Nepotism

The following is a standalone story, though you might recognize one of the characters. Thank you for reading. 

Nepotism

Giraldo “Jerry Icepick” Ferrera walked down the circular steps from kitchen in Don Calabrese’s palatial home to the fully finished basement. He passed the oak bar room, complete with full size billiard table and large screen HDTV, and strode into the unfinished area of the wine cellar. He stopped not for a vintage, but to probe the far wall with knowing hands. A door slid slightly back, then pocketed into the wall. Giraldo stepped through, closed it, turned to face another door, and repeated the process. He was in the guts of the house now.  He had to turn his muscular body out of the way of cobwebs to avoid getting debris on his tuxedo. The boiler was to his left, the hot water heaters to his right. Large containers held reserve water, enough for the don, his wife, and three children for an extended besiegement.

Two children, Giraldo reminded himself. The lovely Vincenza was to be married this day to a man not in the business, and be swept away from this dirty world to the left most coast. Giraldo grimaced at that. His special assignment had been to make sure the girl grew up safe and isolated from Don Calaverse’s underworld dealings. He had performed his job flawlessly. As far as Vincenza knew, her daddy was filthy rich as a result of being a tycoon in refuse removal. His satisfaction was diminished by the thought of Vinni in Hollywood, a place he’d been to. He found mob dealings to be cleaner and more honorable.

Still, with the eldest out of the house and only two male children left and presumed to be brought into the family business, Giraldo was due a promotion.  Space had been made for him. He was to become capo and in charge of all family security in the city. All he had to do was see this wedding through, which made his visit to the basement all the grimmer. He opened a door to what could only be described as a cell.

Two hulking enforcers stood in their undershirts. Each wore a shoulder holster. One, Guido, stood back near the door, a Glock in his hands. The other, Nuncio, had only his fists out. In front of him, chained to a chair that was bolted to the ground was a man that Giraldo had known all his life, though he barely recognized him. His left eye was swollen shut and his mouth was cut and bleeding. A nasty gash was dripping blood down over the right eye and his t-shirt looked like a prop in an Evil Dead movie, saturated with blood. Still, despite his lack of vision, the man smiled as Giraldo came in.

“Hey-hey, Jerry Icepick, you wop bastard. You come to invite me to the party?” the man said around his fat lip.

            “That’s what I love about you, Spears. Your vivid imagination,” Giraldo replied.

            “Oh, I don’t think you’d be surprised what I’m imagining right now,” Spears said, giving Nuncio a wicked grin. “Why don’t you let these chains off and I’ll paint you a little picture.”

            Nuncio grunted and moved to strike him, but Giraldo stayed his hand.

            “You done enough damage, Nuncio,” Giraldo said. “Spears and me go way back. And on the extremely remote chance he was to free himself from those chains, you don’t want him to think of you as cruel.”

            “I ain’t scared of this little shit, Giraldo,” the slugger said. Nuncio was basing his opinion on the wrong facts, Giraldo knew. Spears sat strong and straight, despite the beating he had taken. He probably gave up a hundred pounds to the refrigerator sized Nuncio. But if Spears was free, he’d disassemble him. The chains hardly reassured Giraldo. Spears had escaped other tight situations.

            Giraldo shook away the thoughts and addressed Spears. “I thought we were friends, man. Why would you come to the don’s house on the day of his daughter’s wedding to try to kill him?”

            “I’m not here to kill him, Giraldo; I just want to ask him a favor.”

            “This ain’t The Godfather. The only favor you’re going to get is a stay of execution until tomorrow morning. Seriously, man, I knew you were back out on your little vigilante kick—what is this, the sixth go round—but to do it on the day when Vinni is getting married is a creep move. The kid don’t know nothing about her dad’s business. You want to scar her for life?”

            “Yeah, you got me there. I was just looking at the easy opportunity to get on the compound. Guess I never thought about the emotional well-being of a crime lord’s only daughter.”

            “Wasn’t so easy, was it, jerk off,” Guido said from the back.

            “Not so bad. Your butt-buddy here hits like your mother,” Spear said.

            Giraldo couldn’t stay Nuncio’s hand this time. The goon belted Spears a right cross on the chin. Spears head snapped around but came back grinning. Still, his eyes were glassy. Spears wouldn’t be getting out of this one. Giraldo felt a bit sorry for that, sorry that this good man’s tragic life had brought him to darken this doorstep, had brought him to clash with Giraldo’s business. But Giraldo couldn’t to afford to be sentimental. Spears had terrorized the crime world from the street level on up for years now, ducking or surviving hits from some top level shooters.

“I want you to hold him in this cell, alive, until the last drunken goombah staggers out of here,” Giraldo said to Guido.  “Feed him, give him whatever he wants to drink, but don’t take the fucking chains off him. One guy watches him through the peephole all the time—and I mean watches him, not stand here with your back to the door waiting for him to disappear from view. This guy’s the real deal, aintcha Spears?” Spears shrugged modestly.  “Don’t go relaxing and letting your guard down. From now on, you go into this room, bring two friends. Check his chains before you get near him, then feed him. And don’t do somethin’ stupid like bring a fork or a knife in here.”

“Giraldo, he’s in chains. How the fuck’s he gonna get the silverware?” Guido asked.

“Listen to me, you cro mangnon motherfucker. You do not fuck around with this guy. When you think of him, you think of him as Hannibal Lecter, or Satan, or Sister Mary Francis or whoever the hell made you wet the bed at night. He’s slick. He gets out. And when he does, you think he’s gonna just go by you with a ‘how you doin’’? He’ll shove your balls in your mouth, then come up and kill everyone in this house until I stop him.”

“I wouldn’t actually shove his balls in his mouth,” Spears said around his fat lip. “I wouldn’t have time or magnifying glass to find them.”

“You shut up!” Nuncio said, backhanding Spears.

“Good comeback, Nuncio,” Giraldo muttered under his breath. “Now you two, outta here, now. I’ll send food and backup down in a little while.” They left the room and bolted it shut. To his credit, Nuncio kept his eye to the peephole.

                 

* * *

And so, under secure lock, key and guard, the incredible Mr. Spears did not break free and kill the mobsters in attendance for the ceremony. Nor did he disturb the reception or blow up the portable stage where a Sinatra-esque crooner made the early evening magical.  Giraldo almost allowed himself to relax and enjoy a glass of champagne, but the little itch of danger at the base of his neck couldn’t quite be scratched. He excused himself from his table, went to the bathroom to check his Glock, and pat some cool water on his forehead. As he emerged, the new bride almost ran into him.

“Uncle Jerry! Tell me you’re having a blast! Does Daddy know how to through a wedding or what?” Vincenza said. She had a little trouble with the s in her words.

“Don’t get so loaded you ruin your wedding night, Vinni,” he said with a wink.

“Ohmigod! I can’t believe you just said that!” Vincenza said. “You used to scare the snot outta every boy who came around for me.”

“You’re a married woman now,” Giraldo said with a shrug. “No need to keep up the chaste act.”

“And who says it’s an act?” Vincenza said, though her tone was playful.

“My apologies, Mrs. Johnston. Musta been some other Vincenza I followed up to the make-out spot after your senior prom.”

“You were there?” Vincenza looked genuinely startled. “And you didn’t stop us?”

Giraldo shrugged again. “Had to let you have some fun. Besides, that whatshisname knew what woulda happened to him if he got you in trouble.”

“Oh, you’re bad!” she said, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Hey, you haven’t danced with me yet!”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s go.”

The moved out to the wooden floor and swayed comfortably. The other dancers gave them extra room, as much for Giraldo’s simple presence as care for Vincenza’s dress.  

“One last dance with the manny, eh kiddo?” Giraldo said. 

“Don’t be so dramatic Uncle Giraldo. This isn’t goodbye. And you’ve never been just a babysitter to me.”

“I know, Vinni. I still remember when you danced on top of my feet when you were ten. I guess I can’t believe you’re growing up, leaving me.”

“Why Uncle Jerry, are you tearing up? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.”

“Guys like me don’t cry, angel. Wouldn’t do no good. Besides, I want to see you clearly on your last day in New York.”

“Such a tough guy. But don’t worry about missing me, Unc. I’m not going to…”

One of Giraldo’s security men stepped quickly to him and interrupted whatever Vincenza was about to say. “Vinni’s father would like a word with you in his den,” he said into his ear. Giraldo nodded.

“You’ll have to forgive me, darling. Your father calls and I must answer.”

“Even on my wedding day, Giraldo?”

“Fraid so,” Giraldo replied.

He made his way swiftly through the maze of tables, his trapezious muscles tense. Reflexively, his hand nudged the spot where his gun was concealed, reassuring him it was there. He glanced around to make sure his men were in position, then shouldered his way into Don “Little Vito” Calabrese’s oaken office.

Giraldo blew out the tension through pursed lips when he entered. Don Calabrese sat at ease on a leather couch, his heavy body sunken into it and loosened by the scotch in his hand. He blew out the smoke from a Cohiba cigar as he laughed at something his new son-in-law had just said. Both men were in the attitude of ease and joviality, unconcerned with the killer chained in the basement.

“Giraldo!” Calabrese said in his sandpapery voice. “Come! Sit, have a scotch. Dale was just sharing another L.A. story with me while we had a cigar.

Giraldo had never particularly liked Dale. Even his name irritated him. Dale Johnston! How waspy could you get? Someone named Dale Johnston should be driving two-hundred miles an hour around an oval, not running a movie business. Dale was short and already showing signs a bald spot on his crown. He was too thin and his handshake wasn’t strong, but he did that weasel trick where he tried to grab your fingers and squeeze before you were ready. Giraldo had always been ready, though, and so far was not intimidated by the L.A. powershake.  Still, for whatever reason, Vinni had chosen him and he had to abide by her choice. It wasn’t his job anymore to protect her from her own mistakes.

“Yeah, come on in, Jerry,” the wimp said. “Close the door behind you. Vito and I have something to talk about with you.”

Giraldo didn’t like the way Dale said Jerry. He didn’t like the way he said “Vito”. The tension was back in his shoulders as he closed the door.

* * *

When it opened again and he stepped out, something like disappointment appeared in Giraldo for a moment. It was quickly consumed by rage. This position had been promised to him since day one. He’d done everything right.  He’d toadied around for years from every after school activity, amusement park vacation, and teen angst depression. He’d threatened boyfriends, dried tears and celebrated birthdays. He’d even protected Vinni from a kidnapping and done it without the girl even knowing something was wrong.  He was family, not some smug wimp from Los Angeles. To lose all he had worked for, to do it all again for another kid…

He stalked from the room and spied Vinni sprawled out on a couch. Giraldo picked the drunken girl up in his arms and carried her out the door to the waiting limo. One of his men was driving.

“Take her right to the hotel. Don’t stop for shit. Take a couple guys, and get the two little boys out of here, too. Stay there until you hear from me. Don’t call nobody here, don’t tell nobody where you are.  This is plan B. Got it?” The man nodded sharply to the grim tone in Giraldo’s voice and snapped into action. All of the men under Giraldo’s control were loyal to him. The driver was his lieutenant and was aware of Giraldo’s back up plan. Neither had really imagined it would be necessary.

 Giraldo turned and left him. In the kitchen, he put a plate of food together for Spears, with a little something special for dessert.  He carried the food down the circular staircase, past the basement bar, and through the wine cellar. He balanced the tray as he slid one door open, then closed it behind him, then the other. He covered the food with his hand but didn’t worry about the cobwebs getting on his tuxedo. He stopped at the door.  Guido had switched off with Nuncio and was peering through the peephole.

“He in there?” Giraldo asked.

“Yeah, Jerry, we did just like you said and kept switching off to look at him. We did it real quick like, too,” Nuncio said.

“All right, you guys go grab some food and I’ll feed Mr. Spears here.”
“But Jerry, you told us to bring another guy in there when we fed him. You just goin’ in yourself?” Guido said, looking back

from the peephole.

“Forget about it, Guido. Just get the fuck out of here and get something to eat.”

The men shrugged and ambled away. When he heard the second door click closed, he opened the cell door.

“Don’t kill me, Spears. I come bearing gifts,” Giraldo said, keeping his prisoner in view. It wouldn’t do to have him break free and kill him now. He dropped the food tray on the ground in front of Spears.

“I suggest you eat it before you go, and here’s a little something for dessert,” he said, dropping an ice pick on Spears lap. Spears looked at it then looked up at Giraldo with a crooked smile.  He wriggled a little and the chains fell free.

“Yeah,” Giraldo said, locking his eyes on Spears. “Tell the don ‘hi’ on your way out.” He then turned and strode from the cell, leaving it open behind him.

Sixteen: The End

As promised, here is the end of Memoirs of a Vigilante. Thank you for reading.

Kelly has that pallid hue of sickness, a combination of inactivity and artificial light. Her hand is  skinny and frail as I hold it, but her eyes are alert. Life crept back into her. For that I am eternally grateful. 

With her free hand, she picks up her soup and sips it like hot coffee.

“I know this is awful,” she says “but right now hospital food is haute cuisine.”

“Beats a tube down your throat, for sure.”

“Rocky told me you’ve been busy while I’ve been out of it.”

I nod.

“Tell me. All of it.” She has an iron in her gaze that betrays the frailty of her body. She needs to know. So I tell her. I tell her of walking into Luìs’s backroom and the events that lead to his death, about the fights with Lenny and Tank Daddy, about getting shot in the ass, about Bebe and how I still don’t know what happened to her. I tell her about hunting down Bulldog. I tell her about shooting and killing Muerto in her hospital room under her bed. Through it all, stares straight at me.

“That’s about where you came back in and I left for a while,” I say.

She takes her hand from mine. Her eyes fix on a place near the muted television. “And…you think you did this for me?”

“That’s how it started.  I know there was something else going on with me, too.”

Kelly keeps looking at the spot near the TV. “You hurt people.”

My shoulders are tight, my spine stiff. “They were bad people, Kelly. Lenny killed Jerry Gold. Luìs was blackmailing Symphony into prostitution.”

“And Bebe?”

“I…” I start to say that she had a gun on me, but I don’t. That had been the line for her. For me, too.  I can’t swallow away the lump in my throat.

“I never wanted any of this,” she says, looking back to me. “You started this for me. It’s like I had a hand in hurting these people. And the damage they did to you—” It’s all coming out of her now in a rush, everything she’s been sorting out. “Rocky told me that if you had been anywhere else but in a hospital when you fought Muerto, you’d be dead now.”  

I’m aware of how much I’m not meeting her gaze.

“What sort of man does this?” I finish for her.

She nods. Tears sneak out of her eyes, running down either side of her reddening face. She looks like someone who’s been caught in an artic blast. I look at her fully. I’m scowling hard, trying to hold back everything, trying to find air and a way to talk. If I can only find a way to say something else…but I can’t. I’ve nothing left to say.

I stand. I take one last look at her, memorize the details, soften them into the memory I want, and limp out of the room.

Fourteen and Fifteen

Two for one tonight. Those of you who have been following this story for this long, I thank you. As a way of making up for the long delay, I offer you two chapters in one post. The story is almost done, folks, and I promise I'll have the end up next week. Again, thanks for reading and leaving comments!

Fourteen: Culminating

Angel Muerto and three other men climbed out of an H2 Hummer in front of my house with automatic weapons at 9:18 PM.  My house is well back off the road, surrounded by trees. They have no need to hide their intent from passersby. At 9:18:20, the crescendo to the nearby town’s Italian Fest started. At 9:18:22, Muerto’s three men opened fire.

            The hardwood trim around the front door splintered and cracked. The storm door ruptured metal as bullets pierced it going in, then popped back out off the steel security door behind it. The men spread out, reloading their AK-47s, perforating siding, shattering windows. Kelly’s good china disintegrated into dust. The big screen cracked and sparked. I could see the good wood work I’d made, a cedar chest, some end tables, shudder and split. The rest of the destruction I could only hear. Glass cascaded on the floor in between the staccato weapon fire. Metal bonged hollowly or whizzed a ricochet. 

Rocky is somewhere in the woods with a hunting rifle and a his chrome .40.  I’m kneeling behind a stone and cement barricade I made twenty feet across from my house. As luck had it, we’d been out planning this when Muerto showed up. Our plan had been to bail out the back door, split up and run around behind them. It probably would never have worked. Not with the firepower they brought.  The police will notice eventually, despite the fireworks. We can just sit tight until they get here.

But sitting around isn’t my thing anymore. I have Rocky’s AR-15 and my own nine-mil on my hip, not to mention a few other surprises. And, as one of the men closest to Muerto and the Hummer goes to the back and pulls out two cans of gasoline, I decide I really don’t want my house burned down in front of me. True, it’s better than having it burn down while I’m laying inside bleeding, but a man gets sentimental about things like his homestead.

He heads for the house, but Muerto stops him. Muerto hasn’t fired a shot yet. He stands, surveying. He can tell something’s not right. I had left the lights and TV on to make him think I’m home. He’s not buying it. He looks around. I can’t wait any longer.

I heave a Molotov cocktail at the Hummer. Rocky knows it’s the signal and a crack louder than the AKs rips from the forest. Just as the bottle smashes against the black finish of the SUV, a bullet punctures a gas can the man was holding and keeps right on going through him.

I lose Muerto in the firelight, but put the scope on one of his henchman. I catch him center mass in mid turn and he crumples to the ground. Another shot from the woods is answered by AK-47 fire from the last remaining henchman. Rocky will have to take care of him, because I can’t see him from this side of the house. That leaves Muerto for me.

I sprint low through the woods. I can hustle because the roar of the barbequed Hummer is covering any noise I make. I need to change position from where Muerto last saw me, but I can’t run blind. I have to get an angle on him, but not one he’d expect. I’m not up against Tank Daddy or Lenny here. A guy with who earned the nickname Death Angel from a South American drug cartel is no sweetheart. I’ve tried to tip the advantage in my favor; I know the terrain, and I’ve already enraged him enough to get him to challenge me on it.

Despite this, Muerto appears from a tree in front of me. He doesn’t see me at first and we both to a little jump as we recognize each other. I fire as he fires. Bullets zip past my right ear and I recoil behind a thick pine tree. Muerto does the same.  It’s darker in the thicket with the only light from the burning truck. The flames dance and cast moving shadows. I can’t tell shadow from foe, but I can’t stay here. I have to circle around on Muerto.

I slide back from tree to tree, working clockwise to where I last saw Muerto. I have to figure he’s doing something similar. I’m methodical. No need to rush this. It feels like forever, but I know it’s only a few minutes and the police are still far away. I need to end this tonight. This boogie has been a long time coming, and I’m going to play the final note.

I see the fire reflect off something slick and shiny. Muerto’s coat. I fire three shots as quick as I can pull the trigger. The coat falls off the limb it was hanging on.

A trick.

I turn but already know I’m too late. Maybe if I’m just quick enough, I can shoot Muerto as he hits me. I almost want to close my eyes, but don’t. I don’t want to walk around eternity not knowing what hit me.

Except he’s not there. I crouch and scan the woods, straining my ears for any sound other than burning truck. Then I see a flicker of movement, out in the open, moving toward the house. It’s Muerto running in his shirtsleeves. I raise the rifle to my shoulder, but he’s around the other side of the burning Hummer before I form a solution.  His rifle lays on the ground.

I didn’t figure him to be a runner, but I’ll chase him to ground. Trusting the other henchman to Rocky, I sprint after Muerto. He’s in the garage door and I can tell his plan. He’ll be in luck, as I’ve left my keys in the ignition of my F-350. The garage door is only partially raised before he rams my truck through it. I dodge the debris and venture in side. The keys to the Chevelle are in the pocket of my overalls, hanging on the peg next to the door. I rip them from the pocket and jump in the car.

The squeal of the tires on the concrete floor of the garage almost drowns out Rocky as he runs toward me, dropping the gunman he’d been dragging toward the house. He hollers and waves for me to stop, but I’m not stopping. The monster in me is drooling and pulsating; it needs to be fed tonight. Tonight, I will follow Muerto to darkest corner of the world. Or the darkest corner of my being.

Fifteen: Endgame

Muerto sped down the twisting country road and the vigilante followed him. He did not bother to berate himself for the fouled evening at the vigilante’s home. When this was over, someone else could revisit his transgressions. He had known the risks in tracking his foe to his lair, and those risks had been realized. It was not important now.

The big truck was no corner carver, but the mighty engine kept him ahead of Spears. He might have been in trouble had he really wanted to get away. That was not his plan.  Muerto only needed enough lead to get to the endgame slightly ahead of the vigilante. Every time his pursuer tried to get near him, he used the bulk of the pick-up to block off the road.

Eventually, the trees thinned to nothing and the lights of civilization beckoned. He crossed from the county road into the main drag of the city, then immediately cut the truck into the side streets. He navigated the maze precisely, aware of the headlights in his mirror. As he penetrated deeper into the heart of the city, he wondered when Spears would realize their destination. Would fear grip him? Would he do something foolish? What would his face look like when he walked into the final trap?

The man called the Death Angel smiled as he thought of it. He had resigned himself to the real possibility that this would be his last night. But so would it be for Spears.

And for the woman who had started it all.

Muerto cut the truck sharply so that it raised up on one side, then saved it. It crashed back down on its shocks with a thump, wallowed, but made the turn still upright. The tall hospital loomed in front of him. He angled through the parking lot for the loading dock in back. Behind him, Spears almost T-boned another car his frantic pace. He must now know the plan, Muerto thought. A cold little smile cracked one corner of his mouth.

Muerto vaulted out of the seat and up on to the loading dock while the truck rocked from the sudden stop. Two men moving supplies in the big doors yelled at him. He shot both with his handgun without breaking stride. He’d have minutes before security would react, and eternity for his plan to unfold.

The ride up to the ICU gave him a chance to catch his breath. When the doors opened, he pressed the ground floor button on the console. He didn’t want Spears getting lost. No, he’d leave a nice trail for him to follow.

*

Two men are laying on the ground, bleeding. Muerto must have shot them. They’re still breathing, but I can’t do anything for them now.

I’ve been a fool. I’d thought Muerto had these rules. Rules against killing bystanders, against killing women. But tonight he’s breaking these rules, and that’s what scares me the most. I though I had him figured out.

I round the corner from the loading dock just as the elevator opens. I can guess where it just returned from. The ride up is hell. I’d always thought the ride to hell would be going down. I can’t catch my breath. The air in here is too close. Just like the walls. I feel every shudder as the car clicks past the floors. Too slow. I want to claw my way up the levels until I can get to Muerto, to Kelly’s room.

The door finally opens. A woman in scrubs lays moaning on the floor, blood forming a pool beneath her. A security guard is sprawled on the ground, motionless, handgun still in holster. I’m vaguely aware of other people crouching behind counters, trying not to sob as nightmares from Columbine, Luby’s and a dozen other news footage horrors replay in their heads. I can stop this for them. But I’m not here to save them this time. Only one person matters to me.

I skid to a halt outside of Kelly’s room. It’s too quiet inside. How will Muerto play this? Will he blast me as soon as I enter, or will he drag out his last stand? I can’t take the risk that he’ll kill me before I can stop him from killing Kelly. I take an empty bedpan from the supply cart next to me and throw it in the room. I’m in right behind it. I try to see everything at once: the wall next to the door, the inside of the bathroom, the space next to Kelly, everything. Muerto’s not here.

Then I see him under the bed. He fires twice and something goes very wrong in my body. I want to fire at him from my feet, but my feet don’t seem like they’re there anymore. I squeeze the trigger and bullets fly from the gun. I can’t tell where they hit. I can’t see if I’ve shot him. I can only see Kelly and I’m falling, falling…