FIGHT (11 page)

To compensate, it had been Astronza’s idea for the Family’s jack-of-all-trades, Charlie Unique, to rape a young female with a desirable body, to provide Victor with a boy and maintain the Adelaides’ employees’ confidence that the Family’s future was secure.  It had also been his idea to keep quiet about the heir’s bloodline, as the dispute over such a son’s right to replace his father’s leadership would’ve split the Family in two.  Complicating things further, if New England’s other Families caught wind that Gabe wasn’t the real deal, they, smelling blood in the water, would’ve ganged up to knock the Adelaides out of business and divided up among themselves the Adelaides’ market share of drugs, whores, and racketeering.  To prevent these calamities and explain Gabe’s absence in his first seven years (before he’d been kidnapped), Astronza had spread the rumor that Gabe had spent his early years with Family relatives in Italy, shoring up Gabe’s Adelaide credentials.

Victor had conceded that, while Astronza may have botched the simple task (simple in Victor’s mind, anyway) of finding a doc who could help him rock out with his cock out, Astronza was probably right to advise against making Gabe’s past known.  It was with this mixed record in mind that Victor now watched Astronza squirm.

“Secrets don’t make friends,” Victor began.

“No, sir, they don’t,” Astronza agreed quickly.

“So, why is my son keeping secrets from me?”

“I don’t know, sir, but I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, and I’ll get right on that and let you know what I find.”

“If you were my son would you write a check for $44,000 from Family funds and not tell me about it?”

“No, sir.  I would not.”

“And would you lie to your father, to your very own father, about the purpose of that check when confronted about it?”

“Absolutely not, sir.”

“If my only son insists on keeping secrets from me, should I consider him a friend?”

This was a loaded question.  If Astronza sided with Victor and threw Gabe under the bus, then he’d failed to find Victor an adequate son. This late in the game, he’d once more have his neck on the chopping block for Victor’s effective childlessness, and this time an apology wouldn’t save him.  If, on the other hand, he defended Gabe’s decision to spend his father’s money without his father’s approval, and it came to light that Gabe had spent the money foolishly, then it would still be off with his head for having advised wrongly in this matter.  Astronza furrowed his brow, as if deep in thought, biding his time and hoping the question was rhetorical.  Thankfully, it was.  Victor broke the somber silence.

“I’m sure I’m not a perfect father.  I’ve made mistakes like any man, but I’ve always been there for my son.  Understand, Astronza?”

“Yes, sir, I know exactly what you mean, and I agree. You’ve always been there for Gabe.  You’re an excellent father, sir.”

“Thank you.  Your words touch me.  Have some wine.”

Victor retrieved a goblet and a bottle from the leather encased compartment jutting out from the car’s floor and poured Astronza a generous serving of Chateau Lafite.

“Drink up, my friend, drink up.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Since you are my consligiere of these many years, you won’t object to my asking a few more questions, will you?”

“Of course not, sir.  Ask away.”

“Good.  Would you say that $44,000 is an insignificant amount of money?  One that could be plucked out of the Family’s nest egg and frivolously spent without regard for one’s father’s thoughts on the matter?”

“I’d say $44 grand is a very significant amount of money, sir.  And I’m sure you and I can investigate this money’s whereabouts and find out how it was spent.”

“I know how it was spent.  My son spent it on, your friend and mine, Bruce Hudson.”

Astronza nearly went into cardio shock.  His eyes bugged out and expanded to the size of golf balls, and his hand shook, sloshing wine.  The only thing worse than not knowing what had happened to your boss’s $44G’s (when you were supposed to be his trusted advisor) was learning that the money had slipped out from under your nose to aid and abet the enemy. 

“You see,” Victor continued, “Mr. Hudson is a very sick man.  He has a condition called colitis, and he requires surgery to correct it.  My son, God love him, has become bipartisan in spirit and has decided to let bygones be bygones and pay for that operation.”

Astronza knew about the D.A.’s health, but he knew nothing about Gabe using Family funds to pay for the D.A.’s surgery. 
What in God’s name is happening here?
He mentally debated giving Gabe the tongue thrashing of his life.  Talking some sense into Gabe might very well correct matters and put both of them back in good graces with Victor.  Or, lashing out at Gabe, his future employer, might put him on Gabe’s bad side… and who would save him from Gabe when Victor died? 
Dammit, why couldn’t I have been an accountant?
  Consigliere was quickly becoming an esteemed title he no longer felt like flaunting.

“Don’t you think it’s generous of my son to offer my money to pay for an enemy’s wellbeing?  Calls to mind turning the other cheek and that sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?”

Astronza said nothing.  Victor reached out and took Astronza’s now empty wine glass from him and withdrew another, different vintage, Chateau d’Yquem, from the limo’s wine rack.  Refilling the glass, Victor handed it back to him and said:

“Worry not, my friend. None of this is your fault.  You’ve done nothing wrong.”

This put Astronza’s mind at much needed ease.

“After all,” Victor continued, “our Family’s enemies are our crosses to bear, not yours.”

This jolted Astronza back to the possibility that he was staring death in the face.  Any Family enemy should be considered his business, if he was their consligliere.  This whole “not your cross to bear” stuff could get a man killed for being in the way.  He quickly pleaded:

“Sir, if I may, our families go back so far together that I feel like one of your kin.  When I think of the memories that you and I made, along with the memories our fathers made, well, we might as well be related.  The Astronzas are to the Adelaides what St. Peter was to Christ.”

“Ah, truly, my friend, you are my Family’s St. Peter.  Your brains are the rock that our business is built on.  Your efforts have led you to walk on water to be with us through the storms of life.”

Both men smiled.

“But as you know,” Victor reminded him, “St. Peter betrayed our Lord before the rooster crowed three times.”

“Sir, I believe the analogy breaks down at that point.”

“Does it?  I’m not so sure.  It would be an act of betrayal for you to fall negligent in your services to me, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, sir, but I haven’t…”

“I didn’t want an answer.  The question was rhetorical.  The answer is yes.  Yes, it would be an act of betrayal for you to fall negligent in your services to me, and your services include keeping tabs on my Family, its concerns, and its money.”

“True, very true, sir.  This thing with Gabe and Hudson came out of nowhere, sir.  No one could have seen it coming.”

“Have you heard of Boston Monetary Management?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Of course you haven’t, and, at this point, you needn’t hear of it, but I’ll inform you for old times’ sake, as I, too, value the shared histories of our families.  Boston Monetary Managment is the fly-by-night outfit that one Gabriel Adelaide concocted in his fevered brain to spend my money anonymously for Hudson’s surgery.  You can be forgiven for not having heard of it: it doesn’t exist.  Gabe wrote a check signed by this fraudulent Boston Monetary Management, withdrawing enough money from my savings and stowing it in the Cayman Islands to vouch for it.  I know this because Hanson told me.”

“Who’s Hanson, sir?”

“He’s my consigliere.”

Astronza came face to face with the certainty that he’d been replaced… and that he was going to die.  He could feel it in his gut.  In fact, he literally could feel something in his gut.  Something wasn’t quite sitting well with him.  Perhaps something he’d eaten had come back to haunt him… or maybe something he’d drank... He wiped sweat off his heated face and loosened his shirt collar to breathe better.  Something was seriously wrong.  Despite the limo’s world class shocks and smooth riding, Astronza was starting to suffer from something like motion sickness.  He needed to get out and spill his guts.

“You like my wine, my friend?” Victor asked, slyly taking the initial bottle and turning it around to read the label: “According to the label, the first one is vintage H
2.
And the second one,” he continued, putting the first bottle down and picking up the next to read its label, “is vintage SO
4
.”

Victor placed the second bottle next to the first one and shut the car’s wine compartment, concealing them both.

“You probably know such a combination as sulfuric acid,” Victor explained with the helpfulness of a stewardess.  “Did you enjoy your drinks?”

“Oh, God!” Astronza screamed, ripping off his tie, unbuttoning his shirt collar, and forcing fingers down his throat to induce vomiting.  Even though his ability to focus was fading by the second, he maintained enough lucidity to know what drinking sulfuric acid meant.  His insides started to heat up like hell, beginning from his lower abdomen and shooting up his esophagus, like someone was roasting him with a flame thrower from his naval to his throat. 

“Please, dear Jesus, Victor!  Please, dear God in Heaven, don’t let me die this way! I’m in fucking pain here! I can feel holes burning in my stomach, Victor! For the love of God, help me!”

“I’ll help you, my friend.  Driver!”

The long car pulled over next to an alleyway between two businesses “protected” by the Adelaides.  Victor opened the car’s door and pushed Astronza out onto the ground.  Lying there, Astronza could barely move his arms and, he couldn’t feel his legs.  What he could feel, he didn’t want to.  His nervous system radiated abundant heat.

“I’d hate to see you end this way,” Victor remarked.  “You and yours have meant so much to me and mine over the years that you deserve to pass without your insides flaming.  You need to get that nasty acid out of you before you burn yourself.” 

Victor, leaning out of the car, removed a switchblade from his jacket pocket, flipped up the blade, and placed the knife gently on Astronza’s stomach.  Astronza was beginning to convulse with burning throbs, and he stared wide eyed at the open blade on top of him.

“Allow me to return the favor and be your consigliere in your final moments.  You don’t want to die with that stuff eating you alive,” Victor advised him. “It’s too hot, too painful.  Do yourself a favor and rip your guts open so that shit can spill out of you.  It’ll be a much easier way to go.”

With that, Victor shut his door, and his limo pulled away.  Astronza grasped the knife with two very shaky hands and began the butcher’s job of carving his stomach open. Victor was right.  Getting the acid out was a less painful way to go.

   ------------------------------------------------

Gabe cruised down the highway feeling pretty damn good, and he wasn’t sure why.
I guess it doesn’t matter why.  I just feel good, and that’s all that matters
.  August sat buckled up in the seat next to him, licking a double-decker chocolate and vanilla ice cream cone, paying no mind to the creamy remnants each flavor left on his lips, nose, and chin.  In the past few days, August had seen the zoo, visited a planetarium, rode his own big wheel, rode his own bicycle with training wheels (after Gabe decided that August was too old for the big wheel), braved his first roller coaster, enjoyed his first ferris wheel, ate his first batch of cotton candy, and attended his first Red Sox game.  (Curiously, Bruce Hudson had been at that game, along with his old detective pal Richard Dorsey, though neither Gabe nor August had seen them.)  Gabe turned many heads, when he and August publicly hung out.  But no one who saw them called the cops, because they’d seen Gabe’s acquittal in the news and they didn’t know he’d illegally removed August from his foster home. 

August, too, was feeling pretty good, but, unlike Gabe, he knew why.  He felt good because he was with Gabe, and he could tell that Gabe liked him.  It felt good to finally be liked. 

Gabe kept a steady hand on his five-speed Mercedes’ stick.  He preferred stick shifts to automatics.  They kept him more active, more in control.  And they were more fun to drive. He was gunning it at top speed down I-395, hovering around 95 miles an hour. He pushed his stick forward, which was already in fifth gear, as if a faster gear awaited him.  August, introducing his face to different sides of his ice cream mound, noticed Gabe’s good mood, as Gabe began to whistle along with 107.1’s stream of Blur’s “Song 2.”

They were having fun, and they both knew it. 

“Vrooooom!” August roared, moving his ice cream cone around like it was a steering wheel.

“Say, you’re going pretty fast there.  Want to go a little faster?”

“Oh yeah!”

“Well, hot damn, let’s go!”

“Hot damn!  Let’s go!” August repeated.  It was the first time he’d cussed in front of an adult, but it seemed okay, it was fun, and it made him feel like he belonged with Gabe.

The metallic black SUV whirled through traffic, changing lanes around slower cars, and easily out performing less expensive makes.  Gabe was having such fun cruising with August, and his sound system was turned up so loud, that it took a good thirty seconds for him to realize that he was being trailed by a Massachusetts state trooper with flashing lights.  He looked in his rearview mirror with disgust. 
What the hell are we paying these guys for?
  A good portion of the state’s patrolmen were on the Adelaides’ payroll, and it shocked him to be pulled over by one.  He slowed the car to a gradual decline requiring several hundred yards and leisurely pulled over onto the highway’s shoulder.  August’s eyes grew large and worried, as he saw the trooper’s car in the SUV’s side view mirror.  When Gabe shut off the radio, both heard the trooper’s ominous siren.  Gabe did a quick double take and was relieved to see that both he and August were wearing safety belts.  Looking once more in his mirror, he identified the trooper walking towards them as Andrew Baker, an employee of the Family. 

“Afternoon, sir.  Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Hello, to you, too, Andrew, and I have no idea.”

“It’s Officer Baker, if you don’t mind, and I clocked you going 96 on a stretch of highway with a limit of 75.  I need to see your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

Gabe couldn’t believe it.  This fucker had the nerve to suck the Family teat and then pull him over for speeding? 
What the hell are we paying you for?
  Gabe asked himself again.  He took out his wallet and found the stuff for
Officer Baker
, (
since that’s the grand title this goon’s calling himself these days
, he stewed) and passed it out his window.  Baker went back to his patrol car to call in the license and registration, leaving Gabe to further wonder how the ingrate planned on staying on the Family’s good side after this crock of shit.  A few moments later:

“I’m citing you for speeding.  You can appear in court and contest the ticket on the noted date, or you have to pay the fine.”

Baker handed back Gabe’s license, registration, and proof of insurance, and he handed Gabe a ticket for $130.  The money was nothing: it was chump change to Gabe.  No, he didn’t care about a lousy $130.  What he cared about was putting this good-for-nothing-two-bit cop in his place for interrupting the fun that he and August were having with this bullshit speed limit talk.  Until now, Baker had turned a blind eye to Gabe’s crimes, ranging from fraud to violence.  And Baker had been rewarded handsomely for his willful ignorance of the Family’s activities.  The Adelaides had even paid Baker a cool $700 Christmas bonus last year.  Gabe didn’t speak, and he locked eyes with Baker’s, expecting either an apology or a punch line (
Nah, just messin’, Gabe, you know that!),
but neither came.  Instead, Baker concluded the pull over:

“Have a nice day, sir.  Drive safe.”  

Gabe glared at the citation in his hand.  He crumpled it up and tossed it in the back seat.  He had no intentions of paying it, and he wasn’t going to let some cop ruin his afternoon.  He waited for a brief pause in the interstate’s onslaught of traffic and pulled back onto the road.

In the privacy of his patrol car, Baker phoned Victor.

“Hello, you’ve reached Mr. Adelaide’s office.  Can I help you?”

“Put me through,” was all Baker had to say.  The secretary knew his voice.

“Right away.”

The phone only rang twice on the special line installed for calls from cops, politicians, and the media before Victor answered it.  He never missed a call from this line.  A technician had programmed the number to kick the call over to his cell if he wasn’t around to answer the office phone, rather than letting the call go to voicemail. 

“Victor here.”

“Victor, Baker.  I saw Gabe with some kid in his Benz on I-395.  They were pretty far out of town and moving along rather quickly.  I suspect they’re joy riding.  I gave him a ticket for speeding.”

“You did what, you fool?”

“I, uh, I gave him a ticket for speeding.”

Victor paused, put the phone down on his desk, rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand, and squeezed an Earth style stress ball with his right hand (a memento from his last trip to his cardiologist). He paid no mind to how long he kept Baker waiting: he was too damn upset to care.  As angry as he was at Gabe for helping the D.A. (and with his money no less!) he still couldn’t afford to push Gabe out of the Family.  Without Gabe, his men would abandon the Family to work for competitors, thinking the Adelaides’ days were numbered.  After crushing the world in his palm some two dozen times and gleefully visualizing the mass carnage its imaginary residents suffered, he lifted the phone’s receiver and educated Baker:

“I preferred that Gabe didn’t know I was pissed at him, but you seem to have let the cat out of the bag.”

“Sir, I was taking your side in this dispute when I gave him a ticket.  I thought you’d be glad I’d given him hell, after he used your money for Hudson’s benefit.”

Victor hissed in the calmest voice he could manage, “I didn’t want Gabe to know that there were sides to be taken between us.  But then you went and wrote him up, and he knows that an underling like you is committing an act of insubordination to write up a member of the Family.  If I don’t fire you, and make him aware of the fact that I fired you, then he’ll know that I’m okay that you wrote him a ticket, which will tell him that I’m pissed at him.  In other words…” (he swallowed the unspoken “Dumbass”) “… I now have to punish you to make Gabe think that he and I are still on good terms.  Follow the logic?  Did you connect all those dots, Officer Baker?”

“Yes, sir.  I can toss the ticket.  I don’t have to turn it in,” he sheepishly offered. 

“See that you do, and when you see Gabe, tell him that I demanded that you apologize.  If you’re lucky, this whole thing will blow over.”

Hanging up for a new dial tone, Victor used his secure line to call the man who still served as the Family’s jack-of-all-trades, Charlie Unique:

“Kill Andrew Baker.”

------------------------------------------------

Despite their earlier run-in with Baker, Gabe and August were still having fun.  They were currently at Funny Town pizzeria, and, done with their pepperoni pie, they were busy whopping the heads of plastic gophers with toy mallets, as the animals appeared and then disappeared from holes in a plastic table decorated like a forest.  August loved it.  He’d driven by Funny Town many times, but he’d never been inside.  Today, however, he stood with a belly full of pizza and pockets full of tickets that he and Gabe had won from arcade games, tickets that would later be swapped at a gift shop for a prize.

“You almost got him!” Gabe yelled.

August, leaning against the elevated table as Gabe picked him up to make him tall enough to play, crashed the mallet down on an empty hole, missing the previous gopher by a half second.  He wasn’t very good at the game, as his small arms couldn’t even reach the gophers in the back row, but he was still having a blast taking cheap shots at them with the toy mallet. 

“Get ‘em, buddy, get ‘em!” Gabe called out.

The game’s electronic timer beeped, as its bright red LED screen flashed the time remaining for this session… 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… buzz!  The game spat out a measly two tickets for August’s efforts, which wasn’t nearly enough to cash in for a prize.  Gabe was determined to correct this deficit by smacking the hell out of every single one of the gophers and handing his winning tickets to August.  He fished in his pockets for the special tokens that the game required, tokens purchased for quarters at the restaurant’s gift shop.  He inserted two tokens in the system and hit the “Play!” button.  The gopher’s holes randomly lit up with dazzling lights and the game’s music started, signifying the action was about to begin.  Gabe didn’t want August to miss out on the fun, so he sat him on his shoulders to make him tall enough to watch. 

Whop!

The first gopher went down, as soon as it reared its head from the hole that it had been hiding in.  He’d nailed it with ease.

Whop
!

Another gopher retreated to its underground lair, having been walloped by Gabe.

Whop! Whop! Whop!

The game’s difficulty increased, as the gophers began to appear quicker, but Gabe had no problem keeping up.

Whop! Whop! Whop! Whop! Whop!

He made short work of the gophers, not missing a single one.  The game’s beeper soon began to sound again, letting its player know that time was running out.  When the game stopped this time, it tallied Gabe’s score at a 100% accuracy rate and rewarded him twenty-seven tickets.  Gabe snatched the tickets from their perforated feed in the machine and handed all of them up to August, still perched on his shoulders.

“Here ya go, man.  I believe these belong to you.”

August had as much fun watching Gabe play as he did playing himself, especially since he knew that Gabe would give him the winning tickets.  August shoved the long line of attached tickets into his pocket, which was quickly filling up with long rows of the same.  Carrying August around the large play arena on his shoulders, Gabe took inventory of the games available and said:

“I believe we’ve played them all and most of them twice.  Whadday say?  You ready to cash those tickets in for a prize?”

“Yes!”

This was the best day of August’s life.  He’d had more fun today than he’d ever had.  The fast ride in the car, the ice cream, and Funny Town all combined to seem like a dream come true.  When Gabe took him inside the gift shop to redeem his tickets, he knew exactly what he wanted.  He’d spied a Plumpy the Beaver doll on the top shelf behind the cash register, when they’d first walked in.  Plumpy the Beaver currently had a hit show targeted at August’s age group and a merchandising contract with Funny Town.  To kids August’s age, Plumpy the Beaver was cooler than all four Beatles combined. 

“I want that,” he said, pointing towards the doll.

The cashier didn’t have to ask which toy August wanted.  He knew August wanted the same toy that every kid wanted.

“That’ll be 430 tickets,” the teenage ticket teller responded with boredom, expecting to be told that the kid didn’t have enough tickets, and expecting to then be asked by the adult how much is it to buy the toy, and expecting then to answer, “Sorry, but the doll’s not for sale,” and expecting then to sell more tokens for quarters to keep both the kid and the adult here for hours longer than they intended to be in vain hopes of winning an unwinnable toy. 

Gabe took August off his shoulders and set him on the counter.  August kicked his legs in excitement and removed the tickets from his pockets to let Gabe count them. 

“Here you are,” Gabe said.  “Here’s 450 tickets, and you can keep the extra ones.”

The teller took the vast wad of long ticket trails in his hand and mentally cursed the minimum wage fate that was making him count the damn things to verify the existence of all 450 of them.  Halfway through counting, he merely pretended to count the rest and said, “You’ve got enough.  Here it is.”