I propose, my first mandate as President, every girl born will learn this song and sing it to the top of her lungs. Matter of fact it should become my family's theme song.
As I laugh hysterically at my wit. Flashing lights catch my attention. One quick look into my review mirror turns my smile upside down because there is nothing like the flicker of red and blue in one's rearview mirror to kill a cheerful moment. And for just an instant, I envision putting the pedal to the medal, Dukes' leaving Sheriff Rosco Purvis Coltrane in a crowd of smoke style. Yet the moment passes, and I decrease my speed, pull over, and grab my pocket lighter. Knowing my family would have an apocalyptic fit over an unnecessary high-speed police car chase.
"License and registration ma'am," I follow his request and 'Love is a Battlefield' plays,
We are young…
No one could tell us we are wrong.
No one but this blue copper, Pat.
"Could you please turn the volume down on your system?"
Thanks, Pat Benatar, where does your hooker flash mob go when you need them.
"Sorry officer." Click, snap, click, snap.
As his eyes search my car he says, "Smoking is a nasty habit, young lady."
"I don't smoke." He frowns.
"Do you realize how fast you were going?" He takes a decent look at me and then a longer gaze at Boss.
Click, snap, click, snap.
He admires my car. He likes us both. I try to conjure my best sexy, breathy voice.
"Umm sheesh, no officer, I just purchased her. I thought I would open her up to see what she could do on an open vacant road." I giggle for effect. In my mind I sound like Marlin Monroe, reality might be closer to a 50-yard dash sprinter. I smile wide and batt my eyes just in case the giggle and the throaty rasp is not enough. I imagine him saying, 'well pretty young lady, you slow your speed a little and be careful out here all alone.'
However, what he says is,
"How awesome … if this was the Indie 500, but this here is my stretch of highway, and it's governed by rules called a speed limit. Do you know what that speed limit is ma'am?"
Demoted back to ma'am? Why is he unaffected by my feminine wiles? Did I come on too strong? I could have sworn he liked what he saw. Suddenly, my intellect light bulb goes off, oh right, he's gay,
Maybe, that was the vanity light bulb going off.
"75?" I guess lie.
"No 70 mph, I clocked you at 96 mph. damn near missed seeing you. You are a danger to my road."
My road?
Man! Possessive much. My highway, my road, the guy obviously, has a hard-on for his stretch of highway. So, I try a different approach, flattery.
"Well, she sure is a nice smooth pretty road. Did she just get a pave over? You know Michigan weather can be vicious on our roads." He winces recalling past pothole damages and nods. His face softens slightly.
"How is your driving record?"
"Clean, until now I guess."
"You sit tight; this will only take a minute." They always say a minute but take forever. Click, snap, click, snap.
"Okay, thanks for your service." I nervously spout out. I watch his police swagger in my passenger side rear mirror as he walks to his cruiser. Ass? Not bad.
Why am I stressing over a speeding ticket? When I know how to make it disappear. Because sometimes I'm like a dog who lost his bone, digging I border on obsession. I don't take losing well.
My stint with a bunch of cutthroat lawyers did me no favors with my little problem, I tell ya. The nervous energy derives from, the anticipation of my new undertaking. One that may make Pinocchia', a real woman.
This copper pressing me with the weight of his authority is just another thing trying to bring me down, bind me. He does not understand,
My freedom is running on a timer
nor
My talents to slay his ass!
"Okay, you check out." He says handing me my documents. "I noticed your plate is registered as 'For Official Use Only'. I wrote your ticket for only five over the speed limit to keep you from getting to any trouble with the Department. Just pay the ticket on time and respect the speed limit." As if he has done me a huge favor.
What does he want, a 'thanks officer’?
No, I don't think so.
And why am I so upset? Could it be his feigned immunity to my feminine charms, or losing anything period?
Maybe both. Fucking copper!
Click, snap, click, snap.
I drive off without a word. Best that way. I click number four, James Brown croons, This is a Man's World, while I make an overdue call.
"Alo"
"Alo, es Evee."
"You give my cherry away yet?"
"Long time ago."
He laughs, "So that's a no. I smell your innocence from here, girl." It sounds like gurull and I hate the fact his roll of rr's and ll's make me tingle.
I shake my head. Same old Jengo.
"Nah, you're not, innocent, but virgin all the same."
"Uh, I called for a reason."
"Of course, but one day you call for the other. When you not jailbait."
"Dude!"
"Yeah, I know. Hey, let me call you right back or you gonna hold."
"I'm driving, got you over Bluetooth, I'll hold."
"Alrite', might be a minute though," and he clicks over.
Jengo thinks he knows everything. He does know too much.
CHAPTER 3
A-List of Crimes
Tomas
I wonder is this a fucking mistake, turning myself over to them— greedy pen pushers who create laws to line their own pockets, slimy politicians hard on crime posture to gain votes. and the lying government willing to fake mass terrorism to reach one elusive criminal not playing by their rules. The feigning media searching for a fix. My actions of late will add quite nicely to the Garko headlines section. According to them, we are the most dangerous Italian Mob in America.
"The news says yous' a Big New Yoke' Citee' murderin' bastard."
"Yep, gotta lotta money, I hear too."
"So, what gives, you deaf boy. Tell us the truth."
"Mr. Garzo, a court of your peers has found you guilty on several counts…. Before your sentencing, do you have any comments…."
"Your Honor, Yes. As a matter of fact, I do."
"Dear God, no!"
"Fucking unbelievable."
Those were the sentiments of my only two supporters present in the courtroom, my lawyer, and an undercover federal agent.
Yes, gnaw on that but stay with me this shit gets deep.
A couple of months ago, certain events were set in motion, note, that I did not stop, as in allowed to continue, which brought me to this very point— an indictment and subsequent incarceration. Did I suddenly break the wrong law and catch a case?
No.
Shit, the multitude of my indiscretions is like fish filling the ocean.
Hmm, what might be in that water? Let's take a dive.
Kidnapping… likely— if I was keeping count, one or two, maybe six of those.
Coercion… possibly— a marriage or two but given more time she— well maybe not.
Stalking… clearly— a misrepresentation, however, never noted for its intrinsic skill of commitment and dedication.
Assault, murder… unavoidable — a necessity, both to keep me and those I love, alive.
Understand this, a Mafia Boss commits many unacceptable actions, contrary to mainstream morality and therefore understanding. A direct quote from my fratello, Donatello after a couple of semesters of college turned him into Socrates, for a year.
So, what happened? None of these.
A sloppy crook— never … guilty— undoubtedly and negotiable.
So, why now?
Necessity. My quest is twofold, one part has always been clear, honor La Familia, the other not so and my burden— the City and fixing shit I may have helped cause.
Which is why the Enigmatic S. Cotton was correct in
his assumptions. My return was inevitable. It pains my ass to think someone other than myself seems two steps ahead of my journey.
And who the fuck is S. Cotton, anyway?
Shit, if I know. A government spy playing the long game to infiltrate my family's organization. An eccentric rich deviant carefully molding me to be his boy toy. Nearly, two decades have rolled by without an ask from him. Which has tamed my cynical heart on his behalf. And any interest in a predatory nature never came up, so, I guess my tight ass is safe.
I find, his mentoring—indispensable and concern—meddling— at its center, the citizens of New York welfare and, my comeuppance is the key.
In that order, though I detect he leaves a lot unsaid.
All I have suffered from our acquaintance is pride. Why in the hell, with all my connections, still he escapes exposure.
How in the fuck could he read me up to date info, on a six-month-old deal, I made with the DEA, CIA, and the governor? His connections are as far-reaching and his dossier on my life reports as if he is streaming it live.
And he knows intimately the Beast, I carry inside.
Tomas
Said Beast in none too happy, he cannot create havoc and spread his terror with the many who want to play.
New wardrobe fitted, I enter the jungle while trying to console Beast, "Soon… not just yet." He does not like to wait.
Head on swivel, and eyes wide open I always say. This subdivided space, compact with stacked cells, side by side, and on top and below, the hierarchy grading men by levels of menace. My quick assessment of each establishes rank, mine.
I realize this far South, my fellow inmates are likely not aware of who I am, although, smart criminals keep an ear to the street in every major city. My popularity in the news has escalated, bringing much-needed exposure for my plans. A few inmates nod in allegiance as I walk by their cells and others offer me a death signal.
Everyone will pledge to me soon.
Escorted by a second set of prison guards, "Dumb" and "Dumber." my chains noisily clink as I walk the corridor passing cells. They just won’t stop talking to me.
"Yur' one big Italian," Dumb says. His head inclined I can still see his balding will come sooner than later.
Beast asks, "Is it time, shits starting already."
"I've seen bigga' walk da' mile," Dumber says. "You know wha' that is, boy?" It sounds like a short sounding 'boa'
I say nothing. Truth is, I know what they refer to— the experience any man would rather cut his throat to avoid happening. An inmate walks the length of the cells forced to back his bare ass cheeks up against the cell bars and submit to each inmate wanting. I keep my head forward, unconcerned by the guard's comments as ankle chains and wrist cuffs prevent retribution…
Suddenly
My pulse races.
Heat builds inside my body. Beast shakes his cage; his mood twitchy keyed up. The needs to shut down any contenders, using as much brutality as possible, protecting, in this order,
My ass,
My life,
And the only piece of sanity I have not lost,
My faith.
Why has he entered survival mode?
I turn my body stopping the guards.
Dark skin set against blazing clear eyes gazes through iron bars. Meeting mine straight on daring to hold my attention.
Contender?
He holds his glare with the constitution of a gladiator.
Apparently.
This is someone I need to talk with before I leave this place. The guards nudge at me to move on. We pass many prison beds filled with young men barely old enough to shave. Shit, I never want to think on, course through my mind as I watch young hardened eyes posture as tough men. Most are aged out juveniles. Their short but tragic lives spent more in than out of the system, initially because they are targeted, and subsequently, because the very same bias exposes the unfairness, the raw deal set upon their necks. Of course, they have a disdain for mainstream rules. Even more, sit in a cell because they lack the means to good legal counsel.
Each birthday they fall further and move closer to a predestined fate… life incarcerated.
A fate, the immoral plan, and seal with the swipe of the pen. The United States calls it the justice system and profit billions.
As I said, I never think about that fucked up shit— I knew my Nonno's lawyers name and number before I was eight years old— I should.
Now watching from my very own set of iron bars, down one level, and across I spot, the lost, an addict, a man better served if placed in a treatment facility. He catches my gaze by accident and quickly looks for a spot on the floor or an insect on the wall.
Leaving my cell, to the chow hall three pretenders, gangster wannabes try to hold my gaze but fail, two quickly look away. One turns around entirely and separates himself from this pack, smart choice, survival instincts are important in a place such as this.
Do not be fooled by my social justice monologue, there are true monsters here; Beast could gain a camaraderie of sorts if animals at the top did not instinctively need to kill one another just because.
Bloodletting on the weak satisfies dark beings. Their embalmed membranes pump strife through their black hearts, instead of blood. The bloodless suffer, believing there is no redemption. Men who house an animal, however, different from me, their beast is their master. Either way, we are all insidious men, who make life outside, safer locked inside a cell.
At dinner, Tank, part of my new crew makes room for me at a table. "Seems strange to say good to see you, Boss," Sylver, another member, nods my way. Both Tank and Sylver are Italian, and mixed blood, like me. Overlooked low-level soldiers until they flagged my radar. "You got sleeved, Boss?"
"Yeah, I can sit and get lost in the coloring to this day. Talented girl in Bolivia."
"A chick."
"Yeah, said it help my street cred along my journey. She didn't know who I was." They nodded. That's all I got from Sylver ninety percent of the time.
"Boys this here is but a means to an end. You have held out well. Your loyalty has not gone unnoticed, soon… real soon." I nod.
"Coming in at nine o'clock, Boss," Sylvester warns.
"Noted, just as I figured, you boys, no interference I got this. I'm a put an end to his fame." I grin and slowly they grin and nod looking at each other. I get it. This is my first move in prison. They wonder can I live up to the hype.
The possible contender, let's call him, Dead Man Walking, DMV for short moves closer, I wonder briefly, what drives him? He has seen my crew, knows my connections, yet he challenges. My answer comes when he is closer, and his eyes meet mine.
Like recognizes like.
He has made the only decision an animal can when another crosses over into his territory threatening his dominance.
Defend and Destroy.
He passes me by, deciding not to engage, his intention only to intimidate until he catches me unawares.
His game is old.
Acting as if I am not paying attention, I catch sight of DMV's five or six friends, all heavily tatted with swastikas, as they move to form a wide barricade, at each door, either to keep me in or keep the extra guards out. I look around at the filthy floor I'm likely to meet while I'm hurting their leader and wince. Beast grunts, he loves the grime, where he lives.
Time to go home.
DMW is an obvious lifer, prison pecks stiffen his neck so, moving his bald tatted head, turns his entire upper body right to left. This fucker is, so high on something he won’t feel the ass beatin' I'm about to provide… until he wakes in a hospital, his injuries to severe for the prison infirmary. I wait until he returns his meal tray, belly full I catch him slipping and move behind him striking him in his nonexistent neck with my meal tray. He turns and swings, misses, and I punch him in the throat and stomach simultaneously. He vomits his meal plus the extra portion he stole from his chosen bitch.
He Drops
"Thought you were a killa" I don
't expect a response.
Stomp! in his stomach. I try to reach the floor through him with my fashion-less prison-issued boots.
"All I know is pain, motherfucker. Now you'll join me." His screams activate his men.
Foot to the head...Splat! The sight of his blood pleases Beast, who I did not invite to this party.
"Now you wish you never saw me, huh." His boys are here, quickly.
"Don't fuckin' move if you want him to live," I growl.
They freeze, but there is always one. He moves to interfere. I rise to punch him in the nose, breaking it, causing the bloodiest display possible. This causes everyone else to remain stationary.
DMV is still heaving on the ground, as I threatened; I kneel, pull his body over my knee, and crack his torso, bringing both elbows down full strength. I howl for effect like a wolf. Half of these, evil, backwoods motherfuckers are superstitious enough to believe the hype. Rumors of my inhuman supernatural descent can only help my situation. I have not broken his spine. Human brute force is not as powerful from a kneeling position as the movies portray. But no doubt, when he is sober, he will think so. The crackling of bone everyone heard was from his ribs, not his spine. He will not die, not by hands at least.
The various expressions on the faces of hardcore criminals all communicate I've made my point. While the guards finally force their way through the crowd.
Restrained with zip ties they usher me through the bewildered masses, some trying to a get closer look, no doubt, searching to see if my eyes are glowing. It's another lie, eyes glowing when I kill. Fools and their television altered brains. On my way to solitary confinement, my crew starts the chant, my mantra,
Di Gravità, gravity,
Un Vento, wind,
Del Male, evil,
El Forze, Force, the name of my Beast.
Gravity, Wind, Evil. Force.
Beast is proud.
CHAPTER 4
Breathe
Evee
All the world needed from Evee is to fix, shit.
My first memory, a lady in a white coat who gives me a lollipop because I play well with the red, blue, and orange cards and recognize the shapes. My mama waits until she leaves and snatches my sweet stick away,
For Blood and Beast: Tomas, For Blood (Garko Book 1) Page 2
