Clean Slate (New Mafia Trilogy #2)

by E. J. Fechenda

  “What the fuck, Dom?”

  “My key wasn’t working and I need to get my shit. What’s going on in there anyway, huh?” I wiggled my eyebrows at him and he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “I was helping Miranda.”

  “Sure you were.” I pushed him aside and saw Miranda sitting in her chair behind the desk. She was counting money and looking entirely too composed except for the flush crawling up her slender neck and blooming on her cheeks, making her olive skin ruddy.

  “Hey Cuz, you got a fever or something?” I teased and she narrowed her green eyes at me.

  I laughed and squatted in front of the safe, punching in the code. The lock released and I swung the heavy steel door open to retrieve my gun then I grabbed my leather jacket from where it was hanging on a hook above the safe. Making sure the safety was on first, I secured my gun to the loop sewn into the inside of my leather jacket.

  “Is Marco sending you out?” Grant asked.

  “Yeah. Fucking Danny Z. can’t keep the needle out of his veins.”

  “Fucking idiot. You cool – with Marco I mean?”

  “It’s just temporary. I need to do this right for Nat. That’s what’s keeping me focused.” I looked Grant in the eye and he nodded in understanding.

  “I’ll let you guys get back to whatever you were ‘doing’,” I said with a wink before closing the door behind me.

  Once I stepped out into the cold December night, the icy rain pelting against my cheeks, seriousness took over. I had a job to do and didn’t want to be out all night combing through a cheap, rat and scabies infested hotel. Resigned to the task, I jogged over to my Mustang, passing the entrance to Blue and ignoring the slurred invitations being called to me by Richie’s bachelorette party waiting in line.

  After letting the engine warm up for a few minutes, I was pulling out onto Columbus Boulevard, heading towards Center City. Traffic was light and the roads were slick with patches of black ice. Hard to believe just two days ago I was lounging in the sun listening to the crash of the Pacific.

  City blocks in Philadelphia were like a patchwork quilt. One block was nice and the next was riddled with abandoned row homes and empty, boarded up storefronts on the corners. I drove through one such neighborhood on my way to the Pierce. Prostitutes roamed the area, signs of crack addiction showed in the foam pooling in the corners of their mouths like rabid dogs. Minutes later I pulled into the Pierce’s parking lot. There were only six other cars in the lot and a couple of them had flat tires with dried leaves gathered around the rims, indicating they hadn’t been moved in a very long time. I looked up at the looming brick building and noticed an end unit on one of the top floors had boarded up windows with scorch marks around the frame. Moisture oozed around the bricks in a glistening slime that I imagined was green in the daylight.

  Reaching across to the glove compartment, I pulled out the suppressor. It was about the same size as a roll of quarters and easily fit into my jacket pocket. Keeping my jacket unzipped, I put on a plain black baseball hat, lowering the bill to hide my eyes before approaching. Cigarette butts littered the sidewalk out front and a prostitute called at me from across the street. Judging by the deepness of the voice, I assumed the hooker was a tranny. Keeping my head down and away from the security camera at the entrance, I entered the lobby. A scrawny guy with skin whiter than glue, evidence of his nocturnal job, looked up from his graphic novel when I walked in. He was sitting behind a plexi-glass partition. His stringy yellow hair hung limp around his face, which was covered with inflamed acne that looked ready to erupt like mini volcanoes at any moment.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a squeaky voice.

  Keeping my head tilted so he couldn’t get a good look at my face, I placed a hundred dollar bill in the slot under the partition and moved my jacket to the side, revealing the gun. I heard the guy swallow, practically heard his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. “Danny Z. – where’s he staying?” I asked. In a prostitute and addict-ridden hell hole like the Pierce, drug dealers were known by name.

  “Uh, uh,” he stammered. “He’s in room #1013.”

  “I need a key.”

  The guy scurried around like a rodent to grab a spare key. He slid it to me and I picked up the blue plastic diamond shaped keychain that had greasy fingerprints all over it and I grimaced even though I was wearing gloves. “Thank you and don’t worry, you’re not going to have to deal with a dead body.” I slipped another one hundred dollar bill under the window, not missing how the man’s eyes latched onto it. “You never saw me. Got it?”

  The clerk sputtered out his agreement before I turned around and walked across the cracked black and white checkerboard tile to the single elevator. The guy might not have to deal with a dead body, but housekeeping was going to have to clean up a lot of blood.

  The elevator was empty and I took advantage, securing the suppressor or what we like to call a “can”, to the barrel of my .22.

  I stepped out onto the tenth floor onto an orange shag carpet that had been popular when Nixon was president. It smelled like it had absorbed every odor since then too: urine, booze, smoke and mildew made for a noxious combination. Holding my hand over my mouth to breathe, I walked down the hall to unlucky room #1013. Danny Z.’s luck was about ready to run out.

  Pressing my ear up against the door, I listened for any sounds in the room. It was dead quiet. After looking up and down the hallway for any potential witnesses, I unlocked the door and slipped inside, with my gun cocked and locked. Roaches scurried along the walls, away from the small amount of light spilling in from the hallway.

  Danny was passed out on his stomach wearing only white socks with filthy black bottoms and baggy army green boxer shorts that hung down revealing part of his ass crack. He was snoring and his usual styled hair was twisted in every different direction. Three days’ worth of stubble blanketed his face. An anorexic-looking woman, most likely a hooker, barely took up the other half of the bed. She was naked and lying on her back; emaciated to the point where her breasts were concave and the arm that hung hyperextended over the edge had more tracks than Amtrak. Many of the injection sites dotting her arm were infected, oozing a yellow puss. Purplish pustules on her inner thighs showed where else she had been injecting. Part of the bottom sheet by her feet had pulled away, revealing a yellowing and stained mattress. The room reeked of sweat, sex and cigarette smoke.

  Syringes, a lighter and a spoon lined with the brownish crystals of heroin residue were on the bedside table next to a lamp, the only light source in the room. I walked over and rapped the hooker on the head with the butt of my gun. She sat up with a groan, holding her temple and peering up at me with red rimmed eyes.

  “Get out,” I said. She saw my piece and leapt off the mattress. Grabbing her clothes in a bundle, she ran out into the hall, not even bothering to get dressed.

  Danny hadn’t even budged. Wrapping a hand around one of his ankles, I yanked him off the mattress. He landed face first on the carpet and slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position. He blinked at me with a dazed expression. He was fucking high and didn’t even recognize the danger looming over him. I grabbed a handful of his greasy, brown hair and started pulling, forcing him to stand. He yowled and tried to break free. Once he was upright, I punched him in the nose, which burst open. Blood spewed down his chin and dripped onto his bare chest. A few drops landed on the carpet.

  “What the fuck, man?” Danny cried, sounding congested. He tried to take a step back, but I held on tight to his hair.

  “Do you know who I am?” I growled at him.

  Danny blinked again and looked at me. His eyes widened with panic when recognition set in and I could see how constricted his pupils were.

  “Oh shit!” The unmistakable odor of fresh urine filled the air. I glanced down to see a stain growing on Danny’s boxers. His legs were wet with piss. I curled my lip in disgust.

  “Yeah, oh shit. Where the fuck’s the money you owe Marco?” />
  Danny glanced around the room, nervously licking his lips, unable to look me in the face.

  “Look at me!” I released him, but only so I could punch him again. His head snapped back and he fell backwards onto the mattress. Blood leaked onto the sheets, which had probably been white ten years ago, but now had a grayish hue like they were constantly washed in dirty water. Taking advantage of Danny’s prone position, spread eagle on his back, I shoved my gun in his crotch. His mewling and flailing immediately ceased and he finally met my gaze.

  “Either you have the product or you have the money. If you don’t have either, I’m going to have to take something of yours.”

  Danny was completely quiet. The only sound in the room came from the radiator releasing a hiss of steam.

  “Jesus Christ, Danny. Look at you. You’re a fucking mess. We could melt your skinny ass in a spoon and people would get high.” His blood encrusted nostrils flared at the threat. “Did you forget who you work for? Marco told me to make sure you never forget.” I pressed the gun further into his urine soaked shorts.

  “Wah…wait, I have some of the money.” He pointed to a pair of tan cargo pants on the floor. I quickly bent down and picked them up. After checking for any weapons, I tossed the pants to Danny. He fumbled through pockets, pulling out a wad of cash. I did a quick count of the wrinkled bills and estimated there was roughly two grand, three shy of what Danny owed Marco.

  “You’re way short and you still owe a grand from the last drop.” Danny was one of our main dealers for the Kensington area. He received a drop every week and was expected to return five grand each time; on top of that he earned two thousand dollars.

  “I know man, tell Marco I’m sorry. I’ll make it up, I swear.”

  “Do you have any product left?” I asked, placing my gun back in his crotch.

  Danny shook his head no, the color draining from his face.

  “You know Marco has had me kill people who owe less than four g’s, but you’re in luck, he doesn’t want you dead…yet.” I dragged the tip of my gun down Danny’s thigh, stopping right above his knee. “But you need to be reminded about who you owe money to.” I pulled the trigger, blasting a hole above his kneecap. Blood spilled down the sides, soaking into the blanket riddled with multiple cigarette burns. Danny screamed and grabbed his leg. “You have two weeks to come up with the money. Call in favors, ask your mommy, or whore your ass out to the gayborhood. And don’t hide again. You know we will find you.” I left him writhing in pain. The hallway was deserted. While a suppressor muffles the sound of a gunshot, it doesn’t silence it. Fortunately in places like this, people didn’t take it upon themselves to investigate a shooting or someone screaming and waited for police. I spotted a sign for the stairs and made a quick exit. As I was getting into my car, the first police cruiser arrived, immediately followed by an ambulance. I waited until all responders were inside before firing up the Mustang and leaving the parking lot.

  Once I got home, I texted Marco three letters: TCB, code for took care of business. He’d want more information in person, but it was close to four in the morning and jet lag was bearing down on me. After quickly showering and throwing my clothes in the washing machine, I collapsed on to the empty bed, the emptiness triggering an all too familiar ache. I wished Nat was there for me to curl up next to. She always helped calm the beast these jobs turned me into. I pulled her pillow close, holding onto it, inhaling a faint trace of her shampoo that still lingered on the pillowcase since I refused to wash it and refused to share my bed with anyone else.

  ***

  The week passed quickly and before I knew it, it was Christmas Eve and we were gathering at my Uncle Franco’s restaurant for the Festa dei sette pesci or Feast of the Seven Fishes also known as La Vigilia, The Vigil. This was a huge family tradition and even though it was my mom’s side of the family who owned the restaurant, all the Grabanos attended. I drove to my parent’s house in South Philly and parked a few houses down. They lived a few blocks away from the restaurant and we were going to walk over together as a family. I walked inside and called out. Anthony ran down the stairs and held out his hand for a fist bump. “What the fuck is that shit, come here,” I said and pulled him into a hug. He squirmed away and smoothed his shirt. He was wearing a red long sleeved button down shirt that he didn’t have tucked into his baggy black jeans. Anthony was a couple inches shorter than me, but I figured he’d catch up in a year.

  “Where’s Eva?” Our little sister was usually the first to greet me.

  “She’s having a wardrobe crisis, mom is helping her.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, she’s like turned into a girl all of a sudden. I heard she even likes a boy.”

  “Who is this guy?” I asked.

  “Chill out, Dom. Shit, even your nostrils are flaring. Eva is twelve, it’s not like they’re going to be banging.” The thought of my sixth grade sister having sex made me clench my fists. I heard movement at the top of the stairs and the soft murmur of my mom’s voice. She and Eva walked down side by side, my mom fussing with the back of Eva’s dress. It was black velvet with a wide red ribbon around the waist. Very much still a little girl’s dress, but I could see a subtle hint of curves and the beginnings of boobs. With her thick dark hair and green eyes like mine, but with longer lashes, I caught a glimpse of the beauty she was going to grow up to be.

  Eva looked up and upon seeing me, squealed and flew into my arms. “You haven’t been over in close to a month, Dom,” she scolded when I set her down.

  “I know, I’ve been busy.”

  “No excuse, you only live like 15 minutes away.”

  “Let’s make a plan where you spend the night over your school break. We’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Like ice skating?”

  “Sure.”

  My dad surfaced from his office in the basement. He wore a black suit and had on a red shirt that matched Anthony’s. He helped my mom into her fur coat and we left the house. Philly had its first snow while I was in California, but it had all but melted. What remained was an exhaust stained black crust of ice that clung to the curbs like a cancer. It was cold enough to snow again, our breath puffed out ahead of us in a white cloud. Mom had her arm tucked in dad’s and he slowed his usual fast pace to walk leisurely beside her. Anthony and Eva walked behind them and out of habit I brought up the rear, constantly scanning the neighborhood for any threats, knowing my dad had his eyes on the front even though he had his head tilted towards my mom as he listened to her talk about the wrapping fundraiser she coordinated at the church.

  A black BMW with heavily tinted windows drove slowly down our street. The tint was dark and the glare from the streetlights prevented me from seeing who was inside. I noticed my dad pull away from my mom and push her protectively behind him.

  “Dad, who was that?” I asked, drawing my gun out as a precaution. Anthony pulled his out too and moved to stand in front of Eva.

  “I’m not sure,” he said with a hoarse whisper.

  As we approached the corner where we needed to turn I became hyperaware of every noise, every smell and the best defensive positions available. A newspaper bin on the corner wouldn’t provide much refuge from flying bullets, but all the cars parked along the street could. My dad rounded the corner slowly, he kept his gun lowered, flush against his thigh and it was almost camouflaged against his black pants. My heart pounded in my ears and time slowed down as I waited for the first shot to fire. It didn’t take long. The percussion ricocheted off of the row homes and my dad stepped back behind a house on the corner. Seconds later a window on a parked Malibu exploded. Bits of glass rained down on the sidewalk. Eva screamed and my mom ran back to shield her.

  “Ma, you and Eva get behind that truck,” I ordered, pointing to an older Ford pick-up. They ran, their heels clacking on the concrete sidewalk, and squatted by the rear fender in between the truck and a Mazda sedan parked behind it. “Anthony, cover them.” He ran and crouched down in front
of the truck, the last line of defense. I met up with my dad. His back was pressed against the house and every time he went to look around the side of the building, a shot was fired. A bullet grazed the corner, sending pieces of brick into the air by his face.

  Lights started blinking off in homes along the block, save for the glow of Christmas trees on display behind front windows. Our neighbors knew to retreat to the back of their homes when they heard gunfire.

  I needed to get a clear sight on who was shooting so I sprinted over to the newspaper rack and slid to a stop, crouching behind it just as a bullet whizzed by, almost grazing my ear. I was vulnerable here, the thin aluminum didn’t provide much of a shield, but at least it gave me a vantage point. The black BMW was parked at the end of the other block, right on the corner. An Asian man was in the passenger seat, with his gun trained and ready for the slightest movement. Spying a crunched up soda can on top of the storm drain near my feet, I quickly crawled over and grabbed it then tossed it into the air, providing the distraction I needed. As soon as I threw it, I pivoted around and fired. It wasn’t a kill shot, but with sirens wailing in the distance, it was enough of deterrence. Rubber squealed on asphalt as the BMW took off.

  “It’s clear,” I said and ran over to the car where Anthony was still crouched down. “We’re good, bro.” I clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad you had our backs.” Anthony stood a little straighter, but his face was still pale.

  I heard sobs and looked over to see my dad consoling Eva. Dirt was smeared along the hem of her dress, looking like a dusting of brown sugar on the black velvet. I brushed it off while my mom smoothed her hair and dad pressed kisses on her forehead. “It’s okay, baby girl, we’re okay,” he murmured. The sirens grew louder, indicating they were only blocks away.

  “Come on, let’s go before the cops get here,” I said. We hurried along the sidewalk to the restaurant. My dad kept his arm around Eva’s shoulders the entire time, keeping her close. When we arrived, Grant, Uncle Al, Dante, Telly, Big Tony and Little Tony were all outside with their guns drawn.