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

by Nicholas Denmon

  He laughed like a small child, his giggles coming in spurts with the slight fear of getting caught by a teacher or parents. The Pope sped towards the end of the street, still checking his side and rearview mirrors. "What are you laughing at? We could have died back there!"

  "We can get drinks after the wedding, don't worry about it." Nuncio grinned at him or at least in the general direction of the rearview, his glazed eyes clearly seeing ghosts of memories The Pope couldn't share. Usually he was the one looking into the rearview from the backseat at Nuncio. He glanced up again and caught his driver's eyes for another second when he saw the red and blue lights bouncing off the windows and white walls of the houses that lined Dick LoGalbo's street. The mournful screams of the black and whites sliced through the air and The Pope turned down the first side street, hoping that the flames of the house would draw more attention than his Town Car driving around this particular neighborhood.

  "Hey. I need to tell you something." Nuncio leaned forward in the middle seat.

  "Yeah what's that?" He looked over at the man. He still reeked of burning flesh and clothing. The Pope pulled out his cell and sent a text to the internet routing number he had set up for the Don.

  Coming over. Need to borrow sugar ASAP.

  "My mom once told me a story about the jumping duck. How did it jump so high?" Nuncio giggled again. The same guy that buried a man under three feet of sand and lime, laughed like a schoolgirl.

  "I don't know. I give up."

  "He snorted too much quack. Heh. Was funny when I was five and still is!" Nuncio laughed so hard tears came out of his eyes. "So after the wedding let's get a drink, okay? I appreciate you giving me a ride."

  The Pope sighed and turned up the volume on the radio. He held the cell in his hand waiting for Don Ciancetta's reply. He knew he would most likely have to log into the computer he had set up that worked behind bouncing proxy servers to avoid an IP trace. The text came quick enough though while two disc jockeys bickered on the car stereo.

  Okay. I'll be out front. Wife is sleeping.

  The Pope turned for the highway and put the cell back in his pocket. His hand bumped across the envelope he had stuffed there and he pulled it out to take another look at the symbol. The black spider struck him as important. "Where the fuck have I seen you?" He cursed under his breath and racked his brain for an answer that seemed to run in front of him like an elusive carrot on a stick.

  "Pavel hates spiders," Nuncio giggled, looking over his shoulder. "Says they always try to take his money."

  "Spiders can't take money Nuncio. Even if they could, what would they buy with it?" The Pope closed his eyes. It wasn't Nuncio's fault he had been knocked back to third grade.

  "Probably guns. Or shoes. Eight legs need lots of shoes." Nuncio turned and watched the lights flick by on the road, or he was staring out into the night sky, The Pope couldn't tell.

  "What the fuck would spiders need with shoes Nuncio? Or guns? It's not like they could use them, especially if they had shoes on all their legs." He chuckled at his own logic.

  Spiders with guns.

  He shook his head.

  The only spiders he knew that needed guns were...

  "Nuncio, you goddamn genius!" He hit the gas and the car lurched forward.

  "My momma always said I was smart." Nuncio grinned and looked back out the window.

  "You beautiful fucking giant. Spiders with guns. You idiot savant!"

  The implications were a bit muddled but he was sure the pesky group of tattooed Russians that floated around in nickel and dime schemes had something to do with the day's events. At first glance Dick's involvement seemed unlikely but the man had been forced to retire. It wasn't as if he willingly left the lifestyle behind. The Pope's knuckles turned a skeletal shade of white as he gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. The Don had to know about this development as fast as possible. His brain was clicking on all cylinders now. Even his body seemed to give a reprieve. He hadn't coughed in a while.

  If Dick was working with the Russians, he'd love to see Rafael buried six feet under. Muro was the only one keeping him from revenge after Rontego came down on behalf of Ciancetta, originally. Of course that changed dramatically and not in favor of Muro during the last power struggle. Making a full on switch of allegiance to the Russians didn't seem to fit the old man's style.

  I'm missing something.

  His thoughts were humming so quick and consuming that he didn't realize Nuncio's rambling any more than he noticed he had pulled onto the long brick drive that meandered past the iron gate that kept the world from Don Ciancetta's family life. The Pope smiled, thinking about the Don and his delicate side. The men that worked for him saw an iron fist more firm than the gate the Don lived behind. But away from business, he was a man that cried at the birth of his son. He was a doting husband, minus a few flings, and being able to provide for his family the way he did with only a few scattered college credits to his name was the chief source of his pride. Family consumed the man, whether it was his crew or whether it was his flesh and blood; it was the only code he lived by. It wasn't like that always; he had to grow into the position after his ambition provided early success.

  He drove past the gate, wide open in anticipation of his arrival. Two men closed it behind him; an expensive perk of the position that he had convinced the proud Don was necessary. He pulled the Town Car over in front of a wrap-around porch that ran parallel to the drive before the brick road turned around a copse of trees and then back out to another guarded gate a hundred yards from the entrance gate. The wrap-around would be lined with icicles in December, but for now the white paint shone in the darkness and the white stripes of the American flag that draped over the second floor balcony hung like a beacon on the night sky. Many of the men thought the old colonial was a mansion but The Pope knew it as just a large house.

  "Wait in here, Nuncio," he ordered.

  The large driver nodded dreamily and for a second The Pope thought that might not be healthy, but larger things intruded on his mind as he stepped from the car into the crisp cool air. Don Ciancetta walked down the stairs in front of the red door of his home wearing a thick blue bathrobe that looked to be made of pure sheep wool judging by the fluffy nature of the covering. He tilted his head upon seeing The Pope exit the driver's door and stopped walking.

  "What is Nuncio dead?" He looked a bit put out at the hour but his eyes were alert as always. They darted back and forth from the Pope to the car. He seemed genuine in his concern but otherwise fairly loose. The two of them had worked together for far too long for the man to be irritated at the late house call.

  "No. He's in the car. It's best you don't know." The Pope ran his fingers through his hair. "I think I'm piecing together some of this mess."

  "You found our man?" The Don tucked his hands into too-small pockets on the front outside of his robe.

  "No." The Pope blinked. Another man might have offered more. An excuse or something else to take the edge off of the negative statement. Not The Pope, he knew the Don respected straight-forward answers more than anything else.

  "A man can hope, eh? Oh well. So what have you figured out? Quick though, Maria hates when the bed goes cold." He glanced up and over his shoulder towards a window that overlooked the grounds. A rare look of worry creased his brow and then disappeared by the time he faced his friend again.

  "I'll be quick then. I found an envelope with a spider stamp on it at Dick LoGalbo's place. I went there on a hunch based on something a former friend of ours said before he disappeared tonight. He spoke of Russians taking Rafael." He tapped his temple with a slender forefinger. "That, coupled with the stamp at Dick's makes me think he's involved with the Black Widow somehow. I don't know why yet but we know enough to start asking some questions." He stopped to breathe and the Don cut him off.

  "That fuck always hated Raf. Not that I mind right about now how Raf goes just so long as he does." He crinkled his brow. "Though I wish it'd be someone other
than that bag of shit. Yeah, if anyone wanted to see him in pieces, and had the big swinging cazzone to try, it would be him." He was thinking out loud at this point. "But he's retired. Doesn't mean he isn't involved though. I'm just saying. Plus, I heard that some Russian fucks were involved in the bombing at the Galleria." He looked into the darkness just behind The Pope. "Fucked up world."

  "Yeah, it is."

  Nuncio opened the back car door and leaned forward. He hardly cleared the car when he vomited on the drive.

  "Jesus Christ. Nuncio! Back in the car!" The Pope bit his cheek and looked back at the Don whose patience seemed to be wearing thin all of a sudden.

  "What is he, fucking drunk?" he stared at the man's stomach contents lying on his driveway.

  Nuncio rolled back into the car and pulled the door shut behind him without saying a word.

  "Not exactly. Probably a concussion." He thought about keeping the break-in from the Don, but decided Nuncio had forced that hand. He rattled out the events of earlier; stopping every few moments to make sure the Don wasn't about to throttle him. When he was done, the Don was pacing but he didn't seem to be angry.

  "Oh that fucker has to be involved. There's no way this is just coincidence, Chris. No way." He stopped walking and looked at his consigliore. "This and we have the feds breathing down our necks like bitches in heat."

  As if on cue, red and blue lights flashed on both gates at the property line. The Pope pushed the Don back towards the house as his stomach lurched towards his feet. Flickering blue and white lights spun around intermittent red flashes and blocked the exit gate. At least two squad cars were there with officers ducking behind the hoods of their vehicles and issuing commands to the men at the gate who lowered their weapons on to the ground and covered their heads with interlocked fingers. A similar scene met his eyes at the entrance gate except two dark vans were silhouetted in the spinning lights of governmental authority.

  "Shit." He spun around and looked at Don Ciancetta. The man sat down on the steps of his house and pulled a thick cigar from his robe pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

  "Relax. Ain't nothing they could have on me, and two friends can talk whenever they want."

  The Pope's mind began to retrace every step since the explosion.

  Could they know I was there? Cops ain’t that fast at figuring shit out.

  “This is America. Let those pig fuckers come and have their say and then I'll wave when they leave my fucking property." He gave The Pope his patented grin, leaned back, and awaited his fate.

  Chapter 16

  Kira woke up to her face pressing against something cool and the smell of leather that reminded her of her favorite chair in her condo. She fluttered her eyes open in a glorious moment of forgetfulness but they wouldn't focus right. She squinted and tried to lick her lips but her tongue was obstructed by some sort of cloth. It irritated her mouth so she tried to sit up and move it out of the way but her face stuck painfully to the seat and she felt her skin pull as she lifted her head anyway. Her face pulled free with a tear and her lips went wet and she could taste the iron of her own blood seeping through the crevices of the cloth that gagged her mouth. Her hands were less yielding than her flesh, however, and she felt her wrists pull against some sort of tie for the second time that evening.

  Her last moments of consciousness began to descend on her all at once and she felt her palms slicken and her breath was labored as her lungs searched for air beyond the cloth that stuffed her mouth. She flexed a set of sore abs and sat upright. Kira blinked away the tears that filled her eyes and looked around the automobile.

  She was alone.

  She tried to glance out the windows of the car but the tint and the lack of sunlight didn’t allow for much of a view. Despite the many unknowns of her situation she knew anywhere else had to be better than waiting on whatever the assassin had in store for her here. She decided to act. Moving as fast as she could, she leaned back in the leather seat and brought her legs to her chest. She hoped to swing her arms around and under her butt and over her feet. From there should could work the car locks and door handles and make a fairly easy escape of it. Her eyes darted side to side and she raised her cheeks to give her hands room to slip under and around. Only once she got her wrists over the bump, she was unable to bring her hands any further. The bindings were expertly placed. Not wanting to give up she tried again and felt the tendons in her shoulders pull taut and refuse to give her the extra couple inches she needed to secure her freedom.

  Fuck.

  She tucked her hands behind her back again and looked for another way out. She pulled against the cords until they bit into her flesh and knew that they were cutting tender red grooves into her wrists. She looked frantically around the car, hoping to find something that might aid in her escape, and then came the explosion. It was a solitary “POP” that echoed on the night air. Kira flinched, thinking the shot was meant for her for a brief moment. Then she saw a shadow cross in front of the car. It moved quickly from the passenger side, around the front and to the driver side door. Her breath caught in her chest but the swift beat of her heart tried desperately to knock the breath either down or out.

  What if he’s sold me back to the Russians to save his own neck? What if he sent someone to finish me off?

  The shadow pulled the door open and slid into the front seat. Rafael Rontego tossed his pistol onto the passenger seat, pausing just long enough to glance back at Kira and give a little snort. He pulled two long wires that hung from the ignition area and sparked them together, breathing life into the car’s engine. As he did it, Kira looked at his hands in the soft glow of the interior dome light of the car. Blood dripped in tiny dark rivulet’s from his fingertips and onto the floorboard of the car.

  What did he do? Where are we?

  The assassin took the car away from the side of the road in a controlled slow drive, but he didn’t put his lights on until he was several blocks away from where they had started. Kira had the feeling that somebody was dead just down the road. She tried to ask Rafael what happened through the gag in her mouth but when she tried it just pushed her tongue back into her throat and made her cough until her eyes watered. Each bump and bruise on her face was becoming more painful as the minutes went by. She knew that the adrenaline wearing off was going to be brutal on her body. The assassin looked at her as he drove in a series of quick glances. A weird twinkle in his eye on the last such look was all Kira noticed before he turned back around and rode in silence for several minutes. She closed her eyes, focusing on the hum of the engine and rhythmic rolling of the tires across the pavement. Exhaustion climbed its nimble fingers along her spine and soon she was bobbing her head and trying to stay awake.

  “It’s called giving up.”

  Kira looked up with a start. She couldn’t ask him what he meant so she just looked at him from the back seat. She could see his bruised jaw line and the blood still clinging to his fingers as he drove.

  “Your body. It’s fatigued and the adrenaline is draining out, giving you an opposing effect. You haven’t eaten in a while and your body is battered. Your brain might not want to. It knows that to survive it must stay awake, but your body is draining the resources it needs to keep going.” Rafael Rontego kept his eyes on the road and didn’t look back at her. “You have to eat. I’m going to pull over and get us some food. If I feed you, that means I take your gag out. If I do that then I need a promise from you.” He reached over and grabbed his pistol, clutching it in his hand as he turned the wheel right. “I need you to promise to keep that mouth of yours quiet.” He looked back at her. “Do I have your promise?”

  Kira nodded. She couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t killed her yet. If he hadn’t done it by now, would he really pull the trigger later? But bound and gagged as she was, she nodded.

  A few minutes later and another brief struggle to escape, and she was gingerly chewing a hamburger on the side of her mouth that didn’t hurt. The assassin held the hamburger in his
hand as he leaned over between the seats and fed it to her. His dark eyes never left her, and hers rarely left the gun clutched in his free hand. He put the hamburger down on the center console and pushed a straw into her mouth. She sucked down the soda, each swallow sending a river of cool liquid cascading down her sore throat. Rafael let her drink until she pulled her mouth away and then held up the burger to her mouth again. She glanced at his dirty fingers but her stomach didn’t allow her to even hesitate as she chewed another bite of the greasy meat.

  “I’m going to say a few things and you’re going to listen. I don’t know what you think happened with your father and me but I can tell you something that only he and I know.”

  His eyes seemed cool and uninterested in whether or not she believed him. Still she couldn’t help herself. “I know he went to jail for something you did.”

  The assassin narrowed his dark eyes and his jaw clenched beneath the array of cuts and bruises across his face. “There’s a difference between going to jail for something someone else did, and going to jail for what you did and not bringing someone to the pen with you.” He paused, took a swallow of the soda and continued. “Your father wanted to smoke that asshole who sold your mom heroine month after month. I told him it wasn’t worth it. That once a druggy bitch always a druggy bitch.”

  Kira could barely swallow her next bite as he spit out the slanderous description of her mother but she looked at him tapping the pistol as he continued.

  “If that dealer wasn’t there to sell it to her, somebody else would, if not from Buffalo then from somewhere else in Erie. That pincushion of a mother had needles hidden under your crib for fuck’s sake. Addicts find a way. But Ivan loved her. Who was I to question the great fucking mystery of love?” He shot a glance to the side before snapping his eyes back on Kira. “So I did what a friend does for a friend and I slit that prick’s throat from ear to ear while your father stuffed a bag of smack into his mouth.”