Emilio smiled in a friendly gesture, I lifted my Glock and unloaded half of my fifteen-round magazine into his body. The Toyota started to roll forward on its own. I watched as it drifted across the oncoming lane and slowly toward the opposite side of the road. Being a law abiding citizen, I waited for the light to change before driving on my merry way. The moderator coupled with sub-sonic ammunition made for a quiet assassination. I doubted if I could have killed any quieter with my lead-filled pipe or my newest addition to my tool box, an old fashioned Ka-Bar.
Back at sanctuary, I kicked off my shoes and stretched out on the couch. My thoughts were at ease. I knew the time would pass quickly if I slept. Soon, Anna would call and alleviate my greatest concern. During the winter months in the north, sunrise seemed to be sluggish. Freshly formed clouds covered the city and drug out the daybreak, and consequently put off my rise and shine time. No sense in rushing what I couldn’t control.
I knew things could happen that might affect the best laid plans of mice and men, but with current circumstances, I couldn’t help thinking it was taking too long for her to make contact. She knew how important the call was to me. As noontime approached, I realized the call I expected would not come, not as planned. I didn’t want to over-react to the situation. I’ve been accused of being both reactive and volatile, but it was time to make contact, past time.
After a few persistent attempts had failed, the phone was answered. I expected it to be a malfunction and the call to disconnect, but there was someone on the line. I could hear the sound of scratchy movement against the phone. The noise told me it wasn’t a glitch in the system. Whoever was on the phone had not covered the receiver and I could hear noises in the background. The sounds were distinctly human voices. Someone was listening, but they weren’t talking. Then, the call disconnected.
I could call again; maybe someone would answer a second time. If I got more of the silent treatment, I could unload a profanity or two, closely followed by empty threats of bodily harm. I might have felt better when I was done, but ultimately I would not have achieved anything valuable by the tirade. It was time for a road trip to Toronto and get personal. If I couldn’t find them, I could make them find me, and it would be on my terms. I called Max and brought him up to speed on the situation.
“Scythian, I would like you to stay in sanctuary until I get back to you. I have a contact in the Ontario government that has been helping with project information. I think he is Palatini material, and he has thus far been very beneficial.”
“I could do that.”
“Good then, I’ll be back with you as soon as I can.”
I hung up the phone. My tactical bag was loaded and ready to rock-n-roll within fifteen minutes. I’d left Max with the impression I wasn’t pursuing the Toronto trip when I acknowledged him. It was only an impression. Max hadn’t known me for very long, or all that well, so he wouldn’t have known that I’d never been good at waiting around or following directions.
Crossing the Canadian border was rather painless. Our two nations see thousands of travelers cross each day in places like Niagara Falls. Anna had provided me with a falsified passport from our previous trip to Thailand. It didn’t take me more than a couple times to figure out how the crossing station worked, and how to scam it. I crossed the Canadian border during rush-hour only to find myself being waved through without a physical check. This was especially true if I held up my passport unopened, they didn’t bother to look.
Anna had already provided me with a Toronto map with Cal’s apartment circled on it. All I needed to carry out was the road trip. Cal Alonzo was of Italian heritage. The Curso Italia District in which Cal had rented his apartment was a natural fit for him. The apartment on Saint Clair Avenue West was mediocre at best. Cal wasn’t presenting himself to the mobsters as someone with clout or money, but someone in need of both and hungry to get it. That made him usable, and maybe why Joseph “Joey” Naccarella had an interest in him.
I arrived at the address, waited and watched. Anna’s car was parked in the lot. Not a good sign. I was apprehensive for what I might find inside. There was no amount of mental training which could prepare a person for coming face to face with the carnage inflicted on a loved one. When the thought entered my mind, I cringed.
Evening approached, and it was imperative to retrieve the keys from under the license plate before nightfall. Waiting until dark might bring greater scrutiny from onlookers and a call for a police cruiser to check me out. Anna had given me her car key when our relationship began to blossom. Perhaps it was a sign of trust between us; I understood it in that way. It was inconceivable that such a situation as this would be the reason I’d find the key necessary. I started the car and opened the hood as if I were working on it. I looked for anything that was out of the ordinary inside the Lexus then worked my way behind the car, loosened the rear plate and dropped the keys in my pocket. I shut off the car and secured it before I made my way to Cal’s first floor lodging.
I listened for a minute outside the apartment door then knocked lightly. After a minute, I reached for the door knob and gave it a turn. The door was unlocked. In my book, it was detectable evidence that a condition existed that shouldn’t be. It was a clue in itself. On the ranch in Oregon, tracks were more than prints in the dirt. Whether it was hair captured by the bark of a tree as an animal rubbed against it, when they passed by, or claw marks in a hollowed out stump, where a porcupine made a den. They were all tracks, and they all meant something. Sometimes the absence of a track meant something, as well. Regardless, tracks were meant to be followed.
Apprehensively, I opened the door slowly exposing the living room. Dead silence. If I had ever prayed to a higher power, it was at that moment. I feared a dramatic scene of carnage, hidden from view awaited my revelation. My senses were heightened as I crept further into the apartment. My Glock hoisted to a guard position—ready to belch fire. I moved through the front room toward the hallway and a closed door. I passed by a leather sectional sofa which formed a semi-circle around an older model console television. There were no visible signs that a struggle had taken place.
At the end of the hall, behind the closed door, I could hear voices, human voices. I opened the door slowly. My presence announced only by the squeaking of the door hinge. There was no one in sight, only an obtrusive broadcast resonated in the air. The human voices, now identified as a celluloid drama continued its play while I concentrated my effort on grasping an impression of what might have happened.
I focused my attention on the hallway. I crept forward cautiously. I’d been in similar scenarios in the past. The hunt felt the same. I’d been made uneasy by one thing, and one thing only, my fears. Never had I been fearful before, but the thought of discovering Anna’s body, made me cringe.
Peculiarly, it was times like these I didn’t feel very far removed from my earlier life on the Oregon ranch. Stalking and hunting skills were developed through natural consequences and a second sense arose, one identified as animal cunning. The man could be taken from the woods, but the woods would never leave the man. Hunting and tracking was a way of life. To the casual observer, the idea of tracks might seem strange in the environment of the city, but they were there. The difference was the appearance of the tracks. Forensic sciences came into existence to apply technology to tracking, but you have to be able to identify a track to understand its meaning.
Anna was the last known person in Cal’s apartment. I knew from Anna’s phone calls the sequence of events. Cal and the girls had disappeared before Anna vanished. I knew she had collected a majority of Cal’s research material and stored it off site. Anna didn’t mention any signs of foul play at Cal’s residence had been evident, I reasoned she would have made me aware of its existence at the time Cal and the girls disappeared.
As I investigated each room of the rental, it became apparent there were no signs of violence. I felt confident that whatever happened to Cal and the girls or subsequently to Anna had not occurred i
nside the apartment. It wasn’t a rush to judgment, it was a viable conclusion.
I further gathered through my impression of the quarters that what had occurred was unplanned. There were folded clothes on one of the beds, a television left on in a bedroom, dirty clothes in the laundry, food in the refrigerator, and the window shades were wide open. Further, I was unable to detect any unusual odors present. With the exception of the apartment door being left unlocked, nothing was out of place or disturbed from its natural setting. These were all tracks that led to my interpretation; the apartment was an unlikely crime scene. I felt I could narrow what transpired to somewhere between the front door and her car in the parking lot. Since the apartment door was unlocked, I felt inclined to believe it was the point of contact that involved Anna’s missing person status. Most people wouldn’t have left a door unlocked when they were inside their residence. It was doubly true if people left their homes. Nobody and I mean literally nobody in their right mind left a door unlocked in a city like Toronto. Not of their own volition.
I walked from the apartment door to the adjacent parking lot examining the route carefully for any tell-tale signs of foul play. I spotted the security cameras that overlooked each of the entrances to the building. With any luck, someone who had been paid good money to protect the complex assets with the recording devices had actually done the job they were hired for. Maybe that someone had the video recording of the night Anna disappeared and hadn’t let the machine rerecord over the same footage. It was almost too much to ask for with a low-ball security firm like the ones usually contracted in America. They were mostly window dressing for insurance claims.
A bonded and licensed security outfit had placards on the building entrances, and the parking lot had additional signage indicating regular security patrols of the facilities. I suspected this might be false advertising to control urges that some opportunists might have, to commit petty crimes, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to examine the potential more closely. I waited to see how often one of these yahoo’s came around.
It was a well-marked security vehicle that pulled into the parking lot at eight o’clock. The guard made a couple laps around the lot before pulling into a stall designated “Security Vehicles Only,” in big, black letters. A smaller sign in red letters hung underneath that read, “All others will be towed at the owner’s expense.” The security officer seated behind the steering-wheel looked to be in his early to mid-twenties. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry, he sat talking on a brick sized Motorola cell phone. I suspected it was a business call. No self-respecting young man of his age would own one of these phones for themselves.
I grew impatient, and decided to make contact with the guard; I got out of my Avenger and approached his vehicle. We made eye contact. He looked me over pretty good as he tried to decide if I was a threat. I’d seen the look before. Sometimes I was a threat. He politely excused himself from his call and pleasantly inquired, “How can I assist you?” I began to fabricate a story about dropping in unexpectedly on my dear sister who lived in a first floor apartment. I explained further, “I think she left either last night or early this morning. I would like to find out who she left with?”
The young officer looked at me for a minute, and followed with a sly grin, “You’re sure it’s your sister you’re looking for?”
“Hey brother,” I said, “you caught me. It’s not my sister, and she doesn’t live here, but I think she’s been staying here with a guy. You know, it’s got me in a tail-spin. I’m sorry for lying about her; it’s just a bad deal all-around.” I pulled a couple fifties from my wallet and folded them. “I’d sure like to see if she’s been staying here?” I slid the money across the rolled-down window until he took it from my hand. “Let’s take a look,” he said with a smile.
When he got out of his pick-up, I could see the spelling on his last name, “Vaquero,” that was engraved on the cheap metal nameplate attached to his uniform. “Vaquero,” I said, “is that Italian?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
What would make a guy not know or care to know the origin of his name? “You look Irish,” I said. He had light, sandy-colored hair, with bright blue eyes. They were not the average Italian features of the Corso Italia neighborhood. I could also tell he wasn’t a recent settler to the area. He didn’t have a detectable accent. I leaned toward a Mick in his family tree, somewhere, maybe in the woodpile, but somewhere. I said, “What’s your first name?” He mulled over his response before he came out with, “Ryan.” It was a sign to me; he’d accepted my presence on friendly terms.
Ryan cued the VHS tape to cover the time frames then switched on the monitor and let the recording play. The cameras were set on a multiplexer of six screens that recorded when the camera sensor picked up movement. The picture quality was poor and grainy, but it did capture Anna at the moment she was last seen. It also showed the two thugs who escorted her out of the building. We ran the footage back a couple times to watch the action. All I could see were two guys, one big dude and one, not much larger than Anna whisking her away. I wanted to cuss up a storm. My blood was boiling, but I forced myself to watch it a few more times. I could see it was useless. Not likely I’d be able to identify these perps in the future from what I’d watched. To my surprise, Ryan, leaned forward toward the monitor and remarked, “Sorry to see her with that guy.”
“Which guy?”
Ryan pointed at the screen, “The little guy in the ball cap.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, he’s a jerk. He’s real confrontational. I caught him in the lot out here and other places I patrol, I always knew he was up to something. I think he was locating cars to steal or some kind of rip-off. He’s just that sort of guy. He gets real verbal when you tell him he’s got to go.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No—other guys call him Jokester I think, something like that.”
“Hey Brother, thanks. You helped me out a bunch. Now I know she’s up to no good and I can get her out of my life, you know?” I slipped him another fifty and reassured him he’s saving me more than what I had given him. I was soon on my way to the airport to retrieve the material. I wanted to see if Cal had squirreled away information on some dude called Jokester. On the way, I called Max and informed him of the developments.
“Walter, I thought we were in agreement, you were to exercise patience and stay at sanctuary until I had contacted my source?”
“That’s not the way I remember it, but, what did your source have to say?”
“I haven’t heard back as of yet. There is no need to panic though, Anna is highly skilled, resourceful, and not to be underestimated.”
“My room at the hostel was designated by Anna as our safe house for this operation. In the event she needed a refuge, she would likely head to my locale.”
“Well, alright then, call me when you pick up the material and again when you reach sanctuary. I want to know you’ve made it safely.”
I arrived at the airport as Max and I finished our conversation. The numbered key identified which locker to locate. The luggage piece was retrieved, and I was en route to my hostel room where I’d review the material and formulate my plans.
I unpacked reams of documents that were sorted into files and notebooks. I kicked off my shoes, and made myself comfortable for what I perceived to be a long night ahead. Anna had worked the files a lot. I found them placed in order and covered a range of criminal behaviors on the Abbandanza crime family.
Unlike other mobsters who had made their fortune bootlegging alcohol during the Prohibition Era, the Abbandanza syndicate came to power during the 1960s. “Boss” Alfonso Abbandanza took advantage of turf wars that waged along the New York–Canadian border and built his empire on the less restrictive Canadian side. Alfonso was an ‘Independent’ claiming non-affiliation with the five notorious New York crime families known as the “Commission.” In reality, there is no such thing as non-affiliated in New York’s crime network
. Everyone paid homage and a percentage of their take to the Commission. There were no exceptions. The Canadian faction soon learned there was no money in territorial battles; only cops and Feds ended up the winners when they fought amongst themselves. As a result, the “Boss” paid like all the other “Independent’s” paid, and his criminal empire grew.
The Abbandanza family once spread throughout the Eastern Canadian Provinces but in the early 1990s lost their holdings in Ottawa, Montreal and Quebec City. They held on to their power base in Toronto until Alfonso’s death in 1993. Leadership shifted from Toronto to Buffalo, New York, in 1993 when the family mantle was passed to then underboss, Salvatore Giannetti. Nine years later, Sal was still the boss.
Like most modern crime families, they were comprised of non-blood relatives. In generations past family meant related, but not anymore. However, in the Abbandanza family there was an exception. The Giannetti power structure was strengthened when Sal’s younger brother, Antonio, was made family “Underboss.” He’d recently moved to Niagara Falls and was responsible for the day to day operations. It was interesting to note, Antonio was not of the low-key, old school mentality like his brother Sal. He was the flamboyant GQ gangster type with fast cars and faster women. He enjoyed being a public celebrity. He frequently entertained the paparazzi and shutterbugs alike. He enjoyed power, and had at his fingertips a great deal of it to exercise. Allegedly, he had been responsible for a number of murders.
Third in the hierarchy was Rocco Colansante, Consigliore. He functioned as Chief Financial Officer for the family and primarily handled the ‘Skim’ and finance distribution arm. He was a Canadian and resided south of Toronto. He too was a recluse like Sal and rarely seen in public.
With Anna’s disappearance, I’d adopted the project as my baby. I owned it. I wasn’t going to wait for closure; no such reality exists. The term was a myth perpetrated by psychobabblers. What I intended on doing was kill with bitter resolve anyone responsible for Anna’s mysterious disappearance. The sex and illegal immigration rackets were the criteria for Society Palatini’s engagement, but that had changed for me—my priority was elsewhere.
Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues Page 3
