by C. S. De Mel
Varick walked right up to Santos; there was only a few feet between them. For a moment, the two stared intensely at each other in silence. Finally, Varick extended his hand. “Thanks.”
Santos shook his hand and smiled. “So, it was a fruitful endeavor?”
“Yeah. Gregory Pike and the driver of the truck that tore through First Bank were both arrested tonight.”
Santos raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Pike, huh? He’s a formidable fellow. Good work.”
***
The next morning, Varick joined Santos and Alex at the breakfast table. He normally was one of the first ones up in the house, but last night, he took a much needed rest. His entire body was sore, and the only prescription for his injuries was rest and time. The television in the living room was switched on to the morning news and was providing them with background noise as they ate. It was visible from the breakfast table, but the only one really watching was Leonardo. He was parked on the floor, in front of the television.
“Who made this?” Varick mumbled, as he chewed his eggs, which were atop corn tortillas and smothered in tomato chili sauce.
“I thought I’d try out something different; it’s the weekend after all,” Santos responded. “It’s called Huevos Rancheros.”
“It’s good. Very good.” Varick tried the beans and avocado slices. “Nicely done, Santos.”
“Thanks.”
Alex glanced at Santos, then turned his attention to Varick. “What the hell, Varick; are you high on pain meds?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You two would normally be at each other’s throats by now.”
Santos grinned. “What’s the old saying, Alex, ‘don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’?”
Varick laughed. Alex stared, then shrugged. “Alright, don’t tell me what’s going on. I’m not even going to ask why your arms are bandaged up, Varick. It’s practically common occurrences around here.”
With his fingers, Varick flashed Alex the gun, minus a wink. “Good man. You’re learning.”
“Oh, by the way, Varick, Bruce called this morning,” Santos informed. “He’s arriving back this evening.”
“That’s good news—much to be discussed.”
Leonardo suddenly let out a loud bark; he was on all fours, looking at the table. Alex raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s rare. I can’t remember the last time I heard Leo bark...” Alex immediately went quiet when he noticed Santos. He was standing up, staring at the television and looking ghostly. Varick and Alex’s attention turned to the television as well. The news reporter was in Downtown Manhattan. Across the news ticker, the headline read: ‘Legion supporter found dead’.
“We have received confirmation that the identity of the man found dead is Uecker Clemens, a Legion supporter who recently took part in a controversial interview on Shocktalk Radio. The reports from eyewitnesses claim that a vehicle with no discernible plates was seen speeding and then briefly stopped in front of the Shocktalk Radio building, where the body of Uecker Clemens was dumped. The body was found with several gunshot wounds to the chest. What was most unsettling about the discovery was the message which was written across the man’s shirt. The message read: ‘This is what’s in store for all supporters of the Omega Ops Legion. The Legion is death’.”
Varick cracked his knuckles, scowling. “Like the message wasn’t clear enough already. Not a doubt in my mind that Scorcher’s behind this. Tony and his gang were probably the trigger men.” Varick glanced at Santos and stifled his talk when he saw that Santos was sitting back down at the table, with his face buried in his hands.
***
Chapter 17 – New Blood
Sunday, November 7th, 1999
Manhattan, New York
Peter Santos was attending Sunday mass at his church like he did every weekend. He stood alongside the other parishioners while Father Christy spoke the concluding prayer and blessing. Despite staring at the altar, Santos’ thoughts were miles away. He wasn’t one to let his attention wander during church, like so many others putting in their one-hour-a-week obligation. He always paid attention to the sermon—but not today. Today was different. Everything being preached seemed to wash over him. “The Lord be with you.”
“And also with you,” Santos responded mechanically. Today, he waited in anticipation for mass to end.
“And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...”
Santos made the sign on the cross. “Amen.”
Father Christy raised his hands: “Our mass has ended. Let us go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
Santos exhaled heavily. “Thanks be to God.” The closing hymn started playing and parishioners slowly began to disperse. Santos watched both sides of his pew clear. Once he was the only one in his row, he sat down and waited. Eventually, the congregation cleared completely and only Father Christy and Santos were left in the church.
The priest made his way over to Santos and sat down beside him. “Sad, sad events of recent.”
“First Bank...and now this.” Santos continued to stare out in front of him. “Did you hear—what they wrote? Scrawled on his chest...”
Father Christy nodded. “Yes, I heard.”
“The Legion is death... Is that what we are?”
“Come now, Peter, I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I know all the ins and outs of how the Legion operates. But from what I’ve observed, they’re doing a good thing. You’re doing a good thing. And you have taken it upon yourself to bear this cross: the pain—the struggle—the fight...so others won’t have to.”
Santos shook his head, gritting his teeth. “He didn’t deserve this. He was trying to stand up for us—and he was killed in cold blood because of it.”
“He believed in what the Legion represents, even before meeting you, you know that. That’s why he was compelled to speak out.” Father Christy had a pretty good understanding of how Santos’ mind worked: He was always one to carry the world on his shoulders. “This isn’t your fault, Peter.”
Santos sighed. “I wish I could have gotten to know him better. What was it, a few visits—outings here and there?”
“Uecker was a mysterious one. He didn’t really give up too much of himself. But at the same time, he always made his presence known. Everyone knew Uecker at the retirement community.”
Santos smiled. “Yeah, he was rough around the edges.”
Father Christy nodded. “But he still managed to find his place. Have you had a chance to talk with Taz yet?”
“Yes, I actually spoke to him on the phone yesterday, soon after I found out. He’s taking it badly, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. I’m seeing him for a late supper tonight.”
Father Christy smiled. “You know...the retirement community—it may have been constructed by this church, but the funding...that was all made possible by the work you and the Legion do. People like Uecker and Taz—they lost something very valuable. They no longer had family, friends—a sense of community. You helped give that back to them. Don’t you ever doubt yourself, Peter. Uecker never doubted the Legion’s merit and for good reason.”
Santos nodded in appreciation, and his tension eased a little. “Have dates been set yet?”
“The funeral’s on Tuesday, viewing on Monday,” Father Christy replied. Santos leaned back in the pew and looked up aimlessly. The father observed Santos for a moment—he knew Peter still held a deep guilt. “Listen to me, Peter. I’m not going to talk to you as a priest right now. I’m going to talk to you as a friend. As someone who’s also hurting from losing a member of his community.”
“I’m all ears.”
Father Christy looked at Santos sternly. “If you want to sit here feeling sorry for yourself, no one can stop you from doing so. But that’s not going to help anyone, yourself included. If I were in your shoes and had the power and influence you wield...I’d be out there right now, trying to bring to justice the sons of bitches who did this.”
Santos stared
at Father Christy, taken aback. But he knew he was right. Santos squeezed the seat of the pew. “You continue to preach the truth, Father.”
***
Queens, NYPD, 117th Precinct
Oswalt Fletcher was in the washroom, rinsing off his hands. Ever since his last, rather unpleasant, conversation with Jack Solly, he had taken to going about his daily business looking over his shoulder. On normal days, Oswalt was a cautious man, but knowing he could be sent six feet under at a moment’s notice made him redouble his efforts. A few times he had actually picked up on suspicious individuals following him on the streets, but that’s as far as they would go, and that was perfectly fine with Oswalt. Surprisingly, he wasn’t as bothered by impending doom as he expected to be. It was simply a matter of constant vigilance.
Oswalt hadn’t been in contact with Solly’s party since Monday, and it was safe to assume he was being cut out of the loop. But he was working on it. He looked in the mirror and ran the water over his hands one more time while he mentally prepared himself for what he was about to do. He nodded at his reflection, turned off the taps, and walked out of the washroom.
Sundays at the precinct were quiet, and there was no better day than today for what Oswalt had planned. No one was at the front desk at the moment. He moved quickly and swiped the evidence locker-room key from the drawer. He had to work fast—in and out in a minute or so.
“Yo, Oswalt, how’s it going, bud?”
Oswalt raised a hand casually. “Hey, Roy, not too bad...” Oh my god, these two idiots. It was Roy Cameron and Henry Schucker. It was like the two were joined at the hip.
“Gotta love the Sundays here. Feels like happy hour.” Roy raised a finger to his lips and opened his coat, revealing a small bottle in the pocket.
Oswalt gave a thumbs-up. “That’s really—great... Was wondering why you were wearing your coat in the office, ha-ha...”
“Why do you have that with you at work?” Henry questioned.
“Hey, I’m not on patrol today—just doing paperwork,” Roy replied. “A lot of paperwork...”
“Just make sure I’m not around when you’re caught with that.” Henry didn’t approve of such antics, but after all these years, he knew better than to try and correct Roy.
Roy sighed. “I would rather be sober and on patrol.”
Oswalt looked at Roy, baffled. “Why do you even go on patrol? You’re a damn detective.”
“Hey, it’s called keepin’ it real. I like to be in touch with the streets. You know what I’m talking about, Oswalt?”
“Yeah-yeah, I hear you.” Oswalt immediately regretted asking a question that further prolonged the conversation. “But anyway, I’ll leave you two to it.” Oswalt turned to walk away.
“But you get what I’m saying, right, Oswalt?”
Oswalt turned back. “Yeah...I get you, Roy.”
“When they see you out there in the squad car making the rounds, they know what’s up. When you show the streets love, the streets give you love back.”
Henry scratched his head. “Umm, Roy? How much of that bottle have you had already?”
“Sounds like he’s ready for that paperwork, eh, Henry? So you two have fun with that.” Oswalt began to walk.
“Hey, wait a sec., Oswalt!” Roy called.
Oswalt gritted his teeth. I swear to god, I’m going to knock this fucker out. Oswalt glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Want some? If you got paperwork to do as well, this is the fast-forward button right here.”
“No, thank you. Keep it for yourselves. I’m sure you two will need all of it.” Oswalt quickly made a break for it before Roy could stop him again. He walked down the hall and made his way to the evidence locker-room—there was no one around. Oswalt unlocked the door and slipped inside. His eyes scanned the shelves until he found the bin he was looking for. He pulled out a clear polyethylene evidence baggie and examined its contents. Hmm, this might be useful...
***
Oswalt was riding the elevator to the top floor of Jack Solly’s office tower. He was told he could find Jack at his office after initially trying the Seaberg Lounge. Of course, he only became privy to Jack’s whereabouts after waiting on multiple calls sent up the daisy chain by his goons, to verify if the information should be disclosed to Oswalt.
Solly’s office was located in Queens, where he masqueraded as a real-estate mogul. For the most part, the public saw Jack Solly in a good light due to his philanthropy. Oswalt exited the elevator and walked through the lobby to Solly’s office. A burly man named Roland stood in front of the door. He served as Solly’s doorman and guard. “I’m here to see Jack,” Oswalt stated.
“He’s in a meeting and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
“That’s fine, I can wait,” Oswalt replied. He took a seat in the lobby and folded his arms in front of himself.
Present in Solly’s office was none other than Spike Luxembourg. He was there with two men from his outfit. Spike was in his mid-thirties, was well-spoken, and had only the slightest hint of a German accent. He kept himself well-groomed and well-dressed. He was a gangster with class, and in the Bronx underworld, Spike reigned king.
“I have tremendous respect for you, Jack, but I’m afraid I can’t follow you down this destructive path.”
Jack Solly eyed Spike from the other side of his desk. “If there ever was a time to go to war, now is that time. Scorcher has been flexing his muscle for far too long in this city, and both of our operations have suffered because of it. At this moment, with the increased pressure he’s facing from police and the Legion, we need to pile on.”
“To be perfectly candid, Scorcher is still on the attack, and he still has your number marked. If I were you, I would go into hiding until this all blows over,” advised Spike.
“I can’t. I’m a public figure—I have responsibilities. We have to act now. We can take out Scorcher once and for all. Together, we can do it, Spike.”
Spike shook his head in disagreement. “His position is not as weak as it appears. If we run this race, we will lose. Guaranteed. I advise against this, Jack.”
Jack smiled. “You are wise beyond your years, Spike. But he stole millions from me and cut off my ties with Elmo Burns. I don’t have a choice at this point.”
Spike sighed and rapped his knuckles on his chair’s armrest. “This is what I can do, Jack. I won’t directly partake with the offensive, but I will make it so that you can contribute more of your resources to the attack. I will provide you with weapons from my German contacts overseas. And I will provide manpower and resources to defend against retaliation.”
“That should be enough—I can work with that.” Solly stood up and extended a hand over the table. “Thank you, Spike.”
Oswalt looked indifferent upon seeing Spike and his men leave the office. Oswalt stood up and walked up to Roland. “Empty your pockets, arms spread.”
“Well, I can only spread one...” Oswalt complied as best he could in a sling while Roland patted him down thoroughly. He picked up the polyethylene baggie that Oswalt had removed from his pocket and examined it. “What’s this?”
“That—would be evidence.”
Roland raised an eyebrow, then threw the bag back to him. “Name?”
“Oswalt Fletcher.” He retrieved his belongings from the floor.
“Oh, you’re Oswalt Fletcher?” Roland smiled grimly at him. Oswalt assumed that all of Solly’s men had been informed about the potential rat they had in their employment. Roland placed a call on his cell phone. “Mr. Solly, I have Oswalt Fletcher outside here. He’s requesting an audience with you.” Roland listened attentively while Solly gave his response. “Okay, will do, Mr. Solly.” He hung up the phone and ushered Oswalt inside to a second door. Oswalt knocked and was greeted by yet another goon, who allowed him entrance into Solly’s office. The goon sat down on a chair next to the door and watched Oswalt’s every move like a hawk.
Oswalt walked up to Jack. “I’ve got something f
or you.” He pulled out the evidence baggie and tossed it on Jack’s desk.
Jack picked up the baggie and flipped it over in his hands. “What’s this?”
“That’s a pen picked up from the crime scene of Brody’s death.”
Jack looked at Oswalt, amused. “And why would this interest me?”
“Because according to the evidence log, that pen actually has a concealed blade inside it and was used to puncture Brody’s hand.”
Solly’s eyes grew wide. “A pen blade...”
Oswalt nodded. “Take a closer look; the initials ‘S.T.’ are monogrammed in gold on the body of the pen. Mean anything to you?”
Jack rolled the bag over in his hand to pick out the initials and stared at them transfixed. “I know who this is...”
Oswalt raised an eyebrow. “Really...”
“Samuel Turly.”
It was Oswalt’s turn to be surprised. “You’re joking... He’s an internationally wanted man.”
“This pen. This is one of his—quirks. He’s gained a notorious reputation in the underworld for murdering people with nothing but his pen. I wasn’t sure how true the stories were, but I suppose this adds some credibility to the claims. I’m surprised he would allow himself to lose it.” Jack laughed while he stared down at the pen. “I’ve had the displeasure of encountering this man in my many years involved in this business. He’s elusive. He’s a cornerstone in Scorcher’s network, and this proves he’s here in New York, right under our noses.” Jack looked at Oswalt and smiled at him. “I take it this was stolen from police control?” Oswalt nodded. “Very good, Mr. Fletcher. Don’t wait around for your innocence to be proven; you have to get out there and claim it for yourself. Wells is still MIA, but you’re one step closer to being back in the fold.”
Oswalt smiled grimly. “Good to know.”
***
Kasparov Manor, 6:00 p.m.
Ding-dong. Varick made his way to the door warily. As far as he knew, no one was expected here. Without making the slightest noise with his steps, he peered through the peep hole...then groaned. He opened the door. “Jeezes, what are you doing here?”
