by Mike Knowles
I landed behind Julian, on all fours, and saw that he had covered his face and turned away. I covered the distance between us in three steps and kicked him hard in the groin like I was going for a field goal. Julian dropped to his knees, and I kept coming. The next two kicks hit the back of his neck and knocked him down. The three stomps to the groin that followed should have kept him there, but he pulled in his knees and got up. He stood and smoothly extracted a large revolver from under his suit coat. I knew from the small distance between us that I was dead. No diving could get me out of range. I stared at him, but no bullet came. Julian waited. Even though he had me cold, he waited. He wanted the order, and it hadn’t come yet. I knew right there that the monster in front of me would be a force soon. He didn’t lose his head. As mad as he was, he followed protocol. I waited for a thirty-second year as the gun stared at me without flinching.
“Heh, he’s like a dog, Wilson. You get into his yard, and he wants to fuck you to show you he’s on top. Down boy. Let him sit.”
Paolo was behind Julian in a booth — invisible beyond Julian’s massive frame and his gun.
“I said sit!”
The gun didn’t move, so I did. I walked around Julian and sat in a chair facing the lone man in the booth. Paolo was comfortable in the smoky dim light. He wore a tailored grey suit and tie, but he didn’t look professional. The lines, the scars, and the ugliness in his face told his real credentials.
“You have nerve to tell me you’re coming here. Like I need to wait on you, like you’re somebody. This information better be important, boy.”
I did the only thing I could do. I told him what had transpired. During my quiet retelling his face never moved. Only his eyes gave away his feelings. His eyes blazed, and his pupils violently shook. His expressionless face held eyes that forced out an anger that could not be articulated. Out of the corner of my eye, out of earshot, Julian stood smirking. He saw the eyes and knew the order would come. He was happy to be the hand of those raging eyes.
I didn’t mince words. I told Paolo everything, but I never explained why I got involved; it would have violated every rule I was ever taught in my second education. My reasons were my own, and I wasn’t sharing them with the burning eyes across from me. Paolo knew nothing of my life before I met him, and I kept it that way. I would never give him the ability to understand any part of me. Any understanding could lead to leverage. I focused on Tommy and the line he crossed to be a role model to his boy. Hassling, strong-arming, and threats were part of life here, but it never escalated to what Tommy had done. Every taboo was broken for money in Hamilton, but some rules had to hold so that anarchy didn’t erupt. More important, the rules we had separated us from other organizations more than colours or territory ever could. Organizations from different parts of the globe who settled in the city didn’t place any importance on rules. They wanted power and they were willing to push anyone to get it. Paolo and his crew looked down on the new gangs and their methods. Paolo’s men saw themselves not as thugs and hoods, but as professionals in a business that had employed generations of families. Everyone who did business outside the law in a different manner was deemed inferior because they ignored the methods established over the years by true career criminals.
The story ended with silence. I stopped talking and stared straight at Paolo Donati. I didn’t beg for mercy or plead for understanding. I told him part of what I wanted to say and I waited for the verdict.
“Rules,” he said. “Fucking rules. You have got to be kidding me. We kill people all the time, with guns, knives, shit they force through holes into their bodies. Hell, we even put whores on the streets. Everything we do hurts everybody, and you want to tell me there are rules now?”
“There’s always been rules. Some people forget them, but I don’t. What Tommy did was out of line.”
“Don’t you say his name. He was family, you fuck. Family! You get that? And you, you’re like some ungrateful stepchild. You get paid by me. What I do, what Tommy did, made the money you earn. And you have the balls to come to me and tell me you’re following rules. Fuck your rules.”
His hand stamped the end of his sentence into the table. I was less worried. Yelling meant the situation was not cut and dried. If he wanted me dead, it would have been done already. The yelling made me think he knew the other half of what I wanted to say. My thoughts drowned out his rage until one sentence brought me back.
“Leave us alone.”
Everyone, even Julian, slowly moved away, leaving Paolo and me completely isolated. “Why did you do it? And don’t bullshit me with that rules crap. I know you don’t believe in that shit.”
“There are rules . . .”
“Bullshit!” he roared.
I took a second and considered the man who held my fate in his breath. “My reasons are my own. Now, do you want to hear the rest?”
The old man leaned back, his eyes dulled a fraction, and I almost saw a smile. “Tell me,” he said.
“Tommy was more trouble than he was worth. All the brutality with the Russians cost you. He was so over the top that they banded together to fight him. He unified them, made them stronger. He’s the reason you didn’t take the Russians out. All his bloodshed brought public attention down on you. For a while there Tommy’s work was regular in the newspapers. There had to be a truce.”
I paused to see if he was listening. “Talk,” he said.
“Now you have to live side by side with the Russians. You have lines between them and you. Tommy was the guard on your side. He was a reminder of how bad things could be again. Tommy was a guard dog, but he was always behind a fence. You never let him out to work anywhere else because you knew how destructive his presence could be. Now Tommy is dead, and so is his family.”
“So how does your treason help me?”
“It’s an act of war.”
“You’re right about that. You put a stick in a hornet’s nest, and for what? Some greasy mick? This war will swallow you up.”
“Not if I’m not the one blamed. If word got out that the Russians killed Tommy, you would have a reason to take back all the Russians have. You can do it right this time, without Tommy to screw it up. He’d be more useful in death than in life. He’ll be a symbol now. He’ll be the why. His death gives you a reason to break the truce. You couldn’t pull him off the wall before; it would have shown you didn’t trust him. That he was wrong. You can’t show that kind of weakness to the Russians.”
“Why would I want to go up against the Russians again?”
“They’re into things you aren’t, and they’ve already set up a system people are used to. All you have to do is slide in and take over everything they started.” It was true, the Russians had come to town slowly, starting with the local hockey team. The team brought over two Russians to add speed to their second line. The players were given fancy cars as signing bonuses and were paid a good salary. Almost at once, the locals back home kidnapped the players’ parents for ransom. After a successful payoff, the boys back home got better ideas. They blackmailed the players into using their contacts with the hockey team to ask for visas for key members of Russian organized crime. Once they were given access to the country, the mobsters set up companies using the hockey stars’ names to garner capital and investors. These companies were fronts for gathering more work visas, and for money laundering. In time, we had our own Russian mafia cell in the city. The hockey team had brought speed to the team and even more corruption to the city.
The Russian neighbourhoods were reintroduced to the corruption they left behind in the motherland. The poor Russian immigrants had a hard-wired distrust for authority, and simply slipped back into the pattern of paying for protection. The gangsters called the protection “krysha,” which means “roof.” The people who paid were under the protection of a criminal roof — and everyone paid. It wasn’t only money that was extorted; the gangsters had been known to become part owners of businesses, or the pro-bono clients of high-paid attorney
s. The Russian mob was growing and soon it would branch out again.
“Crows eat their own. Did you know that?” Paolo changed the direction of the conversation at once.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Not all crows, but it has been shown that crows have been known to eat eggs and other chicks.”
I said nothing, so Paolo continued. “The crows don’t do this for enjoyment. No, far from it. They eat other crows’ eggs so that their own eggs have a better chance to survive. They’re cannibals. See, those birds kill their own for survival. That is a society without rules. That is a society where anarchy exists. That is the society you want to fucking bring to my doorstep. You want me to watch you eat my fucking family, my people, like I was a crow. I am no bird, you crow. I am the king of this fucking jungle.” His hands gripped the table so tightly his knuckles were white with the strain.
“You aren’t a crow,” I said. “But Tommy is dead, and there is no changing it. You kill me and Steve and you get revenge, but then your symbol will be gone and forgotten. How long before the Russians come over the line? With the butcher dead, they will move out to your territory. Do you want that kind of message? People will ask who it was the Russians were afraid of. Was it you or Tommy? And soon in the back alleys and bars people will say, ‘This never would have happened if Tommy was alive.’ When that happens your teeth won’t look so sharp anymore, and you’ll have to fight your own people while the Russians watch.”
Paolo said nothing; he just stared at me. His knuckles on the edge of the table were still white with strain. Slowly the white faded pink as the hands relaxed and the blood returned. “Listen up, crow. You’re done with me. Out of business. I don’t want to see you again. I’m not going to kill you yet. You’ve been loyal — more than Tommy, and that’s something, since you aren’t family like he is . . . he was.” The boss let out a low laugh that ended in a small cough. “Ironic, isn’t it? You’re getting saved by loyalty.”
“The business with the bar . . . is it finished then?” I asked politely.
“You got some nerve asking about a shithole bar like that. One word out of my mouth, just one, and I’d blow that bar down like the big bad fucking wolf.”
“I know it and I understand, but I need to know if it’s done.”
“Caw, caw, little bird. You don’t need to know shit. What I do is none of your business. None. Julian.” With that one word the massive human frame just out of earshot came to life and moved towards me. I stood before he could get next to me.
I walked out past Julian. Neither of us said a word to the other, but I could feel the violence inside me slamming against the side of my skull. I winked at the coat-check girl at the entrance who eyed me, as I passed, with her hand under the counter. The four protectors out front gave a low whistle when I came through the doors. They were surprised to see me leaving under my own power. If they ever found out what I had told Paolo, they would hate themselves forever for not shooting me down when they had the chance. That was the difference between most people involved in the mob and Paolo. Paolo wasn’t ruled by his emotions; he was cold, calculating, and educated. I had put together pieces of who Paolo Donati was from information I learned on the street. His father was the top of the totem pole before him, and he sent his kids to the best schools. Paolo grew up in the best neighbourhood, next to doctors and millionaires, and went to school with the other neighbourhood rich kids. Paolo’s upbringing couldn’t have been more different from his father’s. He didn’t have to fight and hustle every day to survive. Paolo had friends, girlfriends, and good grades. He excelled in math and science. People say he was studying to be a veterinarian, but that is probably bullshit invented because Paolo loved to talk about animals. He used them as metaphors to degrade a person. He spoke of the nature of the animal kingdom to show people how close they were to those lower on the food chain. Paolo never did anything with his science and math, except use it to intimidate. His schooling ended abruptly when he was called to the family business at twenty-three. There he encountered animals, but they weren’t the kind in books. These animals were much worse, and in time Paolo ruled them all.
Paolo studied people as if they were locked in at the zoo; he analyzed details and missed very little. Nothing I had told him was a new idea to him. He understood Tommy, his behaviour, and the delicate balance his presence maintained. Paolo saw his empire as a vast ecosystem, and he would not allow it to become unbalanced. Unbalance meant he was not in control, and that chaos signalled weakness. For someone who thrived on being in control, being the king of his jungle as he put it, weakness was worse than death. If things were to spin out of control, Paolo would want to be the one doing the spinning.
I walked the four blocks, alone, back to the car. I drove, listening to the Volvo as it accelerated through its gears. I was forever connected to a maniac and his girl in the murder of seven people, and I was out of a job. I had pushed a group of very dangerous people toward another group of very dangerous people. There would be bloodshed for what I had done. I tried to console myself with the idea that war with the Russians was inevitable, and that the fight would be over quickly with the Italians rallying around the memory of Tommy Talarese. But I was wrong.
Paolo began a war with the Russians that raged for years. More lines were drawn, and the city became more divided than ever. I was wrong about being out of a job, too. I was working again less than a month later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The dashboard clock read 4:23 as I slowed on the street where the Volvo was parked. Steve got out and told me he’d meet me back at the bar. I rolled Steve’s Range Rover down the street and watched 22 Hess out of the corner of my eye. There weren’t any squad cars yet, so Steve was good to go. I used the cell phone Steve left on the seat to call him.
“It’s all clear,” I said.
“I can see that. Let’s meet at the bar.”
Back at Sully’s Tavern I ordered a Coke and waited for Steve. I made small talk with Ben and Sandra and went over the events of the day in my head. I showed up at 22 Hess to find out about what I stole from the airport and to figure out how to get those amateurs off my ass. The computer nerds stole accounting information from someone working for what looked to be the Russian mob. They blackmailed the accountant and set up an exchange at the airport. When the airport exchange didn’t happen the accountant likely had to ‘fess up to his employers about what was going on. The Russians had their own way of dealing with blackmailers that didn’t involve airport hand-offs. They came looking for the geeks and their property at the same time I did. So now I was in a Mexican standoff, with two big guns pointed at my head.
The first gun was in Paolo’s hand. According to the dingy Guinness clock on the wall, I had just over a day and a half to get everything in order before Paolo decided to cut his losses. If I were viewed as a liability when Julian returned to see me, Paolo would turn him loose on me in an effort to keep himself insulated from the airport job.
The second gun belonged to the Russians. They were after their property and they had no problem killing a whole office staff to get closer to what they wanted. The Russians were real thugs, not amateurs, and they probably had my scent because Mike had not been dead when I left the office. They would gladly grind what they needed out of me to get to what had been taken from them.
I decided that when Steve brought the car back, I would go to the office. It was the only option. There I had a chance to pick up someone doing surveillance, or wait for the Russians to find me. I would be next on the Russians’ list and I had no way of finding them without drawing attention to myself. There was no way the Italians would help me. Paolo had no interest in helping me when it was just the amateurs who were following me. There was no way he would help me deal with the Russians. I had to play defence — alone.
Steve pulled in twenty minutes after my second Coke and tossed the car keys at me as he walked to Sandra. He kissed her on the cheek and asked her questions in low tones. They both smile
d and talked for two and a half minutes while Ben tended bar; no one complained about how slow service had suddenly gotten. When Steve finished talking to Sandra, he kissed her on the cheek and came over to me. He leaned in, resting his knotted forearms on the bar.
“They had guys at the corners scanning the cars,” he told me.
“I never saw them,” I said.
“They were around the streets. I saw one stop what he was doing to stare at me getting in the car. I guess I was okay in their eyes ‘cause no one tailed me.”
“You sure?” I asked.
“Yep,” was the only response I got.
I told Steve I’d see him later and left the bar to make my way to the office. I found the car on a side street. It hummed to life without any problems, and the tank was full. I smiled at my friend’s wordless act of kindness. As I drove, I tried to clear my head of all the thoughts I was having. I couldn’t be afraid or hesitate. I had to walk head up into a trap and make it work to my advantage. This was the opposite of everything I wanted, everything I was trained to do. The situation also had no real plan to go along with it. I always planned everything or at least had an idea about how I wanted to spin a situation. I remembered the words of my uncle: “Planning separates the living and the dead, boy. Don’t forget it. The morgue is full of guys who thought they could handle anything.” I knew that deep down he was talking about my parents; they didn’t have a good plan and in his eyes and it killed them. The events of the past few days had left me without any control, and it pissed me off. I was struggling to keep ahead of people who all seemed to know more than I did about what I was involved in.
