Lawless Measures_Vigilante_The Fight Continues

by Lyle O'Connor

  Over the next couple of days, I religiously dined at the Inn. I changed up my eating times which allowed me to get a good scope of the operation. Carmine and Joey were no shows, but Amato worked a closing shift at the bar, and appeared to work with some regularity. He was a big guy in his early thirties. He didn’t scare me, but he was plenty intimidating. I wasn’t going to be able to slap him around to get his attention. It was going to be all business when it went down.

  It was quiet around Musolino’s at three in the morning when Amato got off work. The place closed at midnight except on the weekends when they stayed open until two. There were only two cars in the back lot, mine and his. Amato’s car was backed in; I did likewise with the Avenger. We were now parked side by side with Amato’s old beater between my car and Musolino’s doorway exit. I mused on the idea that Jokester might have told the truth when he called Amato to see if he needed a car. He really did.

  Amato emerged at the back doorway, his attention momentarily diverted from the lot as he jacked his jaw with someone still inside the hallway. In my world, it was a dangerous behavior not to scan for threats in the direction I’m moving. On past recons, I’d noticed the endless parade of potential victims streaming from stores and malls into a dimly lit parking lot, and never look for danger lurking. Not only do they not see the bad guys, they don’t even watch for traffic. They just walk, head down, in the direction they want to go, oblivious to the dangers. Amato was going about life in the same way.

  I could see Amato as he walked toward his vehicle with his head down and his attention on the cell phone he carried in his right hand. I’d squatted between the cars in wait to ambush my prey. I could see through the car windows as he rounded the front of his vehicle.

  “What the…” He stopped short of finishing his statement. No doubt he would have extended to me the full range of his diatribe, if the notable presence of my .40-caliber hadn’t pointed in his direction. I’ve grown accustomed to these abrupt halts, so I broke the ice.

  “I killed your buddy Jokester.” I opted for the shock effect. I wanted him stunned with reality, I meant business. Jokester was his brother-in-law, and this would hit home hard. I needed a lead to bigger fish. Amato didn’t look like a guy you could buy a cup of java for, and he’d give it up. I laid it out straight to loosen his lips. Of course, if he could read between the lines then he knew he was dead already.

  “Got nothin’ to do with me.” His eyebrows furrowed together as he screwed his face into a grimace. He was cold and indifferent. He acted like he didn’t care I plugged Lippa. He puffed up his chest and stepped toward me.

  “Uh-uh,” I warned, with a slightly higher presentation of my Glock.

  “Where’s Joey?”

  He mustered up a bitter snappish tone, “I don’t know no Joeys!”

  I was willing to give him another opportunity, but not the benefit of the doubt. As long as he wanted to play a game, I’d see how far he wanted to play. “Where’s Carmine?”

  Amato, noticeably more agitated by questions about crime family members, answered with a dismissive humph, “I don’t know no nobody called Bruno neither! You need to get out of my face!”

  Amato’s reaction didn’t faze me in the slightest. I’ve seen it happen before. Guys who got scared or angry said stupid things. I capitalized on it. “I didn’t ask you about Bruno. I asked you about Carmine?”

  I expected him to charge the gun. Why not use brute force to take control? He was big enough to give it a try. Then Amato displayed the main reason why the Machine hadn’t elevated him to a higher status. He sprouted chicken feathers. I didn’t expect him to well up with great big crocodile tears and fall to pieces on me. This was going to be a cakewalk.

  “Since you don’t know anything, I might as well shoot you right between the legs.” I dropped the weapon to display my intentions.

  In a whiny tone, he eked out, “There’s no need for that.” He wiped the tears from his face. “I haven’t seen Bruno for better than a week now. That’s the honest to god‘s truth.”

  I always like it when losers like Amato bring God and honesty into the picture. Two things he didn’t know enough about.

  “Open the back door of your car and have a seat.” He looked puzzled. It might have seemed odd not to have him sit behind the wheel of his car, but there might be a gun stashed under the seat or within easy reach. On the other hand, I wanted to lessen the chance of someone seeing his massive frame standing by the car. He jumped in and folded his hands on his lap like a little school boy in trouble. I could relate. I’d been in the principal’s office once or twice.

  “What about Joey, I won’t ask again?”

  “I heard Joey made a run for it.”

  Amato sat quietly and looked out the front window. I suspect he figured it out by now; he’d gotten himself into a real pickle. He’d run his mouth. If Bruno found out he’d talked, he’d be another gangland statistic. If he didn’t talk, he’d end up like Lippa. I had news for him, it didn’t matter. His epitaph had already been written.

  He made his choice. He took his chances with me. “Joey was bringing this cat around. I don’t know what happened, but in the end Bruno whacked this dude and blamed Joey for the whole thing. Next thing you know, Joey was on the lam. As far as I know, no one has seen him since. I will tell you this, everyone’s talking about it. I know one thing for sure; Bruno hadn’t caught up to him yet.”

  “What about the girl you and Lippa took to Bruno’s?”

  Amato looked at me confused. It was legitimate. You could tell he was baffled by the question. “We didn’t take no woman to Bruno. We took Cal’s lady friend to Joey.”

  “Lippa said you took her to Bruno. One of you two are lying.”

  “Nunzio, he’s family, he picked me up, and we drove to this dude’s place. She came along, no problems. She was a real nice lady.”

  He asked if he could lite up a smoke. I was okay with it. He fumbled a cigarette from a crumpled pack he had in his jacket pocket, lit it, and drew in a deep drag. He held it, and I waited for his exhale. He plucked the butt from his lips and blew a stream of smoke out the open door. He continued, “We took her straight to Joey, just like we were told to do.”

  “Did you see her again or know what happened to her?”

  “Nah, it was early when we picked her up, maybe seven or eight. It was some time before my shift started that day. We dropped her off with Joey. It was strange, you know, we met him down at the docks and put her in his car. He told us, “Get lost, you don’t know nothin’!” He paused, “I guess everyone knows.”

  I leaned back against my car and dropped my weapon from the guard position where I had held it in for the past ten minutes. Amato fumbled for another smoke from the pack he’s laid on the car seat next to him. I doubt he noticed the insignificant flash from the moderator mounted on my Glock. Double-tap and he was dead. I let him off the hook easy.

  As I drove back to sanctuary, I went over what Amato had said about Carmine who held Joey responsible for Cal. That might be the reason Joey vanished, car and all. He was hiding out for his life. It was not unusual in mafia folklore to hear about acts of retribution when there was a perceived breach in their organization. Three mobsters could keep a secret as long as two of them were dead. If what Lippa told me was true, Cal hadn’t given up who he was working for. Bruno might have felt further threatened by not knowing who was on his trail. The fact was, Cal couldn’t name any names because there weren’t any to name. But in Bruno’s mind there had to be. My question was why would Joey make a run with Anna in tow? That didn’t make sense.

  Neither Cal nor Anna had picked up on Carmine’s personal residence. According to Lippa they took Anna to Bruno’s place. There had to be “a place.” The pieces didn’t fit the way I needed them to. Cal knew Bruno stayed at Musolino’s when he was in Toronto. It seemed to be the sum of what they knew about him. He didn’t live in Toronto. Why would he need a room at the osteria, if he did? Lippa must have known where
Carmine lived. Maybe, I didn’t put the squeeze on him hard enough before I offed him.

  If Carmine was after Joey, it might explain why Joey vanished, and maybe why I hadn’t been able to locate Carmine. He was busy hunting Joey. The three cold-blooded murders of the Buffalo crew probably put the Mob up on its ear. If so, Jokester’s death would’ve put them over the top with concern.

  Although local cops wouldn’t snoop on the Machine because of a few Mob hits on other mobsters, there were law enforcement agencies that would have their interests piqued over the same events. When the news agencies reported on Lippa’s killing they referred to him as a “reputed mobster.” It wasn’t the kind of advertising gangsters liked. With public awareness came public pressure, and a Crown crusader might launch an investigation to bring down the heat. Political motivation could be a powerful tool, and the Crown knew how to get the votes. Mob business might take a hit and be forced into precautions that could result in cash flow loss.

  What did they have to worry about? They hadn’t killed anybody. The victim was associated with organized crime. That made known associates of the victim “fair game” for the Crown. It gave the crusaders that weren’t on the payroll carte Blanc to kick in a few doors of other suspected mobsters to see what they could turn up. If the cops didn’t swoop in, it was a red flag that an undercover operation was in progress. There were possible informants or infiltrators already in place. Paranoia sets in pretty easily. Regardless how it went down, the Mob would retract, like the tentacles of an octopus when it was threatened. Their defensive position was to have everyone lie low. That was bad for business.

  The Machine’s biggest concern might have been “who.” Someone was killing crime family members and associates, but who. They didn’t have a clue. Anonymous was just my game. I felt I worked best when I was alone, and I couldn’t be more alone now. They also didn’t know “who” would be the next target. I was a predator. I could pick any one of them I wanted. They didn’t know “what” I would do next. They couldn’t plan an intervention. All they might figure on was there was a “next” coming. “Where” was a problem too? Toronto, Buffalo, Niagara Falls, some Podunk in between. Pelosi got burned in a back alley, Zambrotta was whacked while driving his car home, and Lippa was taken for a ride. The fear of, “who would be next,” was on my side. There were so many ways for a man to die; none seemed out of the ordinary. Maybe next time it would be them, and they couldn’t do anything about it.

  Chapter 7

  “Never hesitate, if it’s gonna go down, strike first and strike fast.”

  —Walter

  I understood why government let crime families operate with few restraints. It was lucrative. They’d drafted laws that protected Abbandanza interests under the guise it protected the rights and freedoms of the average citizen. Politicians worked to do one thing, expand their own pocketbooks. If the citizen took advantage of the liberties under the law, and made themselves a better life, it was a good deal. But the main purpose of the corrupt financial laws was to benefit the few. Mobsters were part of that few. Consequently citizens were in grave danger. Mob victims couldn’t call the cops to straighten it out. It didn’t work that way. The police didn’t have free reign to solve problems. Their hands were tied by law. Cops had taken an oath that bound them to live by the law, and most did; I was not so inclined.

  In the absence of laws that worked to constrain crime, the Machine enjoyed their control of the underworld. And like most power, it went to their heads. Mobsters acted like a pack of wild animals on the prowl. They were animals that liked to inflict pain on anyone that crossed their paths for no other reason other than, “just because.” The Mob ruled through intimidation and violence. It was the basis of their game. They played hardball to keep the image fresh in people’s minds. Communities with the Machine’s presence learned quickly it was a waste of time to call 911. Those that did ended up face down in a gutter, dead.

  In my teenage years, I’d fought wildfires with a rural county fire department. To get a handle on a dangerous brushfire, we would set small fires in its path. Firefighters called them back-burn fires, but we called it fighting fire with fire. It was a good technique. The fact was rampant running fires with a lot of fuel were difficult to suppress. To get the upper hand on the blaze, we’d set the back-burn to contain it. Eventually, they’d burn themselves out when they’d used up everything there was to consume. Mob business was a lot like a wildfire. If the government wanted to stop the spread of organized crime, they had to contain it first, and there wasn’t any evidence they could. I felt the proper application of back-burn, once introduced to the Mob, would demonstrate a better method of control than the current legal process. They’d chosen lawless measures to gain control. I’d use lawless measures to contain them. I’d fight fire with fire.

  It was no secret; my moral compass was out of whack with society. The way I saw it, two wrongs made a right. My actions would be considered every bit as bad as the Mob’s actions because violence was unacceptable. That was okay with me. I hadn’t tried to live up to a different standard. Mobsters killed and enslaved people. I only killed bad guys. My behavior might appall the judiciary, but it appealed to the masses.

  Back at sanctuary I reviewed dossiers on family members. I wanted my revenge, and I was motivated. I seethed for the opportunity to kill. My instincts, likely twisted and primitive, wanted to be in command. I took into consideration what Max had warned of, the likelihood of an unending escalation in my vendetta. The war had already begun when Pelosi took the first round in the back.

  Calvino Gallo, my newest target, was the son of an incarcerated Abbandanza mobster from Mostarda’s faction. He was in his mid-twenties and had decided to follow in his father’s footsteps. He was a soldier that was more of a patsy than an “earner” or the muscle side of the family. He showed promise in the Rochester crew.

  My impulse was to go after the hierarchy, but there was always another mobster to fill the dead’s shoes. I wanted a decisive destruction, not a change in leadership. In the bigger scheme of things, Gallo’s death might lead the Mob to suspect a territorial rivalry was under way. Maybe they would overreact and create a bigger problem than they had with me. The Machine had to find me to prove differently. They also had to find me to kill me, but that was a big problem for them. I was a needle in a haystack. I was literally one of millions of common ordinary people in the area that all looked alike. I didn’t have business interests for them, to use to locate me. I, on the other hand, had Intel on them. Cal had milked the information train in preparation for his non-fiction book. In a round-about way, Cal bequeathed it all to me. He had gotten to close and knew too much, and it probably got him killed. The Mob hang-outs, where they lived, and many of their businesses were all neatly packaged by Anna, and now in my possession. All I had to do was follow up with them, one by one.

  I picked up on Gallo at a lounge on the outskirts of South Rochester. Cal’s police source identified him as the owner of the place. It was all above board and legit. Cal knew better. It was a money laundering front. I had to check it out.

  I looked at my watch around midnight, Gallo had sat at the end of the bar earlier in the evening; I was on the other end. He’d been on the telephone a few times and talked to a couple guys that stopped on their way out the door, but I didn’t pick up on anything unusual with him. With mobsters, normal meant being an ear. There was a lot you could learn if you listened.

  The clientele had thinned out, and it was down to only a few folks left. Gallo motioned to the barkeeper to ring a bell that hung over the waitress station, signaling a free round for the half dozen of us diehard’s that planned to be at the lounge until closing. Everyone bellied up to the bar for a free shot while Gallo quietly slipped out the exit. I watched to see who had an eyeball on us, but I didn’t see any takers, so I slipped out, as well. I needed a lead. It seemed I was always in need of a new lead. My past leads kept dying.

  Gallo looked in my direction when I lef
t, but didn’t pay attention long enough to notice I didn’t leave the parking lot. Maybe it was the phone call that distracted him or the car that slowed down in front of the lounge that caught his eye. I was in the clear. He didn’t suspect me of anything. A cab pulled up, and Gallo got in. I followed on a loose tail. We’d driven about two miles when the cab pulled over to the curb. I passed the cab and turned to the left at the end of the block, cut my head lights and completed the maneuver with a U-turn. I ditched into a maze of cars along the front of neighborhood houses.

  Gallo was out of the cab by the time I’d swung into the parking spot. He lit up a smoke and walked slowly toward a house. The older two-story sat on the corner lot, surrounded by a white picket fenced yard. The house sat in the dark. I couldn’t tell when he’d entered the front door until he’d flicked on an inside light. With the front door shut, he worked his way through his house as he turned on the first floor lights. No visible second floor lights came on.

  I broke out my bug out bag, press-checked for a chambered round in my .40-caliber, holstered it, and put on my black leather police search gloves. They were more than a fashion statement for CSI. There was going to be a murder to solve. Fingerprints or DNA might be left at the crime scene without gloves, and there was an uncomfortable chill in the air. Keeping my hands in agile working condition was paramount.

  I made my way to Gallo’s house along the quiet neighborhood street. When I got to the picket gate, I opened the gate and continued on the slate walkway straight to the house. As I approached the three stair climb to the small landing, I deviated out of the light of the front window and into shrubbery next to the house. I stood motionless, watched and listened. I could hear it loud and clear—silence.

  I looked in windows and worked my way around the house to the back door. There were lights on in the basement area, but the windows were opaque, only slivers of light shown through the framework at the window openings. I set my bug out bag down next to the single level concrete landing at the back door, drew my Glock, and attached the moderator. The lights were off at the back of the house but my night vision was constantly interrupted by looking through windows into the well-lit house. I inched up against the house and began to move to the back door. I could hear talking, a man’s voice then the sliding glass door at the rear of the house opened.