“Then what happened?” Tom Coughlin had a different look on his face then, still a scowl, but a scowl of a different sort. He threw another piece on the metallic cairn.
“Then he flicked his wrist. So fast. So fast. At first I didn’t know what happened. But then a spray of his blood hit me in the face. The red line crept along his neck and he fell to the ground in a puddle of his own blood. Rafael stooped down, picked up the man’s cigarettes and says to me, ‘You’re coming with me. You’re gonna learn how to defend yourself, and you’re gonna smoke these cigarettes and remember. Always remember.’”
“What the fuck? You’re telling me Rafael Rontego played nurse maid to you?” Tom rolled his eyes and looked away.
“No. He dropped me off with Mrs. Carbone, the widow.” Ivan cracked his neck, trying to shake the memories from his shoulders.
“Holy shit. I knew Mrs. Carbone.” Jimmy had a wide grin on his face now.
“Yeah, he stopped by every week. And when I was fourteen, he took me on my first hit. Then he began to train me. Sometimes Muro. Mostly Rafael. But always, after, we smoked a Sobranie and we remembered.”
“Remembered, eh? What, that you cried when you were eight?” Tom crossed his arms in front of him.
“No. I remember that those who hurt me, those who mock me, those who stand in the way, can all die. What’s made of flesh can by flesh be undone.” Ivan narrowed his eyes at Tom Coughlin, who took a step back.
For a long minute everyone was silent. Jimmy broke the tension by holding up his little metal control box and with a grin asked, “Know why they call this the magic show?” He didn’t wait for anyone to answer before going on. “Because now you see him…” He pressed the red button and a yellow floodlight illuminated the metallic mouth. A loud humming noise reverberated from beneath the ground as gears to an engine began to crank. The yellow steel slab slowly descended pushing the metal pieces and Pavel together with a screeching and wrenching noise filled with straining of the gears as they pressed the slab downward and through the debris underneath. “... And now you don’t.” He said it with a flourish as the metal began to pull up and the sides of the maw came together in a sideways bite. A small cube comprised of metal, as well as crushed bits of Pavel, inched forward and out of the contraption onto a narrow conveyor. Jimmy hit another button and the machine began to wind down. The small cube fell off the ledge and landed at their feet as they walked towards the end of the rolling real estate.
Tom leaned down and looked at the cube squinting. “It’s not a great magic trick, really.”
“What are you talking about?” The grin left Jimmy’s face in a hurry.
“Well, I think if you look real hard you can sorta still see a bit of Pavel in there.”
Chapter 9
Why the fuck am I not dead?
He swung his head around and sniffed at the dank air that made it past the tiny holes in the canvass covering his face. His blood had dried a while ago. It’d gone from a sticky wetness to crusted; pulling as bits of the canvass became ensnared in the fresh scabs growing across the wounds on his face. He knew from that alone that time was moving forward, that and the slow growl gurgling from his gut. A few hours back he stopped wondering if the cracks that ridged his lips were cuts or chapped lips that ruptured. Probably a bit of both.
Drip. Drip drip. Drip.
The constant noise irritated Rafael even more then the bag on his face. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to become aware of his surroundings, to hear past the water hitting the puddle on the floor.
Twice men walked the length of the staircase. The first time Rafael was groggy. But the second time he was ready and he counted thirteen steps judging by the thuds of the shoes on the wooden planks. It was straight ahead and to his left. He listened past the sound of the water, past the heart beating in small bursts from his temples, past his own steady breathing.
He heard footsteps up above. Loud clunks echoed off the planking somewhere on the main floor. Several short stomps seemed to follow a shout. Then the footsteps increased in frequency, picking up a definite pace.
Someone’s running.
He wasn’t sure until he heard a short scream. Female. It was quickly muffled and followed by a loud thud. The sound had the tone of finality coupled with the silence that escorted it.
A door above began to open and Rafael could smell the musk of the basement float upwards as the hinges creaked in protest. Soft steps carried someone down thirteen steps. The person stopped in front of him. He could feel his presence there, infecting the sanctity of the subterranean hold. His ear twitched when he heard the man breathe softly to his right. Rafael couldn’t help but tilt his head a bit to better hear when a hand struck him across his left cheek. Air came out of his mouth, chased by lightning bolts, but he refused to let anything else escape.
He heard the breathing on his left and his brain told him to turn to the right to hear a bit better. But before his body could react, his instinct pushed his face left and towards where last he heard the breathing. A gust of air echoed off of his right eardrum as an object whisked past.
The man laughed. A slow chuckle reverberated around him and seemed to catch off of some piping lining the roof of his dwelling. The laugh rang with a metallic hint.
“Nice try asshole.” Rafael’s voice sounded hoarse and raspy but even the sound of his battered vocals seemed to send his body strength. It felt good to know he existed.
The laugh rolled on a bit longer and then a voice in broken English materialized inches from Rafael’s face. “The American slang amuses me.” The voice throbbed with bits of Moscow, Rafael was certain of it. “You say asshole because it is where shit comes from. This is very funny. Today I heard another, dick face. Also very funny.” His laugh had an unnerving quality to it. Rafael had heard it before on men who were unhinged. It tickled Rafael’s spine.
It’s gotta stop.
He snapped his head forward and threw his weight behind it, nearly lifting the chair from the floor as he flung forward forehead first into the black fog. About halfway though his momentum, his head connected with the soft center of his captors face. A small crackling sound met Rafael’s ears as a spray of blood landed on him in tiny droplet’s. Some hit his covering in soft drops that lightly peppered the canvass bag.
This time there was a gust of air from the man in front of him followed by his feet stumbling backwards. He yelped in pain and then Rafael heard the footsteps come at him in a hurry. He anticipated the first swing and dodged right, but the second one caught him square on the jaw and this time the chair did fall over. Rafael hit his head on the concrete behind him and the jolt from the cement hurt worse than the sting on his jaw. He was still clinging to consciousness when he felt his body go weightless for a moment and then the chair clanked downward as its legs re-settled on the floor.
The captor grunted and said something in Russian he didn’t understand. He heard the footsteps come at him again and he braced himself for impact, only it never came. Instead a hand came down on his head and grabbed a chunk of the canvass bag and ripped upward. Rafael bit into his lips as it pulled away from his face with a tearing noise and he felt his face go wet as the scabs tore away with the bag. The basement was dark, but it felt like someone poured light directly into his pupils, after being immersed in total darkness for so long. His eyes watered instantly and he could barely see past the pools in front of him. Bits of light refracted off the droplet’s of water that gathered in the crease of his squinting eyes.
Keep them open you fool, now’s your chance to make something of this situation.
The man grunted and it seemed he had bumped into the light because it began to sway back and forth. Rafael expected the man to strike him, and he wasn’t disappointed when the fist barreled into his stomach, knocking the breach from him and throwing his chair back again. This time he braced his neck and the majority of the jolt absorbed into his shoulders when he thudded to the ground still strapped to his chair. The wind left
his lungs with a gush and he coughed and wheezed as his lungs deflated inward on themselves sucking for air.
“Arrogant Americans. This is nothing new. I bring you here, as a guest, and this,” he waved his hand over his face and as Rafael’s eyes refocused. “This is how you repay me. Ungrateful.”
Rafael looked past the pools of water that formed as his lungs searched for air and his eyes regrouped from the instant exposure of light. The man’s face looked like a bloody mess, his nose turned half way towards his left cheek. Rafael nearly smiled. He knew why the man bumped into the light. He was a bit wobbly and swayed back and forth on weak legs. He wore a white wife-beater that was drenched in blood in a purple red splatter that seemed to creep downward. When he spoke a bit of blood clung to the front of his teeth. “Let us start again.”
He walked over and picked Rafael’s chair up once again. Rafael looked over the basement as the man did so. There wasn’t much to it. There was a stairwell in front of him to his left. A blocked out window too small for a man to escape through was up at the top of the wall to his right. A small room exited to his right and in front of him as well. It was a dirty basement, just cement flooring with dirt streaking it in spots where someone had stepped in any of the myriad of small puddles that spotted the floor. The pipes leaked and he heard the familiar dripping.
The chair settled back on its legs and the man continued. “You have something which belongs to us.”
Rafael could taste his blood on his lips and he licked them, the iron taste staining his tongue. He turned his head and spit on the floor. “Unlikely.”
“You were the last one to see the cop, yes?” The man felt his broken nose tenderly and took his shirt off, revealing a tapestry of tattoos. He was prison hard and had scars under the sleeves of ink. He held his shirt to his nose as he talked. “No matter. You did. We know you did. Where is he?”
Rafael searched his mind but couldn’t think of who the man was talking about. Even if he did he wasn’t sure he would tell him anyway. He glanced up at him, fixing his cold grey eye above the wrecked nose. “Go fuck yourself, comrade.”
The man laughed but Rafael noticed he winced as he held his hand to face. He switched hands and Rafael noticed he had another tat on the top. A black spider with red diamonds across the body. “Why is it you think every Russian is comrade or Bolshevik?” He walked next to Rafael and he could smell the cigarette smoke and vodka rolling off of his teeth.
Explains the relentless bleeding. Thin blood.
He squatted, eye level with the assassin but at a safe enough distance to avoid another crack to his face. “Never mind. We know you know. So you will tell us. This is truth, eh, comrade dick face.”
“Yeah? And if I do? I know how this game works. I tell you, you kill me.” He eyed the Russian, unblinking.
The captor seemed to mull over Rafael’s words, then shrugged. “Yes, this is truth. But you tell us and you die like a soldier. Fast. Not in pieces. This is preferable.”
A man who descended the stairs two at a time interrupted them. He was a brute, at least six feet tall. His black crew cut only served to make his face seem even like a square. He pulled up when he noticed the other man’s face.
Rafael cleared his throat. They both turned to look at him. “You do know who I am don’t you? You know who I’m with?”
The big one grinned, but the other just cast his eyes on him and turned away. He said something in Russian, and the brute smiled again. That’s when Rafael noticed the lead pipe in his hands. His six-foot frame moved fast on long strides and after about two steps he was leaning into Rafael’s ribs with the metal rod. The first hit cracked a rib. The snapping sound was unmistakable and for the third time the assassin hit the floor. His breath left him. The second blow struck him as he lay prone on the floor and then a flurry of them hit his arms and chest. If he had air he would have cried out, but he didn’t and so he couldn’t. After each hit the one with the spider tattoo would shout, “You tell us?” It went on like this for what seemed an eternity.
If I could talk, I’d tell them I painted the Mona Lisa if they wanted me to, dumb fucks.
Then with another word in Russian from the first, the brute stopped and stepped backward, his chest heaving from the effort it took to pummel Rafael.
“This is going too slow. Bring her.”
The large one shouted up the stairs, and a chair slid against the floor up above. There were the sounds of footsteps and then they were coming down the stairs. Another man appeared, with tats along his arm, this one with webbing along the length of both forearms before they disappeared under his brown short sleeve shirt. On his shoulder was a tiny thing, a brown haired girl with streaks of blonde lining her face. She swung like a sack of potatoes on the man’s shoulder. He pulled a chair from behind Rafael and put her onto it. He bound her hands like Rafael’s.
What the fuck is going on here?
The man stood behind her hanging head, lifted it up by the hair and placed a slender knife to her throat. The edge had a dozen ridges on it, each one razor sharp.
“You tell us. Or we must kill the girl.”
“Who is she and why do I care? Fuck this. Who are you?” Rafael couldn’t help himself. He looked over at the girl with her head slumped forward. The weight of it was supported by a fist full of hair in the man’s hand. “Me? I am the Black Widow. But this does not matter. We will kill the girl. Tell us where the cop is.”
Rafael set his face and looked into the man’s eyes.
Don’t let them know any threats can work, or they’ll keep pulling that string till you unravel.
“I don’t know the girl. Kill her. I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Russian glared at him, but Rafael noticed the shift in his eye.
He’s not sure.
He made another hand gesture, as if he wanted Rafael to come forward. His shadow bounced in the light of the lone swinging bulb in the cellar. He was contemplating how he was expected to respond when a small shuffle passed him on his left from behind. It was an old man.
How long has he been there?
Rafael had never even noticed him. The man looked back at Rafael as he walked towards the Russians. A small, almost imperceptible scar ran from his bottom lip to his chin. The assassin felt the blood drain from his face. He looked over at the girl again, this time squinting for a better view.
“Richard?”
The man let a wan smile play across his face before it tightened back up. “Some call me Uncle Dick.” He nodded at the girl.
The Black Widow laughed. “Dick, like of the face.”
Rafael thrashed against his binds. He felt the heat rise into every cut on his face and into each bruise along his body. “How the fuck could you?!”
Uncle Dick spat on the ground. “Everyone has a price. Everyone. Mine was money, yours is her. Works out for everyone. Well, everyone except you, I guess.”
The Black Widow laughed. “Yes, the old man is very tough. But he almost couldn’t go through with it. Weak. But he did just enough. My man had to club him in the head to keep him quiet.” The Russian shook his head in a somber sway. “If I hadn’t been ordered to keep you alive, you would be dead old man. Oh well. We have her. We have you.” He held his bloodied knuckles towards Rafael. “Now we need the cop.”
Uncle Dick walked towards the stairs and sat down rubbing the back of his head.
Fuckers never know when to retire.
“Well, like I said, I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
The Black Widow let out a hiss of exasperation and nodded to his large companion. The large man rolled his neck, letting it issue a series of pops and rolled his shoulders back, loosening them up.
Guess he doesn’t want to pull something while he beats my brains in. I really do wish I knew what the fuck they want.
Just before the man got to him Rafael threw a broken smile, his usually slicked back hair fell in damp bloody tresses across his forehead. “Okay you Red bastar
d, let’s do this.” The Russian put his knuckles into the side of Rafael’s cheek in answer, sending his head to the right in a snap that nearly threw his jaw into his shoulder. The assassin took the hit anticipating the swing, but it wasn’t nearly enough, as the Russian knew how to punch through an unmoving target quite well. Stars exploded through the back of Rafael’s eyeballs just a second before the second hit struck him across his lips, sending a fresh stream of blood down his mouth. The third hit tossed Rafael and the chair to the floor and a string of his red spit hung from his loose lips.
“This is all futile, yes. Just tell us where he is. Why protect a cop who tried to kill you?” The Black Widow was speaking to the ceiling as if it were more interesting than the beating happening three feet from him. Uncle Dick seemed to look past the whole scene and his eyes darted back and forth between Rafael and the girl unconscious in the chair over.
Are you fucking serious? Is that who they want?
His lips felt like he had swallowed socks and everything tasted of salt and iron. But as the big Russian loomed over him, Rafael mumbled something. It caused the Black Widow to raise his hand and stop the oncoming brute.
“What? What is this you said?” He crouched down to Rafael. A pair of black military boots perfectly shined met the assassin’s eyes.
“You guys ever just think of asking,” he fumbled over his clumsy tongue. Rafael muttered an address. At the very least it could buy him time.
They won’t kill me until they verify the information. I won’t be any good as a damned vegetable either.
The Black Widow snapped his fingers at the large man who immediately went up the stairs and called out something in Russian to his compatriots. Still squatting so close to the assassin that he thought to bite him, the Black Widow continued in his thick English. “This is good. We go there, we find the cop, we find the money, and we kill you fast.” He stood up, a smile reaching to his ears. “You are still a whole man. No missing toes or fingers, yes this is good.” He clapped his hands together in a thunderous collision. “Very good.”
Buffalo Soldiers (An Upstate New York Mafia Tale Book 2) Page 11
