by Brent Coffey
“You must have a prodigy on your hands, if your son understands a single word of that!” laughed a mom of two, holding hands with each of her kids. A tourist, she didn’t recognize Gabe from the local news.
“My kids just call them big kitty cats!” she said with a wide grin. “See the big kitty cats, guys!” Her kids, one picking his nose and the other holding her mom’s hand with both of her own to swing it back and forth, looked on in childish astonishment. The lions were bigger kitty cats then they’d ever seen.
“Do you like the kitty cats?” the inquisitive girl asked August.
“Yes.”
“You should get your dad to buy you one!” the girl suggested.
“Katie! You can’t buy lions,” her mom laughed.
The three left to look at other animals, leaving Gabe to continue reading:
“Nearly 10,000 years ago, in a period known as Pleistocene, lions inhabited… You know, kid, I’d buy you a lion if I could,” he said, still staring at the sign with arms folded business style across his chest.
August kept looking at the lions. Neither faced each other.
“Really?” August asked.
“Yeah, sure, kid. If I could, I’d buy you a lion. Shame zoos don’t sell them.”
“Yeah. They’re cool. I have a lion.”
“I know. I saw him.”
“But he’s not a real lion.”
“That’s okay, kid. He’s real to you, right? That’s all that matters. When I was your age, I had a swing set, and to me it was a rocket. No one else knew about it, but that was cool. It was my rocket, and it was real to me. It’s okay if your lion’s real to you. I know where you’re coming from.”
“His name is China.”
“Huh?”
“My lion’s name is China. Cause that’s what the white tag on him says.”
“Gotcha. Since you have a zebra, we should go look at them too.”
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Larry Buntmore had spent the better part of the past two days researching Boston Monetary Management and was thoroughly confused. The name suggested a connection to monetary policy, but neither the Federal Reserve nor the FDIC counted it as a partner or subsidiary. He’d also learned that Boston Monetary Management wasn’t listed with the Securities and Exchange Commission, so the firm didn’t deal in stock. The Better Business Bureau had nothing on file for it, and the Massachusetts Attorney General’s office knew nothing about it. A quick search online found no website with anything close to the name. Boston Monetary Management my ass, he thought. He called Dr. Cathy Sandefur.
“This is Cathy.”
“Hey, Cathy, Lar. Got some bad news for you. That huge check smells like a fraud. There’s no Boston Monetary Management that I can find. I think you’re being taken.”
“Jesus, I hate some people! Why do people do this? What psycho gets his jollies out of this? And to think I wanted to call my patient and tell him the operation’s a go-ahead.”
“If I were you, Cathy, I’d turn it over to the police. Maybe they can hunt these bastards down and give ‘em hell for this. God knows they deserve it.”
“That they do,” she sighed. “Well, thanks for your time, Lar.”
She hung up in a mood sullen enough to make a funeral procession seem happier by comparison. Had the decision been hers, she would’ve performed Bruce’s colectomy on the house. She knew how badly he needed to get rid of his colon, and she would’ve gladly removed it at no cost. But she couldn’t do that sort of thing in her basement. No, by law, she had to do it here. At the hospital. At St. Knox’s. And while she was willing to write off the money owed to her, the hospital wasn’t as generous. The hospital’s policy was clear: No payment, No surgery. Bruce would need every penny of the $44,000 to pay for the procedure, because not even a Catholic nonprofit could operate at such a steep loss and stay in business. The hospital’s financial aid department had offered to help the Hudsons learn about refinancing their home and had also offered to teach them about reverse mortgages to pay for the surgery. The hospital had even tried to set up payment plans, but the hospital had encountered the same problem that other lenders had faced. At Bruce’s age, timing was of the essence, and it just wasn’t good business to fork out a five digit loan to a sick man who might suffer surgical complications. Fearing he’d die before he covered his medical expenses, no one would offer Bruce monthly payments that he could afford.
Dr. Sandefur placed two flat palms on her desk and mindlessly beat them to the rhythm of the office radio’s broadcast of “You’re So Vain.” Humming along without realizing it, she strategized. First, she’d call the police and report the fake check. Second, she’d write another letter asking for Bruce’s surgery to be paid for. Even though she now considered such letters to be exercises in futility, she hoped her good intentions might bring her some good karma. Third, she’d call Bruce and ask how he was doing. This, also, wouldn’t improve Bruce’s health, but it might brighten his spirits to know someone was thinking of him. No, I won’t mention the check. He’s got enough on his mind as it is. I’ll let Boston’s Finest take care of the check.
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Sitting in the plush end of his late model Bentley limousine and cruising down Interstate 495, Victor Adelaide stared at his failing consigliere, Philip Astronza, who was seated next to him. Victor didn’t know about the $120 thousand Gabe had paid to Sara, but he’d discovered the $44 thousand Gabe had spent on the D.A.’s surgery in the check from Boston Monetary Management, and he was royally steamed. As the Adelaides' consigliere, Astronza was charged with advising the Family in all its affairs… and taking care of its finances. A third generation American with Italian born grandparents on both sides, Astronza had inherited his position of consligiere (or “counselor”) to the Adelaides from his father, just as Victor had inherited his position of capofamiglia (or “Family boss”) from his father. The relationship between the Adelaides and the Astronzas stretched back some forty years, and, like all things Mafia related, the history shared between them counted as a major asset. Calling on their shared history had pulled Astronza out of many jams, when his work didn’t measure up to Victor’s expectations. Astronza barely survived the first failure of his service to the Family many years ago, when he couldn’t find Victor a fertility specialist who could wave a magic wand and fix sperm counts. Astronza had fallen on his sword for not being able to “correct” Victor’s sperm count problem, even apologizing to Victor for his inability to breed. Apologizing to your boss because he couldn’t fuck right, of course, made no damn sense to him, but being the whipping boy was just part of the territory of being consigliere when things went wrong. And, in all likelihood, the stupid apology probably saved his life, as Victor was seeing red about not having a son on the way.
To compensate, it had been Astronza’s idea for the Family’s jack-of-all-trades, Charlie Unique, to rape a young female with a desirable body, to provide Victor with a boy and maintain the Adelaides’ employees’ confidence that the Family’s future was secure. It had also been his idea to keep quiet about the heir’s bloodline, as the dispute over such a son’s right to replace his father’s leadership would’ve split the Family in two. Complicating things further, if New England’s other Families caught wind that Gabe wasn’t the real deal, they, smelling blood in the water, would’ve ganged up to knock the Adelaides out of business and divided up among themselves the Adelaides’ market share of drugs, whores, and racketeering. To prevent these calamities and explain Gabe’s absence in his first seven years (before he’d been kidnapped), Astronza had spread the rumor that Gabe had spent his early years with Family relatives in Italy, shoring up Gabe’s Adelaide credentials.
Victor had conceded that, while Astronza may have botched the simple task (simple in Victor’s mind, anyway) of finding a doc who could help him rock out with his cock out, Astronza was probably right to advise against making Gabe’s past known. It was with
this mixed record in mind that Victor now watched Astronza squirm.
“Secrets don’t make friends,” Victor began.
“No, sir, they don’t,” Astronza agreed quickly.
“So, why is my son keeping secrets from me?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’ll get right on that and let you know what I find.”
“If you were my son would you write a check for $44,000 from Family funds and not tell me about it?”
“No, sir. I would not.”
“And would you lie to your father, to your very own father, about the purpose of that check when confronted about it?”
“Absolutely not, sir.”
“If my only son insists on keeping secrets from me, should I consider him a friend?”
This was a loaded question. If Astronza sided with Victor and threw Gabe under the bus, then he’d failed to find Victor an adequate son. This late in the game, he’d once more have his neck on the chopping block for Victor’s effective childlessness, and this time an apology wouldn’t save him. If, on the other hand, he defended Gabe’s decision to spend his father’s money without his father’s approval, and it came to light that Gabe had spent the money foolishly, then it would still be off with his head for having advised wrongly in this matter. Astronza furrowed his brow, as if deep in thought, biding his time and hoping the question was rhetorical. Thankfully, it was. Victor broke the somber silence.
“I’m sure I’m not a perfect father. I’ve made mistakes like any man, but I’ve always been there for my son. Understand, Astronza?”
“Yes, sir, I know exactly what you mean, and I agree. You’ve always been there for Gabe. You’re an excellent father, sir.”
“Thank you. Your words touch me. Have some wine.”
Victor retrieved a goblet and a bottle from the leather encased compartment jutting out from the car’s floor and poured Astronza a generous serving of Chateau Lafite.
“Drink up, my friend, drink up.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Since you are my consligiere of these many years, you won’t object to my asking a few more questions, will you?”
“Of course not, sir. Ask away.”
“Good. Would you say that $44,000 is an insignificant amount of money? One that could be plucked out of the Family’s nest egg and frivolously spent without regard for one’s father’s thoughts on the matter?”
“I’d say $44 grand is a very significant amount of money, sir. And I’m sure you and I can investigate this money’s whereabouts and find out how it was spent.”
“I know how it was spent. My son spent it on, your friend and mine, Bruce Hudson.”
Astronza nearly went into cardio shock. His eyes bugged out and expanded to the size of golf balls, and his hand shook, sloshing wine. The only thing worse than not knowing what had happened to your boss’s $44G’s (when you were supposed to be his trusted advisor) was learning that the money had slipped out from under your nose to aid and abet the enemy.
“You see,” Victor continued, “Mr. Hudson is a very sick man. He has a condition called colitis, and he requires surgery to correct it. My son, God love him, has become bipartisan in spirit and has decided to let bygones be bygones and pay for that operation.”
Astronza knew about the D.A.’s health, but he knew nothing about Gabe using Family funds to pay for the D.A.’s surgery. What in God’s name is happening here? He mentally debated giving Gabe the tongue thrashing of his life. Talking some sense into Gabe might very well correct matters and put both of them back in good graces with Victor. Or, lashing out at Gabe, his future employer, might put him on Gabe’s bad side… and who would save him from Gabe when Victor died? Dammit, why couldn’t I have been an accountant? Consigliere was quickly becoming an esteemed title he no longer felt like flaunting.
“Don’t you think it’s generous of my son to offer my money to pay for an enemy’s wellbeing? Calls to mind turning the other cheek and that sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?”
Astronza said nothing. Victor reached out and took Astronza’s now empty wine glass from him and withdrew another, different vintage, Chateau d’Yquem, from the limo’s wine rack. Refilling the glass, Victor handed it back to him and said:
“Worry not, my friend. None of this is your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
This put Astronza’s mind at much needed ease.
“After all,” Victor continued, “our Family’s enemies are our crosses to bear, not yours.”
This jolted Astronza back to the possibility that he was staring death in the face. Any Family enemy should be considered his business, if he was their consligliere. This whole “not your cross to bear” stuff could get a man killed for being in the way. He quickly pleaded:
“Sir, if I may, our families go back so far together that I feel like one of your kin. When I think of the memories that you and I made, along with the memories our fathers made, well, we might as well be related. The Astronzas are to the Adelaides what St. Peter was to Christ.”
“Ah, truly, my friend, you are my Family’s St. Peter. Your brains are the rock that our business is built on. Your efforts have led you to walk on water to be with us through the storms of life.”
Both men smiled.
“But as you know,” Victor reminded him, “St. Peter betrayed our Lord before the rooster crowed three times.”
“Sir, I believe the analogy breaks down at that point.”
“Does it? I’m not so sure. It would be an act of betrayal for you to fall negligent in your services to me, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir, but I haven’t…”
“I didn’t want an answer. The question was rhetorical. The answer is yes. Yes, it would be an act of betrayal for you to fall negligent in your services to me, and your services include keeping tabs on my Family, its concerns, and its money.”
“True, very true, sir. This thing with Gabe and Hudson came out of nowhere, sir. No one could have seen it coming.”
“Have you heard of Boston Monetary Management?”
“No, sir, I haven’t.”
“Of course you haven’t, and, at this point, you needn’t hear of it, but I’ll inform you for old times’ sake, as I, too, value the shared histories of our families. Boston Monetary Managment is the fly-by-night outfit that one Gabriel Adelaide concocted in his fevered brain to spend my money anonymously for Hudson’s surgery. You can be forgiven for not having heard of it: it doesn’t exist. Gabe wrote a check signed by this fraudulent Boston Monetary Management, withdrawing enough money from my savings and stowing it in the Cayman Islands to vouch for it. I know this because Hanson told me.”
“Who’s Hanson, sir?”
“He’s my consigliere.”
Astronza came face to face with the certainty that he’d been replaced… and that he was going to die. He could feel it in his gut. In fact, he literally could feel something in his gut. Something wasn’t quite sitting well with him. Perhaps something he’d eaten had come back to haunt him… or maybe something he’d drank... He wiped sweat off his heated face and loosened his shirt collar to breathe better. Something was seriously wrong. Despite the limo’s world class shocks and smooth riding, Astronza was starting to suffer from something like motion sickness. He needed to get out and spill his guts.
“You like my wine, my friend?” Victor asked, slyly taking the initial bottle and turning it around to read the label: “According to the label, the first one is vintage H2. And the second one,” he continued, putting the first bottle down and picking up the next to read its label, “is vintage SO4.”
Victor placed the second bottle next to the first one and shut the car’s wine compartment, concealing them both.
“You probably know such a combination as sulfuric acid,” Victor explained with the helpfulness of a stewardess. “Did you enjoy your drinks?”
“Oh, God!” Astronza screamed, ripping off his tie, unbuttoning his shirt collar, and for
cing fingers down his throat to induce vomiting. Even though his ability to focus was fading by the second, he maintained enough lucidity to know what drinking sulfuric acid meant. His insides started to heat up like hell, beginning from his lower abdomen and shooting up his esophagus, like someone was roasting him with a flame thrower from his naval to his throat.
“Please, dear Jesus, Victor! Please, dear God in Heaven, don’t let me die this way! I’m in fucking pain here! I can feel holes burning in my stomach, Victor! For the love of God, help me!”
“I’ll help you, my friend. Driver!”
The long car pulled over next to an alleyway between two businesses “protected” by the Adelaides. Victor opened the car’s door and pushed Astronza out onto the ground. Lying there, Astronza could barely move his arms and, he couldn’t feel his legs. What he could feel, he didn’t want to. His nervous system radiated abundant heat.
“I’d hate to see you end this way,” Victor remarked. “You and yours have meant so much to me and mine over the years that you deserve to pass without your insides flaming. You need to get that nasty acid out of you before you burn yourself.”
Victor, leaning out of the car, removed a switchblade from his jacket pocket, flipped up the blade, and placed the knife gently on Astronza’s stomach. Astronza was beginning to convulse with burning throbs, and he stared wide eyed at the open blade on top of him.
“Allow me to return the favor and be your consigliere in your final moments. You don’t want to die with that stuff eating you alive,” Victor advised him. “It’s too hot, too painful. Do yourself a favor and rip your guts open so that shit can spill out of you. It’ll be a much easier way to go.”
With that, Victor shut his door, and his limo pulled away. Astronza grasped the knife with two very shaky hands and began the butcher’s job of carving his stomach open. Victor was right. Getting the acid out was a less painful way to go.
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Chapter Five
