For Nothing

by Nicholas Denmon

  At this Sal began crying again but it was brief and Victor could tell that he was cursing himself for crying in front of another man, and cursing himself for his lot in life and cursing himself for not being the one on the more dangerous assignment.

  Victor didn’t know what to say. He was already resigned to his mission of vengeance. It seemed that the entire world would one day be embroiled in vengeance upon vengeance, but Victor Garducci didn’t give a damn. He just wanted to taste his share of it before his time came.

  He asked Sal, “So, what you want to do now Sal?”

  Sal looked at him, vacant, for a moment then asked, “What?”

  Victor repeated himself, “So what you want to do now Sal?”

  “Just put on some clothes. We’re heading on over to the pool hall soon. We’re supposed to meet up early, but I can’t fucking sleep, not knowing that the curse of whatever God there may be is on me. Let’s go eat. I’m not much hungry but I bet you could do with some coffee or something. When I don’t sleep, you don’t sleep.”

  He was standing up now and his face looked resigned to some decision he came to in the privacy of his own thoughts. Victor recognized that look. He saw that look everyday he looked in the mirror since Jack’s death. Vengeance was the order of the day.

  In a few moments, Alex wore his slacks and a white T-shirt that Sal had in his trunk. He tucked his Beretta into the small of his back. Over the top of it all he slung his leather jacket. The two walked out of the motel. They stood there for a moment and Victor popped up the collar on his jacket to keep out the bite of the rain and cold.

  Sal lit a cigarette that became a soggy mess. It took him a few tries to light it, his hands were shaking so bad he almost lit the middle of the tobacco roll. There was a flash of light in the morning gloom.

  “What the fuck was that?” Victor asked Sal.

  “What? What are you talking 'bout Vic?”

  Victor glanced around, “You didn’t see that light?”

  “Fuck Vic, it was just some lightning.”

  With that he got into his car and leaned over unlocking the door for Victor.

  As Victor stood outside he took one more glance around then muttered to himself, “Yeah but lightning is usually followed by thunder.”

  He got in the car, and Sal drove them back towards the pool hall. He stopped for a moment and got two coffees for them at a Wilson Farms drug store. As the two of them entered Wizeguyz, Alex Vaughn was beginning to hate the place. Here he was, searching for his friend’s killer but he hadn’t seen much of anything except the inside of this two-bit joint.

  The haze in the hall bit at his nostrils and his already weary eyes felt the burn as the smoke turned his eyes a bloodshot red. The doors of Wizeguyz swung shut behind them and a table full of punks who were playing cards stood up and started walking toward the duo. They muttered curses and fanned out.

  A sharp word from Aldo in the back stopped the youngsters in their tracks and they sat down again to finish their game. One of the kids, who grew a black mustache and wore a black beanie, never took his eyes off the two of them as he attempted to posture himself as a hardass. Maybe that was why he wore a thick gold chain around his thin neck. Compensating.

  “Man, I’d love to break his face in two,” Sal said.

  “You know it,” Victor said to appease his comrade.

  Aldo Marano shuffled his way up to Sal. “Things are getting a little hectic. We still haven’t heard from Sonne. We need to talk to you in the back.” He glanced over at Garducci and with a wave of his hand dismissed him. “Vic, go sit down and get some coffee for God’s sake. You look terrible.” He didn’t even notice the coffee already in his hand.

  “Yeah, sure thing. Where are Jimmy Jacks and Tom?”

  “What’s with all the questions? They’re in the back.” Aldo looked over at the teeny boppers playing cards and snapped, “Hey Mikey, go and get Jimmy and the Irishman out of the back.”

  The thug with a staring problem put his cards down and walked past Sal as if he had something to prove. He brushed past giving a slight bump to the street veteran. Sal dropped his left hand towards his coat pocket as an angry cloud sifted through his already strung out gaze. Aldo touched Sal’s arm, snapping him out of it, and led him towards the back of the billiards hall.

  Tom Coughlin came strutting out of the kitchen followed by Lil’ Mikey and Jimmy, who wore a confused look on his face as always. Tom walked straight over to Victor.

  “Hey Vic. Me and Jimmy are gonna go and run a few errands. Sorry but we will catch up with you when we get back.”

  “Why don’t we bring Victor with us?” Jimmy asked.

  “Jesus Christ you fucking bastard, if you didn’t have the luck I’m supposed to have, I’d knock your head off.” Then, as if catching himself he muttered, “Besides Victor wouldn’t want to run our boring errands. Let’s get going.”

  “Well, maybe next time Victor,” Tom said.

  “Yeah, maybe next time Vic. Come on Tom, let’s get out of here.” Jimmy gave Garducci a smile that said he didn’t care about all of Tom’s threats or his desire for secrecy.

  Tom Coughlin led Jimmy out the doors. Just before the doors closed, Victor saw Jimmy kick at Tom’s heels and send him stumbling forward. The large wooden doors shut behind them but Victor Garducci could still hear Coughlin yelling at Jimmy as his larger counterpart laughed while they wandered out of ear shot.

  Victor Garducci found himself standing alone in the bar. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum left, the punks were playing cards, and Sal was busy in the back.

  He glanced around, and then jumped at the opportunity. He walked out the doors, pulling his collar up around his neck. With a brisk gait, he crossed the street and grabbed the brass handle of a tiny shop situated in-between two large buildings. Victor Garducci stepped inside letting the door swing shut behind him. As the door slammed, a sign suctioned onto the dirty door window clanged against the glass.

  Just before Garducci slipped inside he saw Tom Coughlin’s lime green sedan inching along the road with Jimmy in the passenger seat picking at his teeth with a gnarled fingernail. Tom squinted at Victor as he drifted past. With his customary grunt, Tom pushed the gas and let his tires squeal in protest as he sped around the corner.

  The door swung behind Victor slamming a sign suctioned on the window as it closed. It read, “Inhaled Imports. Open for Business.”

  Chapter 11

  Rontego shifted in his chair as he sat facing the Don and his consigliore, The Pope. He always hated interrogations; they reminded him of talking to cops. Don Ciancetta was rattling on about how pissed he was at Falzone for making this move against him by trying to eliminate Rontego. The wily old man succeeded against several of the Don’s other, less fortunate hitters.

  Rafael wasn’t listening much. The Don was known for going on these tirades and the assassin didn’t care much for all the drama.

  Tell me who to hit, tell me where, and tell me who is winning so I know whose side to pick, he thought as a thin grin escaped his lips.

  He started playing with the decorative buttons that lined the leather chair in which he was reclining. He couldn’t help but notice his chair’s lower stature than the Don’s. Just like Ciancetta to convince people of the power of his position through illusion, through perception manipulation. In reality, for all the power that those like the Don appeared to wield, that very power was the illusion that was perched as precarious as a house of cards.

  Rontego saw several bosses, all as untouchable as the Don, go down in a hail of gunfire, or by the smashing of a judge’s gavel.

  Rafael Rontego snapped to attention as Don Ciancetta slammed his fist on his desk as he was emphasizing some point or another. It sent a case of chocolates across the room and squished the chocolates against the wall. Red cherry dripped down the wall as the crumpled chocolates revealed their insides.

  “So you were able to whack all three,” Christian asked.

  He was still in a bi
t of disbelief over the whole thing. The Pope stifled back a cough and his face went red from the buildup behind his eyes. Their release was through a bit of moisture that leaked out of them, as they strained to remain inside his skull.

  “Yeah. And one was the lil’ Pieri kid.”

  “Are you sure it was Sonne?” The Don’s voice was on edge and he got so loud when he was frazzled Rontego wanted to tell the bastard to quiet the fuck down. “’Cause a few of Falzone’s crew look a lot like that snot-nosed punk.”

  “You better be sure Rafael.”

  Even though The Pope was now getting on his case, Rontego didn’t mind the double team. The Pope was an information glutton and he didn’t make a move without knowing all his facts.

  Rafael was tired of the inquisition though. He stood up and paused a moment, letting his hand slide into his coat pocket. He fumbled around inside the crease until his hand touched what it was looking for. It was cold. Icy cold. And the frozen conditions outside only helped it in that regard. Rontego pulled it out of his pocket and threw it on the Don’s desk.

  The sudden motion made The Pope leap up from his seat and caused the Don to freeze like a deer in the headlights. A checkered handkerchief lay bundled up in front of Ciancetta. The Don unraveled the cloth and let his gaze linger for a moment as his consigliore came over to see the item. After a moment, Rontego held his hand out. With a little laugh, Ciancetta returned it to the assassin who slipped it back into his pocket.

  “Jesus Christ.” Christian sat down, contemplating what he’d just seen.

  “Don’t blaspheme, Chris. I’m Rafael Rontego and don’t you, either of you, forget it.”

  The Don and Christian glanced at each other. Rafael was satisfied to see that this time The Pope’s cough rang out in a mucus-filled hack. In more peaceful times, the Don might have the balls to admonish Rafael’s tone. But with a moment of wisdom, the old man decided to let this one pass.

  “So what will you do now?” Ciancetta asked as he folded his hands on the desk and leaned forward. Back to business.

  “Since they want war, what do you think of Rafael delivering a little message to our friends over at Wizeguyz?”

  It was a decent suggestion, but still Rafael hated how The Pope put other people in a position where they were the ones who would have to pray.

  “What do you have in mind?” purred the assassin.

  *

  The doors to Rumors flew open and Rontego stepped out onto the street. He grabbed the crease of his fedora and placed it onto his head. The assassin took a deep breath and felt the cool air enter his lungs. He let the breath hang for a moment as his body warmed it up, and then let it trail out in a wisp of smoke.

  His hand reached inside of his Armani and he pulled out the creased Buffalo News. As he stood there, a curious moment overtook him and he unfolded the front page. There was a headline there which caught his attention though it didn’t startle the hit man. “Search Ongoing for Cop Killer,” it read.

  He scanned the page again and saw nothing about gangland warfare. That is always a good sign. As for the dead cop, well no one would ever solve that one. After all, who cared about a dirty dead cop? Tough luck kid, next time pick your friends better.

  “Too bad there won’t be a next time,” he muttered.

  The assassin tossed the paper in the trash as he walked down the street. He hoped there would be a next time for him. What the Don and The Pope wanted him to do was nothing short of suicide for most men.

  “But I’m Rafael Rontego, remember that,” he said aloud as he quickened his pace.

  I am Rafael Rontego, he thought again, and that thought comforted him.

  Chapter 12

  The clerk looked up from his magazine and for a moment, Victor felt as if he was unmasked. Alex Vaughn crept from the recesses of Victor Garducci as his sixth sense became heightened and more aware of the situation in which he immersed himself. His pulse was racing so fast that he could hear his own heartbeat throbbing in his ears, he could feel it pulsating along his neck and his temples were knocking from the inside out in perfect rhythm.

  His hand remained steady. He fought the instinct to turn around and walk out.

  People buy cigarettes every day, he thought to himself.

  After a calming breath and a mental count to three, Victor Garducci shook the cold off of his shoulders and started walking the aisles of the little smoke shop. Bongs and pipes of blown glass lined one wall while their loose tobacco counterparts hung on shelves behind the clerk’s counter up front.

  This place was a lung cancer breeding ground. He walked along the aisle pretending to admire the craftsmanship of the various glassware, but in reality Victor was buying time. He tried so hard just to get to Inhaled Imports that he never came up with a plan for once he was inside.

  It was not as simple as asking who smokes Sobranie cigarettes. This clerk, so close to the mafia den, had to be on the payroll of the shadier elements across the street. It would be different if Alex Vaughn could come in and strut around like he owned the place. It was amazing what a badge could do to get people talking.

  But he was Victor now and as such, the rules were different.

  Quit stalling, he told himself. You know what to do, do what you always do and wing it.

  Victor walked up to the counter and pulled his folded twenties out of his pocket.

  “Whatcha want?” The kid never looked up from his magazine. He couldn’t have seemed more disinterested if he tried. Victor admonished himself for getting so worked up. He slid a bill across the counter towards the clerk who was still reading his tabloid.

  “I’ll take a pack of Sobranies.”

  Garducci eyed the kid. He was waiting for any type of reaction, any hint that what he said registered on some level or another.

  The clerk, eyes still glued to the article he was engrossed in, reached up and pulled down a black pack of cigarettes. The design on front was delicate and emblazoned in a regal gold set against the blackness. The clerk handed him the box and started counting his change.

  At least he had to put the magazine down to handle the money, Garducci noted with a bit of satisfaction. This didn’t seem like it was going to be as easy as he thought. Victor didn’t know what he expected, but the kid wasn’t going to just offer up who in the town smoked the cigarettes.

  Victor scoured his brain for a way to break the ice, to get something, anything, out of this silent clerk. Who did he think he was anyway? Didn’t anyone these days know about customer service with a smile? Damn kids. He didn’t know much but he did know that he would never let his daughter date a slacker like this. If she did she would have a lot of questions to answer...

  Focus!, he told himself.

  What would Jack do in a situation like this? Alex Vaughn thought back to when Jack made a stunning breakthrough in a case when he interrogated the lone witness in a murder his first year as a detective. What was it he said he did? Damn, if he could just remember.

  Then, in an instant, it hit him. Jack’s smiling face while Alex pleaded with him for the secret to garnering the precious information.

  “You know what it is Alex? I just kept him talking. People love to hear themselves talk. So whatever you do, get them talking and keep them talking.”

  “I’m surprised you had these. I haven’t been able to find ‘em anywhere.” The clerk handed Victor the change. Victor laid the cigarettes on the magazine and started folding his extra bills while the clerk eyed him up.

  “Yeah, not too many people have them.”

  It wasn’t what he said as much as how he said it. The slight roll of the eyes. The heavy sigh afterwards, as if having to talk to Victor was a huge burden to have to shoulder.

  The clerk was a little irritated at having to interact with Victor. If Victor wasn’t trying to keep a low profile he would drag that clerk over the counter and put a boot on his throat. Instead though, Garducci remained calm and acted as though he were unfazed.

  “I don’t kno
w why, they are great cigarettes.”

  Garducci creased another bill. He needed to get this kid interested. If he needed to irritate him to death, he would.

  Victor put his money in his pocket. As the kid went to grab the paper though, Victor pulled it towards himself and pretended to be reading it, as if he were interested in the four armed woman from Vermont who breast fed all six of her children at the same time.

  And that’s when it happened. The kid got irritated and gave Alex Vaughn the golden opening he looked for.

  “Maybe because there are like two of you in the city that actually smoke the damned things. I don’t even know why we stock them.”

  He was trying to piss Victor off. But Garducci was too excited inside to let it faze him.

  “Oh yeah, who else? I bet he has great taste. I’d love to shake his hand.”

  Victor laughed it off as if it was a joke but he was hoping the kid would keep talking. He was not disappointed.

  “I seriously doubt that, dude. The guy is creepy. Even the guys across the street steer clear of him. They say he is ‘badder than LeRoy Brown’.”

  Victor laughed again. “No one is that bad. Who are we talking about? I want to stay out of his way.”

  The clerk shrugged his shoulders. “Hell if I know, man. But he goes over to Wizeguyz a lot and no one ever fucks with him.”

  Victor decided he obtained as much information as he could out of the clerk. With a nod of his head, Garducci walked out. The cool air swirled about him but he didn’t notice.