In my review, I wasn’t saying they were devil possessed. I don’t believe in that. I’m saying they were drawn to Toronto because it was conducive to their lifestyle. They were evil, and they were attracted to an evil environment. They built the Labette Inn smack dab in the middle of it.
By the early 1900s, Toronto had become the New York City of Canada. It was a melting-pot for nationalities looking for new citizenship. It was a cesspool. Crime sharply increased as urbanized living conditions became overcrowded, and what there was for law enforcement was overburdened or bought for a price. By the autumn of 1919, the new murder capital of Canada had consumed John Jr. and Kate, as well. They were found bludgeoned to death in their bedroom at the Labette Inn. The way I saw it, it was bad karma. It was the return on their life’s investment in death. They left behind a slew of unsolved murders when they went to their graves. I figured somebody wanted it that way.
More murders, that was the way the story unfolded. More and more murders, blood flowed in the streets of Corso Italia. The new owner of the Labette Inn was Phillip Bono, a liege lord from Sicily. He kicked the Benders kids to the curb without a penny. I suppose it was only circumstantial that Bono had met with John Jr. and offered to buy out the Labette Inn the day before their brutal deaths.
Bono was a business man and wisely gave the old Inn a fresh new look and hid the old name under a new banner. Not much else changed. The newly named Musolino’s was now headquarters for a Sicilian faction of gangland feudalism. More murders followed. The Bono network operated out of the Inn from 1920 to 1959 when it changed hands to Alfonso Abbandanza.
Under Bono, the Inn had become more notorious than under the previous owners. Evil had been compounded by evil. He directed a murderous vendetta against immigrant Sicilians that would not yield to his control. He killed his own and enslaved them under his operation. He ran the rackets, invested in real estate, and was prosperous. He was feared by most inhabitants. He was Mafioso.
Money could buy him henchmen but not loyalty. His wealth made him a target for other up-and-comers. His protection eroded, and other crime families moved in. It was the nature of the business. Snitches were hired to rat out Bono’s activities. The Crown responded with indictments. With rising legal costs and business hampered, cash flow dried up. He wasn’t the kind of guy to take the treatment lightly. He tried to make a deal, but he didn’t put up the money to make it happen. The Crown turned a blind eye to what was going to happen. If he’d put his money where his mouth was, he wouldn’t have been in the fix he was in, but he didn’t do it the smart way.
In Phillip Bono’s case, he was another victim in a string of unsolved cases for the Toronto police to sit on. Bono wasn’t just slain; they did a piece of work on him. The hitter didn’t come heavy. Bono was caught in his bedroom at Musolino’s and perforated with an ice pick. In the end, his fate was no different from dozens of others who had crossed Alfonso Abbandanza’s path. This was Musolino’s history, rotten to the core, and an ideal place to focus my attention. The atmosphere was conducive to their ilk and maybe to me, as well.
Abbandanza took control of the criminal underground reins in Corso Italia and began to expand his business. Greed had always generated the Mafia’s organization, and there was no shortage of greed. Therefore, the Mob could not be defeated by traditional methods.
I found Musolino’s captivating. The police were powerless to impact the ruthless behaviors found in Corso Italia. Too many of the cops had steady paychecks for looking the other way. The Crown prosecutors were unable to put pressure on the criminal element to suppress their activity. Why? The Abbandanza Machine owned too many of the politicians. The Crown itself was politics. They counted on the unions and the positive publicity from organized crime to get elected and appointed positions. The Mob could make them or break them. It was the way they played hardball. I was clued in; I wasn’t going to find an honest one in the lot of them. How could the people ever find justice in Toronto? You had to know what it looked like first, to find it.
I had my work cut out for me. If I figured it right, Musolino’s would provide a lot of targeting solutions. If I played it smart, I would take advantage of what I had over the cops. What was it a cop couldn’t do that I could do? I could kill. I could clip any one of them as the opportunity arose, and I knew how to make an opportunity happen. To make a dent in Toronto’s criminal activity, I’d have to kill a lot of them, maybe too many to count.
I was deeply disturbed. If this Mob infested country was to survive, it needed plain old-fashioned predator control. I grew up around it, and I knew what to look for, and how to do it. Predators without controls consumed everything they normally existed on, and as food supplies dwindled, they expanded their menu. They consumed anything they could get their fangs into. The Mob was the same way. They were predators. As long as the money was in drugs, vice, unions, politicians, and other lowlife venues, they didn’t bother the innocent and wholesome of the community. When the need for more arose to sustain their lifestyles, they operated more heavily in sex slavery, human trafficking, intimidation, and strong-arming legitimate businesses in the protection racket.
Toronto, Buffalo, it made no difference. All of these areas were deeply entrenched in organized crime. The cops hadn’t shown me a thing up to now. I’d looked at their record on organized crime. Sure, they did pretty good writing speeding tickets, and cutting into some of the little ethnic neighborhood street gangs, but not the Mob.
The mobsters were more than money grubbers, they were outright murderers. They gathered together like pack animals to take down their prey. I was certain now; the Mob had to be wiped out of existence. Shooting a few would accomplish nothing. Fresh recruits were always on the horizon.
This was major league play. The porn distribution ring we took out fell apart with a few dead ringleaders. It was all minor league stuff in comparison. The Mob engaged in tougher play with tougher rules. Maybe it was a bigger bite than I could chew, but I figured I wouldn’t let it concern me—I was a fast learner. I was supposed to shoot a few guys and be done with it, but not anymore. Now I had to hunt down half the city to settle the score.
Cal had written in his notes how he’d felt threatened by Bruno’s presence. He would address him as Carmine to lessen the intensity, but it rarely worked out that way. In his words, “De Luca’s enforcer has it in for me.” Cal rambled through a hodge-podge of threats Bruno had conveyed to him; none of it impressed me. He was a loudmouth and a bully. He intimidated people with his demeanor and reputation, but I wasn’t convinced he was a tough cookie. Besides, cookies crumble pretty easy, especially when they catch a hammer fist upside the head, and that was one punch I could throw, mean like. My interest in finding Bruno had quadrupled; I wanted to find him just to see what he was made of.
I continued to read through Cal’s notes. I didn’t care for Cal much, but then again, I had never met him either. Anna seemed taken with him, and that was all the more reason not to take a liking toward him. It riled me up just thinking about it. I was jealous. It was against my better judgment to admit that, and I wouldn’t admit it to Anna. She might put it in my face, and razz me. I had good reason to be jealous, she was a real looker. I thought. Cal would’ve had to have been blind not to notice her, and here they were working together, hand in hand, day and night. Yeah, I didn’t like him much, but the more I read his scribbles the more he seemed like an okay guy, as long as he kept his mitts to himself. Now that he’d gotten himself killed, I regretted my resentment of him.
According to Cal, it wasn’t just his feelings about Bruno, but Joey Naccarella had been challenged for bringing Cal around. Cal scribed, “Carmine abruptly asked me ridiculous questions like, ‘when did you get your police certificate’ or ‘how long have you been a snitch?’ Then he would harangue Joey for not checking me out closely enough. He made me feel very uncomfortable whenever I was around him.” Cal said Bruno seemed deranged at times. At one point, he had caught him out of the corner of his ey
e snarling and hissing in his direction from across a room. Cal finished his discourse about Bruno by writing, “Eventually his continuous questioning made it easier to repel the false accusations he leveled at me, but I should fear for my life.”
Due to Bruno’s habitual traits when he was in Toronto, I envisioned him as an easy kill if there was such a thing. I learned after my bout with Steward Pidd and subsequent chase from Oregon to California where I slit his throat, never again to be lulled into a mindset of “easy,” especially when it “felt” it would be. There was no such thing as an easy kill, only an efficient and clean kill. I continued to examine photos and scrutinize dossiers on key players while I drafted a plan to set up an observation on Musolino’s.
It was late in the evening. I was tired of the archeology dig through Cal’s material; it was time to put my game in play. I put my Glock and two spare magazines on the coffee table, pulled my shirt off, and stretched out on the couch. I’d grown accustomed to sleeping with my holster on. That’s when it really hit home. I was tired, too tired. My head no sooner crashed into the pillow when I realized I’d been going non-stop for days, and it was taking its toll on me. My reserve tank was empty. I was drained both physically and mentally. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to entwine my thoughts. I laid there in wait a long time, at some point I dozed, and then came the clattering noise of the telephone ringer which startled me wide awake. Who would be calling me? No one knew I was alive, or I was at our safe house, except Anna and Max. I was pretty sure Max, and I weren’t on speaking terms any longer. Maybe it was Anna. If she’d escaped the clutches of the mobsters, she would naturally try to contact me. I lunged for the phone in anticipation of the voice I longed to hear. I stopped in my tracks. It might also be mobsters. They had at least four good reasons, all lying dead, to find my whereabouts and even the score. Maximillian’s prior warning rang in my ears, “Anna might have broken down while being tortured and given up the whereabouts of sanctuary.” I suppose it applied to the phone number, as well. Anything was possible, but why would they call? It’s not like they were going to schedule a gunfight. Maybe, they were testing the number to see if someone answered. It was easy to cross reference a number to a location. Why let it bother me, I thought, it would make my life easier if it were the Mob. They could come to me. I picked up the phone but said nothing. I would let them speak first, and they did.
“Walter?” The caller spoke my name with a questioning tone in his voice. I recognized the voice straight away. Max had repeated himself twice more before I acknowledged him. I wasn’t trying to be inhospitable. The sound of his voice had dashed my hopes. I wanted desperately for it to be Anna on the other end of the line.
Max was someone I had lost faith in. I’d only been a Palatini a few months, but now I felt challenged to reexamine my relationship with the Society. In theory, they were everything I longed for, but in practice, I now had questions. I wasn’t someone who needed a label. I knew who I was and what I was. I did what I was called to do before I’d met Max, and if need be I would go back to my roots and continue my calling. I could also do what I had to do in Toronto with or without Palatini support. I was not without resources.
Max was selected by the Order of Palatini knights to provide a specific role in the organization. As Grand Master of the Society, he was highly respected and carried a great deal of clout. When I first met him in Bellagio, Italy, I was taken by him. His role was carefully explained to me. He acted as a facilitator of manpower and finances for sanctioned Palatini projects. He was not considered or referred to as the boss. By virtue of our name, Palatini, we were freelancers. We were independent assassins. If we determined a need existed in a project then we contacted Max to facilitate the arrangements. Our operations were guided by our sworn oaths. In my opinion, Max had no right to circumvent this project when Anna came up missing. It was not what I had anticipated, and I felt he had further endangered Anna’s life by cutting ties midstream. Perhaps, my understanding was skewed. I’d drawn from my time in military service the idea we left no one behind. The higher ranking officers and officials would leave troops for the sake of the mission, but those with boots on the ground would not.
“Walter, I have a very reliable Crown source that I have been in touch with.
“Yeah. What of it?”
“I’m afraid he has given me a bit of devastating news. You should take a seat.”
I could hear it now. Max was going to say the Crown wanted me to stand down and end the project or let them handle things. I’d already decided that wasn’t happening.
“Max, just spit it out! I’ve got work to do.” My tone was hostile. I felt it and hoped it came across clearly. If not, I was more than willing to repeat it or say something else in the same quality of voice. I was not a happy camper, and I wanted him to know it.
“An attendant at a landfill near Holland Landing, north of Toronto, found a fifty-five-gallon steel barrel. Curiosity drove him to check if it contained hazardous materials. He unbolted the locking ring and revealed the contents. He wasn’t sure of what it was he had found, so he called in the authorities.”
It felt like Max was beating around the bush. I didn’t like the treatment. It put my nerves on edge. I sat down and began to fiddle with my Glock for entertainment while Max was getting to the point. Finally, I asked, “What did they say it was?”
“What the attendant found was very unpleasant. Are you sitting?”
“We’ve been over that, get on to the point,” I irritably said.
“Yes, well then, he had found severely degraded remains of a human body. It is currently under investigation.”
His pause was lengthy and mystifying. Why? What did he still need to tell me? There were sounds on the other end of the line. I couldn’t make out quite what they were. It sounded as if he was coming down with a bug. Wheezing and clearing his throat. “They recovered a handbag at the dumpsite.” Maximillian’s voice began to crack under stress “In the pocketbook of the purse was a driver’s license. It belonged to Anna.” Max broke down from the emotional tension and wept bitterly.
I was stunned. I continued to hold the phone to my ear, but I was unable to hear Max any longer, although I was sure he was still on the line. I felt I should respond, but I had no idea what to say. We were both silent, the reality of what Max had said sunk in. My emotions began to react. I was unable to utter a sound. I wanted to, but I couldn’t muster the strength to blurt out my pain. I sensed a surreal, out-of-body sensation, a buoyant disconnect from the pain. It was a natural defense mechanism which allowed me to escape the reality of the moment, but it didn’t last.
In time, Max continued with the rest of what he knew. I wasn’t sure how much of what he said I heard. I was in a fog bank. It covered me like an old-fashioned down comforter. I labored to breathe.
“The Crown source said forensics has been unable to identify the remains. DNA technologies might take months to determine the victim, if ever.”
We might not have been in this boat, if we’d tried harder to find her when she first came up missing, but Max drug his feet. I was pretty sure Max felt the same way—now.
He struggled to speak, maybe it was guilt. If it wasn’t, it should have been. “The value of the DNA analysis was greatly diminished by the sulfuric acid. The body had been immersed in the acid brine with water as an accelerant for a few days.”
I was drifting deeper into a state of shock. I lost my cognizance to respond. I was afraid to. I didn’t know what I might say, but it wouldn’t be good if I did. I blamed Max for not taking the bull by the horns. I’d rather have died in a gunfight than experience what I now felt.
Maybe Max had sensed my dilemma. With great strides, he proceeded with his discourse slowly. “The police were unable to locate any teeth. The flesh was emulsified; the bones and cartilage disintegrated into smaller particles. There may not be a viable way to know the identity of the victim.”
The grimmest reality sat in. It was an evil from ol
d come to haunt me. Alfonso Abbandanza was “old school” and according to informants he had been notorious with acid baths in the early 70s as a method of problem solving. The Provincial Police were surprised, stating they had not seen this method of disposing of a victim in ten years. Alfonso had been dead about that long too. Capo De Luca, however, was another “old school” family member. I surmised this was some of his handy work. Cal and Anna had been in his territory and would have been deemed a threat to him. Old habits die hard. In this case, the practice pointed a finger at De Luca’s crew. The Provincial Police should have made the connection and been all over it, but there was no evidence Maximillian’s Crown source had taken any steps in that direction.
Max interrupted my thoughts, and the silence that had filled the air. “I wish I could tell you—.” His words fell into silence. He lapsed into the throws of despair. It had overtaken and consumed him completely. It seemed like an eternity compressed into those few minutes. One of us had to end the stalemate.
Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues Page 7
