marble statue of Atlas holding the world on his back. He is amazed at the level of detail in this sculpture, and even further intrigued when he notices that the artist has managed to plant real clovers on every part of the marbled earth that is covered by land. The final result is a globe made up of marble oceans and clover covered continents.
A sudden chill runs through his body as the vision of this statue is larger-than-life right in his face. He looks down the steep cement pathway and further into the distance realizing how fast his life is being taken from him.
“Lets move,” Dimitri declares with shrinking patience. “Anthony is around the other side of the house.”
Rory closes his eyes for a second and grits his teeth, having been a free man just this morning; he is still not used to taking orders. Dimitri waits for eye contact from him then twists his head toward the East side of the house where he leads Rory around a narrow path at the back of the estate.
The backside of the home descends sharply down to a large, two-story secure compound at the east side of the property. Unlike the main house, this building is plain, and looks like a common office complex with large, black tinted windows and thick concrete walls. This complex is protected by its own security fence that is topped off by thick rotations of barbed wire. There is a tall, muscular man in his late forties leaning against the security fence. He is smoking a cherry wood pipe and looking down at a group of large German Shepherds who are enjoying an afternoon feast of thick steaks.
As they approach this muscular man from the elevated ground, Rory notices that he is marveling at the large dogs as they enjoy devouring the fresh slices of meat. His attire is casual, a faded blue muscle shirt and a pair of black cargo shorts, showing off his bare feet and tan, muscular legs. He holds the end of his pipe with childlike fascination, leaning forward to catch every detail of this carnivorous luncheon. His other hand loosely clutches the bloody white tray that held the steaks and is now long forgotten.
“Mr. Pezzloni,” Dimitri announces with a great deal of respect, “The Golden Goose of Los Angeles.”
“Hello,” Anthony Pezzloni turns briefly and sizes Rory up carefully before turning his attention back to the dogs. “How was your trip?” He asks without breaking eye contact with the dogs, his short, salt and pepper hair, blowing a bit in the breeze and blue eyes fascinated by the eating habits of the shepherds. “I heard that you broke your cherry and killed your first motherfucker with a bomb today?”
“Yeah, it happened pretty fast,” Rory replies with a sudden feeling of shame, “I’m just glad the lady survived.”
“So the lady survived?” Anthony begins coolly, taking a deep hit from his pipe, displaying his tanned, sinewy arms, strong jaw, and German-Italian features. “But you took out a handful of Chinese diplomats. How did that feel?”
“They were trying to kill us.” Rory says defensively, attempting to justify his actions. “I had no idea what that car fob would do to them.”
“I see, so you didn’t feel anything?” Anthony asks, pulling his pipe out and turning his head sideways to stare at Rory. “Because, I hear you acknowledge killing a few people, but I don’t hear you saying that you feel anything. Are you a sociopath, Rory?”
“No, I’m just a guy who did what had to be done.” Rory admits, feeling a bit of discomfort at his own words. “This last little while, I’ve had people try to take things from me, and… sometimes you just don’t have a choice.”
“I like that… honesty.” Anthony says, putting his pipe back in his mouth, observing the dogs as they finish their meal. “You see these German Shepherds; they are loyal dogs. I like to reward loyalty. When I look at those pieces of cow on the ground and the little bit of happiness they have given my dogs, it makes me feel full. But a smart guy would have to realize that in order to make my dogs a little happy; I had to make a cow really unhappy. It’s the same thing with the Chinese, you blew up a few of their enforcers, and made them really unhappy, but here you are alive, and as a result, we are both a little bit happy.” Anthony smiles a bit as he finishes his sentence. “Dimitri, why don’t you take Rory up to the house and let a few of the girls… show him the pool? I have a few things to take care of but will meet with you soon enough.”
“Yes, Mr. Pezzloni,” Dimitri says respectfully, looking as obedient as the shepherds. “Come with me.” He gestures to Rory with a serious expression, escorting him to the main house.
As he follows Dimitri back up the narrow path to the extravagant home, Rory has a dozen questions swimming in his mind, but the demeanor of Anthony Pezzloni suggests that he does everything on his time and in his own way. His presence makes everyone feel like they have to wait for him to decide what is going to happen next.
Two hours later, Anthony Pezzloni walks to the lavish pool party area of the house. He smiles wide when he sees that the girls have done their job. Rory is sitting in a lounge chair wearing only his boxer shorts, drunk enough to be happy, and showing a look of ultimate satisfaction.
Anthony continues to smile wide, reflecting proudly on the construction of his pool area. The pool was dug out all the way to the basement, and Anthony had the insight to create a glass waterfall with a mighty current coming off the top of the home, and plunging three stories down into the large pool below. Beyond that innovation, he asked the architect to setup a clear glass gazebo right beneath the waterfall where he could enjoy luncheons and family dinners or parties with wild young women. They also added a reinforced diving board, jutting out from the waterfall on the third floor; for those who dared to tempt fate. Another popular diving spot is a reinforced ledge on top of the gazebo.
The guest area has enough room to seat over one-hundred people and includes: a full bar and grill, sushi bar, and concrete splash pads with dancing fountains.
“So, did the girls give you a tour of the house?” Pezzloni asks with a smirk.
Rory doesn’t say anything, but smiles wide and grins in his drunken stupor; his hair is a mess, and they clearly wore him out fast. Both men sit back and enjoy the calm midday breeze as they watch the attractive twentysomethings playing with a beach ball in the shallow end of the pool. There are two gorgeous blondes and a petite redhead, dancing like sugarplums in Rory’s alcoholic haze. Anthony sits forward a bit looking more intrigued at Rory’s fascination with the somewhat attractive women, as this is a slow day by his standards.
“Lets talk about why I brought you here and what I expect, Rory,” Pezzloni begins with a hardened business demeanor.
“Sounds good,” Rory says with a broad smile, drinking down his remaining two fingers of tequila in one gulp before setting the glass down gently on the travertine tabletop.
“As Dimitri should have informed you,” Pezzloni begins, “I have paid one-hundred and eight million dollars to procure your services.”
“If I can have more days like today,” Rory says with a weak smile, his eyes closed in a potent alcoholic buzz, “then tell me where I sign up.”
“That’s good, Rory,” the aging gangster agrees with a satisfied nod, “I want you to have more days like today; as many as you want. In exchange for your room and board, I just need one pint of your blood a month. That means you need to be sober three days out of the month so your blood is clean, and the rest of time, you can party.”
“Party!” Rory shouts, holding his hands in the air like a small child.
On the opposite side of the tab
le, Pezzloni retrieves a pair of sunglasses from the travertine surface and places them over his eyes. Although Anthony’s lips continue to smile at his new house guest, his eyes are burning with intense rage. As he watches the self-absorbed little Daddy’s boy drinking his alcohol, screwing his women, and enjoying his pool, it takes every ounce of his strength not to crush the man’s throat. The animal inside him is starting to take over as Anthony notices a paring knife sitting next to a half sliced apple on the table in front of him. He picks up the knife and slowly taps his right leg, pretending to listen to some peaceful music.
“Anthony, Sir,” Rory says suddenly, drifting out of his drunken splendor for a moment, “I really enjoyed sex with those girls. They are very naughty, and this place… Is a total paradise!”
“Thanks, Rory,” Pezzloni says in flat tone, holding his face tight for a moment, and breathing with stressful gasps. “My home is your home,” he continues with sadness in his eyes behind the sunglasses, “I just want you to enjoy all these things I’ve worked so hard to get. What’s mine is yours.” As these words leave his mouth, he opens his eyes wider for a second, and then closes them tight in severe pain. “Tell you what, Rory,” he declares with a somewhat urgent tone, “I’m going to turn in; it looks like I cut my foot on something.”
“No shit?” Rory asks as he sits up with false concern and sees Anthony walking away with bloody footprints. “Good night, Sir. Get feeling better.”
Anthony doesn’t respond to Rory; he instead walks hastily to the heavy,
The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition Page 33
