Buffalo Soldiers (An Upstate New York Mafia Tale Book 2)

by Nicholas Denmon

  “You said we could revisit my request to get the boys on the street on this, too. We might be able to get some gossip about what’s going down. If the Italians put a hit out on him, some of the neighborhood rats would know.” He folded his hands in front of him and spread his feet to shoulder length. Sydney knew Briggs well enough to know he was digging his heels in expecting her to fight him on this. And she couldn’t blame him; she had wanted to keep the raid as close to the vest as possible.

  But things had changed.

  The boys on the street, the other four men she commanded were all undercover in various pockets of the city. Two were infiltrating groups suspected of Muslim extremism and two others had so far unsuccessfully attempted a penetration of Ciancetta’s operations. But their ears were close to the grapevine and they might have heard of some sort of movement if the Don had ordered it.

  “Agreed. Get the boys on it. I want to know if Ciancetta so much as had a man whisper Rafael Rontego’s name and then I want to find out why.”

  Sydney sighed and arched her back, stretching it. The tension felt like it had curled up under her spine and was playing kickball with it.

  She caught Briggs looking at her, but not like he used to. His concern hung at the corners of his mouth, clinging to the frown that pulled his angular cheeks downward.

  “What?” She unlocked her computer and looked at he picture of her father bouncing across the screen.

  “Just worried for ya. That’s all. It’s a lot to put on yourself. Resist the urge.”

  She looked at him but couldn’t find any words.

  Briggs, seeming to think she was angry, rose again and reached for the door in front of him. “I’ll leave ya alone. I know you probably need to be by yourself. Alone.” He eased the door shut, keeping his eyes through the crack until the last second as the door came to a close.

  Sydney immediately felt her hands begin to shake and she slumped down into her chair.

  She whispered into the stillness that permeated her office, “The last thing I need is to be alone.”

  *

  Eddie let Ivan out of the car with his bag of new clothes and pulled away from the curb in front of a wrought iron sliding gate that hung gaping near the corner of Scott Street and Chicago Street, just inside Buffalo’s first ward. The place had a standard wood sign in bold letters announcing it as a trendy place to live. “The Lofts” were spitting distance from Interstate 190 and Ivan could smell the stale exhaust mingling with the fresh scent of autumn. The apartments faced the backside of some building that had doors to enter the shops and drainage pipes angled towards gutters cluttered with various debris. A pair of brick buildings sat at the end of the street and Ivan took in a deep breath, realizing that past the exhaust was the smell of home.

  Ivan looked at the key The Pope gave him and saw the room number taped there. He didn’t know exactly where to go so he made his way towards a clubhouse in the back. A lady walked her dog along the grass-line ringing the parking lot and Ivan thought she could smell Elmira Correctional on him by the way she crinkled her nose and turned away as he wound his way along the main strip where several low, two-story brown and white buildings stood sentinel alongside a scattering of trimmed maples that passed for landscaping.

  Ivan passed by a pair of youths playing some basketball with their shirts off inside a caged court that was obviously a local amenity. Another sat on the fence typing on what appeared to be a cell phone of some sort. Ivan took it all in and stopped walking for a moment. The kid on the phone turned and looked up at him. His face was long and he had brown hair that looked like it might break if Ivan were to touch it.

  “Wanna play? Two on two?”

  Ivan walked over and stood next to him, gripping the cage with his free hand and watching the two boys battle each other for position on the court.

  “No not today. I’ve had enough of basketball and cages to last a lifetime.”

  The boy shrugged and went back to typing on his phone.

  Ivan bounced off the cage after a moment and meandered the rest of the way to the clubhouse. When he got there, the doors were locked, but there was a plastic bin hanging from the wall that had free maps of the property.

  He found his place on the second floor of the building closest to the entrance so he made his way back towards the anterior. He passed the courts again but the boy on the phone was gone and the basketball players leaned against the fence now, apparently taking a breather.

  No one paid him any attention.

  This is what’s out here. This is freedom.

  Everything felt the same as it did before he was put away. The world marched on and Ivan went away from it unnoticed and practically returned to it unnoticed.

  Where the fuck was that bastard?

  He couldn’t believe he didn’t show up to his homecoming. He didn’t expect much when he got out. Frankly the apartment and the wad of cash was a nice touch. Most guys didn’t even get that. But why did he leave an envelope with the driver if he wasn’t even going to show up to the homecoming.

  Ivan unlocked the deadbolt that guarded his new one bedroom, one bath flat. The place was airy and immediately felt like a palace compared to “Forty-Eight” in Elmira. Boys on the Hill called it that because of the six by eight feet dimensions.

  Eleven years, three months, and seventeen days.

  Tile stretched floor to floor and a small kitchen stood immediately beyond the entrance and led into a furnished living room with a single couch and a television. Ivan spent a moment, marveling at the flat screen. He walked to a doorway in the corner of the room. It was a bedroom about twice the size of his old cell and it even had a tiny bathroom to the right of the door.

  Again fully furnished. For half a heartbeat Ivan felt paranoid. His palms went sweaty and his stomach folded over itself.

  What if they’re gonna wack me?

  But just as quickly he shook his head. It would have been easier to do it in prison.

  Ivan kicked off his shoes and leaned back on the full sized bed. It too was twice the size of the bunk he shared in cellblock 7A. He lay on the farthest left side of the bed, leaving three-fourths of the surface untouched.

  Weary and alone.

  When he went away he had a family. When he went away he did it for a friend that was as close to him as his real family. When he went away, promises had been made.

  None of that remained now.

  Ivan pulled out the faded photograph of Anika, his fingers traced an outline around her face but he stared only at her eyes. The blue orbs laughed at him from a distant place, some distant time. He closed his eyes and could almost feel her soft skin, the raised freckle on her right cheekbone. The tiny photograph had been sealed in plastic for the last decade and it still smelled of smoke. Most people would have thought the tiny rectangle had a stink to it, but to Ivan it reminded him of their apartment together. The smoke reminded him of her.

  “My Anika,” he whispered. He pulled the picture to his chest and closed his eyes one more time; he remembered when she used to place her head in that very spot.

  Eleven years, three months, and seventeen days.

  The sun receded behind the rim of the world as Ivan lay there on his oversized mattress. Dusk crept up the walls of the bedroom and reached out a shaded finger as if to pull Ivan down into the blackness. It crawled weightlessly along his face, embracing him with shadowy tentacles that covered the whole of Ivan and the room in darkness.

  He must have dozed off because he awoke with a start.

  “Where is she,” he yelled.

  But the room just mocked him with its black glare and a small buzzing sound. He sucked in a breath as if he hadn’t pulled air through his lungs in days. With a gasp, he sat up straight in the bed and gulped in oxygen.

  The buzzing continued and finally Ivan stood up and tracked the source down in the living room. On a small end table a tiny cell phone was impatiently berating Ivan with a buzzing noise that bounced the phone in small jumps a
long the wood.

  Ivan picked up the phone; grateful the caller couldn’t see the confusion that creased his brow.

  I don’t have a fucking cell phone.

  “Hello?” His voice graveled with sleep.

  “Ivan, this is The Pope. I need you to meet me at Morrissey’s. Know it?” He sounded like he was in a car, the windows must have been down too because the wind seemed to whip through the phone, creating a bit of interference.

  “No. Never heard of it.” Ivan rubbed his face, hoping to throw the sleep off it.

  “Guess you wouldn’t. It’s an Irish pub across from the HSBC arena, where the Sabres play. It’s off of Mississippi Street. Couple of blocks from where you are. I’ll be there in ten.” He was curt and his voice left little room for discussion.

  “Okay.” Ivan pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. The thing was so small. Phones changed a lot over the last decade. He rifled through his new clothes and pulled out a black hoodie that zipped up to his neck, and shoved the cell into his pocket along with his keys. He grabbed the picture of Anika from his bed and put it carefully back into his wallet. Then without looking around, he walked out of the apartment and started making his way towards Morrissey’s.

  The walk was a nice one, the air crisp as autumn beat back the Lake Erie breeze. Dusk had now descended upon the whole of the city and the trees that were so colorful during the day stood as long-armed silhouettes standing guard along the city streets. They whispered names as Ivan rushed past them, their leaves rustling through his conscience.

  Ivan pulled the hood over his head and kept his head down, avoiding their knowing gazes as he scrambled westward along Scott Street and hung a left on Michigan Avenue. He could see the lights of the arena in the distance when he poked his head up and turned west again on Perry Street. A couple walked past him arm in arm, laughing about some private joke and Ivan wondered what the fuck was funny. He cut another left onto Mississippi Avenue and found the bar about halfway down the block.

  Warm lights blazed from the windows and gold lettering announced the place as Morrissey’s Irish Pub. An American flag hung from the center of the building over a wooden deck that lined the front and Irish flags hung from the corners of the building, incessantly prattling about in the wind. The place had a few patrons milling about, but it was clearly too early for the evening crowds.

  He slid inside the door and was greeted by rich tiled floors and a cherry wood bar that stood in front of a big Irish flag and a blood red wall. The Pope was sitting by himself at the bar and a couple of guys in their mid-twenties sat at a table in the far corner. One had the beginnings of a mustache while the other threw back a shot, nearly tossing his black golf cap from his head.

  The Pope turned in his stool and waved Ivan over with a smile.

  “Joe, two glasses of scotch.”

  Joe, a thick-shouldered man with a thicker mustache turned to grab the drinks at the far end of the bar.

  Ivan sat down next to The Pope. He glanced at the consigliore and then back at the two kids who seemed to be whispering something funny, because they both snickered and returned to their cups.

  “How do you like the apartment? Suitable?” The Pope glanced over at Ivan as if attempting to read his face.

  What does he want to hear? He didn’t call me out here to make sure I was fucking comfortable.

  “It’s great. Feels like a palace compared to 7A on The Hill.” He glanced at his fingers beneath his furrowed brow and then looked up at The Pope who nodded his head and seemed to be looking at a mirror on the red wall behind the bar. Ivan saw the youths in the back of the bar in the reflection of the three-foot pane of glass.

  The Pope started to cough a bit, but stifled it with his rag and, eyes watering, asked, “And the cell phone? I figured you could use one.”

  “It’s great.” Ivan sighed and turned on his stool. He leaned in closer to The Pope, barely raising his voice above a whisper. “All due respect, what do you want? You didn’t call me out here to discuss my fucking comfort. No one gave a shit about it when I packed my bags and went to Elmira. No one gave a shit about it when my wife was gobbling up pills that were probably pushed by our guys on the street, and no one sure as hell gives a fuck right now. So again, with all due respect Mr. Biela, what do you want?”

  Joe picked that moment to set down two glasses of triple distilled scotch between the two men. The Pope, never taking his eyes off of Ivan, began to take out his wallet, but Joe waved him off.

  “Your money’s no good here. These are on the house.” He flashed a tight smile and shuffled off towards the end of the bar. Barkeeps have a sixth sense for tension. But he needn’t have worried.

  The Pope took a sip of his drink and turned an amused eye on Ivan. “Still all business after all these years, eh? That’s okay. Grab your drink and let’s walk.” He stood up and walked out of the place with out even so much as looking back to see if Ivan was following.

  But of course I’m following. What the fuck else am I gonna do? From a jail cell to a leash. Damn it.

  They walked out of the bar and The Pope walked towards the edge of the establishment. The parking lot was nearly vacant at this hour, and the night sky seemed to shroud them for the whispers that came from The Pope’s mouth.

  “Ivan, I know you don’t think anyone gives a shit about you when you go away. But the fact of the matter is we can’t. How can we?” He waited for a moment and when he saw that Ivan was content to sip his scotch and stare across the lot, he continued. “But the big man is very proud of you. His respect for you runs deep.”

  Ivan looked him in the eye and said, “I appreciate the money.”

  The Pope chuckled. “You think I’m here for a thank you? I’m here to tell you that we have a way in for you.”

  The Russian glared at The Pope, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What do you mean in?”

  “We can make you.” The Pope pulled up against the deck rail and turned. He coughed again, but took a swallow, driving the tickle back into his toes with a dose of premium scotch.

  “Fuck you. I’m not Italian.” Ivan took another swallow.

  “You stupid fucking Russian. I’m not Italian either. But the boss is running his shit more like The Outfit these days. Our manpower took a serious fucking hit in case you didn’t hear. We’re bringing in a boatload of fucking Sicilians just to try and get traction here. If he knows he can trust you, which he feels he can, he’s prepared to give you part of Ward One.”

  “Ward One.” He looked into his scotch. He drank it quicker than he thought he might.

  “Ward One,” The Pope repeated. “Lackawanna. From the coast and the Skyway to I-90. From Park Avenue south to maybe Camp Rd.”

  “No shit.” Ivan felt his breath hitch. “That’s some fucking territory. And my crew?”

  The Pope waved him off. “For the small time stuff that’s up to you. But we have a few boys we’ll want you to take. A couple of the Sicilians, Ricky Vincenzio maybe. Point is we need to recruit workers. Soldiers. But we have to be careful while we do it. Things get hot around here pretty fast.”

  Ivan chuckled. The tension seemed to fall off of him.

  If I could get made, be a made man, I’d get to call some shots around here. But what do they want from me to get that carrot?

  He felt the smile run from his lips, and The Pope seemed to notice it too. He pulled his cheeks back in a tight clench and asked, “What? What are you thinking? Out with it.”

  “What’s the price?” The Russian studied the consigliore’s face and knew he was about to drop a bomb on him. He tried to brace himself but nothing would have prepared him for the next words out of the man’s mouth.

  “Rafael Rontego.” It was his turn to be studied and the Polish bastard took his last sip of scotch and swallowed it with a grimace.

  “You know what the fuck you just said to me?” His voice came out higher than it should have but he didn’t fucking care.

  Eleven years, thr
ee months, seventeen days.

  Ivan felt his knuckles constrict on the glass. But The Pope just slid along the rail and came closer to him, lowered his voice even more.

  “I’m aware Mr. Nivsky. Shit like this is never easy. But trust me when I say we have very good reasons. This comes straight from the top. I don’t like it any more than you do, but the fact is he has become an immediate liability.” The Pope leaned away and coughed again. Ivan watched him as he covered his mouth with the rag from his pocket, but he didn’t really give a fuck. The fact of the matter was that if this man wasn’t the Don’s right hand then he’d already be dead for even suggesting he kill Rafael.

  “You’re aware I just spent eleven years in prison, on the Hill, because I kept my mouth shut for this man? He’s like my own blood.” Ivan heard the tremble in his voice as he tried to swallow his mounting rage and pride.

  The Pope recovered from his cough and a bead of sweat rested on the tip of his nose, but he wiped it away with a twitch of his hand and the back of his sleeve. He took the same hand and grabbed the back of Ivan’s head, pulling him so close he could smell the scotch permeating his flesh. This close, Ivan could see the pall that hung on The Pope’s face. A slight shade of yellow ate across the pale and nearly feverish skin. He tried to pull away but the consigliore had a stronger grip than his weakened frame might suggest. His grip was like a rigor mortis clench that kept the larger man at bay.

  This one is already dead. I wonder if he knows it.

  When he spoke his voice slipped through his thin lips with a crack, his throat torn from the hard spittle that forced its way up and out. “We’re all family. That’s the oath you want. Well, your family is telling you what needs to be done.” He let go of his head and Ivan snapped back and away from The Pope. “You never turn your back on family Ivan.”

  They began a slow walk down the wooden steps and around the parking lot. The Pope was wary of ears.

  What about when the family turns its back on you?

  The Pope continued talking but Ivan was barely listening. His mind was kicking his brains around, trying to find a way out of this mess. It wasn’t killing that bothered him. That was what Rafael was training him for anyway. But not this man.