by Brent Coffey
This shocked Sara. She’d never known August to have friends. And attend a birthday party? This sounded totally out of character, but in a good way, one that pleased her. She was eager to believe it. Finally, she thought, he’s coming out of his shell.
“Well, he’ll have a gift himself when he returns,” Sara laughed.
Sara was more at ease with Gina these days, since the possibility of the Hudsons’ adopting August had fallen through. She’d sensed that Gina hadn’t been keen on the idea of August leaving, but she’d chalked up such sentiment to emotional attachment, oblivious to Gina’s true attachment.
“I’ll be sure to give these to him when he gets back. I don’t want to keep you, seeing as how he’s gone at the moment,” Gina offered.
“It’s no problem. I’m in no hurry. I hate to mention this, since everything seems to be going so well, but, um, you haven’t noticed any strange activity have you? Like the kind we talked about last time?”
Gina knew exactly what kind of strange activity Sara had in mind, but she feared Gabe and she liked his money.
“No, nothing’s new around here. Same old, same old. Things have been pretty quiet, actually.”
“That’s good to know. If you think you see anything out of the ordinary, don’t hesitate to call me. Seriously. And don’t worry, I’ll never think you’re being paranoid. I’ve had some strange things happen to me recently.”
She expected Gina to ask about the strange things that had happened to her and was surprised when Gina didn’t.
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Billy Mulkin was a Family associate and damn proud of it. Only eighteen, there weren’t many jobs he qualified for. But even if other opportunities came along, he’d turn them down. Serving as a glorified errand boy for the Adelaides was his dream job. He liked the secrecy, the seriousness, the stature of his position. Being an associate meant he was trusted to do grunt work for the mob. He helped burn down businesses, when “clients” didn’t pay their insurance premiums. He loved arson, he had an aptitude for working in the dark, and he quickly learned all the jargon, codes, and signs to stay discreet in retaliatory work. He was a natural at crime, and, had he been Italian, he might’ve been a candidate for the rank of made man.
When Billy told his friends and (now ex) girlfriend he worked for the Family, the announcement caught their attention. It felt good to be employed for such locally famous people. Many of his high school classmates had finished school and gone off to college, with dreams of working for Fortune 500 companies. Billy knew that kind of stuff wasn’t for him. He’d never had book smarts. But in this world, he didn’t need book smarts, and he more than compensated with brute force.
A year ago, at seventeen, Billy had been approached by Victor’s brother, Ronald, as he was walking home from another miserable day of his junior year. Ronald was seated in the back of his Rolls and making his rounds in Southie, when he saw the drifter-looking student who had an expression somewhere between sullen and pissed off. Ronald ordered his driver to follow the kid. Billy, who’d just learned that day that he’d failed a sufficient number of math tests to keep him from graduating next year, was shocked to see a limo trailing his slow gait. Southie wasn’t known for its wealth, and he knew a car this expensive was carrying someone far more prestigious than anyone his unemployed alcoholic of a father or his mother, a night shift worker at a greeting card company, might know. He watched the sleek automobile nearly pass him and then keep his stride, when the last window in a long row of several windows reached him. Billy walked side by side the car’s last passenger’s window long enough to stare into it, wondering who the hell was following him and why. When the tinted window came down, Billy saw a guy well dressed in expensive attire. The guy propped his right arm on the car window’s edge, and Billy caught a glimpse of the many gold rings he was wearing. The car, the suit, the rings… it was the largest (and most flagrant) display of wealth he’d seen up close. Billy’s face showed his fascination, and this pleased Ronald greatly.
“Name’s Ronald. Ronald Adelaide. Why don’t you get in?”
With that simple invitation, the car stopped, a door seemingly opened on its own, and a seat in the back facing Ronald Adelaide appeared. It was Billy’s chance, his lucky break, his excuse to no longer care about not passing math, not passing eleventh grade, or not passing anything else. Billy got in, and the car sped away.
Since then, he’d been handed jobs that more important lackeys (known in mob parlance as “soldiers”) didn’t want. No matter: he never complained. His youth, inexperience, and lack of career options kept him obedient to a flaw. He’d proven to be the perfect kind of grunt worker. He performed a near infinite amount of shitty assignments and never asked to be promoted. This caught the attention of Ronald, who liked to boast of his choicer recruitments to Victor. When Victor, sipping scotch on his home’s third-floor balcony, eventually took notice of the young kid trimming his hedges on the lawn below, he silently conceded that Ronald was right: the kid was the perfect worker. Below, Victor watched Billy trim hedges with inexplicable rage, a seething scowl, and gritted teeth. The kid was angry for no apparent reason at all, and that was the kind of mindless anger Victor could use. He’d mentally filed the kid’s presence away in the recesses of his mind for a future assignment. Today was that day, the important assignment had finally come, and, today, when Ronald finally introduced Billy to Victor in the latter’s private study, Billy walked on cloud 9. He didn’t have a high school diploma, but by God he was hot stuff in the Adelaide world, and he knew this because they told him.
“You’re exactly what we’re looking for. You’ve got the head, the strength, and the dedication we need. You pull this off, and we’re talking big money,” Victor promised.
Billy wanted to know what big money meant, but he was too nervous to ask. It sounded impressive as hell, which meant it had to be a lot. Victor went on:
“All you have to do is buy some crack. A small amount. And! We foot the bill. We’ll give you the cash to buy it with, so you won’t be out of pocket for any of this.”
As Victor explained the ease and simplicity of the assignment, Ronald was busy strapping a hidden camera around Billy’s waist, one that would broadcast everything Billy saw to a remote signal in a nearby van. Everything Billy took in, every direction he faced, would be recorded for the Adelaides to see. Billy felt like Agent 007.
“And you don’t have to worry about the camera, my friend,” Victor smiled. “It isn’t noticeable. Only a small part of it protrudes from the hole in the front of your shirt, and, since the lens is glass, no one will see it. Our guys will be watching and listening to everything, and if you get into any trouble they’ll be there on the ready.”
“I won’t be in any trouble,” Billy said, with courage in his voice that he hoped Victor found impressive.
Victor did find the kid’s courage impressive, but not for reasons Billy suspected. Victor’s smile broadened:
“Of course you won’t be in any trouble. I’m sure you’ve bought pot before, and this is similar. You just ask the dealer if can help you out and discreetly palm your cash in a direction that only he can see. He’ll do the rest. Once you have the goods, walk calmly back to the van that dropped you off and give the crack to the driver. We want to test it to see what kind of stuff the Filippos are dealing. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good man. Good man,” Victor said, smiling and patting him on the shoulder.
Billy wasn’t scared of the Filippos. He was much too stupid to be scared of them, because he believed Victor’s promise to have his back. Walking three blocks north from where Charlie Unique’s van had dropped him off and into the official limits of Watertown, he tried to imagine what Unique was seeing on his closed circuit television. It occurred to him that this assignment was the most attention any adult had ever paid to him. All those afternoons walking home from school, and not once had Jerry (his dad, who he’d taken to calling by his first n
ame these days) ever asked about school, his day, or anything else. The most his mom ever said was, “Dinner’s in the fridge,” and in what Tupperware container he could find it in. This new adult interest in his activities was addicting. He felt more than just valued; he felt needed, and he’d never felt that before.
Billy saw a big guy with his hands in his coat pockets standing stock still at the same moment that the camera in his shirt showed the big guy to Unique. Billy could tell this was their man, because normal people didn’t wear coats in the summer.
“How’s it going, man?” Billy asked. “Cool coat, by the way.”
Watching from his parked van, Unique sighed. Such a damn fool. You never tried to strike up a conversation with a dealer. That was a basic rule. An overly talkative customer gave the impression of a rat, a narc, a spy. And, of course, that’s exactly what Billy was. He’s lying about having bought pot before, Unique realized. Kid’s never bought anything before. Billy had just blown his cover and was too fucking dumb to know it. He’d know it soon enough. Several young guys, who’d been kicking a hacky sack a few feet away from Billy and the dealer, dropped their hacky sack on the pavement and made their way over. Unique leaned back in the van’s seat, watching the small dashboard-mounted monitor and lit a cigarette. He knew how this was going to end. Victor and Ronald Adelaide had forseen its ending as well. Billy had been chosen because he was disposable. High school dropouts were a dime a dozen, and replacing him would be as easy as driving down Southie while waving a few $20’s. Victor hadn’t actually wanted to test the quality of the Filippos’ crack: he’d wanted to get a bird’s eye view of the precise number of thugs accompanying a typical Filippo dealer. That would give him a pretty good indication of just how strong the Filippo force actually was. Unique counted four associates with the dealer. That was damn good protection and certainly more than the single guy who accompanied the Adelaides’ dealers.
Seeing that he was being approached by the four hacky sack kickers and unsure what to do next (since the dealer still hadn’t spoken), Billy said all that came to mind:
“So, you’re a drug dealer, right?”
For all his technical street smarts, having the common someone not to ask if someone was a drug dealer wasn’t part of his resume, at least not when he was nervous about impressing Victor on his first major job.
The dealer stayed quiet, kept his hands in his pockets, looked away from him, and, from the looks on the faces of the approaching guys, made significant eye contact with them.
Unique started his van and pulled away from the curb, the same one Billy had planned on meeting him at. Unique almost felt bad to lose him. He was a warm body, and he could’ve been handy for something. Unique dropped his window a half an inch to ash his cigarette. The monitor on the dash displayed the sounds of Billy’s demise, though Unique never bothered to watch. He was driving, and it was dangerous to take your eyes off the road. The monitor filled the van with the last seconds of Billy’s life:
Uuummph!
“God! What are you doing?” Billy screamed.
Uuummph!
Whatever it was, the cheeky bastards did it again, Unique thought. At the next stop light, he’d turn off the monitor. He didn’t want the final words of Billy Mulkin distracting his driving. He headed home to rest. He was going to have a busy morning tomorrow.
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The nondescript car cruised to a stop, next to the curb. The driver didn’t get out. He sat there, bobbing a toothpick up and down in his mouth, scoping out the scene from his car’s mirrors and windows. He was all eyes and ears on this mission. The .22 Walther was loaded, silenced, and ready on the passenger’s seat, hidden underneath a newspaper. He kept his noise to a minimum. The radio was off. He barely stirred.
It was 6:45 a.m., time for work. Andrew Baker would be leaving his rented Cambridge townhouse any minute now, to make it to work by 7. Charlie Unique waited in his car. A school bus went by, stalled at a stop sign a few yards down from his place on the side of the curb, then it rolled by. Everything was happening on schedule. There was an occasional jogger, a few stray cats. Baker lived in a typical middle-class neighborhood. Unique watched an elderly couple dressed for tennis walk out of the townhouse adjoining Baker’s place. The two were obviously early risers, eager to get as much out of life as what little life they had left would permit. He watched them buckle themselves into their foreign hybrid and pull out of their driveway. Seeing them leave, he began a mental checklist of other neighbors who might witness his task, waiting for them to also leave. He’d checked out the neighborhood thoroughly in the past couple of days. First, he’d driven through it several times, using different cars to avoid suspicion. Second, he’d jogged through it yesterday, going right by Baker’s home. Baker hadn’t recognized him, because Victor made it a point not to introduce Unique, his most trusted hitman, to other employees. Third, he’d made a secret delivery to Baker’s car last night.
Six-fifty a.m. A mom marched out two defiant adolescents towards their minivan and carted them off to school. The Martins. Check. He’d learned the names of Baker’s neighbors by reading their mailbox labels, all of which proudly announced each home’s surname. Roughly a minute later, a guy with a doughnut hanging from his mouth fought with the keys he held in the same hand that he clutched a briefcase with, while he made confirming “uh huh” noises into the phone he held with his left hand. A few moments later, he was gone too. Jones. Check. Baker’s neighbors had left now, and any moment Baker would leave for his three minute morning drive to work. Waiting, Unique scanned the headlines on today’s paper, the one concealing his pistol. Mideast Peace Talks Stall as Border Controversy Rages. House Approves Budget Deadline Extension. Skimming some of the text in the articles, he heard a door open. Without turning his head, he threw a keen eye at his driver’s side mirror and spied Baker leaving.
Baker looked tired, listless. His crinkled face spoke of a sleepless night, and he spit a wad of throated snot onto the pavement next to his cruiser. Decked out in his state trooper’s uniform, he begrudgingly accepted a new day’s work. He yawned, leaned to pop his back, and spat again. Pounding his chest and burping breakfast, he opened his car door and situated himself in his well worn driver’s seat.
That was when the rattling began.
Midway through buckling in, Baker’s eyes widened in ungodly panic, as the gaping mouth of a golden brown rattlesnake sprang up from his floorboard and bit him three inches below his crotch on his left thigh, latching on long enough to release a pulsing dose of hemotoxic venom.
“Holy shit!” he screamed in terror. “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”
He grabbed the snake with both hands and tore it free, swapping flesh for fangs from the sudden yank. From his passenger’s seat, another rattler sprang and bit him in the right arm, just above his fraternity tattoo. A third struck him in the back of the neck. He screamed, more from fear than pain. His many nightmares had come true. His phobia of snakes had materialized into three large venomous diamondbacks. He pulled the snakes off and threw them wildly. The snakes writhed against each other, as they landed in a spaghetti collection on the front passenger’s seat. Warm blood darkened his newly starched uniform, and he sprang from the car, slamming the door behind him to make sure the snakes didn’t escape. In his panicked exit, he caught the wire of his two way radio in the closing car door and accidentally disconnected the unit from the mouthpiece attached near his shirt collar. He now had to rush to his townhouse to use his land line. That’s when he saw Unique waiting for him on his doorstep. Baker caught sight of a guy grinning like he’d just witnessed a comedy, a guy who Baker didn’t recognize leaning with one arm against the home’s front door and carrying a rolled up newspaper with his other hand.
“How’s it going, Andy? You look a little pale.”
“I’ve been bit! I’ve been bit! I’ve been bit!” he repeated, not caring that he was screaming at a complete stranger.
&n
bsp; “Let me help you with those,” Unique said calmly, taking the key ring that Baker was fumbling with from his trembling hands. He found the key to Baker’s home and let them both inside. Baker immediately rushed to his telephone, but, before he could call for help, a kick to his back knocked him down face first to the kitchen floor. Before he could react, he felt his sidearm being lifted from its belted holster.
“I don’t think so, pal,” Unique said. “A phone call is not the way this ends. This,” (uncovering his Walther pistol and its silencer from the newspaper), “is how it ends.”
Baker, who’d turned over on his ass, stared up incredulously at Unique. He saw Unique had stolen his service auto and stood sighting him with the barrel of the Walther, rolling it in a small circular motion like it was a laser pointer. He also saw that the guy had ripped his landline out of its phone jack.
Baker remembered he was wearing his state issued Kevlar vest, one that could easily absorb shots from the small caliber gun Unique threatened him with. He resolved to throw all 268 pounds of his massive frame against Unique’s much trimmer frame, disarm him, shoot him, and then reconnect his phone for a quick call to the paramedics. As Baker crouched to his haunches to spring to tackle him, Unique laughed knowingly:
“That’s right, big guy. Go ahead and wrestle this gun away from me. That’ll just get your heart pumping even faster and your blood flowing even quicker. The venom will kill you sooner.”
Baker froze on his derriere, uncertain of what to do. The guy was right. Any effort at overpowering him would require strenuous activity, and that would speed up the poison’s flow to his heart. Negotiating was his last hope.
“Okay, fine. What do you want?” Baker asked with desperation in his voice.
“I want you to take this gun,” Unique said, indicating the Walther, “and kill yourself.”
“Not going to happen. What else do you want?”
“It’s going to happen, and that’s all I want. I want your prints on this gun. So you need to put it to your heard and pull the trigger.”
