Lawless Measures: Vigilante - The Fight Continues

by Lyle O'Connor

  “Thank you.” With a simple nod, she turned and left. Suspicion and doubt had given way to chance.

  Bludd and I lit out for the shipyard cargo office where I’d picked up on Frank Rizzi, maybe we would get lucky again. I wanted to show Bludd the money drop location. When we had more manpower on board, he might have to carry out part of the operation in the area without me. I didn’t know the frequency of the pattern for money drops, but I was sure the Mob had a plan in action. All creatures of habit set patterns; it was one of the common denominators of human behavior. Humans, held the highest position in the food chain amongst the animal kingdom, but we were still animals. Some humans were more animal than others, but animals nonetheless, and the laziest creatures, as well. With a fantastically cunning mind and deceptive ways, the criminal might try to mislead their trackers, but in so doing, develop a characteristic pattern that once again could be followed. If it was every day, or every other day, or they rotated between morning and night drops, or locations, it was insignificant. The Mob designed it; therefore, there was a pattern to be found like tracks on a muddy trail. The pattern would emerge, and we would ambush our prey as planned.

  We squeezed the Avenger back in between the ramshackle trailer vans where I’d parked previously. We watched and waited. Bludd and I discussed the turmoil we’d cause when we took Rizzi out and ripped off the drop. The crime family would not overlook such an offense. More than an hour had passed; in some sense it was a waste of time. The snow had drifted in around the car, and the winds made it impossible to see the cargo office through the blowing snow.

  Bludd and I talked until six in the evening. It took me back to my earlier days in the military and the camaraderie I’d had with Sergeant Gary D. Stone, my friend. If Gary was alive today, we’d have been partners on this mission. “Bludd, let’s check out the bar scene. Rizzi lives in Rochester and Bruno was at the Double Decker yesterday, I don’t think we’ll find a more target rich environment.”

  “Let’s do it, mate.”

  We cut a brodie in the road, the snow aided my Avenger’s quick turn, and we were headed to the lounge. We struggled with road conditions as the nor’easter breathed down our neck. It wasn’t so much the amount of snow, but the blowing sideways and drifting snow that hampered our way. A trip that normally took less than two-hours to drive ended up nearly four-hours long. Bludd and I had plenty of time to address our sanity, which came into question, as we fought our way through the blizzard to South Rochester.

  Once parked in the Double Decker lot, Bludd stayed in the vehicle while I ran a recon inside. The first floor bar area was nearly vacant. It would appear the gangsters were smarter than we were.

  “What’s your poison?” The barkeep asked.

  “Looking for a friend is all.”

  “You were here last night, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, another guy and I stopped in. I really liked the place.”

  “Candy’s gone for the night.”

  I grinned like the Cheshire cat, “It shows, huh?”

  “I know your kind,” he said in a sardonic tone.

  I turned to leave, and thought, “I’d kill that grease ball just for sport.” I hated urges I couldn’t act on. It’s like an itch you couldn’t get to and scratch.

  I tromped through the snow to the Avenger, jumped in, and warmed my hands over the heater vents. I had found an unexpected value in working with a partner. They could stay in my car and keep the vehicle warm while I go about doing my business.

  “Well?” Bludd asked.

  “Candy’s gone for the evening.”

  “If she was there, it would be livelier than sitting here with you.”

  Eleven rolled around, then twelve and into a new day with nothing to show for it. My random and roving killing spree had become milk toast. We could start indiscriminately killing Mob peons at Musolino’s and the Double Decker, but I had a carnivorous taste for red meat, not minnows. I had to kill something big.

  “Let’s bag it mate?”

  It was going to take us a long while to get back to sanctuary. I suggested we crash at a cheap motel and get a fresh start tomorrow morning. We didn’t talk much, but found the nearest acceptable lodging, and turned in for what remained of the night. I wanted to sleep, but did a lot of thinking instead. It was nine in the morning when I woke Bludd, and hurried him out the door.

  “We’ll grab some breakfast on the road.”

  “Okay, mate.”

  I swung the Avenger into a Food Mart gas station and filled the tank. I picked out some burritos, microwaved them, and got in the car. I gave Bludd his pick, but the idea of fast food didn’t seem to set well with him. It might not have been so bad, but I added insult to injury when I handed him the coffee.

  “You’ll have to tough it out without the tea buddy.”

  It was time he learned what I was really about. I’d sacrifice comfort and security to make a kill. He’d have to do the same.

  The wind had settled down, and streaks of blue had appeared in the sky. An odd patchwork of gloomy storm laden clouds continued to roll through, while white bulbous clouds formed like cotton above the horizon. It was a good sign we would catch a break from the nor’easter. The radio reports on traffic conditions were positive with most main thoroughfares plowed. The usual snarls had been elevated only slightly by government offices and school closures. It was past noon when we backed into our hiding spot to watch the shipyard cargo office.

  “Let’s call this Pembroke guy and see what he’s got for us.”

  Bludd nodded.

  “This is Talbot.”

  “Max gave me your number to call.”

  “Uh-huh. Do you have another person with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we meet tomorrow?” He asked.

  “Where?”

  “On your side, it’s too dangerous to meet here. I’ll call you tomorrow with the details. I’ve captured your phone number in my phone.”

  Bludd and I talked about the meeting with Pembroke, it helped to pass the time, but then a break we hadn’t counted on, drove right up to the shipyard gate, and parked. A tall lanky guy got out of the gloss-black Hummer. This time Mostarda didn’t have a convoy of thugs with him. He pulled his jacket collar up as he looked around, a look I’d seen before, the look you see when someone was watching for others that might be watching them.

  Carl Mostarda, legitimate business owner of the Double Decker Lounge, Rochester crime family Capo, and all around bad guy, strode into the cargo office. Mostarda to me was better than a dozen Frank Rizzis, but didn’t equal one Carmine Bruno.

  We watched to see who else might show, but a half-hour later, Mostarda came out and climbed into his Hummer, backed out, and headed in the direction of Buffalo.

  “Let’s tail him.”

  Bludd nodded, and we were back on the road. We drove into North Buffalo and veered off into the suburbs of Black Rock. I showed Bludd I was in the know when I called our destination in advance. Minutes later, Mostarda swung his rig in behind Holy Family Cathedral. I’d been there before. Emilio Zambrotta had brought me here as I prepared to kill him. We took up a position curbside on the street. His Hummer was neatly hidden between three towering concrete walls, which gave the church a mediaeval appearance.

  “I don’t know who the priest is, but he must be in cahoots with the Machine.”

  “Are we going to kill a priest?” Bludd’s face bore the signs of shock at the prospect.

  “If I knew he was involved with the Mob, I’d kill him in a heartbeat.” I didn’t mince my words. I felt that way and I would act accordingly. If I did decide the priest owed a debt, I might as well load the sacrament plate Sunday morning with plastic explosives instead of bread. When it exploded in the congregation, about half of the Machine would be eliminated in one foul swoop. There’d be more than the blood and body of Christ splattered in mass; it’d be a mess. But, foul for sure. Indiscriminate killing violated the most basic rule I lived by. If the p
arishioners weren’t involved with the Mob’s hustle or muscle, I didn’t want them in my crosshairs. At the end of the day, I had to be at peace with whatever I’d done. A moral failure of that magnitude would be my haunting. Innocent people could not be killed. I was a better person than lowlife mobsters, and I intended to keep it that way.

  “What do you think he’s doing in the church, mate?”

  “Confessing—I hope. I’d like to have all that crap out of the way before I facilitate his final absolution of sins.”

  Bludd reached over and pulled up the cuffs of my gloves, “There are no nail marks in your palms.”

  “That’s their belief not mine. Here, put these on,” I handed him a set of leather gloves. He squeezed his big mitts into the size extra-large gloves, and clinched his fist a couple times to stretch them to a more comfortable size. “Keep ‘em,” I said.

  “What do I need these for?”

  “So you don’t leave prints and DNA all over the place. Geez Bludd, it’s like working with a novice.”

  He laughed, a deep bellied laugh, and he had the belly to back it up.

  “Can you drive a Hummer?”

  “I’m a tugboat captain, I can drive anything.”

  I shook my head jokingly in dismay, “We’ll see soon enough.”

  “Get ready, we’re about to do a capo.” I paused, took out my six-inch fixed blade buck knife, and said, “I told you I wanted an attention getter; Mostarda will make it happen.”

  Bludd pulled his knife, a combat relic of World War II fighting knives, an Applegate-Fairbain with an equally long blade. Great minds evidently thought alike.

  I wasn’t surprised to see Mostarda in this area. He ran satellite operations up and down the border. Of all the capos in the Abbandanza family, he controlled the largest physical territory. He was also the most culpable in the human trafficking racket. He needed to die almost as badly as Bruno.

  It was five-fifteen. It hadn’t snowed during the day, but the cloudiness had aided in the arrival of an early dusk. The side door of the church opened and Mostarda appeared, shutting the door behind him.

  “Let’s go Bludd.”

  Mostarda fired up the Hummer and sat in the vehicle. It’s a good idea to warm a vehicle in the wintertime. It was risky driving with windows fogged up, and that’s what would happen if the defrost wasn’t blowing warm air. In Mostarda’s case, it was risky to sit in a vehicle as it warmed up. He didn’t know that evidently. It didn’t take long to fog up the windows, his body heat and exhalation put warmth and moisture into the air, which condensed, and hung like a shade on the windows. He wasn’t able to see someone if they approached his vehicle, not even someone the size of Bludd.

  I pulled the Avenger into the back lot of the church and alongside the cathedral wall out of sight of my target’s vision. It was a fast tactic. Bludd and I got out; walked around the corner of the wall where the Hummer was parked. I reached the passenger door first; Bludd was a close second at the driver’s side. I opened the passenger door quickly with my weapon pointed point blank at my victim’s head, the diversion allowed Bludd to open the driver’s side, and place his .44-caliber against Mostarda’s head.

  He stumbled for words, finally spitting out expletives and a question, “What do you want? Do you know who I am?”

  “Shut up,” I said. “We’re going for a ride.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “It can be arranged.”

  We might have carried on a longer conversation, but Bludd had wrapped Mostarda’s wrists with Duct Tape followed by liberal amounts of tape over our target’s mouth. It was an ugly tape job and I told Bludd so, but he stuck to business, and had Mostarda immobilized. Bludd shook him down, found no weapons, and then pushed him into the back seat of the Hummer.

  “Where to mate?”

  “Follow me; we’re going to ditch this tin can.”

  We took it nice and easy. No need to draw anyone’s attention, especially not the cops. We ran south on Niagara Street a few miles, swung into La Salle Park, and dumped the Hummer. Bludd and I tossed Mostarda in the trunk of my Avenger and cruised another mile to the southern end of Ohio Street where the rented Quonset hut was located.

  The service road to the hut had become squirrelly, brought on by weather conditions. The build-up of snow and the lack of travel in the area made it a challenge. We yanked Mostarda out of the trunk and pulled him along through the snow to the entrance of the hut. I didn’t have much for furnishings in the place. A couple metal folding chairs I’d picked up at a Salvation Army store comprised the seating arrangements. I fired up the heaters in the office and went back to get our bags from the Avenger. When I got back, Bludd had Mostarda strapped to one of the chairs.

  “Geez, Bludd did you have to use the whole roll of Duct Tape?”

  “He tossed me what was left of a roll, and said, “It’s not all of it mate, besides we have plenty more.”

  Mostarda couldn’t move. Bludd ripped the tape from around his mouth. His eyebrows pinched together as he let out a moan, and his face twisted into an agonizing grimace.

  “I’m not going to mince words with you; I want to know about your operation?”

  “I’m an honest businessman. Who are you?”

  “I’m going to ask the questions, you are going to answer, understand?”

  “I’m not answering to nobody, you understand? Who are you yokels working for?”

  Bludd slapped a piece of tape over Mostarda’s mouth, reached down and pulled his shoes and socks off. Mostarda wrenched his body back and forth as much as the tape would allow him to move, but it wasn’t much, and in the end, not enough to avoid getting what was coming to him. Even if he’d gotten loose from the chair, what was he going to do? Bludd grabbed an old busted piece of two-by-four lumber, weathered dingy-grey by the years, and smacked Mostarda’s bare feet. Mostarda howled under the tape until one side gave way to the screams and shrieks. When he was done reacting to the pain, he screeched and hollered bloody murder. Finally, Bludd placed a new piece of tape over his lips.

  “He needed an attitude adjustment,” Bludd said. He took a couple more swings with the piece of wood then checked Mostarda’s cooperation level. Bludd ripped the tape off. We waited while Mostarda gained his composure.

  “Here’s the deal, I want the names and addresses of anyone involved with the immigration racket?”

  Mostarda seemed out of breath as he mustered up his strength. “Why, why do you want to know?”

  “I also want to know about Cal?”

  “Who’s Cal?”

  “And before we’re done, I want to know about the lady kidnapped from Cal’s place in Toronto. Tuff Tony and Carmine Bruno had something to do with it. I want to know what you know.”

  Mostarda lifted his sagging head to reply, “Why don’t you call Canada if you want answers, you filthy jamook?” His lip had curled up like a smile, but it wasn’t a smile at all, it was a condescending sneer, and I didn’t take kindly to it. Bludd wrapped his mouth with tape and beat him some more. Not just his bare feet, but he moved up the body striking the two-by-four flat across his shins and knees. Behind Mostarda’s chair, I laid four-ply plastic sheeting on the floor and doubled the layer for maximum benefit. I had a feeling it would come in handy before we were through.

  Bludd stopped the beating and threw the chunk of wood onto the plastic. I covered Mostarda’s head with a Muslin cloth bag and pulled the drawstrings tightly around his neck. I’d bought a dozen of these bags, and this was the first time I’d had the opportunity to use one, in this manner. The box the sacks came packaged in had advertised they were ideal for a variety of uses. I considered writing a review for the company on how handy I’d found them.

  Bludd appeared solemn. “Are you going to kill him with the drawstrings?”

  “No, let’s move him to the plastic.”

  Bludd pulled out his combat knife and began to cut Mostarda loose from the chair. I picked up a few pieces of scrap steel inside th
e hut. The pieces were a foot to eighteen-inches in length and resembled pieces of railroad track. I guessed them each at twenty or more pounds.

  Mostarda was alive and barely conscious as he waited for us to dispatch him. He was wrapped up tight with Bludd’s tape job and the Muslin bag secured on his head. I didn’t want to drag this out all night; it would only cut into my sleep time. I didn’t see the need, he wasn’t talking, and I didn’t need him to. I was killing him because he needed to be killed, and it might create the splash I wanted it to in the local underworld.

  “Let’s wrap him,” I said.

  Bludd joined me on the hut floor, holding Mostarda in place as I put the rail between his legs and taped his legs around the piece of track. When we were done, we’d made a plastic burrito of the guy. The Muslin bag kept the plastic from resting against his face and probably alive for a spell before suffocating.

  “Are you comfortable with this?” Bludd asked.

  “They owe for pain; they’ll pay with pain. All of them.”

  “Where are we going to dump him?”

  “In Lake Erie, but we’re not going to dump from one of the bridges. Too many of them have camera systems set up. It’ll be a road trip.”

  “Which way?”

  “South, out of the populated areas.”

  “Sounds good to me mate, is there any place to eat out that way?”

  “C’mon, I’ll buy you a happy meal.”

  We loaded our cargo in the trunk and closed up shop. We found a dumping spot on Old Lake Shore Road. Last we saw of Mostarda was as he sunk from sight into Lake Erie. This time of the year with cold weather and snowstorms, the beach area, didn’t get much traffic. I felt his disappearance would remain shrouded in mystery until someone found the body. On the way back, we’d swung past where we’d abandoned his Hummer with the keys in the ignition. It was already jacked. The link to potential foul play might rest on a chop shop or street punks caught cruising in it. When his vanishing was made known, I planned to capitalize on the paranoia. The psychobabblers were wrong—revenge had a sweet taste.