The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  I was a creature of habit.

  I took my first sip, and winced at the heat and the taste; forgot the sweetener again.

  What an idiot.

  As I pulled the sugar bowl over and stirred in a couple of spoonfuls, I turned my attention back to the job in hand. The shoe box had already been removed from the closet, a daily eight-fifteen obsession.

  I emptied the contents gingerly and then carefully unfurled the soft cotton cloth that wrapped the items. The heavy material folded out and spread over the surface, but fell short of the edges; like a table cloth that was slightly too small.

  I arranged the metallic objects, newly liberated from their daily slumber, creating uniform patterns on the table. It was always the same pattern; no deviations.

  I surveyed the finished display, truly a work of art. A stunning triumph of design and functionality, each individual part crafted and machined to perfection. And yet; perfect as each individual piece was, it could not function individually. It could only contribute to the balanced and lethal whole.

  I set to work with the cleaning solution and oils. I flipped the egg timer over; tapping it gently to make sure the sands of time started flowing.

  Seated in my favourite chair, I proceeded to clean, oil, and assemble at the same slow and steady pace I always used. And just as the last grain of sand dropped into the lower vessel, I pulled the slide back with an abrupt metallic clunk.

  Gently increasing the pressure on the trigger, I felt the slight buck in my hand and heard the satisfying click of the hammer. There was something primeval about a gun, something only men could relate to; a reflex buried deep in our primitive warrior subconscious.

  My first daily ritual was over; a habit born out of two decades of paranoia. I held a lifelong superstitious belief that I was the architect of my own survival or destruction. I always worked that way; it was one of the primary reasons I was the best at what I did. I left nothing to chance. I made my own luck; there was no lady present.

  I engaged the safety and laid the weapon aside. Picking up the box of ammunition reverently, I selected nine rounds at random. As I looked at them, glinting in my hand, I went through my other morning routine.

  Carefully inspecting each round for signs of warping, I checked for suspicious markings or scratches on the sides or bottom, laying them in specific piles; left for rejection and right for selection. As I rejected, I selected another from the box and repeated, until I had nine items in a neat row to my right.

  I scanned them visually, before hefting each one in my hand, to check for overall balance and feel. You’d be surprised at what you could ascertain, just by hefting a bullet in your hand for a few seconds.

  I had seen the effects first-hand at a local firing range, once. Mr Ego behind me in the queue had scoffed and laughed at my superstition. As he’d loaded my rejected rounds, he’d winked to his girlfriend and his mates; he was going to make his point. And make it he did; bullet number three jammed, blowing his hand clean off. It had not been a pretty sight. So, the discarded ones are routinely disposed of; I won’t allow rejected ammunition back into circulation.

  Once I’d finished, and only when I was completely satisfied with each individual item, I pressed each round carefully into the magazine. I only ever used nine bullets; even if the gun could take more, nine was my limit. It was my talisman; I had no intention of ever changing it.

  For me, it was always about the numbers. How many targets are there? How many shots to kill? How much will I get paid? But it went deeper than that.

  I always regarded the numbers one through nine as pure; anything higher than nine was a combination of numbers and my superstition wouldn’t allow combinations. If I needed more than nine bullets, then the time had come to retire.

  Once the magazine was fully loaded, I visually inspected it one last time, and then I laid it softly next to the gun. Like love and marriage, you couldn’t have one without the other.

  I picked up the mug again and drained the bitter sweet liquid in a long final swallow. I snatched the two items from the table and slammed the magazine into the gun with a gratifying click. I eased the weapon into my shoulder holster, shrugging on my thousand-dollar linen suit jacket. It was specially tailored for me, so it would not show any embarrassing bulges. Guido and Ernesto had immaculate taste in clothes and expected the same of their employees.

  I walked over to the CD player, repeating the same two albums over and over again. I smiled at the line that was playing as I approached; it was prophetic really.

  I’m a book keeper’s son. I don’t want to shoot no one.

  I clicked off the stereo. He had been a solicitor, not a book keeper.

  I trotted briskly down the stairs and out of the front door of my sleek brownstone, located in one of the better areas of Midtown; a fringe benefit of my job. I took the steps two at a time, replaying the orders from the previous night; going over in my head what I was expected to do today.

  #

  ‘There is a pharmacy at 630 Lexington Avenue,’ said Guido softly.

  He glanced at me and then muttered to himself under his breath in annoyance.

  ‘Hey Street,’ he shouted suddenly and with venom. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  I jerked in surprise; irritated at myself for drifting off. My mind was somewhere completely different; certainly not in this room. It had been happening a lot recently. Too much for my line of work, and especially where the brothers were concerned. I was a detail oriented person; details were the difference between life and death.

  Pay attention, this shit will get you killed.

  ‘Sorry boss,’ I said. ‘Long day, I guess. What were you saying?’

  He coughed.

  ‘Do I have your full attention now? Good! Focus, for fuck’s sake.’

  He exhaled in disgust.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, there is a pharmacy at 630 Lexington Avenue,’ he repeated.

  ‘There is a dude working the prescription counter, name of O’Reilly; John O’Reilly. One of your lot I think,’ he said, directing the comment towards me with the beginnings of a smirk.

  I nodded to indicate my understanding.

  He had an Irish sounding surname. Big deal, he was probably Irish-American, so way more Irish than a real Paddy like me. But it did make it easier for me sometimes; if they were ethnic, it gave me an in.

  ‘He owes us a lot of money. We know people don’t carry that kind of cash around with them, and we know he doesn’t have it in any of his checking or savings accounts. We know his credit rating and circle of friends; we know his share portfolio and what assets he owns. In short, we know every godamn thing about him, so we also know that there is no way on God’s green earth that he can pay us back.’

  He smiled at the last statement.

  ‘So, normal persuasion job, then,’ I replied. ‘Lean on him a little, let him know the lie of the land?’

  ‘No, not this time,’ said Guido, surprising me. ‘Normally it would piss me right off. I would love to lean on this little fucker and show him he can’t fuck with the Mancini family. But in this case, lucky for the little SOB, his debt is the very thing that makes him useful to us.’

  He stopped to compose himself; eyes closing briefly as he brought forth the memories.

  ‘He has racked up a huge gambling tab which he can’t pay. We were about to send some heat over to him; these suckers normally crumble like shortcake. But, before we could send anyone over, he made direct contact with us. It surprised the shit out of me, to be honest.’

  Ernesto nodded curtly; silently corroborating the information.

  ‘So, we have temporarily sanctioned his ongoing debt, with the proviso that it does not get any bigger, and we are going to collect in a different way.’

  Guido paused for breath and to assemble his thoughts. His hawk-like stare pierced the picture window as it framed the Manhattan skyline, the buildings shimmering in the late evening sunlight. His eyes moved constantly, darting left and ri
ght, taking everything in, as though he was searching for prey. Nothing got past Guido.

  ‘So, lucky for him, he thinks he has something we would be interested in,’ he continued, ‘and much more importantly for him, we know we would be interested in it. Otherwise, the little cock-sucker would be in Bellevue by now.’

  He grinned at me.

  ‘I think you might be able to persuade him to part with it. If it is as valuable as he thinks it is....’

  He left the statement lying there and looked across at me quizzically. He was almost impossibly tanned, with a face unlined by life; miraculous for one of sixty two with his type of lifestyle. Botox and UV lamps played a big part in Guido’s daily routine. But, his cobalt blue hawk-eyes were fierce in their intensity, set off against the dark eyebrows and framed under a sleek shock of slicked back silver hair. He was the archetypal mobster and even if he wasn’t, you would instinctively assume that he was seriously connected.

  You didn’t fuck with Guido.

  ‘Any hints as to what I am supposed to ask him for?’ I asked, a tad shortly.

  The brothers exchanged a quick glance. Ernesto’s eyes darted to me for a split second and then flitted away again as quickly.

  I studied him as he gazed out of the same window. He was slightly taller than his brother at six feet even, with the same shock of silver hair. But his eyes were green, and his complexion was lighter and less tanned. He didn’t go in for the same cosmetic treatments, so consequently his face looked like well worn leather. His eyebrows were white, and the overall effect made him look softer and more serene than Guido. I only ever made that mistake once. I subconsciously rubbed the large circular scar on the back of my hand; I always learnt from my mistakes. But I did know one thing. The brothers were hiding something from me; I could always tell.

  ‘It’s a white ring binder,’ said Ernesto quietly.

  His eyes snapped back to me and his stare never left mine, his demeanour suddenly deliberately threatening. I was equal to the challenge, holding his eyes and daring him to take it further. He nodded eventually and looked away.

  ‘Street, this means a lot to us,’ he said, and I was surprised at the earnestness of his statement. ‘So please don’t fuck it up, for his sake and for yours.’

  He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t expect him to.

  ‘So how do I recognise this binder?’ I asked. ‘How do I know he isn’t pawning me off with some old newspaper cuttings or baseball stats?’

  Guido pointed to the picture behind his desk. The photographer was either brave or foolhardy, traits Guido loved and loathed in equal measure. The image revealed a tornado that had just touched down, literally carving a house in two. Guido’s favourite piece of the picture was the three cattle you could just make out in the top left of the wind funnel, swirling about, legs and tails flailing. He had a bit of a twisted sense of humour.

  He glanced at me and saw the confusion on my face.

  ‘Storm,’ he said. ‘The word Storm will be on the cover and watermarked across every page.’

  As I left, I failed to see the look that passed between the brothers. If I had, I would have known exactly what it meant.

  #

  John O’Reilly was nervous, without knowing exactly why. He was always getting premonitions. It had been that way since his early teens, and he always obeyed his subconscious. But this was different; this wasn’t directional as much as a sense of foreboding.

  ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with these?’ asked the middle aged lady at the front of the queue, holding up a packet of laxatives that he had absently thrown into her prescription bag.

  He muttered an apology under his breath. She looked long and hard at him for a few seconds, opened the package slightly to check the drugs she really wanted were inside, and then snatched it off the counter with a flourish. As she stalked out of the door on a wave of self righteousness, he exhaled the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding in a big stream.

  He tried to catch Cathy’s eye, eventually having to resort to waving his arms like an idiot, while the Latino man at the front of the queue swore and muttered under his breath.

  Cathy hurried over.

  ‘Listen Cathy,’ he said rapidly.

  She put her head on one side as she listened.

  ‘I just got a call from the school,’ he continued, lying seamlessly. ‘One of the kids is being sent home, and Anne is out of town this week at a convention.’

  He saw the light of concern in her eyes, and for a brief second, felt a tiny bit guilty at his little white lies. He remembered the words of the Mancini brothers and the guilt dissolved like an early morning mist on the beach.

  She nodded her understanding, making the universal signal for get out of here and do what you have to do and took his place at the counter. She smiled brightly at the annoyed Latino customer, diffusing his anger immediately with her charm and poise.

  He slipped down the corridor and out onto the rear fire escape platform, which they also used as a makeshift smoking area. As the fire door closed behind him, he extricated the cigarette packet and lighter from the breast pocket of his smart white lab coat. It was crisply starched and ironed every day. Anne was as exacting in her standards as his mother had been. It was a pity the two of them never got to meet; they would have liked each other instinctively.

  He shook a cigarette into his hand, marvelling at the perfection of shape, texture and colour. There was just something about cigarettes that made them so aesthetically appealing to him. He slowly passed the sleek white cylinder under his nose, revelling in the sweet tobacco smell.

  The harsh scraping of the flint animated the small lighter. As he held the blue and orange flame to the unfiltered end, he heard the faint crackle, a bushfire in miniature, as the cigarette flared into life. He always went through the same routine, delaying the surrender; that beautiful moment when the nicotine was dragged deep into his lungs.

  As he exhaled the thin stream of smoke through his nose, he contemplated both the burning tip and his current predicament.

  #

  The fourth child had been their downfall. They had been marginally ahead until that point; up one month and down another, but always just about even at year end. But this had been the tipping point for their perilously poised scales, delicately balanced for years, until a tiny increment in one direction had set off a chain reaction. Their household bills exponentially increased to the point that, even with their two salaries coming in, they could not cover all their outgoings.

  In the middle of all this upheaval and chaos, he’d been invited to a mid week poker night at a local club with some old frat buddies. He never went out; never socialised with work or old friends, but the pressure was getting to him. It was Anne who’d suggested it might be a good idea; release the valve on the pressure cooker for one night at least.

  He went into the evening filled with trepidation. He hadn’t been out as a single man for years. He was not a big drinker or a big gambler, but the sense of freedom he’d felt was amazing. The release from the bounds of his closeted life made him feel like a million dollars. The more he drank, the more he wanted to drink, and his rising debt situation made him bold at the tables. At the end of the night, he’d ended up taking home the guts of three thousand dollars in winnings from a one hundred dollar stake, and the telephone numbers of two different women.

  It had paid off a lot of bills, and his earnest headshaking at the initial disapproval and anti gambling lecture had seemed to pay dividends in the bedroom, too.

  For a while, he left it alone; the tonic of that one visit seemed to be what they needed as a couple. Lady luck had visited and bestowed her gifts of plenty. But it couldn’t last and after a period of about three months, the bills started to increment with such renewed ferocity, that one night after work, he found his feet directing him past the Metro stop and back outside the self same casino club.

  He should have realised; he was a stable middle aged professional man, the type
who worked through his problems, not a reckless, feckless idiot. But they seemed so nice. They remembered his name at the door; they even remembered the type of drink he liked. And the first few bets were on the house; that was the only hook they needed. From then on he was theirs. He was an addict.

  He found his feet beginning to stray toward his new mistress, more and more often; as dangerous and insidious as any femme fatale. The excuses over the pressures of work mounted and Anne bought them hook, line and sinker. She had no reason to doubt him; he was a genuinely hard worker.

  For the first few weeks or so, he won and won big. It seemed like the sun was starting to rise, casting a warm glow over the slightly sick and guilty feeling he always carried into the club. But then, about a month into his newfound shadow life, the tide turned like a tsunami.

  Rather than cut his losses, as most normal non addicts would do, he decided to wait it out; to play through the slump and win big again. But even here, the club were most obliging. They seemed to understand his needs and started him with a hefty line of credit. He was one of their most valued clients, they told him. It would be their pleasure to accommodate him. And accommodate him they did; over a six month period, he managed to rack up a debt to the tune of one hundred thousand big ones.

  He’d been escorted into the manager’s office, high above the gambling pit, with its line of security monitors, acres of mahogany, and plush leather chairs. His teeth had been chattering as he sat down. He knew what happened to people who accumulated large gambling debts; he may have been self deceiving, but he was not totally stupid.

  Two older gentlemen sat in the corner and watched as the manager poured him a coffee. The manager’s smile never wavered, but it was clear that the words coming out of his mouth were not his own. John could see it in his eyes; could almost read what the manager really wanted to say, the ferocity of the delivery, the spittle flying out of his mouth like little bullets of water. But even though there was plenty of intimation and lots of flowery language, it was made crystal clear to him that the debt had now reached a level where it was unsustainable. It was imperative (the manager’s word) that the debt be scaled down to a more manageable level. He was given a month.