Three: A Man from Out of Town

Angel Muerto stepped out of the ordinary cab that brought him to the Central New York home of the cartel. The name was a moniker. Very few people knew his real name, and fewer wanted to. But when his employers had a problem, a problem that went beyond their own considerable resources, or that required discretion, they called the angel of death. His tall, lean frame supported a white linen suit; his pock-marked face perpetually hidden by a hat. Today’s choice was a fedora. His teeth, perfect caps, rarely showed themselves. Not that Angel Muerto acted angry. His job just required considerable concentration that he did not want to waste on any extraneous emotion.

To call Muerto a hitman was to understand only part of his job. Yes, he killed people, but his price and longevity allowed him to pick and choose his jobs. In many respects, he was a contradiction. He never hurt children, rarely killed women. If he showed up at your door, you deserved what was coming. The site of your death would be messy with your blood and other bodily fluids, but unknown to his employers, he never made a mark suffer. Rather, after a relatively painless death—poison, a shot to the head, whatever was quickest—he made you the example his employers required. Cruelty did not define him. Efficiency did.

Not that he couldn’t hurt you. Never make that mistake. The biggest and toughest men can be made to cry, and Muerto had. Often. At this stage in his career, Muerto was more of a fixer, a sort of private investigator for the mob. Often, the results of his investigation lead to death. But other means could be as effective, including using the police to imprison rivals.

In many ways, he resented his current assignment. The small city, if it could be called that, was barely a blip on the cartel’s map. Some gringo had been running the cocaine trade through the city, but he was sloppy and greedy and the police had arrested him. However, the cartel’s interest in the upstate drug traffic was higher these days, as things had grown hotter in New York City. A relatively competition-free area opened itself up to opportunities. At some point, Muerto believed he would be shipped to Syracuse to organize the rabble there, and he could understand that Utica was a setup for that move. Storm an area with momentum. Still, he didn’t like Utica much.

Muerto waited for the cabbie to open the trunk, but did not allow the man to touch the luggage. He then took his bags and walked from the cab to the stairs of the brick building, a run-down place in a run-down part of town. Muerto resented having to be in it, but appreciated the low-profile nature. The chrome rimmed, late model cars parked around it defeated this purpose. The problem with criminals, he reflected, is their lack of professionalism, especially at these lower levels. Machismo and low self esteem fueled too much of it, and grand displays were too common. That was another strike against this job. He was sure that the local boss, a gringo calling himself Bulldog, would resent his presence. That wouldn’t be a hard problem to solve, but it was unprofessional.

The final mark against the job was that there was very little information about the death of Luis Colón. What little details he had made it seem like a rival hit, but the cartel worked competition-free in the city. Most likely, that meant that it was a random occurrence. Therefore, the cartel actually had no problem here and he was wasting his time. It paid to be sure, of course, and Muerto made sure he was paid well.

Two gangstas lounged at the bottom of the staircase, looking typical for the area whose many youths copied the look, if not the lifestyle. This pleased Muerto. Low-key, typical. They briefly roused themselves, but settled back down.

“You Muerto?” the smaller of the two said, his gold tooth flashing briefly. Gold teeth always looked odd to him, and on this skinny gringo, they looked ridiculous. Muerto nodded, not taking his eyes off their hands, as was his habit. “Thought so. Bulldog’s upstairs,” Goldie continued. Muerto noted the pistol printing on his pro-team knock-off jersey, though he did not know if it was a basketball or football team. Such sports were not his. He hunted, and the game was usually dangerous.

The bigger of the two, a black man with tattoos all over his arms, pulled something from his pocket. Muerto dropped his bags and his knife slid from the rig on his forearm. He was close enough to the two that he could render their firearms useless until the owners were useless. He relaxed, though, when he saw it was a cell phone. Obliviously, Tats texted something, probably to the people upstairs. Goldie, though, had seen how quickly Muerto had sprung the knife. His eyes were wide. He knew how close death had passed as Muerto slid up the stairs. Good, Muerto reflected. Maybe there was some hope for this organization after all.

“You stupid, man?” Goldie said in hushed admonishment behind him.

“What? What?” Tats said dumbly.

A blob of a man opened the door at the top of the steps for Muerto and revealed a cluttered living room. Expensive stereos and video game systems contended for space with pizza boxes, beer bottles and clothes. Four men were sprawled about the piles, obviously drunk or high or both. Out of the corner of his eye, Muerto was sure a rat scurried from pile to pile. A large flat panel television dominated one paint-peeling wall and water marks stained the ceiling. All the toys that money could buy, and an absolute trash pile to house them. Typical small time.

Two clean spots presented themselves. The first was around a computer where a girl sat. She was small but firm, and she dressed like one of the boys. Her hair was slick to her head, pulled back tight in a pony tail that cascaded ringlets down the back of her blue sports jersey. She wore black jeans and boots, and probably hid at least a knife on her person. Her eyes were black-brown, and very intense as she studied the computer screen.

The second spot that could be called clean was on the couch, occupied by a short white man with a thick neck and thicker biceps. His musculature was displayed by his tight white shirt. As he stood and walked over to Muerto, the others un-slouched and paid attention. The blob behind him started to close the door, but the body builder put out a hand to halt him.

“You’re Muerto?” he said more than asked, standing far too close to him. Muerto said nothing. He knew what was coming. “Funny, you don’t look like such as badass, does he Polaski?” he said to the blob.

“I’m Bulldog, and I inherited this crew when Luís died. Shit, I been running the show since before Luís died, cause all he wanted to do was dress nice and score pussy. You dress nice, too. Nicer than Luís. Makes me think maybe you won’t know your shit, either.”

Muerto decided to at least make an attempt at professionalism. “The cartel sent me here to find out who killed Luis. I have no interest in staying here or running your crew, Señor. All that I require—“

“You got that damn right, amigo. I’m runnin’ the show, and I’ll tell you what you require.”

Something changed on Muerto’s face, but it was subtle. The others were all too stoned or stupid to see it. If Bulldog saw it, he wanted it anyway. Only the girl at the computer noticed and sucked in a little more air. She looked like she might want to warn Bulldog, but realized it was futile.

“I was not done talking.” Muerto said it and the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees.

“I think you are.” Bulldog pushed him in the chest as he said it. Muerto rotated his trunk a little, and came back into position.

“Do not touch me again, Señor.”

Bulldog had earned his name for a reason. He took a step back, turning as if away, then lunged at Muerto. Muerto smoothly sidestepped, grasped the back of Bulldog’s head and pushed. With his immaculate leather shoe, he tripped Bulldog. The combined force sent the stocky man hurling down the steps. He crashed to the bottom step, eventually, and did not move. Neither did Goldie or Tats, or anyone else in the room.

“Now that I have your attention,” Muerto said, “here are the new rules. Uno: Park your cars away from the building, or drive something with less bling. You waste the ordinariness of your dwelling with foolish displays of wealth. Are all the cars outside legally owned?” Most of them nodded yes. “Get rid of the stolen ones. Dos: nobody in this room is to carry any product on his person from now on. You let your holders hold. Tres: I better damn sure not see any one of you use the product. You are suppliers, not users. If you can’t clean up right now, I will clean you up in such a way that you are no longer a part of this organization or the human race. Ustedes entienden?”

They all nodded. Muerto cleared his throat. It was the most and loudest he had spoken in some time. Polaski dared to ask “anything else?” Muerto looked at him and judged the question sincere. Another good sign. These men could be taught.

“Si. Clean this shit-hole up. I have work to do.” With that, he turned and walked down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to retrieve his bags and take Bulldog’s car keys from his broken body.