Lawless Measures: Vigilante - The Fight Continues

by Lyle O'Connor

  Anecdotal, I thought. Not much of a summation. I felt my tolerance level being challenged. It was likewise mirrored by Bludd’s reaction. He fidgeted with his napkin, and dug at his fingernails. Kuhl seemed to be in la-la-land, but in all fairness, he wasn’t much on talk. He was a man of action. If I had to wager a bet on what Kuhl had his focus on, my money was on his passion for bomb building and making an impressive pyrotechnic surprise for the Mob.

  Out of the blue, Bludd motioned to our waitress. “Could I get a cup of coffee? Black.”

  I was stunned. Bludd was a dyed-in-the-wool tea drinker. I looked at him and said, “Coffee?”

  He shrugged and smiled. No one else seemed to notice.

  “What happened to Joey?” I asked.

  “I had to win his trust before I escaped,” Anna said. “Maximillian told me you knew a couple of Joey’s men had taken me from Cal’s place and brought me to Joey. That’s true.”

  “Joey was concerned; he told me De Luca would put a contract on him. He needed me to be a cop or a government agent so he could broker a deal for protection. I guess he didn’t know about Pembroke. If he had made a deal, Pembroke would have handled it, and would have set up the hit. Joey erred when he thought the Canadian government would have protected him from the Mob.”

  “So how did you get away?” Bludd asked.

  “He wasn’t the gentleman he should have been. He had needs, and I was able to gain his trust. I will leave it at that. He saw me as a defenseless woman he could overpower at will. He took me to a cabin in a remote area about seventy miles southwest of Toronto. He said no one knew about his cabin and it would be the perfect hideaway until he worked out his plan. He didn’t live long enough to see the plan through. He wasn’t as tough as he thought he was and I wasn’t as defenseless as he supposed. He had me make dinner. He wanted a large Porterhouse steak with oven steak fries. I’d served the steak in front of him and stepped back to the stove to get the fries. At that point, he didn’t watch me very closely. I shoved the two-pronged carving fork into his neck and grabbed the steak knife still on the table in front of him. I bled him out.”

  That’s my Anna. I’d seen her in action in Thailand. There was no doubt in my mind Joey had underestimated her.

  She continued, “I gathered my things, helped myself to his cash, and drove his car to Toronto. I dropped it curbside, walked a block from there to a convenience store, and called a cab. I had the driver take me to Niagara Falls where I rented a motel room, and a car. The next morning I did some shopping. I picked up a disposable cell phone, and later in the evening I gave Maximillian a call.”

  “So y’all decided to be hush-hush about the change in circumstances then?” Kuhl asked. He’d been listening after all.

  “That’s right,” Max said. “I flew to Toronto to be with Anna. I felt she needed the support. I was also able to monitor the project’s progress, although sadly, much of that was done through liaison with Pembroke. I want to express once again, the remarkable job each of you has done. It must have been very difficult for you in light of what was believed to have happened to Anna.”

  “I think the most important aspect of the project was accomplished when you took Talbot out. He was a key factor in their power base. He had the ability to negotiate around law enforcement,” Anna said. “We can close out the project. The Machine has been severely crippled.”

  “Sure, soon as we’re done,” Kuhl said. His icy cold blue eyes squinted almost to a close.

  “It’s pointless,” Max said. “This is a war we can’t win.”

  “Bruno told us the Mob already planned a war for us. He called it a ‘Stragismo,’ I would call it a vendetta on their part. Thanks to you, Max, they know something about us. They know there is a league of assassins that are working against their interests. You, Max, are a primary target. Therefore, what we do, we do for the greater good of all,” I said. Bludd and Kuhl nodded while Max vigorously shook his head. His disagreement was noted as was his desire to cut ties and run. “I know the way you’ve always done things. Sneak in, kill, and sneak back out, but it’s different this time. This war won’t be about who’s right or who’s wrong; it’ll be about who is left.”

  “What can we do to help?” Anna asked. She understood we would not cease our actions against the Mob.

  “Stay out of the way,” I replied. It sounded harsh, even to me, but necessary. We didn’t need any interruptions. We had a thing to do.

  Anna had listened and understood the score. The Palatini didn’t have a choice. We needed to severely cripple them or the hunters would become the hunted. Besides, we hadn’t put the kibosh on the Mob’s involvement in human trafficking. Not yet. She knew as Palatini operatives, we wouldn’t stop until we succeeded.

  “We’ll finish the project. With Pembroke out of the way, we can weaken their structure. Maybe then the cops can put the screws to them,” Kuhl said.

  Max sat back in his chair. I read him like a book. He was unhappy with our decision. The Palatini team assembled for this fight had rejected the notion that we were washed up and had to pull out. It wasn’t going to happen that way.

  “If we’re clear, there’s work to do,” I said. My mood had shifted to a less defensive posture with my coworkers, now I felt their support.

  “Let’s go,” Kuhl said. He was anxious to get back to the task at hand. He was in his element as a bomb builder, not jabbering about the “what if” scenarios of the operation. I thought it was time to go as well. The longer we sat at the table the more I noticed Anna’s prettiness. Intimate snippets from a time past forced their way to the forefront of my thoughts. I didn’t want to entertain them. Not at all.

  By six in the evening, the three of us had relocated into two motels near the Double Decker Lounge. Bludd and I shared the room we’d used previously at the motel that bordered the lounge parking lot. It would take around the clock observation. We decided upon four-hour shifts to make it happen. Kuhl had asked to work independently, and resided in a motel about a block west of our position. We parked vehicles strategically according to need. We didn’t schedule any daily meetings; we’d get together whenever a need arose.

  Ten-thirty Sunday night, the three of us met in my room. Bludd continued his watch over the Double Decker Lounge while Kuhl and I pulled chairs up near him.

  “I don’t think we should mike the place,” Kuhl said. “When they have their meeting they’ll check for transmitters.” Kuhl had first-hand experience with the Mob. He was in the know, and we went with his call.

  “The one thing we can’t do is allow their meeting to take place. Whatever measures we have to take or whatever we have to do, we can’t let the meeting end naturally. If they pull off the meeting, they will come out unified and aggressive in their vendetta against us,” Bludd said.

  Mob meetings had gone through many changes over the years. Every ten to twenty years, a new generation of mobster came along with ideas to reform their established revenue systems. What they wanted were ways to make more money. But, after they reinvented the wheel, it looked the same. Racketeering, drug-dealing, loansharking, and prostitution, the list went on and on. It was the same urban-based criminal enterprise it had always been. The only change was the changes in technology. Otherwise it was the same old song and dance.

  However, some changes had been destructive to the Mob. John Gotti, Jr., took the helm of the Gambino crime family in 1985. His crew had pulled down hundreds of millions in loot every year, but he broke with many of the old line traditions. His love affair with the cameras and media made him dangerous to the Mob’s way of life. He was flashy and enjoyed the attention, but it brought the heat with it. The consequences were felt not only by the Gambino mobster’s, but by the other New York City crime families as well. And they didn’t like it. One time Lucchese crime family boss Anthony “Gaspipe” Casso said, “What John Gotti did was the beginning of the end of Cosa Nostra.” But it wasn’t the end. It created change. Not an end.

  The Five New
York crime families and the Chicago Outfit comprised the governing Mafioso body referred to as The Commission. The “Bosses” of the crime families were the ones that called all the shots for organized crime. The Abbandanza family had been subject to their decisions and directives, as were another twenty or so Mob factions. But, in 1985 the bosses stopped meeting. Rather, mini meetings took place with representatives of the Five Families. Quiet meetings in diners and social clubs became the typical way to conduct business. Gotti held his meetings at the Ravenite Social Club in Manhattan’s Little Italy, right under Federal agent’s noses. They couldn’t get a thing to stick to the “Teflon Don.” It took a snitch, Sammy “the Bull” Gravano, to put him away. The Feds could have shot Gotti any day of the week if they worked as we did, but they didn’t.

  What the Machine faced was considered a local problem, but they still had to report their decision to The Commission. “I think it’ll be a low-key meeting. We run the risk of civilians and Mob representatives from other crime families being present,” I said.

  “More likely it’ll be the local hierarchy and some soldiers in this initial meeting,” Kuhl said.

  At three in the afternoon the following day, Kuhl stopped by to check in. We’d watched him enter the lounge twice. We were curious as to what he was up to. When Bludd asked, Kuhl said, “I’m getting the lay of the land. They’ve posted signage on the Double Decker front door for an early closing this Wednesday.”

  “It’s a good sign, blokes. We’ll be on for it,” Bludd said.

  The Abbandanza mobsters hadn’t had a good challenge to their authority in thirty years. If they’d been hoods, who had fought for territory on a regular basis, they’d have been better prepared for what they were up against. But these guys were fat, dumb and happy. They’d relied on trump cards like Pembroke, who’d kept them out of hot water, and an emphasis on any rivals in their area. They had further clout by their connection to the other New York crime families. They also used payroll to own police protection in Toronto and pimped out politicians on both sides of the border. We didn’t know who was who. If we did, they would have been dead “who’s”. It seemed as if there wasn’t anyone money couldn’t buy.

  I wanted to make their meeting memorable. Something they would never forget, but wanted to. I had a philosophy about violence. It might not have been the best option, but it was always an option. When I chose to use it, I didn’t take the tuck head about it. There was nothing shy or bashful about my approach. Cops were allowed the use of force, but only the amount of force necessary to control a situation. I had no such restraint. I used violence as brutal and severe as I could make it, and maybe then I wouldn’t have to come back and do it a second time.

  Once we started our assault, I assumed herd mentality would kick in. It was an impulse to gather together for protection; a natural survival instinct. Psychobabblers called the response, fight or flight. I called it recreational shooting, like ducks on a pond.

  The lounge was headquarters for Lucan Russo, otherwise known as, “Spooky Luke.” He was a well-known crime figure in the Rochester area, and newly appointed crime boss for the Mostarda operation, since the capo’s disappearance. Russo had been a police officer in the early ‘90s. His career ended when it was discovered he had Mob ties with the notorious Abbandanza clan. He was a guy who leaned heavily on the old school tactics of extortion and strong arm rackets. What I saw was a thug, who professed in the ‘old ways’ because he liked being a thug, not because it was more lucrative. Tough mobsters weren’t always rough, but Russo had a reputation for violence. He also had close connections with Marco Camerota, his cousin, and would-be capo of Toronto’s East-End.

  “Spooky Luke” would be the meeting’s host. I’d dealt with tough guys like him before. Since he was newly appointed capo he had to come off hard, and what was harder than being perceived as fearless. Mobsters like Russo had an image to uphold. It would never cross his mind that anyone would attack his crew when they were all together. They were too strong. It would be an act of suicide. To us it was the chink in the armor we watched for. How would it manifest? It already had. Russo strutted around the lounge all hours of the day and night. We watched him come and go without so much as an escort to his car. I considered his judgment and actions brazenly disrespectful to us.

  *

  Wednesday morning around eight I moved all unnecessary personal items to the Tahoe. We kept our weapons, ballistic vests, and warm clothing. I drove the vehicle a block away to Kuhl’s motel and parked it. Kuhl arrived at our motel room at eleven for a prearranged meeting. I was on the back of the sofa-couch with my binoculars, working point. The observation hadn’t paid any great dividends, but we did gather general knowledge of Russo’s operation. Kuhl had brought a flyer back from the Double Decker which read, “We will be closing tonight at nine o’clock for maintenance. We apologize for the inconvenience. We will reopen Thursday morning at our regular time.”

  “A neatly packaged bit of deception,” I said. “It’s going down tonight.”

  Kuhl had taken advantage of his two days free reign to get inside the lounge. He was a new face in the joint and could get in unnoticed where Bludd or I could not. The bartender had it in for me, or at least that’s the way I felt. I certainly didn’t like him. It would have been trouble if I’d tried to hang out there. We’d watched Kuhl make multiple trips into the lounge, with his pool cue in its case and a small rucksack over one shoulder. He was a poseur who made good his cover as a pool hustler. Sometimes he spent an hour there. At other times; he was in the place for more than two hours. By the end of the third day, he had the wherewithal to know who was who of the regulars that hung out at the lounge.

  Just after two in the afternoon, Kuhl came back by our motel room carrying a large Buffalo Sabre hockey bag. “I think we need to line out a few things for tonight,” he said. “I have a plan I’ve been working on.” He pulled from the hockey bag two M79 grenade launchers and a dozen high explosive rounds. After he neatly lined them up on the coffee table, he removed a gun case and laid it on the kitchen counter. “I’ll be using this one,” he said.

  “What is it,” Bludd asked.

  Kuhl opened the case and removed a bolt action rifle. “She’s a Winchester Model 70.” He assembled the bi-pod and attached one of the two scopes that were in the case, and then a silencer. “She’s a .308-caliber—a real beaut. Don’t you think?”

  “Nice,” Bludd said. “What kind of scope is that?”

  “She’s equipped with a thermal night vision scope and a silencer—she’s all part of the plan.”

  “We can do a plan, mate, and a backup plan. But thirty seconds into the firefight we’ll need a different plan. Nothing ever goes as planned,” Bludd said.

  Kuhl rubbed his cheek along the forearm grip and barrel of his rifle as he held it against his body in an embrace. I understood what I saw; it was sensual. Kuhl eyed Bludd and with an air of confidence about him said, “Well my Aussie friend, at least we’ll own the first thirty seconds of the fight, and I plan to do a lot of damage in that amount of time.”

  Once again with Kuhl, I could see action behind the curtain. I’d learned, with him there was more to the play than what was shown on the stage. “What’s up your sleeve?” I asked.

  “I’ve rigged the lounge to blow.”

  “How?” Bludd and I asked in unison.

  “With ten pounds of Semtex.”

  “Explain it to me,” I said.

  “I went in the lounge the first night looking for a way to make a prop, something I could use they would not likely notice. Next to one of the pool tables on the first floor is the men’s bathroom. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the bathroom. It’s a standard design all the way with three urinals, two toilet stalls, and a double sink vanity with a five-foot long mirror. I packed two-inch PVC pipe full of Semtex, nearly nine-foot in all. It’s more than enough to bring down the entire building.”

  “How did you get it in the lounge?” I asked.r />
  “Eighteen-inch pieces of ABS, one at a time and a coupler to hook them together. Wasn’t hard at all, they fit nicely in the cue case.”

  “Won’t they see it when they give the place a thorough going over before the meeting?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s up under the front of the sink counter top and blends into the existing pipe nicely.”

  “How do you plan to set it off?”

  “I put a cutout in the ABS and put the detonator, a throwaway cell phone, in it. I put a blasting cap in the Semtex and wired the whole thing to a relay and a nine-volt battery for a power source. When I call the phone number, the vibrator on the phone will send a charge down the line, and there will be a hellish boom.”

  “What if they find it when they’re poking around? They’ll be on to us.”

  “No worries. If one of those guys tried to disable or remove the trigger, it’ll set off the fail-deadly switch I put on the phone. It’s a dead man switch in reverse.”

  We spent the next few hours in discussion about offensive positions and how we would initiate the event. We continued the observation, tested our radio communications, and completed a second weapons check. What never came up was the “what if” questions that dawg every operation. There would be no “what if” this time. “Anyone at the meeting when the bomb goes off will die. We are the topic. If they’re there, they’re a target.” I said. It wasn’t a family gathering with women and children, it was a business meeting with the hard core of the family. It was in a nightclub late at night. I expected the chances were slim we’d have other than mobsters and associates show up.

  By eight-thirty, darkness had set in, and the temperatures plummeted. What did that mean for us? Two things we could figure on, less activity outside the Double Decker, and the thermal display on Kuhl’s scope to be crisp and clear. We could also figure on being cold.

  The lounge closed its doors to the public at nine as expected, and we readied ourselves to deploy to our stations. Bludd spotted two cars with occupants that were positioned at either end of the lot; plumes of exhaust rolled from behind their vehicles. The frigid air swiftly dispersed the exhaust. Nearly an hour passed without any further sign of the meeting taking place. Cars had pulled into the lounge parking lot, only to be contacted by the men from what we called the sentry vehicles, east and west, and sent on their way. At ten fifteen, the first vehicle arrived that was allowed to line up along the south side of the building. Parking on the south side shielded them from view of the main drag which was to our left. It also put them in a direct line of sight for our observation. Car by car the traffic continued to arrive. By midnight, there hadn’t been a new arrival for a half-hour. We felt it was safe to assume the meeting was in progress.