the bar and puts her face to mine and tells me that I’m a dirty old man. She’s 24 now, I’m 32, and she pushes her fingers into my receding hair line, and grabs a hold of my short black curls. I smack her lightly on her cheek and tell her that I always knew she loved dirty old men. She smiles sweetly, turns, and struts off back towards the front of the bar where there’s more tables that need tending to.

At about that time, things seem to happen in a lurch, like your DVD is on the fritz. I put the bottle of gin down on the back bar, and turn to look out the big picture windows at the crowd outside. It’s a typical Friday night, the place is an orgy of young faces, laughing, singing, drinking. There’s not a bad seed in the crowd, no one here looking for a fight or to prove themselves a man. It’s mostly tourists and youngsters from the nearby hotel resorts. I let myself smile.

I approach the register to swipe the young blonde’s credit card, when I notice my doorman, Ari stand up from his stool and walk towards someone on the sidewalk. It’s something in his walk, his approach that makes me stop in the middle of what would be an uninterrupted credit card transaction. I stand watching him, and see where his eyes are staring at. I hired Ari on a recommendation from a friend who’s still working in the Mosad, he told me Ari knew his shit, and was looking for some laid back weekend work. I had no problem hiring him. He’s bald, 6’3 and two hundred and sixty pounds, he fills out a black t shirt like a typical bouncer, only unlike a typical bouncer he carries a degree in five different disciplines of martial arts and is the fore most expert in Israeli Krav Magna.

Ari walks up to a small skinny sickly guy in a brown coat. His hair is wet and combed to the side of his head. From where I’m standing at the bar, which is about twenty-five yards from the scene outside, I can see the whites of his eyes. I can see his Adam’s Apple bob in his throat. And just as I’m getting the thought into my head that there’s something very wrong with this, the coat puffs out, like he’s got an air compressor under it. It balloons out from his body and tears. I smell cordite and burning, there’s a flash and what feels like my skull ripping open.

I come to on my back, covered in glass and booze. The bar is on fire, I can feel a rumbling slowly fading under my back, against my spine. I wasn’t out long, maybe half a second. I try to roll over to get on my feet but nothing in my body is responding to the commands from my brain. So I dumbly lay on my back, looking at the far ceiling from between my bent legs.

Sound comes back like you’re turning up the volume on the tv after putting it all the way down. It’s a slow build, first there’s the screams and moans. And then there’s the sound of feet moving. There’s furniture being tipped over, so on.

Finally my body goes into motion. I feel like I’m watching it more than participating. But I feel this need to do something, and then the shockwave rips through my body and brain: Sara. She was right by the door when the bomb went off, oh Jesus.

I turn over and feel every inch of my body reject the notion of moving, but I fight through it, pure adrenaline running through my veins. It’s not anger, but a sense of need. Like being under water and needing air, and fighting to break through to the surface. As I turn over, I’m looking at the Berretta, my nose almost touching the grip as it sits under the register as if it was oblivious to the bombing. I snatch it and push myself up on the bar.

There’s a fog, everything’s wet, people are lying on the ground withering, twisting. Some aren’t moving at all. Some don’t have all their parts. On a far table that’s still standing upright there’s a hand with a wedding ring on it.

The whole front of the building is blown inwards. Paper is all over the place, the floors black and shiny. Cars across the street black, glass everywhere. I clear the bar, clutching the gun and wade through the living Hell all around me. I try not to step on anyone but it’s hard to tell. Ceiling tiles hanging down, insulation on fire, little fires all over the place. I slip and fall down, my hand comes back up red.

Bodies are literally piled on top of each other and it’s hard to tell who’s who and who’s still alive and who isn’t. I call out her name, my voice is hoarse and strained. I can barely hear over the ringing and the people screaming. There’s soldiers outside with Galils and Uzis looking around in a cover pattern. An ambulance is already out front, stretchers already on the ground, people being haphazardly rolled on to their backs and lifted. Fuck a neck brace at this point.

I call her name again, and still nothing. For some reason I’m comfortable accepting that she’s dead. My rationale is that at least she didn’t suffer, hopefully. Hopefully she was close enough to the bomber to be obliterated and isn’t lying under a pile of bodies suffocating and bleeding. God it’s so hot.

Finally there’s a tug at my pant leg and I look down. I see her face, half of it. Her mouth is caked in black, and a rope of spit is between her two lips as she’s trying to talk, maybe say my name. I drop to my knees and grab her up, cradling her head in my arms.

I don’t remember crying, I don’t remember saying anything, just holding and squeezing. Sara’s body is half black, burnt. Her right side is blacked out completely. No hair on her head, just tufts on the left side. Her ear is missing, her eye is shut, mouth doesn’t even look like a mouth, just a twisted wound.

Her right leg is missing, a bloody stump slowly lifting and falling. I shake a little, and she clutches to my chest with a bloody paw. She shudders in my arms, like a gentle cough and her grip gets tighter. God, just hold on, please stay, please.

I lift my head and do as I was taught in the army. I call for a medic, I scream for a medic. I can’t find my voice, it’s buried under all the bodies and debris. I start to cry then, or maybe I’ve been crying all along. I just need someone to help me, help her. The anger then starts to build as she starts to fade.

Finally, a young medic in white runs over and grabs her from me. He pushes me aside and I try to get back to her, get closer to her. I want to tell her I’m not letting her go, I’m not leaving. I can’t find the strength, and I watch them drag her outside, her stump of a leg waving good bye as her head lulls backwards, her burnt face looking up at the young medic in white.

I would later find out that she died on the way to the hospital.

I received a check for two-point-eight million dollars in insurance coverage, and decided that it would be better to just move away. I could relate then to my friend who left Israel after losing his boy. Who wants to own a bar caked in blood?

An Ode To Living Recklessly

I'm a shitbird.

A total dickhead, scumbag, perverted shit-stain on society.

I love to drive drunk with very little regard for other drivers. Fuck'em: the car load full of kids or the soccer team, or the prom dates.

I love to drink too much and pass out at people's houses whom I don't know.

I love to correct people's grammar in public, with only the most condescending tone.

I drive like an asshole (when I'm not drunk), I seldom wear my seat belt, never use my signals, and expect everyone else around me to abide by the same traffic laws I disregard. I speed and swerve and drive with my windows down in all types of weather.

I like to keep a loaded gun on my person at all times and often pick fights with people I know could kick my ass. I don't give a shit, I have a gun.

I like to fuck without a condom on. I almost never pull out, and if I do, it's to cum on the girl's face or tits. I never hang around after, I just get up and leave.

I bet on sports when I don't have the money. I do the same thing with my bills; I pay my bills with checks that I know will bounce. Same goes for my rent.

I vote Republican in the 21st century.

I sneer at children and wolf whistle at their moms. I grab my crotch in line at the grocery store.

I play with knives, especially when I've been drinking.

I may or may not have children someplace else in the country.

I tell fat women they're fat. To their boyfriend's faces.

I drink Tecate and eat microwave burritos at 3 am on Monday nights.

I wake up hung over for work at 0630 in the morning, when I have to be in the office at 0715. I don't call ahead and I don't give a shit.

I throw things.

I make my roommate do my dishes and scrub my shitty toilet.

I plug in my amp and play horrible guitar at all hours. When the neighbors show up to complain I tell them to go fuck themselves while blowing pot smoke into their faces. When they inevitably send the cops over, I pretend I'm a disabled war vet.

I rent movies and don't watch them. Weeks go by and when the store calls about their movies, I tell them that I just moved into the address and have no idea what they're talking about.

I sleep on park benches. I clean my gun on park benches.

I stroll by high schools and ask the girls walking on the side walk what grade they're in.

I play pool in bars and don't pay for the games. I let my friends buy my drinks for me and never pay for a round.

I demand a buy-back from the bartender. When he cuts me off, I go outside and slash all the tires in the parking lot, hoping I got his.

I eat like shit. Wait, let me rephrase that... I eat shit. My arteries are so clogged with shit that my insides look like an LA Freeway. My doctors yell at me, my girlfriend yells at me, and I don't care. If it tastes good, I'm eating it, whether it's deep fried, bathed in butter or beer battered, I'm going to ingest it until my heart gives out under me. Fuck it.

I smoke cigarettes but I never buy my own pack. I'm that asshole who's hanging outside of the bar bumming smokes off everyone. I never apologize for it either.

I'm inside the bar smoking.

I'm your co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone and ignores your emails.

I'm the dickhead on Facebook who won't return your Friend Request.

I listen to shitty music loudly and at the same time tell you you have no taste in music.

I'm at a rock concert feeling your girlfriend's ass.

I'm doing hits of extacy around black guys and telling them "thanks for not kicking my white ass"

I'm an asshole, a dick, and a douche bag. I'm your neighbor, your brother, your father and your son. I'm your boss and your employee.

I'm You.

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,”