MOB RULES (James Harris Book 2)

by Richard Nesbitt

  During the time he was inside, the snitch had been discovered. Rabi ordered that nothing happen to him until he got out. However, on the very day he was being sprung from Rykers Island, while he was still being processed out of the correctional institute, the snitch was kidnapped. Rabi was driven straight from the prison to meet the man who had put him away. He let the man sweat for a full hour before putting a switchblade through both of the his eyeballs. As the man screamed for mercy he was told that the worse was to come. While two of Rabi’s associate’s crow barred the man’s jaws apart, Rabi cut out his tongue out. Then he cut off the man’s fingers one at a time. The gang then drove the man to the nearest hospital and kicked him out of the car. He was told that if the authorities found out who did this to him, his mother and sisters would get the same treatment. He was allowed to live because the message was better this way. You rat and there would be a price to pay. A very serious price.

  Everyone knew who had done it but again there were no witnesses. And the man wouldn’t talk even if he could. After a two week, tax payer funded hospital stay, he’d been released. There was nothing the authorities could do. The man languished on the streets for just a few months after that. Every day was a living hell, feeling his way along the streets with just the stumps of hands he’d been left with. Then one day he felt his way into a tall building, felt his way up the staircase which led out to the roof and then felt his way to the edge. He took the express route down, nearly killing a beat cop as he landed on the sidewalk, just feet away from the patrolman. His pain was over. Rabi smiled when he heard the news although he did express annoyance that the cop had been spared having the snitch land on him. That would have been perfect.

  Now Rabi sat across from three men in the old building. They were guests to be respected. He knew that. But they were not offering enough for the job and Rabi had told them that. Respectfully.

  “So tell me,” one of the three men spoke calmly. He wore an expensive Armani suit. “What is a fair price?”

  “You’re talking about his family. And you want it videotaped?”

  Rabi paused, staring into the man’s dark eyes. He let the question dangle in the air.

  “That is correct.” The Armani suit answered.

  “Then you need to triple the offer.”

  “Triple?” The man answered, with a hint of amusement. “For a woman and a kid?”

  “No,” Rabi answered with a smirk as if it amused him that this man did not understand. “Not for a woman and a kid. For this woman and this kid.”

  The man remained silent. He furrowed his brow to ask the question.

  “Amigo,” Rabi continued. “You don’t know this man. Harris is someone you do not fuck with. He’s more of a gangster than a cop.”

  “Very well,” the man spoke in broken English. “If you do not have the balls-”

  Rabi’s men erupted in loud cries of protest. The man’s sentence was cut short as they pulled their pistols out in anger. The man’s two bodyguards also produced weapons and in a split second there were a lot of guns being pointed.

  “No!” Rabi spun in his chair and shouted to his men. “Put them away!”

  The men looked to him with anger and confusion. One did not address their boss that way.

  “Now!” Rabi shouted.

  The men complied and put their pieces away but stared at Armani with bitter resolve. The well dressed man, who had remained nonplussed by the entire exchange, spoke softly to his two escorts and both of their pistols disappeared quickly. The situation calmed down.

  “Senor,” Rabi began diplomatically. “You are not talking about slaughtering the family of a sheep. This is not an ordinary man. This man is a lion and he will wage a war. For that, the price is triple. Not for the wife and kid.”

  The man stared into Rabi’s face. He thought hard, contemplating what he’d just been told. He slowly began to nod his head.

  “I understand,” he finally spoke. He smiled at the gang leader. “Bueno. We will pay triple. And after it is done, you will do the same to this cop. After he watches what you did to his family of course. You will film all of this as well.”

  Rabi pushed his chair back and stood. He extended his hand and the man rose and accepted it.

  “We want it done as quickly as possible. And make sure the video is high definition. My boss has a great interest in seeing this man and his family suffer.”

  “Do not worry about a thing. It will be done within days.”

  “Gracias,” the man answered with the courtesy of a banker closing a small business loan. He turned and walked towards the exit, flanked by his two men. They left.

  Rabi smiled at his men.

  Triple.

  Mob Rules

  16

  The mayhem was stifled and the room fell silent as the underboss of the Franco family commanded instant respect. The men kept their guns trained on Harris but nobody made a sound. Harris continued to stand over the fallen man, his gun pointed down at him. Teeth clenched and jaw muscles flexing, his face was a tangle of frustration and rage.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you guys?” The loud voice boomed again. “Don’t you recognize a celebrity when he walks into the joint?”

  Anthony Scalaro stood with his hands at his side. He was a sturdy man, not overly large but solidly built. His arms, while short, were powerful and his hands looked as if they could crush granite. In the right side of his mouth he chewed a cigar which sent rising smoke to obscure half of his face when he stood still. He wore a white, button up dress shirt tucked into a nice pair of blue pants. The shirt was buttoned to the neck, only the last one undone. He wore no tie. He had a days growth of beard and his black hair was combed back slick against his scalp.

  The men looked over at their boss, confusion now mixed with hostility to form a humorous parody.

  “Put your fucking guns away,” the underboss barked. He walked towards Harris who thumbed the catch and released the hammer of his gun. Harris slid the 9mm back into his shoulder holster. As he took a step to the side, the man he had slugged scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving with anger, his piercing eyes fixed in a murderous rage.

  “Welcome to the club, Officer Harris,” Scalaro spoke with genuine warmth. He extended his hand.

  Harris hesitated for a brief second and then received the man’s handshake. It was hearty and the second in command of the Franco crime syndicate flashed a broad, white smile, teeth still clamped down upon the cigar. Harris did not return the smile but nodded respectfully at the man, acknowledging his greeting.

  “Don’t you know who this man is?” Scalaro asked brusquely as he scanned the room looking from face to face. “This is Officer Jimmy Harris, a great man. A hero. And you treat him like some kind of street trash just wandered in? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “Sorry, Tony,” one of his underlings spoke up. “We didn’t know.”

  “Get your heads out of the racing forms and read a fucking newspaper from time to time. This is the man who saved the D.A.’s little girl.”

  The men murmured as the picture became clearer. Everybody knew about the case.

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Harris? We’re at your service.”

  “We need to talk,” Harris answered.

  “To talk?” Scalaro’s smile broadened. “You and me need to talk?”

  “Yes,” Harris answered directly. “We do.”

  Scalaro smiled. “Should I call my lawyer?”

  “No need,” Harris answered. His face remained stoic, he was all business.

  The underboss stuck out his bottom lip and nodded several times. He gestured to the bar.

  “Pull up a seat.”

  “Not here.”

  Scalaro was not a man who was used to people negotiating terms with him. The smile left his face.

  “You got a beef?”

  The men behind Harris began to shift, to edge closer. The man Harris had struck clenched and unclenched his fists. He was only wai
ting for the go ahead from his boss.

  Harris felt the tension rising. He decided to defuse it.

  “Will all due respect, Mr. Scalaro. I’m not trying to be discourteous, but it is important that we meet privately. Please.”

  The hardened crime boss nodded again. He appreciated the respect and acknowledged it.

  “Well all right then. Step into my office.” The man turned and walked towards the door at the back of the pool hall.

  Harris started to follow. As he did, he turned to man he’d punched.

  “Have your mother put some ice on that jaw, asshole,” he spoke with a triumphant tone.

  The rest of the room held back nervous laughter as the offended man looked anxiously towards his superior.

  “Relax, Carmine. Have a drink,” Scalaro said as he led the way to the back of the room.

  Harris followed and fell in behind the underboss as he went through the door. He walked towards a desk and Harris shut the door behind them. Scalaro gestured to a chair with a wave of his arm as he sat in his own comfortable leather chair. He reached to an ashtray and extinguished the small butt of his cigar which had burned down to almost nothing as he stared into Harris’ eyes. His face grew a few degrees colder. He was at work now.

  “So speak.”

  “I know about the hit on my family.” Harris spoke matter-of-factly and without hesitation. He returned Scalaro’s tough gaze.

  The mob underboss, who had spent his entire life in the practice of deception, betrayed nothing. He never blinked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring to, officer. Somebody’s trying to have you whacked?”

  “Okay, Mr. Scalaro,” Harris cut through the nonsense. “Two things. First of all I am here as a man and a father, not as a police officer. Secondly, I know you refused the contract.”

  Scalaro cocked his head slightly. He studied Harris, sizing him up. He nodded slowly as he reached for a cigar box on his desk. He opened the lid and produced a Cohiba.

  “Cigar, Captain Harris?” He offered.

  “No. Thank you.” Harris noticed that the man knew his rank. This is not a stupid person, he thought.

  Scalaro clipped the tip off of the cigar. He then produced a cardboard box of matches and pulled a small wooden match from within. He struck it and the tip flamed as he brought it to the fresh cigar which he held firmly in his teeth. After a few long pulls, the end of the cigar was a red, glowing ember.

  “You know how you can tell a mook, Captain Harris?” Scalaro asked. “A mook will light a fine cigar with a lighter. If you see a guy light a fine cigar like this with a lighter, then you know he’s a mook.”

  Harris pursed his lips and sat silently. He waited.

  “Anybody who knows a goddamn thing knows you light a cigar with a wood flame. Doesn’t poison the thing with gas. Understand?”

  Harris ignored the question. He stared into the man’s eyes with growing impatience.

  The underboss gripped the Cuban between two fingers and took a long pull. He allowed the smoke to mellow and waft in his open mouth. He then leaned his head back and blew it towards the ceiling. Laying the cigar in the porcelain ashtray, Scalaro folded his hands upon the desk. He was ready to get serious.

  “Okay Jimmy, let’s get down to it. What makes you think that I would know anything about a job like that?”

  “Because you have a rat.”

  Scalaro’s jaw went slack for a brief second. His dark eyes darkened and his demeanor shifted instantly to a very serious place. He leaned forward slightly.

  “Say that again.” His voice was low and dangerous.

  “You have a rat. A made guy.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Scalaro stared coldly and Harris who could see the effects his words were having. The underbosses mind raced at full speed as he went through a hundred different possibilities. He remained quiet for several moments and then leaned even further across the desk.

  “This is some serious fucking shit you’re laying on me. Do you expect me to buy this?”

  “Mr. Scalaro, I don’t play games. I don’t waste my fucking time and I don’t spread rumors. We learned about the hit through your guy and people at the very highest level told me. However, they wouldn’t tell me who the guy is.”

  “And why’s that?” Scalaro asked.

  “Because they know what I would do to him in order to find out who put the contract on my family. And he’s too valuable to the case they’re building against you.”

  “They’re building a case against me?”

  “Come on, Mr. Scalaro. They’re always building a case against you guys. You know that.”

  Scalaro, the shock of the revelation wearing off, regained his composure and leaned back in his chair. He spread his arms wide, palms upward.

  “So why come to me?”

  “Because I want to know who the fuck put the hit on my wife and son.”

  “And you think if I knew this information I would just give it up to you?”

  “Name your price.”

  Scalaro shook his head. He grimaced and gave a soft chuckle.

  “Officer Harris, you insult me. Do you really think you can just walk in here, drop a bomb like that and I’ll just start talking?”

  “Okay, well how about this. I’m the lead cop working on the heroin racket you guys have set up through Brooklyn and into the city. You give me what I want and that goes away.”

  Once again, the underboss remained silent. He studied Harris’ face looking for any sign of dishonesty.

  “Listen, Captain Harris. Let me explain to you the type of man I am,” Scalaro spoke bluntly and honestly. “If such a request was ever made of me to clip a guy’s family, his wife and kids, I would more likely clip the guy who made the request. I don’t hurt women and children. What kind of farabutto would that make me?”

  “Mr. Scalaro, I understand that. But you have a family of your own. Put yourself in my position. I need to find out who is trying to hurt them.”

  “Captain Harris, I feel sympathy for your plight. But I do not have the information you need. Hand to God. But I can make inquiries.”

  Harris knew he was lying, but he also knew that he had to play this right. The mob boss was not going to give him the people responsible, that much he knew. But there was still an advantage to be had.

  “I would be in your debt.”

  “This other matter you brought up,” Scalaro spoke slowly. “How do I know that goes away?”

  “You help me to keep my family safe and I move on to other things. I lose any heroin information I may have already gathered. You have my word.”

  Scalaro promptly rose to his feet. The meeting was over. He extended a hand across the table.

  “I will see what I can find out, Jimmy.”

  Harris shook his hand. He was being dismissed. The two walked towards the door. Scalaro placed his hand on the doorknob but did not turn it. He stared at Harris.

  “But know this, Jimmy,” Scalaro said. “If I am able to help you, there are rules. You go back on your word and the fact that you’re a cop won’t mean a fucking thing to me. Got it?”

  “I understand. And the same holds true on my end, Mr. Scalaro. You jerk me around and something happens to my wife and son, then my only reason for living will be revenge. On anybody and everybody I hold responsible.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “No sir, I’m not. I’m just telling you that I play straight and I expect the same from people I do business with.”

  “Well, officer, other than the insult my associate offered, and that you dealt with, I’ve treated you with nothing but respect. I think we understand each other.”

  Harris went into his pocket and produced his business card. He handed it to Scalaro who accepted it and stuck it in his own pocket.

  “My cell phone is on the back.”

  Scalaro nodded. The two shook hands again.

  “I’ll be in touch.�
�� The underboss opened the door.

  Harris nodded. He walked through the door and, ignoring the eyes on him, headed for the exit.

  Mob Rules

  17

  The phone rang several times and just as Sylvia was about to give up, a woman’s breathless voice answered.

  “Christi Sellinger, can I help you?”

  “Hey there, honey!” Sylvia chirped, her smile apparent through the connection.

  “Mrs. Blumquist!” Christi beamed. “How are you?!”

  “I’m doing great, how are you? And it’s Sylvia!” She spoke with mock anger.

  “Being run ragged but other than that no complaints,” the young reporter answered.

  “No kidding, I was just about to hang up.”

  Christi laughed.

  “Well, I was only juggling a notepad, my briefcase, a package that was just delivered to me and my lunch! And I was trying to unlock my office door without dumping it all!”

  Sylvia laughed aloud.

  “Did you open the package yet?”

  Christi examined the brown box.

  “Oh my God, you didn’t!!”

  “Happy birthday, honey,” Sylvia said with a warmth that was unmistakable.

  “Hang on,” Christi spoke. “I’m going to put you on speaker phone.”

  She pressed a button and put the receiver back in its cradle.

  “You there?”

  “I am.”

  Christi grabbed the package and tore at the brown paper. Inside was another layer of birthday paper wrapped around a thin clothing box, the type shirts come in. She ripped the paper and opened the box.

  “Oh, Mrs. Blumquist!” She gasped. “Ooops, sorry. Sylvia. This is absolutely gorgeous!”

  “I’m glad you like it. Is the size right?”

  “Oh my God, who cares?! This is the most gorgeous sweater I’ve ever seen in my life! I’ve never owned anything cashmere!”

  “Well I hope you don’t already have one like it,” Sylvia said.

  “Are you kidding?! This is now the single most valuable thing I own! You shouldn’t have, Sylvia.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”