end of the large room Dimitri and Vincent file in through a side door; each of them pointing a pistol at Rory. Dimitri circles to the right stepping close to the row of cribs with his sleek black dress shoes. He is dressed in a formal, burgundy button-down shirt and a pair of black slacks with a noticeable hem. Vincent is far less elaborate, wearing a white tank top and blue jeans; his messy hair showing that he was roused from bed a short time ago. With a threatening gaze, Vincent circles left and stops when he has a straight line of sight with Rory, pointing the black pistol at Rory’s head. To his right, Dimitri is pointing a nickel plated pistol at him, but with far less intensity than Vincent. Rory looks up from the floor to assess his situation, unarmed and surrounded by vicious thugs.
“Stop trying to guilt me into your way of thinking, Rory,” Anthony commands in a hateful voice, changing his tone to something more bombastic as his men enter the room. “Goddamn, you are such a fucking woman sometimes. Look at you sitting on the floor weeping your eyes out over these babies that you didn’t even know about or give a shit about less than ten minutes ago.” Anthony stops for a minute, rubbing the bridge of his nose deep in thought. “Do you want to know the whole truth, Rory? I have been playing you since the beginning. I was watching TV that night you were on the first talk show after the press conference, and I said to myself, why do they call him The Golden Goose? He doesn’t have any kids. Then a genius thought occurred to me, but it wasn’t until you started doing the public relations tour, that I found out how much money we could really make in this market. You want to know the full truth? I sent that mutilated goose to the L.A. Times… I threatened to mutilate Kelly in the same way because I wanted you to hire my security guys; not Jack’s. It was my guys who arranged the silent auction, and it was me who personally cherry-picked the players. Oh, and my son, the drug dealer, whom I love and respect; you know, the one that you insulted? I have been paying him to attack the front gates since the day you told me you wanted to leave. What the fuck did you think happened that day after I told you I was going to make a phone call? I called my son and told him to scare the shit out of you. All I needed was the right amount of pussy, some alcohol, and a few barbarians at the gates to take control of your pathetic life. Both of those guys who died in my yard a few months back; were Chinese enforcers, looking for revenge after we bombed them on the highway… or wherever the fuck you were.”
“You’re not selling these kids,” Rory says with conviction as he gets up from the floor, both of his hands forming tight, white knuckle fists.
“Everything you see here is my merchandise; it all belongs to me. You’re welcome to buy one or two if you want, for sentimental reasons, but the rest are getting shipped off to the highest bidder. You know, Rory, you’re really a weak bitch because what you’re seeing here isn’t even the worst part of all this. Think of all the mothers. What about the maternity ward next door? Do you know how many of these women refuse to part with their kids? Have you ever heard that story of King Solomon and the two women fighting over ownership of the baby..? He threatens to cut the baby in half so he can learn who the real mother is and she gives up the baby to save its life. I’ve had to do shit like that. And if you think selling babies is hard; try taking babies away from their mothers, even when you pay good money for them. How many of these women do you think I had to put in the ground because they threatened to get California State involved?”
“Those are women you’re talking about; you sick fuck! These are people, they’re not inventory for you to sell or dispose of when you feel the need. You’re not selling MY CHILDREN!” Rory shouts and several babies begin to cry from the loud noise.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Anthony says sarcastically. “Who do we have right here? What is this little fucker’s name?” He asks as he pulls a newborn baby from one of the Plexiglas cribs. “Should I shake him, Rory? Should I turn this kid into a retard for the rest of his life with just a little shake?”
Rory holds his breath as more tears stream down his face, watching helplessly as the monster threatens him in the worst way. Anthony gently puts the baby down, closing the crib above him.
“Don’t you fucking threaten me! These kids are my property. I think you said it best at the Academy Awards; it’s not up to you to play God. So I’ll give you two options here, Rory. Option 1: you go back to the house, drink, party, and fuck your brains out, and keep making babies for me without saying a word. Or Option 2: tonight becomes the saddest night of your life as Anthony Pezzloni shows you something so disturbing it will eat at you until the day you die. Then you go back to my house, drink, party, and fuck your brains out, and still keep making babies for me without a word. Do you understand, Rory? You can choose ignorant bliss or you can choose pain, and more pain, because I assure you, my young friend, there are dark corners of hell that you never conceived of in your life! So which option do you prefer: ignorance and bliss, or pain and suffering?”
“You are not selling these kids!” Rory says with white hot fury, curling his hands into tighter fists as he tilts his head forward with a stare that threatens Anthony.
“It looks like you picked option 2,” Pezzloni begins with sincere shame and sadness in his voice. “Fair enough, Rory, now I’m going to show you something so horrible, it will leave a stain on your soul, and you will never sleep another decent night in your life. I know this… because, I live with it every day…”
Rory feels a static pulse of fear reverberate through his center as he gazes into Pezzloni’s cold, dark eyes. The man bears a demeanor that proclaims self-induced tragedy; something he would expect to see from a father who had killed one of their own children. Rory feels the pressure of his breath escaping from his body in uncomfortable gasps, surprised by the notion that he could feel more anxiety than with the revelation of his many forsaken children.
“Dimitri. Vincent.” Pezzloni harkens at his two enforcers. “Go tune up the rat… I’m going to give Rory a tour of our collection…”
The two men lower their weapons with some hesitation, not wanting to leave Pezzloni alone with someone so volatile. But as the brooding gangster flicks his pistol toward them impatiently, they follow his orders without question.
“Let’s take a walk to the maternity ward, Rory.” Anthony evokes with a twisted smirk, feeling an instant connection to his unwanted houseguest. “I promised you a stain on your soul, and before tonight is over, you’ll have one.”
Pezzloni walks past Rory as he speaks, stepping through the rows of cribs like a farmer admiring his crops. The unyielding gangster gestures with his pistol for the younger man to follow as he makes his way to a door in the larger part of the nursery at the far side of the area. Every ounce of Rory wishes to launch away from this situation, like a spacecraft from the mothership, sensing that the worst moments of his life may be just a few minutes from now. He shuffles along in silence at the behest of the rigid madman, driven forward by guilt as he glances down at all the little faces that might have grown up to call him ‘Daddy.’ This solemn march is more of a sting to his soul than the initial shock, since Rory can now see neatly printed shipping addresses on a few of the cribs.
As he raises his head, the young man stares fiercely at Pezzloni’s neck, and the gold chain hanging therewith, fantasizing with vindictive ambition.
When the tall gangster gets to the security door, he reaches into his left pocket with his free hand and retrieves a set of keys. Pezzloni looks back at Rory as his fingers locate a familiar black fob on his keychain, and he passes it over the reader. The aging brute smiles as if invoking a wicked premonition, pushing his way into the next room while simultaneously clutch
ing the steel door handle and keys.
With a hollow, metallic creak, the door opens into a new hallway, and the motion sensors automatically turn on a series of fluorescent lights above wide clear panels in the ceiling. When Rory looks to his right, he sees a large room with darkly tinted windows, each bearing steel mesh wire, preventing anyone from seeing in or out. The young man rubs his tongue over his upper teeth nervously, noticing that his insides are churning at the onset of too much stress.
Both men continue to traverse the hallway in slow silence, and Rory notices that there are only two doors on the right. As he peers further down the hall, the space ends at a darkly lit concrete wall with no window. They walk past the first door, which has the letter ‘M’ marked in distinctive black paint on its pale green surface. Unlike the nursery, these doors are solid steel, and seem much older.
As Pezzloni steps up to the second door, he turns around and looks upon his companion with a seedy satisfaction in his eyes. The gangster is almost boyish in his excitement, like a proud, young psychopath about to show off his collection of small animal corpses.
He continues to stare at Rory, and a maniacal grin grows on his face as the seconds pass. Pezzloni glances at the door, and then back at Rory, raising his eyebrows somewhat as if
The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition Page 42
