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.