Wasteland

by Keith Crews

(1)

  The entire experience had only taken a second, as if Angelo’s spirit had just performed a quick paranormal bungee jump. Time, like that ethereal bungee cord had somehow stretched perception and warped space, exaggerating the incident by a supernatural factor of approximately ten billion. With great effort, Angelo launched off the barstool and onto his feet. The heels within his rattlesnake skin boots felt rickety, but able enough to stand. Meanwhile, his frozen hands touched the smooth slick handles of Thunder and Lightning, prepared to draw steel and blow deadly smoke up the bartender’s ass at the slightest provocation, when he suddenly paused.

  There appeared to be no immediate danger. The fireplace continued to blast out scorching heat, while the lanterns and candles continued to throw their eerie yellowish light from wall to wall. As for the huge decorative mirror, it clung stubbornly to its bony frame, seemingly quite docile in nature, or merely content for the time being. Still, Angelo appraised the room and the bartender with shrewd eyes that showed they were more than just a little bit pissed off, they were furious.

  “You son of a bitch!” Marchetti snapped. “You could’ve at least warned me!”

  The bartender grinned, picked up Angelo’s shot glass, spat in it and then proceeded to wipe it out with a dish rag. “Ask your first question death merchant, and then let’s have at red.”

  Question?

  Of course, the hitman had a question to ask, the first of three. The question however, was what question to ask? Slowly, Angelo wandered back over to the bar where he reclaimed his barstool and fixed the glorified suds monkey with a gaze that had no qualms about expressing how much it would like to pop the bartender square in the nose.

  The bartender was not intimidated, in fact he seemed relaxed to the point where he was almost bored. What was the source of that smugness? That was a good question to ask, but unfortunately not very helpful in this situation.

  Angelo analyzed the situation like a job that had unexpectedly gone bad, which wasn’t far from the truth. What were the priorities? Foremost as always was survival, secondary in this case would be direction, thirdly would count on the first two. Three lousy questions, not enough information could possibly stem from three stinking questions. What’s the meaning of life? Is there a God? What happened to Jimmy Hoffa? Big answers for big questions, but on a smaller scale you had to nitpick the details in order to construct a plan, because if you didn’t get the specifics correct, then you could end up, well, almost anywhere. Dead inside a dumpster, tits up in a snow bank, lost somewhere over the rainbow, take your pick.

  Angelo eyed the next drink, red, contemplating his next move like a champion chess player.

  What question would he ask?

  (2)

  What had become of Bianca Gambaro came to the forefront of the hitman’s thoughts: had she survived her father’s wrath? But such knowledge was irrelevant to Boondocks and this situation in particular. The hitman needed to remain focused on the task at hand if he were to survive. Angelo recalled the bartender’s dictation of the house rules: complete the three tasks and safe passage from Boondocks would be granted.

  Safe Passage to where?

  Although the barkeep had not specified that the three questions were intimately connected to that state of liberty known as safe passage, Angelo nonetheless believed their presence within the drinking game to be of paramount significance. They were insane rules concocted by an enigmatic spiritual bureaucracy, perhaps by the very cosmological entities that decided that daylight should burn vampires and silver bullets should kill werewolves.

  There was no logical sense to be had here, and if Angelo tried to discover it, then he’d be on a quest to piss in the corner of a round room. What he needed was the safe passage guarantee, and the best way to assure that release was to successfully maneuver three measly questions.

  Outside the wind moaned like a mindless zombie, shook the door with phantom fists and cursed the hitman for having escaped its cold embrace. Marchetti ignored the haunted wail, reached over and placed the scarlet shot glass between his thumb and forefinger, examining its ghostly radiance with lackluster enthusiasm.

  What would red taste like? And after he drank it, where would he go flying next?

  He had no desire to find out.

  What do I ask? What’s your favorite color…number…song…flavor ice cream…sexual position? Who cuts your freaking hair? Where can a guy have a squat, shave, and a shower? Oh, and why the hell am I drinking this swill?

  And then it dawned on him.

  There was only one question to ask, one so simple it had eluded him. He guessed the old saying was true, sometimes the best place to hide something was out in the open.

  “Can I go back?” Angelo said as he nodded at the mirror, implying that the looking glass were perhaps a time tunnel or dimensional portal, a doorway between worlds that could possibly allow a man to pass through and live again.

  If that were so, then where and when would it send him? Into the distant past or a second before he got a hole blown through the middle of his chest on that humid casino rooftop?

  Angelo awaited the reply.

  The bartender glanced back at the mirror and nodded in understanding. “Second chance huh? Figure you’ve got some fences to mend back on good ole terra firma. That it Angelo?”

  “You gonna answer my question with a question barkeep, or are you gonna give me my due?”

  Angelo had posed the question with more than its share of attitude. He was still steamed about the brown incident, and not likely to forget the experience anytime soon.

  The bartender crooked a grin and nodded an agreement. “So be it death merchant…you’ve paid your fare.”

  “Taste of one and a question shall be granted an answer,” Angelo recited.

  “So say the house rules,” the bartender concurred. “And as such, I shall answer your question. The answer is…yes…a man may go back and live of flesh and bone again, for the boundary between the planes of existence is…” At this the barkeep smiled with a dangerous cunning. “Flexible.”

  Flexible---what the hell did that mean? Already Angelo had another question. Damn, this was going to be just as the hitman feared: the barkeep’s answers would only beget more questions. With only three questions the outcome would look circular, a riddle with no definitive answers. Suddenly, Boondocks and The Last Chance Saloon felt like monuments to metaphors, the kind of vague interpretation that always courted abstract art or a T.S. Eliot poem.

  Still, what were Angelo’s options?

  Slowly, his eyes fell upon red with more than a share of hesitation. Brown had tasted like mud from a dirt floor whorehouse and had made him puke so hard that it felt as though a part of his soul had shot out into the darkness just behind his butthole. He had no desire to taste that scarlet red upon his reluctant tongue, but he needed another answer, and the only way to get it would be to bear red’s bitter sting.

  Unfortunately, the only thing Angelo could count on was that the shot glass held an evil certainty that he would soon drink, and then as before, reality would drift like smoke upon an unpredictable wind, and where it took him then, only red would know.

  (3)

  In one quick toss, Angelo swallowed scarlet red. It rolled over the tongue like molten lava, an acidic cocktail seasoned on hints of copper and sulfuric brimstone. It was hot, syrupy, a mixture of fire ants covered in a slick coat of Tiger Balm. The unearthly heat plunged down the esophagus and splashed into Angelo’s guts until it tied his intestines up into tightly wound knots of barbwire. Every muscle tightened, convulsed, twisted beneath a slick layer of sweat that had suddenly broken out over his entire body. His fingers worked the shot glass clumsily until it cracked down the center and dropped onto the bar counter in two jagged pieces. Blood poured from the hitman’s cut fingers, but the wounds hadn’t registered with Angelo’s nervous system at all. He was too busy cataloging the passage of fire engine red through his vital organs to notice someth
ing as inconsequential as a nasty boo-boo.

  The hitman leaned forward, elbows braced precariously upon the bar counter for support. If brown had been like graveyard soil, then surely red was like the Devil’s blood. Still, despite the agony inflicted by the poison, Angelo abstained a scream of pain. Instead, he focused on the mirror with stubborn determination, teeth jammed together in a steel bear trap, eyes fixated on the ethereal looking glass with a shade of deep seeded defiance.

  Last time, the mirror had sucked him in by surprise, but not this time. This time he would meet the damn thing head on, and when he did, he’d be ready for it. Despite the pain that burned his guts into parched ash, Angelo concentrated on the immediate surroundings. He told himself that if he could remain alert, that when their minds touched, then perhaps he might be able to glimpse into the mirror’s essence and salvage some useful information or a valuable secret mayhap.

  “Now you’re riding a bull from the Devil’s own herd,” the bartender said in a glum tone. “Two fingers of damnation brewed in a cauldron of dragon’s breath.” He nodded, casually saluted and then gave a cordial wink as if bidding an old friend so long. “Ride hard Marchetti and ride quick for death merchants spark the finest kindling on the forbidden trails of Boondocks.”

  Angelo didn’t much care for that wink. It looked too final, too sure of itself. The hitman thought to ask what kind of nonsense the old fool was rambling on about, but his tongue felt as though it had melted and slid into his stomach. There would be no arguing or sarcastic witticisms until after this leg of the journey had been completed.

  The fire that ran from the hitman’s tonsils down into his bowels felt like a strip of napalm and began to spread into his frozen limbs and brain, but still the fingers at the ends of his hands ached of cold. How could that be? It seemed to defy the laws of physics.

  Meanwhile, Thunder and Lightning kept their silence, as if they too had lost their voice to the scarlet brushfire. Whatever was happening to Angelo, he understood that scarlet red wanted him to just let go, to stop resisting the urge to fight and simply fall back through the looking glass to a time and space of the mirror’s choosing. The drink spoke to him on a subliminal level, whispered its commands into his subconscious mind like a skilled hypnotist. It promised the hitman that the pain would cease if he complied with its wishes. But Angelo continued to defy reason, bucked the bull, sucked up the pain and kept his thoughts firmly anchored inside his aching head.

  (4)

  The bartender studied Angelo with noticeable curiosity and mild astonishment. Never before had he seen a soul hold out against scarlet red for so long. If Angelo was truly riding the bull, then the hit man had just set an all time dimensional record. Still, the bartender reminded himself that battles such as these, although rare, had one thing in common: the inevitable. Soon the ground would give out from beneath the hitman, and when it did, the hitman’s essence would slip out of its body and dip into the magical mirror where untold knowledge would illuminate The Last Chance Saloon like a movie shown inside an old time nickelodeon theater.

  Nonetheless, the barkeep felt uneasy, concerned that maybe this soul might be different in some inexplicable way, that perhaps Sartomonius might actually do the unthinkable: yield an answer to final black.

  Impossible?

  But just when the bartender began to entertain the absurd, the defiant hitman began to slide into the mirror just as all those who had come before him had. This surrender came as a great relief to the bartender, but then it was not to be unexpected. After all, no one had ever defied scarlet red indefinitely, and no one, but no one throughout all of spiritual history had ever asked a question of final black.

  So said the sacred parchments, amen.

  (5)

  Slowly the entire bar dipped into a shade of scarlet red before Angelo’s watery eyes. At first it had been a stalemate, a place where neither push nor pull could claim victory of his mind. But that delicate balance had eventually shifted in favor of scarlet red. It felt as though Angelo’s snakeskin boots had suddenly slipped out from beneath him and as a result the hitman had been tossed into a slow motion freefall. His thoughts tumbled across the bar just as they had before, except this time the bar looked different. Now it resembled a pagan church built to a god that demanded blood rituals. The liquor bottles had transformed, coiled and hissed like basket vipers that had been charmed by a magic flute’s warbled tune. The mirror was a sea of shiny sails, thousands upon thousands of razor blades adrift on a tiny ocean of liquid silver. The bones inside the frame expanded and closed like rotted fingers, reaching out from beneath the heavy press of a tomb’s slab as if to grab the hitman and drag him into a realm of spiritual bondage.

  Thunder and Lightning itched for some target practice, but Angelo reminded them and himself that an answer was to be had within. So he let his essence willingly delve into that mesh of steely teeth, and as it did, he tried to snatch a glimpse into the mystical workings of the enchanted mirror. But as he did, he couldn’t help but notice that a strong odor had been stuffed into both of his nostrils.

  It was the scent of Old Spice and burnt tobacco leaves.

  (6)

  The wild carnival ride had deposited Angelo back inside the Donatello restaurant with remarkable precision. The young man with the waist length leather jacket and faded denim jeans had absolutely no recollection about falling through a demon mirror nor tasting the devil’s blood which a mangy old barkeep referred to as scarlet red. As far as the kid was concerned, not a single second had passed since he’d last stood inside Romulus’s back office. A gray shade of amnesia had befallen the kid’s mind, told him everything was just peachy, that there was no question mark to be found on the barroom mirror, just a short list of beverage prices, that was all. As for the weather, that too was as it should be. There was no concern that there should be thunder and lightning today, in fact he was quite certain that reality was exactly as it should be.

  The door to Romulus’s office was quietly shut behind Vincent and Angelo by one of the goons, all of which remained outside on guard.

  The office was large, decorated with luxurious furniture that had been skillfully upholstered with red Italian silk. Oak shelves accessorized an oak desk which was an organized clutter of official documents, a crystal pentagram ash tray, a 357 magnum, a laptop computer, and a nest of family photographs along with miniature military figurines such as the Esercito Italiano and the Marina Militare.

  As for the man behind the desk, he wasn’t anything like Angelo had expected.

  This man smiled warmly, looked hale despite his obesity and thin oily hair. His aging skin was oven roast brown, slick with a Mediterranean olive oil texture, a man who’d probably sweat in the dead of winter. Still, he looked clean, like an old barbershop cutter who reeked of pomade and shaving cream. When Romulus stood, he adjusted his belt as though there wasn’t enough fat to keep his brown polyester pants wrapped snugly around his wide hips. As he approached, the scent of Old Spice and tobacco pushed out before him like a pressure wave off the bow of a boat. Romulus must’ve bathed in the cologne, but then Angelo figured it was better than sniffing B.O.

  “Vincent,” Romulus said with wide open arms. “Welcome back my amico fidato.”

  Both men hugged and slapped each other firmly on the back. Despite Romulus’s impressive size, he was still nonetheless dwarfed by Vincent.

  “Grazie,” Vincent replied.

  When they separated, their attention immediately focused on Angelo. A few words were exchanged in Italian, most of which escaped Angelo’s ability to translate, but what he did gather from the brief conversation were the words, nephew, family, scrapper and hoodlum.

  “Ah Angelo,” Romulus said with a broad grin which displayed a gold incisor tooth. “Welcome to the Donatello.” He then hugged Angelo and swatted him on the back so hard that the kid almost belched. “You like it here…we put you to work, yes?”

  Romulus released the boy from the bear
hug embrace, but still held him tightly by the shoulders. For a moment, Angelo could imagine how easily it would be to offend a man such as this. He could tell Romulus was the type of individual folks described as being “big feeling.” This man took everything to heart, wanted everything his way, and if things didn’t go in that direction, then lord help those responsible. Yes, a man like this could turn on a postage stamp, shake your hand just before he ripped your throat out with little to no warning.

  Despite Romulus’s apparent cordial nature, Angelo could see this man for who he truly was: a predator. And as Angelo had learned from Uncle Vincent, the best way to please a predator was to hunt within its pack.

  Angelo smiled and then nodded. “Yes…of course…work here…absolutely sir…that’d be just great…thank you.”

  Romulus continued to stare into the boy’s eyes for an awkward length of time, appraising the kid in his own unique way, perhaps sizing him up for a coffin, who knew. Meanwhile, Vincent studied Romulus, trying to imagine what the big cheese thought about the Bear’s beloved nephew. It was almost as if the big greasy were purchasing a used car or a dress suit. Did Angelo get excellent mileage per gallon? Did he come in pin stripe gray? Whatever the big chief was thinking, Vincent nonetheless understood that if he wanted to stare, then you let the big guy stare.

  As for Angelo, he was a bit more presumptuous than Vincent. He was certain that he understood what was going through the top dog’s mind, and that mysterious something involved a slew of unmentionable issues. And just how the kid knew this involved a reading of the eyes.

  Angelo may’ve been young, but he was observant and seasoned with an edge of experience that went well beyond his years. Tragedy had a way of tempering a soul, hammering and folding it like a sword upon an anvil. In this case, Angelo’s keen edge had easily sliced through to the truth and exposed Romulus’s mind via his muddied brown, but telling eyes. Those eyes spoke of an unfortunate situation which had yielded terrible circumstances for a young boy a long time ago. They told their deep regret in regards to that sad state of affair. They acknowledged the injustice that had been dealt to the young man, confessed to it, but they nonetheless reserved the right of executive privilege when it came to dispensing with such matters. With Romulus the buck stopped here, and the code dictated the flow of things.

  Made men were not to be touched.

  And although Angelo may’ve understood the nature of that mafia doctrine, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

  “You’ll do well here, hey,” Romulus said with a light wink, his Sicilian accent thickening. He then gathered an arm around Angelo’s shoulders and sat the young man down in a plush leather chair before the oak desk. “You’re uncle is good people…he’s stand up guy…you be a stand up guy, too…I see…I know.”

  Angelo bowed his head respectfully and smiled. “Thank you sir, you honor me with your kind words.”

  Vincent sighed quietly, relieved to see that Romulus was taking to his nephew and that Angelo was being nothing but a complete little gentlemen.

  “Ah,” Romulus said with another wink as he retook a seat behind his cluttered desk. “Manners…is good you speak well, hey. You tell me what you likes, no.”

  Angelo smirked, thought to say pussy, but reminded himself to be professional in such fair company. “Cars sir…I like cars and money just fine.”

  Romulus laughed loudly, tapped the desk with the big gold rings upon his thick beefy fingers. “And when you have the cars and the money, the woman come easily.”

  “Va-voom,” Angelo said, surprised to hear his uncle’s catchphrase had worked itself into his vocabulary.

  “You get car…money come too if you work well,” Romulus assured as he eased from a laugh into a warm smile that really showed off his gold incisor. “Climb the…how you say?” This request was almost barked at Vincent.

  “The ladder,” Vincent replied with a polite nod.

  “Yes. You climb ladder,” Romulus nodded. “Make money, drive nice car, settle down with a good Italian girl, have babies, name them after me.” Again Romulus burst into laughter, amused by his own cleverness.

  Both Marchettis reciprocated the man’s humor with sincere enough chuckles.

  Truth told one never got too comfortable in the presence of Romulus. Sometimes the man had a nasty tendency to go cannibal for no obvious reason, and so it was always best to keep the man happy and remain on his good side if at all possible.

  “Loyalty first and foremost,” Romulus said more as instruction than warning. “Respect the Family…uphold the Gambaro name and all your dreams will come true.”

  Kill Deluca whistled through Angelo’s mind like a cold Arctic wind, but the boy showed no expression of murder upon his face, instead he displayed the mild amusement of a young man who had just been charmed by a gracious host.

  “Yes sir,” Angelo nodded. “I would never do anything to dishonor Gambaro.” Glancing back over his shoulder briefly, Angelo gave Vincent a quick confident wink. “My uncle has taught me well over the years sir. Gambaro’s values and mine are one and the same.”

  “Excellent,” Romulus grinned as he rubbed his thick hands together. “An apple fresh off the Marchetti tree.” Romulus then sat forward, his hands loosely laced together, his face growing ever so lightly somber. “It is a good name…the Marchetti. Good history…vintage name…old name…trusted name…Gambaro love Marchetti like own blood. You bleed, Gambaro bleed, you hurt, Gambaro hurt.” He then offered up a wicked little grin, one that said don’t mess with the bull. “But no worry…no one mess Gambaro, hey…no one mess Marchetti, too…capisce?”

  Angelo nodded with the understanding that Romulus had just extended Gambaro’s protection around Angelo. It was a strange feeling, like being sheltered inside the jaws of a hungry shark.

  “Capisce sir,” Angelo replied.

  “Gambaro most powerful family in entire world,” Romulus boasted with visible pride. “Cross sea more than century ago…built from nothing…now international organization. Gambaro…how you say?”

  Romulus looked to Vincent for an answer, but the reply came from Angelo.

  “Bigger than Jesus.”

  Romulus looked at the boy, furrowed his heavy set brow and then broke into a fit of boisterous laughter. “Yes…yes…bigger than the Jesus!”

  Again, Angelo and Vincent sang in chorus with Romulus’s merriment lest they offend him in same inane manner.

  “Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock you come Donatello…meet Two Tone Marty…he put you work,” Romulus instructed.

  Of course Angelo had school tomorrow, but he had plans of dropping out anyway, this job offer just confirmed it.

  “Yes sir,” Angelo nodded. “Thank you. Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll be here.”

  Romulus stood, extended his hand across the desk to Angelo in a warm handshake. Angelo stood, reached over and took hold of Romulus’s meaty hand, and that’s when the kid messed up royally.

  (7)

  The moment had been perfect, the wrapping up of a short impromptu business meeting which had seen Angelo welcomed into an organization of long standing tradition. The deal was done, Angelo had Romulus’s flesh pressed firmly within his own. Tomorrow morning Angelo would return to the Donatello and report to a guy named Two Toned Marty for workplace orientation.

  How could anything possibly go wrong?

  But it had.

  And all because of a casual glance.

  Except the glance had been anything but causal, it had been blatantly telling. Angelo’s steel gray eyes had caught sight of a picture upon Romulus’s desk, and then those eyes locked into place for all of about three seconds. It had been here that a pressure had begun to wander up through Angelo’s wrist as Romulus’s big mitt of a hand began to press down onto Angelo’s with surmounting weight. That sensation had snapped Angelo out of his brief trance with incredible efficiency.

  Romulus’s eyes locked onto the young man with severe consequences in mind, preparing to go
cannibal, when Romulus suddenly eased up his grip and much to his own surprise began to grin.

  Romulus had no doubt how rough around the edges this Angelo kid was. Hell, the boy was Vincent Marchetti’s nephew, that fact alone said the kid was no damn saint. But here this nasty little street punk hoodlum had done the most endearing thing, and as a result, Romulus had been immediately disarmed. It was such a simple act, but enough to save the kid’s ass from being dragged out into the Donatello’s back alley and beaten like a mangy dog.

  And what pray-tell had that gesture been exactly?

  Angelo Marchetti had blushed.

  It had been such an innocent thing, a young man who had been immediately smitten on sight with a picture of Romulus’s only daughter. Now the street smart kid wore puppy dog eyes, the stern lines in his ready face had gone limp. No, the boy had not looked at his daughter with lust, but with genuine virtue, and as such had been helpless to thwart off her infectious appeal.

  “My daughter…Bianca,” Romulus whispered with a smile that was not without an element of danger.

  Angelo nodded, turned an even deeper shade of red and then actually stammered. “Oh, she’s, I, nice yes.”

  And despite himself, that steadfast determination that Angelo prided himself on, his eyes nonetheless betrayed him once more as they stole yet another look without thinking. It was only after a few seconds that he even realized that he was doing it again and had to pry his eyes away from her image.

  Now Angelo’s tongue didn’t work at all.

  Sweat broke out upon his brow in visible beads, the warmth of his hand transformed into ice, his mouth dried into desert sand. It was obvious that the big boss had seen straight through him, and as a result, Angelo didn’t know what to expect from Romulus. How stupid could he have been? How goddamn careless. But still, the girl in the photograph was a vision, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and if he didn’t think he might get his nuts cut off with a rusty razor, then he would’ve most gladly ventured one last glance.

  “She’s going to marry a nice boy…capisce?” Romulus said with a playful, but serious wink.

  Angelo swallowed hard and nodded in understanding.

  It was clear that Angelo was not a nice boy, at least not in the eyes of Romulus Gambaro. Angelo was the lowly hired help, and Bianca Gambaro was an unattainable mafia princess. The two elements did not mix. If Angelo was lucky maybe someday he might hold a door open for her, but as for laying his filthy peasant lips upon her, forget about it. Angelo also understood that the big man was cutting him a break for whatever reason, and that it would be wise for him to slip out of this office quickly and quietly, and in the future to only speak to Romulus when spoken to.

  And that’s exactly what Angelo Marchetti did.

  (8)

  Outside on the Donatello’s parking lot Vincent hauled off and gave Angelo a good swift smack across the back of his idiotic head. “What the hell was that crap?”

  Angelo rubbed the back of his head with care. It felt like he’d just been clipped by a rock. “I…”

  “You what?”

  “I…I…screw me.”

  “Don’t you be ogling Bianca,” Vincent growled. “Or the old man will deep fry your balls and that’s nothing compared to what I’ll do to ya. Capisce?”

  Opening the car door, Vincent sat down inside with the kind of speed that always proceeded those who were royally pissed off. As for Angelo, he reluctantly took the passenger side seat, mindful that a lecture was just about to begin.

  “Jesus H Macy, Angelo,” Vincent yelled as he slammed the car door. “What’s a matter for you, huh? You got dung for brains or something? That dick of yours is going to get you castrated! Of all the stupid things to do! I praise you up, get you a freaking job, and you go make eyes at the boss’s little girl!”

  Angelo had no intelligent reply, and although he realized just how close he had come to being dipped into some serious hot oil, he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl in the picture, the one he would never have.

  (9)

  The jobs had been the pits, but the money was good. At least good enough for Angelo to move out of Vincent’s brownstone and into his own bachelor pad. Those dreams Romulus had promised may not have come true yet, but they were definitely on the horizon. Hell, he was only twenty one years old and already he had a German sports car bought and paid for, plus an apartment full of all the modern luxuries. If things kept up this good, within another four years he would buy a house outright with cash.

  Still, he worked in an environment where the high rollers came to dip their beaks on a daily basis, the Gambaro inner circle of the mafia’s who’s who. It served as a constant reminder of just how low on the totem pole Angelo sat and what real money looked like. Those jet-set wise guys always drove the best cars, courted the finest women and carried the thickest money clips inside their designer suits. When a made man strolled into the joint, you could recognize him by the confident swagger, the gorgeous dame on his arm and the aura of notable wealth. Those guys always tipped big time and were shown the kind of respect reserved for kings. They were the masters of their age and Angelo Marchetti wanted very much to be listed amongst their ranks.

  Of course when you played on that level of the game, folks not only got hurt, they got killed. Sometimes high rollers disappeared into nowhere, like this one guy named Easy Eddy. Easy had been a good looking guy with a fondness for red heads with ample assets. The guy had been dopey comical in nature, cool and laid back with the ladies, the kind of guy you wanted at your party. He tipped the Donatello bus boys and serving staff generously, and offered Romulus impressive tributes whenever fate had tossed him a good business deal. But still, despite being popular, the guy had up and vanished into thin air, and that could only mean one thing: someone out there hadn’t liked Easy Eddy as much as everyone else. Regardless of why or what had happened, it didn’t change the fact that Easy Eddy had disappeared like wood smoke in an august gale. Angelo guessed that in the end all the big tips and clever jokes in the world hadn’t been enough to save Easy Eddy from a shallow grave. It was the kind of lesson the kid took to heart, reminded him to be wary of friends and enemies alike, and that the eyes that really mattered were the ones in the back of your head.

  Yet despite the risks, Angelo still wanted in. The lifestyle was too seductive to resist, too exciting to ignore. The element of danger only amplified its romantic appeal, made you feel alive. So he played the Gambaro game patiently, waiting for that one big break that would elevate him onto the next level where the money bought prestige and prestige courted respect.

  And when that big opportunity finally arrived, Angelo didn’t just climb the ladder of success, he shot through the stratosphere like a goddamn rocket.

  (10)

  It had been a beautiful spring day, one that had seen the Donatello close for a very special occasion. It was an invitation only function, a birthday celebration for Romulus’s daughter, Bianca Gambaro. She was turning twenty-one and the big boss had emptied the bar of its usual criminal riffraff in order to give his special princess an extravagant party. The dining room was a clutter of colorful streamers, helium balloons and poster sized pictures of Bianca throughout various stages of her young life. There were tasteful photos of her horseback riding, playing on park swings, riding a red tricycle, performing a pirouette in a ballet recital, skiing down a rough patch of mountain moguls and many others. Each image told the tale of a very happy and active life, but the picture Angelo loved best was the one where Bianca wasn’t doing anything at all. In that ordinary shot she simply stood on a summer beach boardwalk, head tilted slightly to the side as if to say stop messing around and take the picture already.

  Angelo studied that picture with complete adoration, worshipping the girl he would never have with wanting eyes. All morning he kept coming back to it, staring while everyone else busily prepared for the party in the hours to come. If only he could take it home, then he’d put it on his b
edroom wall, a shrine where he could worship her in private. But he didn’t dare touch it, for if Romulus found out that he had stolen it, then Angelo would lose his manhood for sure.

  No, snatching this work of art would be worse than stealing the Mona Lisa as far as the consequences went. Besides, there was a sign just inside the Donatello’s main door which pretty much said it all.

  “Five finger discounters get five finger screwed!”

  Needless to say, no one messed with the law.

  (11)

  The clock over the bar read eleven-fifteen in the morning. A few dozen early birds settled into their reserved seating assignments throughout the dining hall. The group was a mixed bag of relatives, teenage friends and general well-wishers. The hodgepodge of a group had piled birthday presents upon a designated gift table, which had been set up next to the bandstand. Most of the crowd pecked away on a wide variety of finger foods while they waited. Others took the opportunity to load up on an ample supply of free booze.

  Overall, the bar’s atmosphere was subdued, but nonetheless tempered with an excited energy that always preceded a party. Bianca would show up at noon and then the meal would begin at one o’clock. At two o’clock the cake would arrive. Afterwards, there would be live entertainment, a rock band and a standup comedian, then the floor would open up for a dance DJ to spin some contemporary hits. Supper would follow at six until seven, and then the party would rock out until the wee hours of the morning. That was the schedule as set down by Two Tone Marty, the Donatello’s bar manager slash money launderer extraordinaire.

  Marty was a number cruncher, the kind of guy who could logically argue that two plus two was eight with any government tax attorney no matter how well educated that bean counter might be. As a result, Two Toned saved Romulus millions at tax time by playing the penny-nickel-dime shell game with certain declared revenues, which were brilliantly offset against one another as it pertained to moneys earned and moneys lost---the pluses and minuses.

  Marty was the kind of thief who worked legally within the system. He didn’t use a gun to rob the taxman, instead he used a laptop computer along with a complicated spreadsheet. The numbers he spun were a maze of utter nonsense, an ambiguous obstacle course that courted the letter of the law just enough to be legal. Finding refund loopholes was his specialty, and the harder the government eggheads tried to tighten those legal nooses each year, the more Two Tone Marty loved it. It had become a matter of pride with him, raising the revenue bar, topping the amount of money he had thwarted the government from collecting in the previous tax season.

  Needless to say, Two Tone Marty was an important Gambaro asset, and as such, the man was treated like royalty. Marty delegated matters, he himself was not delegated to by anyone aside from Romulus. If Marty were ever to go missing like Easy Eddy, then the entire organized crime world would grind to a halt until Gambaro had found out what had happened to their golden boy. Then the leg breakers would go medieval on the responsible son of a bitch, and the worst thing about that was that Two Tone Marty knew it.

  So he was condescending with the wise guys. Made fun of the way they talked, dressed, carried themselves and there was nothing anyone could do about it. As for Angelo, he had come to respect the miserable son of a bitch, not because Marty could get away with murder, but because the man was so damn smart. A veritable Jeopardy champion who always got the final answer in less than a second. Guys like Marty were a rare item, men who had snatched a unique glimpse at the world which just so happened to be balls on accurate.

  Angelo had learned a great deal working under Two Tone, the most surprising matter involved mathematics. Two Tone Marty had shown Angelo a technique that the man himself had created, a means of associating numerical integers into easy sequences by virtue of associated memory queues. These queues allowed Angelo to retain lengthy numerical digits so that adding, subtracting, multiplying and division of large numbers could be broken down into easy to assemble variables. Thus the kid could instantaneously calculate sales tax, sum up the value of a long grocery list of items before he hit the cashier and dazzle folks with curious feats of incredible mathematical ability.

  It was at its heart a simple, but brilliant trick based on a system Two Tone Marty had used to count cards.

  It was during that pursuit that Romulus Gambaro had discovered Marty.

  Apparently, Two Tone had been cleaning out one of Romulus’s casino clients, and the gaming house hadn’t been pleased about the situation. They were convinced Two Tone had been cheating, and so they called on Romulus to put the bastard in the vice.

  That crushing vice had been none other than Vincent Marchetti.

  Vincent had nabbed Two Tone Marty and dragged him down to an abandoned warehouse to discuss the importance of playing fair and vital biology. But Two Tone, God love him, had dazzled Vincent with his charismatic charm and gift for numbers. He had not only convinced Vincent that he had not been cheating, but talked the Bear into fleecing another gaming house that was protected under a competitive crime family banner.

  The two villains had made out like bandits.

  But still, the matter of Romulus had to be dealt with. That’s where Two Tone had suggested to Vincent that perhaps there might be a way that he could help Romulus make some extra money.

  The rest had been history.

  So the guy who was destined to be castrated in an abandoned warehouse storage room was now the most protected, highly paid man in the Gambaro crime family.

  That earned the man a certain level of respect.

  As for the nickname Two Tone Marty, it had do with a genetic disorder which made his skin patchy, as if parts of his flesh had been bleached by a chemical or burnt in a fire. The disease was officially known as Vitiligo. It was an autoimmune condition in which there was a loss of pigmentation in the skin and hair. Marty’s condition was severe, to the point where he had gray eyelashes, a gray scalp and a jigsaw puzzle face of mismatched patches.

  He was self-conscious of the illness, avoided crowds and hated to go out in public.

  It was unfortunate, a brilliant amicable young man who just so happened to resemble a creature that had been sewn together from dead body parts. Still, his mind was incredible, sharp, well-read, genius in its function, and Angelo had come to regard the man as a close personal friend.

  Their first meeting however, had been anything but pleasant.

  (12)

  Angelo’s first mistake had been to stare. It had an unintentional social faux pas, not unlike the matter involving Romulus’s daughter, Bianca. But Angelo had let his eyes show their curiosity and as a result Two Tone Marty had shown a lack of tolerance for such an ignorant individual.

  “What are you staring at you little idiot?”

  Angelo blinked, regrouped and then decided it would be best to state his purpose for being here. “I’m---“

  “---I know who you are!” Marty scoffed. “You’re the nephew of that big dumb gorilla with no neck.”

  This time it was Angelo who got upset. “Whoa there Marty…say what you will about me, but never disrespect my family…capisce.”

  Marty fixed Angelo with a stare that was stuck somewhere between anger and downright hilarity. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Screw you, you little moron,” Marty laughed in a condescending tone. “I’m the grease in the gears around here you little prick. I’m the man with the goddamn plan. Just ask anyone. Don’t you ever threaten me, and don’t you ever eyeball me like I’m some kind of sideshow freak either, or I’ll have both you and your uncle tarred and feathered…capisce.”

  Angelo’s face took on another tone itself, one of cherry red. Vincent had told him how critical this man was to the organization, that to touch Marty would invite dire consequences, but the kid nonetheless entertained thoughts of murder.

  “Got anything clever to say you little idiot?” Marty studied Angelo. He could see the kid was on the brink of losing it, and decided i
t would be fun to push the wet behind the ears punk completely over the edge. “Ha, I didn’t think so. All talk and no action.”

  Angelo felt his hands twist into two tight fists.

  “What…you gonna take a poke at me baby? That it? Am I supposed to be scared of a little snot nose punk like you? Huh?” Marty tilted his head back and looked down the length of his Dalmatian spotted nose. “You think you’re a wise guy, Angie? You think you got these?” Marty reached down and cupped his own balls inside his patchy hand. “You got big enough balls to take me on?”

  Reason battled to calm Angelo’s mind, but the fire was getting the best of him. If he didn’t regain his faculties in a few more seconds he would snap and break Marty’s two toned nose.

  Angelo took a slow easy breath and then turned to walk away.

  That’s when Two Tone Marty dropped the A-bomb.

  (13)

  Insults hurt at the best of times, especially when spoken with malicious intent. Words could sting every bit as hard as sticks and stones when thrown by a sharp tongue. Marty had to bear the brunt of such attacks for the better part of his life. Childhood had been extremely traumatic for him. Kids and adults alike had teased and tormented him mercilessly and had beaten him at every opportunity. Physical and psychological scars dotted his body and soul as much as the disease that had discolored his skin.

  He was a natural born victim.