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

by Nicholas Denmon

  He disregarded him because he was retired but that was stupid. The man was as crafty as they come and he was always a greedy fucker. The Pope couldn’t discount the possible involvement of the Bonanno crew but neither could he discount that retired old fuck either. After all, he had been close to Muro and that rat bastard ended up being a traitor too in the end.

  Nuncio had the Town Car in the left hand turn lane and the light flicked to green.

  “Nuncio, we’re not going home after all. We need to see an old friend.”

  The driver, already turning left, glanced back at him. “Where to boss?”

  “We need to go see old Dick LoGalbo.”

  Nuncio nodded and hit a U-turn almost immediately. He crossed a set of double yellow lines and aimed the car back uptown on Delaware Avenue.

  “You know where he lives?” The Pope asked as the rear of the car fishtailed and righted itself as Nuncio accelerated.

  “Yeah, he lives near Forest Lawn Cemetery. All the guys joke that he has one foot in the grave so he just wants to make things easier.”

  The Pope resisted the urge to smile. “If I know one thing about Dick it’s that he won’t make anything easy for anyone. He’s crafty and when backed into a corner he’s proven himself to be downright deadly.” The Pope looked out the window but his wan reflection gazed back bouncing off the black windows. His cheeks looked sunken and the dark circles under his eyes looked deeper. He sighed, feeling the weight push him down further into his seat.

  I won’t make things easy on you.

  “You’re packing, right Nuncio?”

  “Always.”

  From where he sat The Pope could just see the driver’s knuckles on the wheel. They were nearly twice the size of his own and he didn’t doubt for a moment that Nuncio wouldn’t even need a gun. He could strangle Dick LoGalbo with his bare hands if he wanted to.

  The Pope shuddered thinking of it. “How’s your mother?”

  Nuncio cleared his throat, a bit startled by the abrupt change in topics. “She’s good. Real good.” He paused for a moment and looked out the window briefly before turning his eyes back to the road in front of him. “She prays for you.”

  He felt the heat rise to his face but he swallowed the bitter pill labeled “pride” and said, “Tell her I appreciate it.” He looked at his hands. Clothes held the rest of his bones together and shielded their emaciated nature from everyone but himself. But his hands told the truth. The looked feeble even to him. Even so, a funny thought struck him. “You don’t pray for me, Nuncio?” He raised an eyebrow, knowing the driver would look back at him through the rearview again.

  “No, boss.”

  “Why is that old friend?” He didn’t really give a shit but he liked to torture Nuncio a little bit.

  “Because you don’t need praying for. You’re either gonna cheat death and live forever in spite or you’re gonna outsmart the devil and Saint Peter and find yourself in a place a damn sight better than where I’m at or going to be.”

  That made The Pope lean back and smile. “Thank you, Nuncio.”

  “For what?”

  “For not praying for me.” He looked back at his hands and clenched his fist. There was strength still left in that grip.

  “Any time, boss.”

  It was another five minutes of silence before they reached the address where Dick LoGalbo lived. 80 Berkley Place stood three stories high. White aluminum siding rose up in neatly stacked rows, broken up only by a tarred overhang at the first level. It then rose two more stories with the third level being three small windowed rectangles that jutted out of the roof. An old elm spotted the square patch of grass that led under an overhang above the front door, supported by neatly stacked stones formed into two columns. Nuncio stopped the car right in front of a sidewalk that ran straight to five red steps that, in turn, led to the front porch and then to a door painted white.

  “Want me to wait in the car?” Nuncio asked the question but he was already taking the safety off of his gun. He knew The Pope wasn’t merely curious about his packing heat earlier.

  “No. But I don’t want to go in there with guns blazing or anything like that either. This man retired years ago. If he stayed retired we have no problems and we move on. Capice? I just want to ask a few questions.”

  The Pope knew this was more delicate than it might seem. Dick LoGalbo retired before the war, despite his known fondness of Muro. A wise choice because Muro was dead, as was the man he worked for. But before he retired Dick was a man no one messed with. He had a way of knowing about the color of your shit before you even did. He also had friends all over the country and more importantly he had friends in New York City. The untouchable kind.

  Almost as an afterthought he said, “We should put on our work gloves.”

  Nuncio nodded. The man pulled out a pair of black gloves from the aptly named glove compartment and rolled them over his huge hands, tossing a second pair back to The Pope who did similarly.

  The two men walked towards the house and up the walk. Nuncio wore his normal dark suit and held his Glock under the folds of his jacket. He led the way and The Pope made his way up to the stairs, glancing left and right to see if any neighbors were looking out of windows. He didn’t see any but that meant very little with all the street side facing windows.

  Nuncio bounded up the steps and rapped on the door. The sound echoed off of the pavement, sending The Pope’s eyes back behind them and to the sides checking the windows again. The two of them stood on the stoop for what seemed like several minutes and Nuncio raised his fist as if to knock again.

  “No, don’t knock again.” The Pope said, stopping the large man as his knuckles stopped just short of the wood. “Let’s go around back.”

  Nuncio nodded his head and followed The Pope from the patio. As the grass crunched under their shoes, they walked over to a dilapidated wooden gate that boxed in a backyard from the neighbors. Overgrown grass greeted them on the other side, speckled with long weeds that sprouted up in uneven intervals through the tiny enclosure. The sound of an angry frog croaked at them from somewhere in the dark recesses of the grass. They walked up to a sliding glass door that blocked their entrance and Nuncio knocked on it, the glass frame shaking with the impact.

  “I don’t think he’s here, boss.” Nuncio shrugged.

  “It appears so. Can you get inside anyway?”

  The driver raised an eyebrow. “Of course I can.” He made no move to actually do it but stared at him as if waiting for The Pope to spell it out.

  “Well then, do it.” He waved him at the door and Nuncio sized up the frame. He looked towards the bottom of the door and the Pope assumed he was looking for a wooden beam that would prevent the door from sliding. He followed the large man’s gaze and saw nothing down there. Placing one hand on either side of the sliding glass door, he gripped it and leaned his body forward. He rocked the frame back and forth a second then squatting down he lifted up, pushing the frame of the sliding door up and off the track. It opened with a pop and then Nuncio pushed the door to the side while it squealed in protest, having been so disengaged from its normal route.

  When they pushed past a set of swinging plastic blinds that hung in long columns they found themselves in a dim living room.

  “He could be sleeping,” Nuncio whispered.

  “Through all that pounding, I doubt it.” The Pope found that he whispered back in reply regardless.

  “He’s old.” Nuncio hissed.

  “Well, then fucking go check.” The Pope stopped whispering and felt his way along the back of a sofa. “I’ll see if I can find anything important.”

  “Okay” he started to move away but swung back around after only a step. “But where’s the bedroom?”

  “The fuck should I know?” He waved Nuncio towards some stairs in the back nearer to the front door than the back. The driver nodded his head and lumbered away. The Pope shuffled towards the kitchen and looked over a small stack of bills in there. The hou
se creaked as Nuncio ascended the stairs.

  He sure is jumpy for a big guy.

  The stack of paperwork had nothing more than some cable bills, a cell phone bill, and a set of medical bills. He put them all down then thought twice and picked up the cell phone bill and put it in his pocket.

  Maybe we can find out who he’s been talking to.

  He noticed a glow under an adjacent door to the living room and his heart leapt up and grabbed his uvula. Maybe the old man was home. He looked towards the stairs, suddenly wishing he hadn’t sent his driver up there, more specifically the gun he carried with him. He glanced around and saw a set of steak knives on the countertop.

  He grabbed a cleaver.

  I’m too old for this shit.

  He folded his lips under his teeth and slowly walked towards the door. A pale blue light flickered on the other side as if someone were changing the channels to a television set.

  But if they’re watching TV then where is the sound?

  He crept along the tile of the kitchen and made his way by moonlight across the floor and onto the carpet in the living room. He neared the door and placed his hand on the doorknob.

  Thud, thud.

  He looked up in the direction of the sound, frozen except for the swivel of his head.

  Nuncio.

  He stifled a small cough into his fist and let a slow steady stream of air slip past his nostrils and turned the doorknob. When he knew the mechanism had cleared the frame, he silently eased the door open with his left hand, and raised the cleaver up in his right.

  The office was empty.

  A small desk stood sentry against the back wall of the room, a bookcase lined the adjacent wall. Blue light flickered over various texts. The light cascaded over the books from a computer, it’s screen saver flashing different photographs of exotic locales he doubted Dick LoGalbo had ever even seen. Lowering the knife, he walked over to the computer and shook the mouse. He hoped to catch a glimpse of what took the old man out of his house at this hour but all he got was a login and password prompt. He glanced over the desk and saw an unmarked envelope laying in the dim glow of the now white light emanating from the screen. The white rectangle lay ripped along the seams.

  He heard a thud upstairs again followed by a low piercing beep, like somebody left a microwave without pulling out the cooked food. It was quiet from the office, but was clearly coming from upstairs. He took a step towards the door when he heard footsteps coming down the staircase.

  Then he stopped.

  Who opens an unmarked envelope? No address? Perhaps it was nothing, but something tugged at his suspicious nature. He walked back over to the envelope and flipped it over. A small stamp lay on the back center of the rectangle. The small black spider was smudged a bit, as the careless handler hadn’t waited for the ink to dry before flipping it. Other than that there were no markings and the contents had been emptied. He put it back down on the desk.

  He stared at it even as Nuncio ran past the doorway whispering “Boss. Boss?” His voice sounded tight even at the low volume.

  The Pope whispered back, “In here. What?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe I tripped an alarm but it’s definitely on a count down of some sort.” He stood in the doorway and waved him over. “We gotta go. Now.”

  The Pope took a step towards him, then without knowing exactly why, grabbed the envelope and shoved it into his pocket.

  The steady whine of the beep was growing louder and Nuncio’s gloved hand waved him frantically and led the way towards the front door. The Pope hustled along behind him, wondering where he’d seen that emblem before.

  “I’m sorry boss. I don’t want us to get pinched.” He turned the deadbolt and pulled the handle, waving The Pope through the doorway. The night air filled his lungs with the scent of the elm tree in the front yard and Nuncio slammed the door behind them. He paused for a moment, sure that he was about to remember where he has seen that symbol before, but Nuncio’s hand found the small of his back as he ushered him towards the car. “I pulled a safe down from the back of his closet. I was hoping to find something we could use.” He looked down at the walk as he pulled the door open for The Pope and put him inside the back of the car. “Or a quick score.”

  Where the fuck have I seen that symbol?

  Nuncio slammed the car door shut and began to run around the front of the Lincoln when the blast tore through the black night sky sending orange flames twenty feet into the air.

  The Pope saw nothing but white.

  Chapter 12

  Kira felt a thousand tiny explosions rock her brain and her lips felt like someone had torn them in half. At first she couldn’t remember what happened. The weirdest dream floated beyond her mind’s grasp, she was sure of it. She just couldn’t place it. She had to pee and an incessant dripping in the dark world beyond her closed eyes simultaneously called for her to fully awaken while irritating her need to relieve herself.

  She smelled mildew. Soured water and damp stone filled her nostrils. She willed herself to open her eyes, but only one responded. Only one responded well enough anyway. The other felt puffy and she was pretty sure it was swollen shut. The room was dark. Someone was breathing in the blackness but she couldn’t see well enough yet to determine exactly where. She tried to reach up and feel her eye but her hands pulled taut against some bindings. Her wrists felt chaffed and her neck hurt. It felt as if she slept on it at an awkward angle. She rolled her neck, stretching it out. Slowly the world around her came into focus as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The breathing near her was labored and it sounded like someone was asleep less than a dozen feet from her.

  The basement seemed to glow as white brick pulled out of the shadows. She licked her lip and the wetness of her tongue found dried blood caked there and a small sting pulsed from the wound. Still the small explosions seemed to fog her brain. With her good eye she scanned the room. A dark silhouette lay on the floor and looked to be sprouting chair legs from its ass.

  Everything began to flood back to her in a continuous wave of images, the mall explosion, Uncle Dick getting clubbed, the Russian that stank of old Vodka. She remembered the warning on her phone and wondered how it had come to this. She wondered if Uncle Dick was dead.

  Why am I here?

  It wasn’t like she was a loose end. Except now they had turned her into a loose end. She knew their faces. She knew their tattoos. She knew what that meant.

  “I’m dead.” She said out loud. The need to hear her voice compelled the words to come out. The only question was why they hadn’t done it yet.

  “No you’re not.” The voice was cracked and hoarse and drifted along the shadows from the prone silhouette. “It’s just dark in here and you feel like shit. But you feel so you know you’re alive. That and you can speak. The dead can’t speak.”

  Her heart raced and each pulse sent a wave of agony through her broken lip. She wondered if Bobby would hit on her the way she looked right now. “Where are we?”

  “In a basement.” The man couched and it sounded wet.

  “Thanks for the obvious.” She tried to get a better look at him, but one eye and no light made it impossible to distinguish his features. “Why are we here?”

  “Well, I’d say but it should be obvious. You obviously don’t like to hear the obvious so I’ll let you figure it out.”

  The voice seemed to cough again or laugh, she couldn’t tell. The cobwebs began to drift away as her mind struggled to work the angles.

  Who are the pieces?

  She knew who lay at her feet. It could only be one person. But did he know her role? Probably not. “Is Uncle Dick dead?”

  “No. He lives… for the moment. Curious though, him not being in here.”

  Silence filled the room again and the dripping from the rafters or the floorboards, depending on your perspective, rhythmically hit the basement floor in small splashes.

  “They probably wanted to keep us separated.” The second she said it her brain ki
cked back against another pulse of pain and she knew that something wasn’t right with that theory.

  “Yeah. But not us? Keep working at it. I could tell you, you know.” She could feel his smugness permeating the mildewed air.

  Her face flushed and her stomach folded in on itself as the reality of the situation began to creep into her mind. “Except there’s one problem with your theory. They clubbed him too. I saw it, before the…before the explosion.”

  Christ, all those people. That didn’t make sense either. Why kill all those people just to get me?

  “Seems the old man had a soft spot for you right to the end. Tried to warn you. Amateur. Once you commit you better fucking commit.” His voice was even and steady even under the labored breathing. His voice sent a chill over her. She didn’t like him having that sort of power over her.

  “You sound pretty tough for a guy who is tied to a chair. Seems like they outsmarted you, too.” If her lips hadn’t been so cracked she would have attempted a cocky smile.

  “I wasn’t outsmarted. Careless perhaps, but not outsmarted. Maybe even betrayed.” His voice sounded less smug despite his proclamations and Kira’s lip curled upward despite the pain.

  Poor bastard really has no clue.

  Footsteps paced past the door at the top of the stairs. Both of them stopped talking as if it were written on a neon sign above them. The footsteps faded.

  “Well then, genius, what’s your plan to get out of here?” She pulled against her binds but couldn’t move them so much as an inch before the plastic began to dig into her flesh.

  “First, I’m going to get out of this chair. Then I’m going to kill every last one of those cocksuckers.” His tone left no room for debate.

  “Well, then, tell me how and let’s stop wasting time talking to each other.” She tried the binds around her wrist again for good measure. The chair was pretty high up her back, almost to her shoulder blades.

  “I need you to get your chair over here, as close as you can. Then I need you to take those tiny feet of yours and stomp the shit out of my hand. If you break the bones, I can slip out before it starts to swell. Then I can get to my knife, if my fingers still work.” He shifted his body, the chair moving with him as he slid to expose his hand as much as he could in order to provide her with a clean shot.