submachine gun clenched against the body armor on his chest, which is fixed to his neck with a vinyl strap. Trevor is a bit thinner and taller than his counterpart, exhibiting a less hulking upper body, but appearing sturdy nonetheless. The lanky mercenary from South Africa was an odd choice for the Italian Mob, but the group became more diversified under Chandler’s leadership in an effort to throw off the authorities.
“I need water!” Pezzloni pleads from his position on the floor, clawing with his hands at the smooth, white tiles as a result of the pain in his stomach. “Give me some-“ The middle-aged gangster coughs for a moment, and chokes on something viscous in his throat, producing a sloppy stream of thick, red blood from between his lips.
“Yo, brudder, he’s dyin’!” Trevor announces to his colleague, gawking at the massive Samoan for any signs of wisdom or words of guidance. “What we goin’ do? I don’t think the big boss gonna’ be happy with us if this white boy here dies…”
“Who cares? We didn’t poison him.” Marco responds with a shrug, continuing to watch Pezzloni on the floor with interest. “Chandler said that he wants him to puke, so he puked… He didn’t say for us to fetch him water and read him a story.” The muscular man declares, displaying his intention to wait for further instructions.
“Someone poisoned me, you dumb fuck!” Pezzloni spews forth with blood still dribbling out of his lips. “Whose house do you think you’re in? When Chandler and I get this straightened out, I’ll feed you both to my God dammed dogs. Now go GET ME A GLASS OF WATER TO WASH THIS BURNING SHIT OUT OF MY THROAT!” Anthony finishes by gagging a bit, and spitting more blood into the toilet water.
“Where do I goin’ get da water?” Trevor asks immediately, showing fear from the threat of a gangster that holds power over so much of the western United States. “I bring you a glass, but nothin’ else.” He adds, ignoring the disgusted look of shame on Marco’s face.
“Kitchen!” Pezzloni exclaims through shallow breaths. “Upstairs and to the right-“ He conveys through the tears that are streaming from his eyes, his voice cracking as he finishes speaking.
“Stand back ‘ere, Marco.” Trevor instructs with a bit of paranoia, gesturing to the tiles just outside of the bathroom stall. “If he tries anythin’, you can shoot him in da back. I get the water.” The young enforcer says with the voice of a seasoned leader as he steps toward the exit of the bathroom. “I will come back.” He states with two fingers pointed towards his eyes before disappearing into the basement.
“So who poisoned you?” Marco asks as he takes a new position three feet behind Pezzloni, pointing the submachine gun at his back as instructed. “Huh, who would poison you here? It was none of us.”
“Oh my God! I can’t see!” Anthony declares with a voice of genuine shock. “I can’t see!”
The gangster begins to rub his eyes feverishly, reaching for the walls of the bathroom stall. After rubbing his eyes thoroughly with his shirtsleeves, he cries out as though his pupils are burning, and turns to face Marco with his eyes clenched tightly.
“Don’t move, Pezzloni!” Marco orders, taking a fighting stance as he aims his weapon at the gangster’s head. “I know who you are. I know the bullshit you pull!” The enforcer surmises with a spooked expression, releasing the safety on his submachine gun.
Pezzloni ignores these words, reaching out more feverishly with his right hand as he grabs his throat in pain with his left.
“I’m right here!” Marco says impatiently, pointing the weapon at his adversary’s chest. “He’s getting the water, just stop touching your eyes… I’M RIGHT HERE!” The enforcer repeats, shouting in a manner that echoes through the bathroom.
The moment he hears these words, Pezzloni raises up for a second, opens his eyes, and spits a blue and white mixture into Marco’s eyes. He then steps sideways and lunges under the man’s arms to grab the strap of his submachine gun.
“Ow, my fucking eyes!” Marco announces as the bleach mixture soaks the surface of his pupils. “You’ve poisoned me, bastard!” He reports in disgust, shaking his head from side-to-side.
The experienced gangster wastes no time, gripping the back of Marco’s submachine gun with his left hand as he slides his left elbow up between the man’s outstretched arms. Without hesitation, he jolts upward from the floor, driving his elbow into the man’s nose with all of his might. This elbow glances under the tip of Marco’s nose, hitting with most of its force in his mouth. Pezzloni winces as he feels one of the man’s teeth cut through the skin on the outside of his elbow.
Despite the miscalculation, the blow is delivered with tremendous force, allowing Anthony to strip the submachine gun from Marco’s thick hands. He then uses the hardened steel of the gun to strike the enforcer in the back of the head twice. As the man reaches up with both arms to protect his head, Pezzloni grips the back of his neck with his free hand, and steps down hard on the back of his right calf with his left foot. This causes his opponent to drop on his knees, and Anthony uses the momentum to smash Marco’s head into the rim of the toilet.
“Harmful if swallowed, but not fatal…you stupid fuck!” Pezzloni says in an aggressive manner, pausing suddenly to vomit more blue and white foam onto the back of the man’s shirt, gripping his stomach with authentic discomfort. “Avoid contact with eyes… May cause blindness...” He announces with satisfaction, wiping the foamy vomit from his lower lip as he makes his way into the basement with conviction.
In the kitchen, Trevor hears a muffled sound coming from the basement, and immediately dismisses it as natural. He takes another swig from the bottle of Vodka on the counter before picking up the glass of water to return downstairs. As he steps around the kitchen counter, the young, South African enforcer is shocked when he sees Pezzloni standing in the living room just opposite him, with a black pistol held expertly in the air. Trevor reacts immediately by trying to shield himself behind the glass of water, holding it up in front of his face without a second thought.
The silenced, Walther PPK feels balanced and simple in Pezzloni’s hands. In an odd, last-minute thought, he notices that storing it in the downstairs safe has kept it relatively dust free. The gangster smiles with bizarre enjoyment and fires three shots from the silenced weapon at Trevor, watching the water glass explode in the young man’s hands as the bullets travel easily through them, and into his face.
The pistol spits out its lethal payload like a fiery beetle from prehistoric times, destroying the young man’s brain with a quick and deadly projectile attack. Anthony’s senses are immediately heightened as the sounds of broken glass, and splashing water bring his enemy down instantly, leaving him sprawled out near the kitchen counter with his eyes open. Pezzloni feels an intense and manly rush of pride, knowing that his adversaries were aware that he might try to harm them.
Anthony looks around the room for a moment, and checks the windows at the back of the home before proceeding up the stairs to the second floor. He carries the silenced Walther PPK in his right hand, and has the submachine gun slung over his left shoulder.
Near the side of the pool, Trevor is looking down at Tina with malcontent. He glances up at Rory, noticing that the young man seems to have strong feelings for her.
“So you went through hell to save her?” Chandler asks with a fierce stare, using his left hand to stroke Tina’s hair while keeping his pistol trained on Rory with his right. “They were going to feed her to the dogs? She must have done something very naughty.” He states in a frustrated fashion, gripping her hair tightly with
his left hand.
Tina is jolted up from her sleep, coming out of shock at the onset of this new pain. She pushes against Chandler’s left wrist with her wounded right hand; trying to stop the pain in any manner she is able.
“Pezzloni fed your brother to the dogs!” Rory says impulsively, wanting Chandler to stop hurting Tina. “That’s why they can’t show him to you!” The young man confesses with sadness in his eyes, feeling naked and vulnerable with only his sweat pants and shoes.
Chandler’s face becomes a mixture of queasy anguish, taking in the visual of his baby brother being eaten by German Shepherds. He releases Tina’s hair and places his left hand against his brow, still aiming the pistol at Rory’s torso.
“This is a fucking nightmare!” Chandler exclaims after a moment of silence as tears begin to stream from his eyes. “I never agreed with that! It was never something we did as kids – feeding people to dogs…” His tears become more frequent as his gaze drifts to the surface of the large, deep swimming pool.
The syndicate boss looks pale for the first time since they met, and his eyes are staring at nothing, as though he is considering ending it all in this moment. Rory lowers his head in shame, feeling disturbed at his part in killing the man’s younger brother. During this pure moment of sadness he wants to put his hand on Chandler’s shoulder, but decides against it, for fear of the veritable firing squad of four guards standing at his back.
“Did you really shoot my brother in the back!?” Chandler finally asks through gritted teeth, turning to stare at Rory like a wounded bull selecting his first target. “How did that feel..? Attacking him from behind? Was that manly? Did it feel something like this!?”
The enraged syndicate boss reaches down and grabs Tina by the neck with his left hand, and batters her with the pistol in his right. Before Rory can say or do anything, the gangster strikes her twice on the head, and then kicks at the back of her lounge chair with his right foot, forcing the young, unconscious woman into the swimming pool.
“DID IT FEEL SOMETHING LIKE THAT!?” Chandler shouts at Rory with a reddening face, pointing the pistol directly between his eyes.
Fear and urgency hit Rory like a block of wood smashing against his chest, and splintering throughout his body. His mind is unable to process everything that just happened as the blood-soaked handgun is pointed at his face. He weighs out the fierceness of Chandler’s stare, knowing that he is enraged, but trying to remind himself of something more important. In a fraction of a second, he looks at the blood on the butt of the pistol, and forces himself to remember that Tina is drowning in the pool.
This moment serves Rory well, allowing him to turn off all of his senses and dive in after her, ignoring the fit of rage from the savage murderer at his side. As his body hits the cool water, Rory feels a sense of intense purpose, seeing Tina just a few feet from his grasp.
Within the compound, Dimitri walks with a somber gaze as he escorts the three men to the room where Herb’s body has been stored these past few days. He appears nervous in his stylish clothing, like a small boy being forced to show his latest act of vandalism to his mother. With a degree of sheepish hesitation, Dimitri unfurls his shirt from his jeans, and uses the bottom to twist the greasy door handle, allowing the group access to the room. The three men push past him, entering the space with their weapons at the ready. As the first two enforcers spread out to ensure the room is clear, the third man waits patiently just inside the door, turning his head toward Dimitri every few seconds.
After a quick sweep of the room, both men hold up their right hands to signal that everything is ‘okay,’ and the area is secure.
“Where is the body?” Bart asks impatiently, looking at Dimitri with contempt as he guards the doorway.
“It’s in the pit over there.” Dimitri replies, pointing at a large gap in the floor just twenty feet to their left. “We prepped it for-“
“I don’t give a shit!” Bart responds instantly, interrupting Dimitri without a care. “It fucking stinks in here. Let’s get in and get out! We’ve got less than five minutes, so move your ass down into the hole.” He finishes with a callous stare, gesturing with his barrel for Dimitri to enter first.
“Okay. No problem.” Dimitri agrees, raising his hands as he steps rapidly toward the yellow, steel ladder at the edge of opening.
“If I see any dogs, I’ll cut them in half.” Bart adds, glancing at the feces and water dishes at the far end of the room. “In fact, if a dog comes anywhere near me or my team, you’re done. Are they locked up?” Bart asks with sadistic flair, pointing his gun at Dimitri’s chest as he watches him descend the ladder.
“Yes, the dogs are locked up!” Dimitri confesses as he drops further down into the pit, his feet clanking a bit against the steel.
“Gary… Todd,” Bart begins in an almost whisper, turning to face his fellow enforcers, “go ahead and help him bring up the body while I cover you.” The young Italian instructs in an uncertain voice, grabbing nervously at his goatee.
The two men laugh and exchange amused glances, shaking their heads as they follow Dimitri down the solid ladder into the pit. Bart looks down at the floor as he is mocked by his colleagues for an apparent phobia of dogs.
Todd is the last to descend the ladder, and as he looks to his left, he sees Gary and Dimitri standing over a body that is wrapped in a blue tarp. His face is flush with disgust and his large belly nearly touches the steel ladder as he takes his last step from its surface. The moment his feet touch the filthy cement, he hears the ominous sound of growling coming from the network of tunnels behind him.
“GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I SPLINTER YOUR ASS!” Dimitri yells down the tunnel, turning to ensure his command is heard completely. “DO YOU HEAR ME!? LAVITICUS! HANNS! HIMLER!” The young Italian shouts at the dogs, nodding toward his colleagues as if to ensure their safety.
“You told me the fucking dogs were locked up!” Bart states with paranoid rage, moving to the edge of the pit with his weapon pointed at Dimitri.
The sound of growling resumes from a few yards down the tunnels, and it grows steadily closer. Todd feels his heartbeat increasing as panic sets in, and he hears the growling now coming from three of the tunnels behind him.
“I had them calmed down!” Dimitri calls out over the snarling of his deadly pets. “But if you keep pointing that gun at me, they’ll get agitated!”
A burst of gunfire erupts from Bart’s barrel, hitting Dimitri five times in the chest, and sending his body sprawling to the filthy pavement. Todd steps backward nervously as a few rounds ricochet off pieces of steel surrounding the opening of each tunnel.
“What the hell are you doing!?” Todd exclaims with fiery disdain as the bullets fly past him and his colleague. “Gary, are you okay?” The thirty-two-year-old Norwegian man asks, pulling up his submachine gun in a panic. “Bart, if you shoot down here again, you’re gonna’ get some friendly fire. That’s a fuckin’ promise!” The enforcer says without reservation, pointing his left index and middle finger toward his colleague.
“Let’s just get the body out of here so that we can call Chandler.” Gary states with a spooked expression, gesturing at the figure wrapped in a blue tarp just two feet from him.
“What are we gonna’ say to Anthony about taking out his guy?” Todd asks with a bit of alarm, looking at the body that is just to his left.
From less than twenty feet away, the attack dogs respond to these aggressive movements by growling louder. Near the tunnels, the sound is fearsome; a sustained echo of German Shepherd might, coming toward the men with perfect acoustics. Amidst the hub of the tunnels, and with the amount of adrenaline each man is feeling, it’s as though the earth is vibrating beneath them from the ferocity of the dogs.
A burst of gunfire once again leaves the barrel of Bart’s weapon, but this time he aims carefully down the tunnels, attempting to frighten away the bloodthirsty beasts.
Todd and Gary also open fire on the tunnels, spraying a few rounds down each passage at the average height of a dog’s head or lower. The two men squat as they shoot, attempting to get as low to the ground as possible.
Behind them, the blue tarp unfolds slowly, and Vincent rises up from within the material, placing his back against the wall. The heavyset limo driver is wearing a plain gray T-shirt and a pair of black slacks with dress shoes, reminiscent of Herb Christos. His arms and legs are stained here and there with a mixture of ketchup and water to make him appear as a corpse. The simple Italian bears a look of determination as he draws a semi-automatic, .45 caliber pistol from the back of his slacks. He gazes at Dimitri’s mutilated body with sorrow and betrayal, shaking his head slightly as he checks the action of his pistol to ensure there is a round in the chamber.
Todd and Gary stop firing, no longer hearing the sound of the dogs, just over a dozen feet from their faces. They keep their guns trained on the tunnels as they remove their spent magazines, and prepare to reload. A shot explodes just to the right of Todd, in the corner, and as he raises his head to look right, a second shot immediately sends him to darkness.
Vincent is fast to dispatch the two men, feeling the adrenaline flowing through him as his ears are still ringing from the sound of gunfire. He glances down at the three bodies of his mob brothers, shaking his head momentarily at such an awful waste.
From his position atop the pit, Bart watches a body disappear as Todd’s head explodes to the left. Bart jumps backward instantly, and slams the loose clip of ammunition into his gun before opening fire on the pit. After a few short bursts, he stares down toward his target, seeking out any signs of a confirmed hit.
There is a subtle growling in the room, and Bart spins around wildly to see the origin of this sound. His motion is odd and exhibits fear, a man halfway wishing to know what is in the room with him, and half not. As he turns to face the door, Bart’s mouth opens in terror. There is a large, two-hundred-pound German Shepherd standing just a foot behind him. The dog is
The Golden Goose of Los Angeles Extended Edition Page 51
