“Nonsense. And you’re worth every penny.”
“I would say that I can’t accept it but I know it would do me no good. Thank you so much, Sylvia. I love you!”
“Well I love you too, kiddo.”
“How is Emily doing?”
“She’s back at Duke. She seems to be doing really well,” Sylvia paused. She allowed a wave of emotion to pass. “But there are just so many unknowns. How do you ever bounce back from that horror completely?”
Christi paused, searching for the right response. She turned and looked out her window. Large snowflakes were slowly drifting down to put a fresh coat of white on the city streets and sidewalks. She answered in a soothing tone.
“I don’t think she ever will be exactly the same, Sylvia. But that doesn’t mean she won’t be fine. As horrible as what she went through was, it makes one appreciate life even more.”
“Small consolation,” Sylvia replied.
“I know. But she’s so strong. She is going to be okay. The very fact that she’s back in med school is proof of that. A lot of people would have been institutionalized for years but just three months later she is carrying on with her life.”
“I know,” she said as her voice caught a little. “Thank you, Christi.”
The young reporter knew that Sylvia’s thanks had a deeper meaning. She understood that the part she had played in saving Emily from that murderous psychopath was something that Sylvia would never forget. She also understood that Sylvia had willingly adopted the role of surrogate mother to her. Losing her own mother to cancer at twelve years old had left a void in her life, and Sylvia understood that and was happy to be the one she turned to when she need a mother figure.
“Thank you, Sylvia. Thank you for being there for me.”
“Always, honey,” Sylvia responded warmly. She hesitated briefly. “Have you spoken with Jimmy lately?”
Christi felt her heart skip a beat, the way it always did when she thought of James Harris. Although the two had resisted the temptation to act upon their feelings months ago when Bonnie was still in the picture, now that the divorce proceedings were apparently going forwarded, there was a part of her that allowed for hope.
“Not in a couple weeks. You?”
“Why yes,” Sylvia answered cautiously. “Yes I have.”
Christi tensed up. She heard the inflection in the older woman’s voice.
“What’s the matter?” She asked in a hush.
“First of all, Jimmy is fine,” Sylvia began so as not to alarm her. “But why don’t you take a seat and let me fill you in.”
Christi sat and listened as Sylvia explained the death threats and what they’d done to safeguard the Harris family. She told her about Jimmy’s fury and her concern for him.
“Do you think he’s okay? Should I reach out?” Christi asked. She found herself struggling to breathe. The thought of Jimmy being in such danger made her dizzy.
“I honestly don’t know,” Sylvia answered. “You know Jimmy, he’s a pretty unstoppable force once he gets going.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“But yes, Christi, I think it might be a good idea if you gave him a call. I know he’ll be happy to hear from you.”
“I absolutely will, Sylvia. Thank you for letting me know.”
“Of course, dear. I’ve got to run now. Let’s have lunch soon.”
“Okay, but only if it’s my treat! I owe you!”
Sylvia laughed whole-heartedly. She shook her head in amazement as she held the phone.
“And that is exactly what I love about you, kid. You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Ha,” Christi laughed in return. “Well before you give me too much credit, we’re just going to Soho, a cute little bistro where I happen to know the owner. Not exactly what you’re accustomed to.”
“Hey, I came up the hard way, young lady. I know what it’s like to struggle.”
“I know, I’m just playing.”
There was a pause as each of the women remained silent. They shared an affection and a bond that needed no words.
“You take care, kid. Love you.”
“Love you too, Sylvia. Bye.”
“Bye.”
The line went dead and Christi stared at her phone for a few seconds. She then opened her contacts and scrolled down to the J’s. Hesitating, she thought for a moment and then put the phone down.
She had another idea.
Mob Rules
18
Deputy Commissioner Shannon sat behind his desk and pondered the issue. Across from him in a soft, burgundy easy chair sat Brian Ansley, the lead federal investigator in charge of the Franco case. This was the man in charge of gathering evidence to indict the top bosses. He was also the man in charge of the confidential informant, Vincent Giovanni, also known as Skinny Vinny.
“What if he tips Scalaro?” Ansley asked.
Shannon hesitated, weighing his words. Perhaps, he thought, the unvarnished truth would be the best course. He took his time and when he spoke it was with complete sincerity.
“I think he will, actually.”
“You what!?” Ansley gasped, making no attempt to hide his astonishment.
“I think he will go as high up the food chain as he can and in exchange for the information he needs he will most likely tell them about the C.I..”
“Jesus H. Christ, Blake. Are you serious?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You talk like you’re okay with that,” Ansley said indignantly.
“Of course I’m not okay with it, but there was no other way.”
“You didn’t have to tell him how we knew.”
“Well I had to tell him something. His wife and son are in serious danger. I had to give him something to go on.”
“And if Anthony Scalaro figures out who the rat is, we won’t even find Vinny’s body.”
“Brian, I understand your concern, but nobody is going to spill the beans. And the Franco family is huge, they have over two hundred made guys. They’ll never be able to figure it out.”
“Jesus Christ,” the Fed sighed as he realized this was something out of his control. “I wish Giovanni had never even mentioned this bullshit.”
Blake Shannon glared across his desk at the man.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just make that statement.”
Ansley looked away in embarrassment. He realized what his words implied and immediately regretted them.
“Look,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean that. It was a stupid thing to say.”
“I get it,” Shannon said with a wry smile, letting the man off the hook. “We’re all under a lot of stress right now.”
“Well is there any way to muzzle this guy?”
Shannon, against his will, let out a short laugh.
“Something funny?” The federal agent asked.
“Sorry, Brian. It’s just that you don’t know Jimmy Harris like I do.”
“Meaning?”
“Uhhhh…meaning no. There is no way to muzzle him.” Shannon made air quotes as he said the word muzzle.
“Well that sure as hell isn’t a glowing testimonial on your ability to control your men, Blake.” The man said frankly.
“Look, Brian,” Shannon said with a smile as he ignored the jab. “You know about this guy, you know some of the things he’s done. And some of the things he’s been accused of doing.”
“Goddamn loose cannon.”
“Yeah. I agree. But he’s the kind of guy you want on your side. And all the other shit aside, he’s a damn good man, Brian.”
“Are you going to stand by that assertion if he single-handedly destroys our case and we lose a year of work and millions of tax payer’s dollars?”
“He’s never going to get the name of our C.I.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Who would tell him?”
“It doesn’t even matter necessarily. Just letting the Franco’s know that the
y have an informant might cause them to take drastic measures. These are not stupid people.”
“Then maybe it’s time to pull Giovanni off the streets?”
“We can’t, we’re not ready yet.”
“Well, I guess we just need to tell Vincent to be extra vigilant and to avoid the bosses as much as possible for the time being.”
“Jesus,” Ansley said. “If he ends up getting clipped we’re back to square one.”
“Brian,” Shannon spoke directly. “Jimmy will never get Vinny’s name. Nobody would be stupid enough to give it to him”
Ansley nodded. “Okay.”
The man stood and extended his hand. Blake shook it and the man turned and left the office.
As he watched his office door close, Blake let out a long sigh. Juggling the feds, the local cops and watching his friend go through hell was almost too much.
“What a bloody mess,” he spoke to the thin air.
Mob Rules
19
The low-ride, 1972 Chevy Nova had a bright, metallic flecked, purple paint job adorned with three snarling pit bulls airbrushed expertly onto the passenger and drivers doors. The ferocious animals, snarling and dripping white foam and saliva, were held fast by three strong chains attached to studded leather collars. Their eyes were painted red and demon-like as they strained against the chains, yearning to break free and let loose their savage fury.
Every player in the Bronx and beyond knew who owned this car. And those people who really knew him, would rather face the three demon dogs than the homicidal maniac who owned the car.
Rabi checked his rear view mirror to see that his cronies still followed in the plain, white cargo van. The van had been stolen from a storage lot the previous night. Once the job was finished one of them would drive it to the edge of the east river, get out, and push it into the dark water. That was how things were done. Only an idiot would pull a job in his own vehicle.
In the passenger seat sat Rafael Lamancha, street name Bird. Bird’s nickname was given to him because he raised pigeons on the rooftop of the Bronx tenement in which he was raised. It was a hobby left over from a childhood spent as far away from his drunk and abusive parent’s apartment as he could get. The birds were loyal and he felt a bond with each and every one of them. Through the birds he developed a kinship for those who treated him with love and a hatred for those who shunned him. Not quite as psychotic as his boss Rabi, Bird was a close second although he lacked the vision and keen mind needed for leadership. He was, however, an excellent soldier who would follow any order. He was Rabi’s most trusted Captain.
“You know what I need, right?” Rabi spoke as he studied the neighborhood.
“Yeah, man. I got it.”
“Do not fucking kill them, Bird. Grab the wife and the kid if possible. If not, the wife will do for now.”
“Rabi, no sweat. I got this, my brother.”
“I know you do, mi amigo. But if we fuck this up, we’ll have to go underground for about a year.”
“Just a grab, man. Done it before. It’s cool.”
Rabi pulled to the side of the street. The brownstones lined the block and Rabi pointed towards Harris’ house.
“That’s the one, man. The American flag. You got it?”
“Done.”
“Just the wife and kid. Our guy wants Harris to suffer. And he wants him to live. For now.”
The white van pulled behind the Nova.
Rabi turned his head to look at Bird.
“Once you make the grab, take them to the clubhouse and call me.”
“You got it, hermano.”
“Use the choppers if you got to, but low key is better.”
“We’ll be ready for anything, Rabi.”
“All right, but don’t kill them!” Rabi extended his open palm towards his friend. Bird slapped it hard and then grasped it, pulling the man’s arm towards him in a gesture of friendship.
“See you soon, Rabi.”
Bird exited the car and Rabi pulled away from the curb and drove down the street. He hung a left at the first intersection and was gone.
Bird walked back to the van and climbed in the passenger seat. He turned to face both the driver and the two Loco’s in the back.
“You guys know what’s up?”
“Yeah, man,” the driver spoke. The other two men nodded in unison. Their faces were set and there was no smiling.
“When it goes down, follow my lead. Nobody dies, understand? You kill the woman or the kid and you’ll have to answer to Rabi. Comprende?”
The men all looked to one another with the understanding. That’s all it took to ensure their obedience. The four gang members waited.
Mob Rules
20
As always, Harris took the steps in his precinct house two at a time. Although almost forty years old, Harris had the energy of a man half his age. He joked that he’d burn out long before most other men his age because his heart will have beaten so many more times than theirs in the same span of years. You only get so many heartbeats, he liked to joke, and when they’re used up, that’s the ball game.
He made it to the third floor, pushed open the right side of the double glass door and made for his office. Walking the empty path between desks, Harris nodded at a sergeant, made a quick right and came to his office. The placard on his door read
Special Crimes Division - Captain James Harris
Just as he was putting his key in the lock, his cell phone rang. He looked at the screen and saw the word Restricted. He allowed the phone to ring as he walked behind his desk and took a seat. Finally he thumbed the button.
“Harris,” he said curtly.
“How ya doing, Captain?” A familiar voice asked pleasantly. “It’s your new friend in Brooklyn.”
Harris froze for half a second. He understood the importance of this man reaching out to him and what it might signify.
“Hello Mr. Scalaro,” Harris responded politely. He was respectful yet firm.
“Please, Captain, call me Tony.”
“A little informal, isn’t that?” Harris asked. “I’m not looking for a friend, Mr. Scalaro. This is purely business.”
“Well Jimmy, I consider us friends. We have mutual interests.”
“And what would that be?” Harris queried.
“We’re both looking out for our families.”
Harris allowed a second to pass.
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Hello Tony.”
“Much better,” the underboss spoke with a chuckle. “Now, Jimmy, what do you got for me?”
“What do you mean? I believe the question is, what do you have for me?”
“It’s tit for tat, Officer Harris. You give a little you get a little.”
Harris remained silent.
“I already told you about the heroin investigation, Tony.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t really give me shit, although it sounds like an interesting story. Care to elaborate?”
Harris sighed and then spoke.
“The heroin ring that’s being run in Brooklyn and in the city is under heavy surveillance. We have a few low level dealers who are ready to play ball. As of yet we don’t have any ties to your family, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Yeah,” Scalaro pondered aloud. “That’s all very interesting, but I really don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about, Captain.”
“Of course you don’t,” Harris answered. “But the thing is, they have nothing without me testifying. And all of a sudden I’m a little hazy on the details. In fact, I think I may have trouble keeping my facts straight.”
“Is that a fact?” Scalaro asked.
“Yeah, that’s a fact. Now what have you got?”
“Well, don’t quote me on this, but word is that there’s a crew out of the Bronx that’s trying to get to the next level. Apparently they just signed a major league deal.”
“Who?”
Scalaro hesitated. He didn’t want to
give too much away.
“Who, Mr. Scalaro?”
“A group calling itself the Loco’s. Neighborhood trash, the type that whack each other over dime bags. Not too well organized but they have a hard rep.”
“Who’s the head?”
“How the hell do I know? I don’t normally follow the minor leaguers, Captain. I’m just telling you what I heard.”
“Okay, it’s a start. Thank you.”
“You can thank me by giving up the snitch.”
“Even if I had that info, which I don’t, I couldn’t give it up. I told you what I’d do. I meant it.”
Scalaro laughed, biding his time.
“Okay, Captain. Okay.”
“I appreciate the heads up.”
“Sure thing, Jimmy, call me if you need anything else. Just remember the rules.”
The line went dead.
Harris quickly logged onto his computer and opened the NYPD files on street gangs in the Bronx. After just a few minutes he found what he was looking for. He read the information thoroughly, learning everything he could about The Loco’s. He clicked a tab on the file and a mug shot appeared. The leader of the gang.
Angel Lopez…aka Rabi.
Harris felt his blood boil as he stared at the picture of the thug. This was the man who had agreed to kill his family. This was the man who planned on murdering Bonnie and Danny. His jaw began to ache and Harris realized he’d been clenching his teeth tightly. He let the photograph burn into his mind. When he’d memorized every detail of the man’s face he clicked the file closed. Every fiber of his being already wanted him dead.
Harris turned his computer off. He had what he needed, the name and location of the gang and most importantly, its leader.
Rabi.
Harris pushed back from his chair and headed back to the streets.
Mob Rules
21
The room was eerily still. Firelight flickered and danced on the furniture and walls with a hypnotic, orange glow. The heat from the fire warmed her face and Bonnie took another sip of the wine she held cradled in her hand. She sat on the plush rug just a few feet in front of the fire. Her bodyguard Mike sat on the couch to her right. Without turning her head, she shifted just her eyes to look at the man who sat across from her. He gazed into the fire, very aware that he was being watched.
MOB RULES Page 7
