by Suzanne Hart
They were deadpan. Huge, mean-looking men who looked like they made a living by extracting the life from others. Slade was the only real mean bastard I knew, and they generally weren’t allowed in the house. These guys were, apart from being on the other team; freaking awesome to watch.
The second fattest one twitched when I reached into my coat pocket, relaxing when I showed him I was only producing my little baggie, my soon to be --probably last ever toot of the Columbian bump, so why not?
I offered the other guys. They weren’t interested. I reasoned still that I hadn’t yet had enough in the past day or two to get truly hooked. And it was all a rush, a passing thrill that was now, thankfully being removed from my life; whether I liked it or not.
I didn’t expect to survive whatever was coming. A Bernardi wouldn’t snatch a Leone unless he was already dead. Doing so was tantamount to war, so, whatever happened from then on was going to be the shape of a huge shit cloud raining down on Bernardiland.
We hadn’t really gone too far, from downtown to the riverfront. I saw a cluster of limos and vans in an empty lot up ahead. Bernardi was smart enough not to take a Leone car anywhere near his own nest. The tracking on the car, my phone; he was taking enough chances as it was. As we approached, all the other vehicles save one limo and one van took off. My face flushed as my last snort began to radiate from the crown of my head all the way down my body. I felt like I could handle each of those guys on my own. That was some crazy coke. I tip my hat to you, Columbia.
Those guys seemed to get bigger with each new one I saw. As my car pulled up behind the limo, two massive guys got out from the front of the limo, hand in the breasts of their jackets, and opened the rear door of the stretch.
I was invited out of my car and into the limo. It was blowing icy cold air, with loud opera playing. The whole back was filled with that distinctive cigar smoke. Ordinarily I would have coughed, but my new powdered friend had given me the power of, not just tolerance, but a desire to puff on one myself.
The stiff leather of the seat creaked in welcome as I sat myself comfortably opposite Carlo Bernardi. He was a large man, but from diet, not exercise. He had on blue tinted glasses, which in the low light of the limo gave the impression that he had two tiny fish tanks suspended across his nose. I was half expecting to see a shark or manta ray flash across them, but it was the darkness of cool, meditative eyes which had my immediate attention.
“Mikey Leone,” he said, drawing idly on the newly lit cigar as he spun it between his moistened lips, allowing it to become another huge ejaculation of blue-gray ink that seemed to swell from an unseen power.
“You look thin,” he said calmly.
“Can I have one of those?” I asked, embarrassed by the loudness and tone of my own voice, like I was nine and yelling down a pipe in a park. Bernardi slowly produced a cigar, prepared it for me, and frowned with a strange satisfaction at my clumsy, but successful attempts to emulate his style. I meant no disrespect. I figured if my end was near then why the hell not, indeed.
Anything else I can try before this guy blows my brains out?
The windows hummed down an inch on either side for a moment, then back up again. Some sort of filter, like a reverse air conditioner was drawing most of the smoke away, out of the limo.
Cool toy.
Bernardi’s frown paused, growing longer. His dark eyes were becoming shadows under his brow which now formed into a black cloud amidst the whisping gray of cigar skies. He opened his mouth to speak, then fell silent. Sitting back, letting his eyes hold mine for a time, until I was compelled to break the silence. Just as he had wanted.
He’d obviously had enough, more than enough experience with cocaine and its effects on certain types of… personalities. He just had to sit back and patiently wait. Sifting through the barrage of nonsense I spouted, picking and choosing the parts he could figure were accurate, while discarding the rest.
I’d drawn breath, about to start on another lap of babble creek, when the hand came up. Something about crime boss hands, I realized. It didn’t matter whose family it was, when the hand went up, you invariably fell silent.
“Shut up, Mikey,” Bernardi said, matter of factly.
I indulged him with my silence. Then, taking a long breath in through his mouth, then breathing a sigh out through his nose, he began to speak.
“Mikey Leone. I know that you have had relations with my daughter. I have also learned that you have sold her a quantity of pure cocaine, a small amount from a shipping container full that you have somewhere.”
I felt my mouth move into the shape of an O, but the hand was up again, guaranteeing my full attention.
“Now, Mikey. One other person, apart from ourselves and my daughter, knows this. I was given this information at a price, a price I fear I cannot recoup, regardless of how useful it may or may not be to me at this moment.”
His eyes had left mine, staring out past me, behind me into the blackness of the limo’s leather seats. I felt compelled to turn and see what was there; such was the conviction of his attention.
“I don’t want to know about you and my daughter. As far as I’m concerned, that is a lie. It never happened. Am I clear?”
I saw the whole scene bobbing and tilting in time with my nodding head. My eyes felt like they were plugged into sockets that were powered by a cosmos of their own. I was so high, I had to keep reminding myself who I was speaking with, and what was happening. I absently reached for the baggie, but somehow decided against it.
“Furthermore, I will offer you double the market price for the quantity of cocaine you have in your possession, wherever it may be. I will pay you in cash or escrow into an offshore account of your choosing. And it’s your decision how you will receive payment.”
As I was hearing this, a golden light seemed to be coming from him. Like the voice of God himself delivering me a message, a clear sign that I was indeed chosen and that I would have no problems if I simply agreed to everything and kept my mouth shut.
“There are, of course, conditions to my-most-generous offer, Mikey. I am not above shooting you in the eye, right this minute, but I won’t. I can’t. I need you to follow through on two conditions before we can agree to a deal.” It was my turn to talk with my actions instead of words, tilting my head and raising a cocked brow, like a lottery winner about to grip that giant-sized check, hoping they’d actually pay it instead of just a photo opportunity.
“Go on,” I said, in a perfect, deep, resinous, gangster tone. I was thrilled I had finally nailed it. Thank you, cocaine, thank you! A pity nobody was there to hear it. My father might have even looked me in the eye after hearing a speech like that.
Bernardi leaned in slightly, restraining his body; his hands. I could feel his urge to strangle me himself. It was a compulsion of his own that he was battling with. As he leaned in, the light shone across his features. His large nose was framed by a clenched jaw and a pulsing vain in his temple which drummed out a code that spelled my death in his mind. I couldn’t just feel it, I could see it.
“One. You will never see my daughter again. Apart from seeing to that myself, I will have your word that you will make no attempt to contact her again. Ever.” I hadn’t flinched. Maybe he thought I would, he reclined again, deliberating my lack of reaction before his second set of terms.
“And the second?” I was so good at this now, I could do ads, movies maybe. I’d just need enough cocaine.
“Two is, obviously; we never had this conversation. You went out on your own, got drunk, woke up in a parking garage, then somehow managed to find your way to the waterfront.”
He shrugged slightly, like it was a no-brainer. It was pretty straight forward, even I knew better than to try and dissect anything he had just said. It was a golden offer. The alternative was obvious. I knew and I could tell that Bernardi was willing to risk everything; all-out war by killing me, just to keep the knowledge about what had happened between Natalia and me out of circulation.
He could see I was mulling it over, but I was considering some other factors apart from the obvious ones he’d laid out.
“But how am I…”
“You’re going to drink this,” he said, producing a bourbon bottle and pushing it into my hands, knocking a lump of cigar ash onto the perfect carpeting of the limo. He sighed impatiently. “This is how you’ll be drunk, by drinking this. You’ll reek of alcohol. You’ll get in trouble with your family, maybe lose your job, your house. So fucking what. I’m offering you enough money to fuck off and be anything you want, as long as it’s not a Leone in the same state as my daughter. Got it?”
I was nodding; I took the bottle and took a swig. It was choice stuff, not the twenty dollar stuff most people still accepted as quality merchandise. Bernardi looked at his watch, giving a subtle hurry up if ever I’d seen one.
As I got to work on downing the bottle, it also occurred to me that, even if he hadn’t poisoned it, it might well kill me anyway. I drank, sure. But a whole bottle in a few minutes?
Crazy coke, don’t fail me now!
“I assume we have a deal?” he asked, looking at his watch again. I bobbed my head between gulps. “Good. I’ll be in touch to finalize the arrangements. The conditions apply as of this moment. Get the fuck out of my car.”
Eleven
Natalia
“Help you, miss?” He was an older man, but certainly no weakling. Definitely a Leone goon.
“Uh, yes! I’m Trixie. Mr. Leone’s office asked me to come by to do some… uh… laundry! I’m here for Mr. Leone’s laundry.” He wasn’t buying it. He was okay with me knowing the name, but the laundry story, it just didn’t wash.
I’d folded. I had to see Mikey again. I was at my wits end, pacing that old building I lived in, calling what I did a life. I knew if I could just speak with Mikey, I could straighten things out between us. It suddenly occurred to me though, how stupid my plan was. One of his cards had slipped out of his clothes at my penthouse. I’d called the office with a seemingly more credible story about dropping off something I couldn’t talk about on the phone. They nervously, but eagerly supplied me with his address.
I was relieved to find only one guard, an older one at that. I had counted on my good looks alone getting me in the door, but this guy was pissed off about something and in no mood to play with little girls. Then it occurred to me that he might recognize me. A long shot, but after what had happened between Mikey and me, I was paranoid. I sensed my father somehow knew, but I couldn’t help myself. I just had to see him.
I considered the 9mm in my bag. Too far. He’d have me with three in the chest before I even got it out.
Fuck. Why did I go with the laundry story? Why?
Grumblestiltskin looked me up and down, his mood softened, but only a little. “Look, kid, I don’t know what you want with him in there, but it’s a no-go zone. He’s out to it. Bombed. Unconscious.” He was making bottle downing motions with his hands. A poor mime, I got the idea quickly. Mikey had gotten drunk and this guy was supposed to make sure he hadn’t.
A part of me was surprised this guy was still breathing. A Bernardi screw up like that cost you a finger or an arm, at least. I decided to pull out all the stops. My own anxiety was reaching a new high. I simply had to see Mikey, no matter what. Both our lives probably depended on it. If they didn’t right then, they most likely would have soon. I used the oldest trick I could think of, it always worked with employees. Money.
I reached for my bag; he absently pulled aside his jacket, revealing the .45 in his shoulder holster. I held up a little paw in passive protest, letting him know it was alright. I produced a bundle of cash from the bottom of my bag. About three or four thousand dollars. I figured that would be what this guy earned in a month.
“Sir,” I said calmly. “I’m not here for laundry, you’re right. “It’s just… well, I’ll be honest.”
Grumpy had a new look in his eye; a green, Ben Franklin kind of glaze had come over him. He couldn’t take his eyes off the notes as I pressed them between my manicured hands, which by the way, cost more than the little bit of cash I had on offer.
“I just need to speak with Michael for a few minutes. I promise I won’t be long. You can even frisk me if you want…” I had my best puppy dog eyes out. The brown contacts I’d chosen were perfect. I could’ve had three heads for all this guy cared; I pegged him for a gambler, simply by the way he looked at the notes. He licked his lips slightly, trying badly to stop his hands from reaching out for the money.
I moved in a little closer, touching his hands with the roll of bills. I figured using Mikey’s full name might make it sound as serious as it really was.
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” His brow creased, he was battling with it. He even turned his back. I could hear him having a silent conversation with himself. I was just about to give up waiting, when he spun around.
“You got ten minutes, lady.” One of his hands was out, palm up. It closed like a mousetrap when the money was on it. He opened the front door with the other hand, ushering me in with a fan of green notes.
At least somebody’s happy.
Once inside, I quickly darted from room to room, looking for Mikey. My heart was racing, and not with the degree of passion from before. But this was a life or death urgency. We had to figure out what to do, and we had to make our plans to…
Then I saw him. Or rather, I smelled, then heard, and then saw him.
Guard was right. This guy was comatose from alcohol. What did he do, scull the whole damn bottle? Jesus, it was disgusting. He was flat on his back on the living room floor, blowing alcoholic bubbles as he snored, and then he farted loudly.
Note to self: Maybe no sleepovers. Especially if there’s wine involved with dinner.
I felt a bubble burst. The magical experience of the night before had been replaced with what looked like a bad body double, and a terrible smell. I covered my mouth and went over to him, trying to feel something inside. I couldn’t, but then his eyes opened. They were little red slits, but that magic blue was still in there, piercing my heart with its rays. I felt the tears come as I slipped to my knees, cradling his head in my lap. My tears splashed onto his cheeks. And I know they didn’t really, but it felt like they were reviving him, or maybe they did. Who knows?
I blabbered something about how we had to get away; how I thought my father had somehow found out. I wanted him to be awake, to be lucid. I wanted the real Mikey back so we could formulate a plan. I wiped my own tears from his face, begging him to wake up so we could talk. He mumbled something about Columbia and could I get him another drink, but then he passed out again. His head feeling like a weighted melon in my hands.
I’m not sure how long I sat there sobbing, but it was at least ten minutes, obviously. “Time’s up, lady. Whoever or whatever you are, I never saw you and I’d appreciate it if I never saw you again. Your little visit could cost me more than a handful of cash.”
Looked like my time was up. I collected myself as best I could, turning to have a last look at Mikey before I left. I felt a coldness come over me, like a shadow passing over my heart. If I’d wanted closure, that was it. I couldn’t see him, even if I wanted to, not anymore. And if he had that much of a substance problem, who needed him anyway? Geez! I could do ten times better just by staying on my own. That’s what I told myself anyway, as I clip-clopped in my heels back to the car I’d parked on the block behind the house Mikey was staying in.
The drive back to the Bernardi homestead was a blur. I had resolved to go early, to visit my Aunt Pippa. The whole episode with Mikey had dredged up the true meaning of the visits to my Aunt. There was another man in my life. He was eight years old and called Felix. He’s my son. Even my father doesn’t know I had him. Like me, he’s a secret. Kept from the clutches of the Bernardi Empire by the grace of a good woman. One who was kind enough to offer to take him in. They want for nothing, and I have enough play money to finance everything, but it kills me ev
ery time I see Felix. Not because I don’t love him, but because I have to leave him to come home. To pretend to be a Bernardi a little longer.
I thought Mikey was different, but as I thought back, it was the same with Shane, Felix’s father. I’d been a lot younger, more naïve, but it would never have worked. Aside from the fact that he turned out to be 99% asshole, I couldn’t tell my father I was dating a diesel mechanic who liked to bone his daughter from behind while we both watched truck racing. Okay, now I looked back on it, maybe it was a little different with Mikey. But it would still never work.
Shane and I had met, like Mikey and I did, at a club. There were no minders and this was well before I used to play with men, like cat toys with half a mouse.
Shane was nothing like Mikey, but he was tall and strong. Dark and handsome. The fairytale man, who spent more time looking at his boots than my face, until my clothes came off. Then he was something else. I was so young, I thought that’s what love was, all the physical stuff. I told myself I loved him because the sex was good. It was great sex, but again, looking back, it was amateur hour compared to what Mikey was capable of. Or should I say, amateur five minutes --at best.
I’d managed to keep Shane a secret, setting him up in his own place. He wanted to keep working, but I paid for some college so he could get a diploma in his line of work, something to do with being a log book mechanic. I had the stupid idea that if I got pregnant, we could settle down and be a family. Well, that day came; the pregnant part, not the happy ever after… that never came.
Felix came and Shane went. That’s pretty much how it happened. He managed to take about a hundred thousand dollars from the account I had set up for us both, right before I was able to stop that bleed. And basically, he just left. The garage he worked at knew nothing, saying the same as me; he just left.
The day before I got a new cell phone, Shane had called me at three am from Vegas. He had spent all the money and wanted to know if I’d take him back. After screaming myself hoarse and trying to flush a phone down the toilet, I vowed never to be used by a man like that again, not ever.
