by Mike Knowles
“Figlio.” His voice was calm. “Do you know where you are? You don’t show up at my place and tell me anything, and you don’t quit — I fire you . . . for good.”
Sensing the turn in the conversation, the two men raised their guns. The thug to my left said, “Put down the paper,” in a cold, flat voice. I cursed myself for letting Paolo run the conversation and for getting me to talk. Since I had been shot I had just pushed forward, never stopping to plan. I was racing ahead while I was falling apart. My mouth let him get the better of me, and now I was at a disadvantage. Outgunned by two drawn pistols, I forced my knees to bend and my breathing to relax. I readied myself to shoot the man on the right. Two thumbs moved, and the guns in front of me cocked. The thug on the right repeated his order as the two men moved forward from the booths past Paolo, so that he was obscured from my view. We had fifteen feet between us.
I took one big breath and a step to the right table. “Okay, I’ll put it down.” My body started the turn, and I was about to let the paper fall when gunfire broke out.
I stopped and turned my head. Behind me, the sounds of gunfire popped again in the street. No one inside wasted time; four more bodies, armed with handguns, came out from the booths behind Paolo. The two men in front of me looked at Paolo for instructions; he had already decided what to do.
“Joey, go with them. Tony, watch Wilson.”
Paolo went to the booths and picked up a revolver from a seat on the left. Tony, who stayed to watch me, had not moved his feet. He was looking to the door, back to me, then to Paolo.
“Get his shirt off,” Paolo said. Tony looked at me, and I could see his eyes resist the urge to look anywhere else.
“Drop the paper,” Tony said.
More gunfire sounded, closer now. It was automatic chatter, and it was replied to with single shots. I watched Paolo listen. Watched him realize he and his men were outgunned. Paolo and Tony looked over my shoulder toward the sound of approaching footsteps; I moved a few steps right, toward the kitchen.
“Boss!” Joey yelled as he rushed past me to Paolo’s side as though he were a child afraid of thunder.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” Paolo roared as I took another few steps toward the kitchen. Paolo’s eyes found me. “Tony, you make sure he stops moving.”
“I’m putting the paper down. That’s all,” I said, and I slowly took the paper out from under my left arm to prove it to everyone.
“Boss, it’s the Russians. They’re in the street. They’re killing everyone!”
Tony had his eyes on mine as I moved my arm to toss the paper toward the tabletop. We ignored Paolo and Joey’s voices as they went over what was going on outside. I tossed the paper high and it landed with a loud thump. The sound interrupted the conversation and pulled every-one’s eyes to the newspaper. No one watched my right arm move.
Three quick shots sounded; they were followed by a woman screaming, “No!” More automatic gunfire rang; its volume let us know it was just outside the dining room doors. Everyone’s attention moved to the doors as I pulled my gun. I had it pointed at Tony for five seconds before he noticed it. His eyes moved to the barrel and grew wide. The only word he could find came out in a childish tone.
“Boss.”
Paolo and Joey looked away from the door. Both saw the gun in my hand immediately.
“God damn it, Tony.”
“Shut up, Paolo,” I said. “The gunfire is slowing down, so we’re going to have company soon. We need to get out of here. Is there a way out of here besides the front and the kitchen?”
“I don’t run from no one. Especially those fucking commies.”
“You can stay,” I said. “But I want out, and if killing you gets me there I’ll do it.”
Tony and Joey brought their guns up. Yelling, “Boss, get down!” was all that stopped me from shooting them. The gunfire from Tony and Joey pushed three men back through the doorway, shattering the glass that led to the coat-check room. The men were clad in black, their pale white skin accentuated by the colour they wore. They took cover from the gunfire in the coat-check area, but the darkness inside the room made it impossible to tell where.
No one moved. Muffled by the walls, a gunshot broke the silence; two more followed seconds later. There was a big gun outside.
I moved right, walking backward, keeping my eyes on the door, and on Joey, Tony, and Paolo, who had overturned two tables for cover. When I got to the wall, I followed it to the far corner of the restaurant. I couldn’t stay there exposed in the room for all to see. “Joey, Tony,” I said. “I’m going to work my way behind you. The Russians are in a nasty choke point in there. They can’t move out of it and into here without getting mowed down, even if you only have two guns. You start shooting at me, you’ll lose focus, and the choke point. I’m moving behind you from your left.”
“You stay put,” one of them said.
“I’m not staying here. If this place is going to turn into the Alamo, it can do it without me.”
I started moving down the wall toward Paolo, Joey, and Tony. To their credit Paolo’s boys didn’t look scared. They had a look of determination on their faces. Paolo just looked angry.
Joey and Tony kept their guns aimed at the door, but they stole looks at me out of the corners of their eyes. They were tense — waiting for an order to come. In a moment, I would be right behind them, and I knew they didn’t want a gun behind them too.
I spoke to the two men, trying to sound as calm as possible. “Now, boys, I’m going to pass behind you. It would be smarter for you to keep your eyes on that door.” As I spoke I noticed that my arm was getting tired from holding the gun up. “Paolo,” I said. “Tell them to let me by. You know it’s a smart play.”
After a pause Paolo spoke. “You two watch that door. If anything moves, you light it up.”
“Thank you, Paolo,” I said. Meaning it.
“Fuck you. We’re not done. Not by a mile.” The angrier he got the less philosophical he became; he spoke more like the thug he was destined to be, and less like the educated gangster he played at being.
I kept my gun trained on the door. I was a prime target alone on the wall without cover. I crouched low, trying to move knee to knee, but no one shot at me from the door. I didn’t stop to wonder why it was so quiet behind the doors. I thought instead about the big gun outside. The front of the building was surrounded, and it wouldn’t be long before the Russians tried to move through the doors into the dining room again. The Russians would kill me, and so would Paolo if he managed to get out of this alive. The back door was my only option. The fact that no one had come through the kitchen meant that the Russians were concentrating on the front door. They probably thought they could blitz through the restaurant like they did at 22 Hess, but Paolo’s set-up was stronger than they expected. The Russians would regroup in the entryway, then hit the dining room hard. I had a small window of opportunity to get out alive.
“Paolo. What’s out back?”
He didn’t look over at me to answer; he kept his eyes on the door. “What do you think? You know the place. The alley is out back.”
“I know about the alley,” I said. “Tell me the layout. Everything you can remember.”
“Why? You afraid you’re gonna get lost running away?” He stopped then and considered his words and mine for a few seconds. “I heard those shots. You think someone’s out front, huh?”
“Someone with a big gun. If I leave, I’ll take him with me.”
Paolo laughed at the idea and told me what I needed to know. “The door is heavy — all the doors here are. The locks are solid and expensive. Believe me. The door, it opens out.”
“Describe the alley,” I said. “The length and the width.”
“It’s brick on both sides; maybe ten feet wide. The whole alley is about a hundred feet long. There ain’t a back way out — it’s bricked off to the right. At the other end there’s a side street that exits out to the main roads.”
&n
bsp; “That’s not everything,” I said. “Where does the trash go?”
“There’s a Dumpster,” Paolo said in a sort of “oh yeah” tone.
“Where is the Dumpster? Left or right?” I waited for the answer; it was fifty-fifty. Life or death.
“It’s on the left.”
The left, that one direction was my only hope. It was the fifty I wanted. I could work my way out of the alley using the Dumpster as cover. It wasn’t ideal but it was better than the alternative.
I moved past Paolo’s gunmen to the kitchen door. It was maroon, the colour of the walls, and it swung silently back and forth. Beside it was a row of five light switches set in a dingy brass plate. I eyed the coat-check room one last time before I moved through the door.
The kitchen was small and silver. The counters were clean, and the air was warm with dishwasher steam; the room was ready for the restaurant staff to start work in a few hours. The refrigerators hummed low, creating a background soundtrack.
The back door was just as it was described: heavy black metal with large, expensive locks. I took one final look around before I slowly started turning the deadbolts one after another. Each click got me closer and closer to outside. Each click brought more anticipation. On the final click, I stepped back from the door and took two deep breaths. I eased the door open a crack. Outside, in the crack of space that opened, I saw only darkness. I thought back and remembered the sun on my shoulders as I came in. I pushed the door open another two inches and still saw no light. The electric illumination of the kitchen lights revealed a dull, rust-speckled green outside the door. I tried to push the door open further but it wouldn’t budge. It was the Dumpster; it had been moved right up to the door. I put the gun under the armpit of my bad arm and tried to shoulder the door open but the Dumpster wouldn’t move. I gave up on the door and picked up my gun again. There was no one outside anymore. We were all locked in. It was then that I heard the shots.
There were three in all, and all of them came from a big, big gun. I remembered the echoed shots I had heard from outside and knew that everyone was inside the building now, and they were not going to stay in the coat-check area long.
I looked around the kitchen for another way out but I was stuck. There were no windows, and no other doors. I would have to go back the way I came. I moved to the swinging door. There had been no noise after the last three shots I heard. I doubted anyone could take Paolo, Tony, and Joey with three shots, but I had been wrong before.
The men in the coatroom had seen me cross the room. They knew where I was and they weren’t going to let me live. I had to get out of the building, through Paolo and the Russians. I turned off all of the lights, making the kitchen black except for the light leaking in through the spaces in the door.
“Paolo,” I yelled through the kitchen door. “Call for backup.”
I could hear hushed mumbling, but nothing I could make sense of until someone yelled, “There he is, Tony. There, shoot him!” Three shots sounded, the first two close together, the last a second behind. One loud shot echoed back, and there was silence again. I waited three seconds then moved my arm out to the grimy light switch beside the kitchen door. I clicked every switch down with the flat of my palm. The room went dark instantaneously. The kitchen and the dining room were both black.
I slipped out the swinging door into the dining room. I kept low, stepped out beside the door using my shoulder to ease it quietly closed behind me. Once it was closed, I put my back against the wall just below the light switches. I couldn’t turn them on again with my battered arm; it wouldn’t extend anywhere near shoulder height, and if I used the other arm I wouldn’t be able to shoot. I took a few breaths and began to slide my back up the wall. I felt the switches touch my back and I flattened closer to the wall. I waited for what felt like minutes until I heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. One man can move silently, but more than one usually makes enough noise to be heard — especially in the dark. Five switches shifted up with a click under my back, and the lights immediately resumed their electric glow. Paolo was on the floor, shot in the stomach. The amount of blood told me that the bullet had not grazed him, but Paolo was alive with a gun in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Tony and Joey were dead. Their guns lay between them on the floor. At the top of the stairs stood Ivan and his huge gun. Behind him were three men dressed in black holding compact automatic weapons.
Ivan had his gun pointed down at Paolo’s wounded body. His eyes and those of the men he was with were on me and the gun I was pointing at them.
“Feels like we’ve been here before, Ivan. You think you’re going to do better the second time around?”
Ivan turned his head to me; his shoulders stayed square to Paolo. “We are here to win the game,” he said.
“So this is checkmate. You take the king, and the board is yours?”
“The board belongs to us already. We are just making it permanent.”
“The fuck you are, you commie bastards!” Paolo was alive on the floor, and he was making sure everyone knew it.
“Paolo,” I said. “Did you make the call like I told you?”
“I’m gonna fucking piss on your graves, you motherless fucks.”
“Paolo,” I snapped. “Did you make the call?”
He didn’t answer for a second that lasted minutes. “Yeah,” he said. “I made the call. I couldn’t say much, but I got the message across.”
I couldn’t be sure, because I wasn’t looking in his direction, but it sounded like Paolo was smiling. “This looks like a stalemate, Ivan. There aren’t any moves left. A new game is going to start soon.”
Ivan said nothing to me. He spoke out to his men — in Russian.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Keep it English.”
Ivan didn’t listen. He fired off more Russian in his thick, deep voice.
“Don’t do that, Ivan.” My voice was cold and serious.
Ivan stopped speaking, but it didn’t sound abrupt. It sounded more like the end of a sentence — the end of a complete thought. He had issued a command to three men with guns, and I had no idea what he had said.
I couldn’t read Ivan, so I focused on the three behind him, and the light switches against my back. One of the three was sweating heavily and looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He noticed my face and his eyes locked onto me as my mouth pulled tight into a grin. His eyes widened, and he looked to the other Russians. I dug my back into the light switches and shot the sweatiest gunman in the neck. Ivan’s gun roared to life as I dragged my back across the switches. The room went dark for half a second, then Paolo fired his gun. The other two unnamed Russians returned fire at Paolo, then at the spot where I had been standing only seconds before. The bullets missed me, ripping into the wall at chest height. I was on the floor, sideways on my good shoulder, using the floor to steady my arm. The Russian henchmen were betrayed by their muzzle flashes. I saw their faces in the strobe light of automatic gunfire. I aimed at the man on the right and pulled the trigger. I quickly adjusted and shot left, where the second flashes had been moments before. I rolled forward from the wall toward the tables. I grunted as I hit my shoulder, but I kept moving. Automatic gunfire bit into the wall from across the room. I could only see under the tables so I had no idea where the shooter was. More shots rang out from my left. Paolo fired four bullets in quick succession, but their thunder was deafened by the metallic click of an empty gun that followed. The shots created two things in the darkness, a scream ahead of me, and a glimpse of a pair of shoes four feet in front of Paolo. I shot from the floor six times above where I had seen the shoes in the muzzle flash.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The dark reeked of cordite, and my ears rang a far-off, high-pitched note. I managed to stand using the barrel of my gun to prop me up. I walked sideways until my crippled arm hit the wall. I hissed a sharp intake of breath, and then moved backward along the wall until I was massaged by five little plastic fingers. I used my shoulder to
edge the switches up one by one. The first three lit up the rear of the restaurant; the final two lit above me and Paolo.
He was lying on the floor, leaking blood but still breathing. Ivan sat less than ten feet away. I had hit him in the shoulder and chest. The other four shots must have gone wild in the dark. In his hand, limp at his side, he still held his huge gun — another Colt Python. Paolo’s eyes went wide when he saw Ivan sitting up with his gun still in his hand.
“Wilson, he’s still got a gun. Wilson? Shoot him! Wilson, shoot!”
His screaming seemed to drive Ivan on. The Russian was working at raising his gun. It moved inches off the ground, then nosedived. It rose again, a few inches higher, using the bounce off the ground for momentum.
“Wilson.” Paolo was pleading. “Figlio, please . . . shoot him.”
Ivan’s gun was four inches off the floor, and shaking as I moved toward Paolo. I had to laugh. “King of the jungle.”
I looked at Ivan working so hard to get his gun six more inches into the air. I looked at him and said something I knew he would never understand. “You’re dinosaurs, both of you. Too busy to notice the meteor.”
Ivan might have been puzzled, but it was only for a second. The bullet made everything clear. Paolo grunted his appreciation and slumped to the floor. “Good job, figlio. Now pass me the phone.”
I looked at Paolo and felt my finger hot on the trigger. I thought about killing him and ending my problems. But then I’d still have to deal with the Russians, and the rest of Paolo’s crew once Julian told them I was finally open season.
“Are you and me even? For the disks, for Julian, for Tommy, for everything?”
