The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  “I’ll pay extra if you’ll sell me that tray right now.”

  Her eyes slid to Rudy, who shrugged. The other three customers shuffled impatiently, one of them throwing me a dirty look.

  “You want the whole thing?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “Fine. Just tell me how much.”

  She did. I winced, pulled out my credit card and paid. Two ticks later I was heading back to Zutti’s with the tray wrapped in plastic. I paused at the entrance and set my face to dumb, leaving my mouth slack, and my posture lazy.

  I struggled to get through the door with the tray of sweets until the maître d’ pulled it open for me.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Uh, delivery.”

  “We’re not expecting one. Where is this from?”

  I gave him the name of the shop two doors away.

  He frowned. “We don’t order from them.”

  “Yeah, I know you don’t. But someone from the kitchen called and said it was an emergency order or something. Look, I just do what I’m told. You want these or not?”

  He gave me an exasperated sigh. “Take them through to the back. But next time, use the kitchen entrance.”

  I winked at him. “Sure, pops.”

  I slouched my way toward the kitchen with my cannoli, looking at the floor ahead of me, ignoring the large table near the back where a group of people sat. One sideways glance as I passed them—Rich, Joan, Savarine, and Rico were at the table. My quick look also assured me no one cared about a delivery woman lugging a tray of cannoli.

  The Rastafarian stood behind the table with his back to the wall. Standing beside him was the man Calixto had identified as Gio Rizelli. I recognized the hard face and long jagged neck scar of the former enforcer for Alberto Rizelli. It looked like Onandi and Rico had their thugs on display, probably to impress each other.

  As I kept going, a waiter laying tables with silverware gave me a questioning look. He stopped long enough to help me by pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen. Inside, the room hummed like a beehive. Guys in white shirts and aprons tended large pots of boiling pasta or meat sauce. A couple of the men wore tall chef’s hats. The odor of rich tomato sauce, raw seafood, garlic, and oregano assailed my nostrils. Steam rose from the pots, and trays of uncooked bread lined a counter under a big wall oven.

  The man I’d seen outside in the tank top was chopping vegetables on a long cutting board. He glanced up with no sign of recognition in his eyes. As I stood there, my tray of cannoli grew increasingly heavy.

  “Hey,” I yelled, “where should I put these?”

  A man with a chef’s hat set down a huge fish he’d been scaling. With a scowl, he headed my way.

  “Where did those come from? We didn’t order no cannoli.”

  “Look, I just do what I’m told. You want these, or what?”

  Another man joined the chef, looked over the cannoli, and read the ticket on the tray. He spoke in rapid Italian. They argued a little, then the first guy opened a huge refrigerator and motioned me to put the cannoli inside. I did, then gave them my best bimbo smile.

  “You guys sell takeout?”

  “Sure,” the chef said.

  I gestured toward the swinging door. “Any chance I can see a menu and maybe get a cup of coffee out there?”

  “Yeah, we can do that. Benito, show the lady where to sit.”

  Benito, the second man, grabbed a menu from a stand by the swinging door, handed it to me, then ushered me into the dining room. I hid my face in the menu and sat at the table he indicated, straining to hear the conversation three tables away.

  At first, I only heard a murmur, with no distinct words. Then a man raised his voice, making me glimpse quickly over the top of the menu. Onandi was speaking, his harsh and abusive words aimed at Savarine, whose face was whiter than my menu.

  “You fool. You think Rico and his buddies can protect you? Let me show you how much.”

  He pulled a revolver from his jacket and shot Rico in the face. Without hesitation he shot Alberto as the mob enforcer tried to pull a gun from his jacket.

  Rico sagged in his chair, half his face missing. Rizelli slid down the wall as a gush of blood painted the long jagged scar on his neck. He started crawling toward the kitchen door, only getting halfway through before Onandi shot him twice more. Rizelli lay still, his body leaving the kitchen door propped open.

  As I fought a wave of nausea, Joan was screaming like she’d never stop. The front door burst open, and four or five dark-skinned men in long raincoats stormed inside. One had dreadlocks, but the others had shaved their heads smooth. A coat flapped open, revealing a waist belt and thigh harness. Strapped inside it, I saw the dull steel of a machine pistol.

  36

  I’m no coward, but I’m not stupid, either. I dropped from my chair and under the table in one beat, pressed 911 on my phone. A female dispatcher answered, I whispered, “Shots fired. Two victims. Zutti’s restaurant on Broadway.”

  The dispatcher started to question me, but I kept going. “Multiple armed assailants.” I didn’t want her voice calling attention to me. I disconnected.

  How long would it take the cops to arrive? Best case scenario—five to seven minutes. Sometimes longer. How far away was Calixto? Had he seen the men come into Zutti’s?

  A rapid glance from under the table showed the last of the men slamming the front door closed, followed by the sound of a bolt sliding home.

  Joan had stopped screaming. She, Rich, and Savarine sat stiff and unmoving in their chairs. At the wall, the Rastafarian stood smirking as he examined a fingernail. His absurdly casual stance told me he was probably high on something, and that the men who’d just come in were Onandi’s thugs.

  How could I possibly get myself and Joan out?

  Sit chilly and wait for an opening.

  The first moments after the shots were fired, the kitchen was silent, and I wondered if the staff had fled out the rear entrance. But now I heard banging and thumping.

  I looked to my left, into the kitchen, the staff was ripping open drawers and cabinet doors, pulling out weapons. They had handguns, machine pistols. One guy had a Taser. I heard magazine clips sliding home, saw men putting extra bullet clips in their white apron pockets.

  The guy in the tank walked out, holding a submachine gun. He came forward, stood over Rizelli’s body, and began spraying bullets at the men in raincoats.

  Onandi’s men, their machine pistols already out, fired back. The frighteningly rapid, deafening explosions from the automatic weapons enveloped me like a nightmare. I risked another look to see that Onandi had run toward the front door, putting his men between himself and the kitchen mobsters. He crouched behind the maître d’ stand.

  I heard glass breaking. Pieces of cake and pie from the dessert case flew through the air, mixing with glass shards and blood on the floor. Shaking, I was on my hands and knees, under the table. A man from the kitchen fell in front of me, his blood spreading on the floor, almost reaching my hands. He’d dropped his machine pistol. I slid my hand out and pulled the gun under the table.

  It was an FN P90. I’d never fired one, but knew about it. One of the best. Its magazine lay along the top of the gun, transparent, revealing its owner had been dropped before he’d fired all of the weapon’s fifty bullets.

  A quick study of the FN P90 showed a selector switch near the trigger. The gun was set to fully automatic. I changed it to single shot, flinching as rounds of gunfire pounded my ears, and I heard men screaming. The sour smell of vomit reached my nostrils.

  Joan, Savarine, and Rich had either fallen or sought refuge under their table. The Rastafarian had crawled under there, too. My fragmented view of Joan through the tablecloth showed her on the floor, her hands covering her ears. When I saw no blood, I felt myself gasp with relief.

  Suddenly a brief moment of partial silence, the only sound the reloading of weapons and a horrible ri
nging in my ears. The stink of gunsmoke, blood, and human excrement filled my nostrils as I looked left and right from my hiding place. Two of the men in raincoats were down, and I realized the dead mobster next to me was the man in the wifebeater. Two other men lay on the floor inside the kitchen. Their white shirts and aprons were splattered with red.

  This was insane. Was Onandi doing this to show Savarine and Rich he owned them? Hadn’t he realized what could happen in a restaurant owned by the mob?

  I didn’t know how many armed men were still in the kitchen. One of the men in raincoats crouched behind a table he’d flipped on its side by the banquette. As far as I could tell Onandi’s other two remaining men were behind the bar. Shattered bottles dripped liquor and wine down the display shelves. Shell casings littered the floor.

  Benito appeared briefly in the kitchen door. He unleashed a round of machine-gun fire aimed at the table on its side by the banquette. The barrage of bullets moved the table and the man hiding behind it cried out once and was quiet.

  A glance to my left showed Benito had disappeared, but two other men carrying FN P90s, charged into the dining room, firing rapid rounds at the bar. I felt the blast as much as I heard it. They didn’t stop when they reached the bar. If Onandi’s men were still alive behind it, their life lights went out as the mobsters shoved their machine pistols over the bar and kept firing.

  It was too horrible. Spinning away from the gun in my hands, I threw up on the floor. Shuddering, I wiped my mouth on my arm, then grabbed the FN P90 again. A rapid scan of the room. Joan under the table, alive. The Rastafarian next to her, Savarine and Rich close by. Onandi must still be hiding behind the maître d’ stand.

  One of the mobsters in front of the bar yelled at Onandi’s hiding place, “Get out from behind there. Now.”

  “Don’t shoot,” Onandi called, and stood behind the stand with his hands up.

  Without hesitation, the mobster riddled him with bullets. A new wave of dread hit me. Were Rico’s men going to kill us all?

  But the mobster lowered his weapon, and the other one rushed to the table where my mother and the men hid.

  “Mr. Savarine,” he said, “it’s safe for you and your people to come out now.”

  There was a scuffle under the table and the Rastafarian pulled Joan out and stood up with her. He had a gun to her head.

  For one beat, nobody moved. Joan was about to be collateral damage. I aimed the FN P90, sighting on the Rastafarian’s hip, on the side away from Joan. I squeezed off the shot. He screamed, and dropped to the floor. As Joan scrabbled away from him, one of the mobsters finished him off.

  At that moment, there was an explosion that burst open the front door. Flash grenades were thrown into the restaurant. I had trouble seeing and couldn’t hear anything, but was able to identify the figures busting through the front door as an FBI SWAT team. Additional movement in the kitchen told me more FBI or the Saratoga County sheriffs must be breaching the back as well.

  I saw my mother crouching next to Rich, then a sudden wave of dizziness hit me, the room swayed, and I slid into a black hole.

  37

  The FBI SWAT team member who helped me out from under the table told me I’d only been unconscious for a couple of minutes. I felt like I’d lived a year of my life in that restaurant.

  Once he got me steady on my feet, he glanced about the bloody, shattered restaurant and shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t blame you for shutting down. This is the nastiest scene I’ve ever encountered.”

  I didn’t see Joan, Rich, or Savarine. Only bodies, crime scene cops and FBI agents. The smell of death mingled with the liquor and wine from shattered bottles behind the bar, and blood pooled on the floor with splattered cake, fruit pies, and whipped cream. Nausea rose in my throat until I forced myself to breathe. The Saratoga County homicide detectives, Clark and Ferguson, arrived, their stoic expressions almost hiding their shock. Thankfully, they ignored me.

  A few minutes later, a medic looked me over. As he checked my vitals, my brain was completely fogged, and I was content to remain that way while a police officer drove me to the Saratoga Springs PD on Lake Avenue. Once he assured me that Joan was safe, he seemed to think he could ask questions. But I wasn’t ready to talk about what had just transpired, at least not until I was forced to.

  When I stepped into the four-story brick police station, I escaped into the ladies’ room, avoiding the detectives that must have been waiting to question me. I needed a moment to breathe. I ripped off my bloodstained wig, threw it in the trash, and scrubbed my face and hands. I only wished I could wash away the blood that flooded my mind.

  An FBI agent named Townsend and Detectives Clark and Ferguson took me into a room for my statement. By the time they were finished drilling me, the long day had faded to dark.

  When I saw Calixto waiting for me outside the interrogation room, tears burned my eyes. When he put his arms around me, I held him like I’d never let go. When we finally broke apart, Calixto handed me his starched cotton kerchief, and I wiped away the tears that had spilled down my cheeks.

  I realized Joan was standing behind him. As much as I’d wanted to keep her out of harm’s way, I had no desire to embrace her. But she stayed close, positioning herself next to me when I sat on a metal bench with Calixto. I was grateful that for once, she had nothing to say. The three of us were quiet as we waited to see if the field office agents were going to release Rich.

  Agent Meloy had told Calixto that Savarine wasn’t going anywhere. The FBI had enough on Savarine, his hedge fund, and its relationship to Onandi’s pyramid scheme, to hold him over until his arraignment.

  When Joan finally spoke, her voice was so weak, I barely recognized it.

  “How could Rich put us in such a terrible predicament? Will he go to jail?” Her volume morphed into a small wail. “What will I do?”

  “From what I have been told,” Calixto said, answering her second question, “United States Attorney Hartman and the Special Agent in Charge of the Albany Division, Zale, will both be here early tomorrow. They will likely be focusing on Savarine. I do not believe they have enough on Rich to arrest him.”

  Personally, I thought this was a shame.

  The minutes ticked on, and the big electric clock on the station wall moved slowly forward. At some point, an officer brought in boxes of pizza and sodas. I sipped some Coke, unable to look at the gooey red sauce on the flesh-colored pie dough. The sight of it made me nauseous again.

  When they finally released Rich, Calixto and I walked him and Joan outside to a cop waiting in a cruiser, who would drive them to their car, still parked in the lot outside Zutti’s.

  While we stood in the cooling air beneath the streetlights, I breathed in and felt my nausea recede. As I watched the cruiser’s taillights fade into the distance on Lake Avenue, Calixto touched my arm.

  “Querida, allow me to drive you to the Adelphi. You can get your car tomorrow.”

  “It’s only a short drive,” I said. “I’d rather have the Mini close by. I may need it in the morning.”

  He gave me an exasperated shrug. “As you wish. I will drop you off now, but I must come back here briefly to speak with Agent Meloy. I will see you at the Adelphi.”

  I don’t recall ever being more exhausted and spaced out than I was that evening when Calixto dropped me off in the alley by Zutti’s. But as I cranked the Mini’s engine and wheeled onto Broadway, my mental fog started to clear. Even that small sense of regained control seemed to lessen the pounding in my head, and suddenly, I realized I was starving.

  I didn’t want to wait for room service at the Adelphi. Besides, I had a craving for the best instant gratification for hunger—french fries. I drove to the McDonald’s on South Broadway, got a double order and a Diet Coke at the drive-up window. Then I parked in the lot and wolfed down the crisp potatoes. Between the caffeine, grease, and potatoes, I felt my energy returning, and my head began to clear.

  I also felt a familiar, protective
wall building inside me. From past experience, I knew it would help shield me from the emotional damage of the events I’d witnessed, and help me mentally organize what had happened.

  Rico and Onandi were dead, and if, as we suspected, Onandi had killed Matt Percy, he could no longer be questioned. We might never know if he was the murderer.

  The Rastafarian was dead, and I was pretty sure that every single one of the other imported Jamaican thugs had been killed. In the end, Onandi had been a fool. Had he really thought he could go up against the New York mob and win?

  I didn’t know how many of the kitchen staff at Zutti’s had perished.

  I stared out my windshield at the cars zipping by on South Broadway, grateful to be alone to think, content to sip my Diet Coke. I almost felt bad for Savarine. Stuck in jail, he’d been duped and used. Rich and my mother, however, were safely on their way home.

  No one should tangle with Joan. She always comes out on top.

  I thought about that first time I’d gone to visit her at her lavish stone house. She’d been so curious that I’d killed a man, had asked me if it was hard. Next time I’d seen her, she’d asked if I had a gun. She’d asked on more than one occasion. She was not a stupid woman and probably had suspicions about Rich. But as long as the money poured in, she hadn’t cared.

  That night at the party, she’d been as shocked as anyone by Percy’s murder. I took another sip of Coke, reliving that night, remembering how I’d eavesdropped on Onandi and Rich when they’d been talking inside the house. Something I’d been trying to remember finally came to me.

  Onandi had said, “You’d better have a plan to fix this, Rich.”

  Rico may have put Savarine together with Onandi’s money and helped to instigate the racing hedge fund, but Rich went along with the plan because he already knew Onandi. He’d been in the thick of it, and in my opinion belonged in jail with Savarine.

  If my job was to protect the integrity of horse racing, anything I could do to provide evidence that could revoke Rich’s owner’s license would be a good thing. So what if I had personal reasons to detest the man? He was still no friend to horse racing.