For Nothing (12 page)

“Don’t worry Sal-e buddy, me and Frankie are going with you. Everything wil be fine, won’t it Frankie?”

Sal looked into the rearview mirror at Frankie.

“Yeah Sal, everything’s going to be fine. The big guys asked you to do it. If you said no, you’d be dead anyway. Now, they know you’re with ‘em.

Maybe they’l bring you up the chain with ‘em for this.

This, this ain’t no smal favor they asked of you. And when you move up, take me and Vic with ya, ya know? Make us al big guys.”

The way that Frankie spoke made Victor beg for an eventual end to his droning, but he noticed an opposite effect on Sal. It seemed that Frankie’s little speech calmed Sal down as he basked in the daydream of future power.

“Yeah, that’s right. Instead of us al working for them, maybe one day you two bums wil work just for me.”

Sal was a little more relaxed now and he gave Victor a little punch on the arm and flashed him a smile.

“Stil , it is good to see you. I’m glad the guys sent you to get me. Tonight is a big night for my whole family man. And on top of it al this shit with Falzone and Ciancetta.”

With that they pul ed up to the abandoned parking lot in front of Wizeguyz. They exited the SUV

and with Sal leading the way, Victor and Frankie went into the double doors of Wizeguyz Bil iards.

When they entered the building, things were much they way they were when Victor left. Aldo and Muro were sitting in the rear left booth, the cigarettes piled up more and the smoke hanging above the pool hal stagnated. Jimmy Jacks and Tom Coughlin were no longer playing pool, but by the shot glasses stacked in front of them, and the way the heavy bartender was pouring out a line of fresh shots, it looked as if they nursed a healthy buzz. Al of their backs were to the entrance, and the two old men were stil very busy chatting amongst themselves.

The doors slammed shut behind them, causing Jimmy to almost fal off of his bar stool. Aldo and Muro strained around to catch a glimpse of who entered. They paused for a moment and then began discussing, in even more earnest, whatever it was they were talking about before. Sal didn’t take notice of them and went straight up to the bar and ordered a round of drinks.

“Three Wild Turkey shots, one for each of us.

Fuck it, make it five and give these two bums one, too.”

He waved his hand at Jimmy and Tom who were too happy for the free booze to even regard being cal ed bums. Victor stole a glance at the two elder Mafioso’s sitting in the booth, Muro seemed to be agitated and it was confirmed when he stood up for a moment and slammed his fist on the table. But as fast as he got up, he sat back down, and with a sharp word from Aldo, they resumed with their conversation.

At one point Aldo Marano looked up and nodded at Victor, who nodded back and put his hand on Sal’s shoulder. This seemed to shift the hand on Sal’s shoulder. This seemed to shift the conversation a bit, but Victor didn’t think much on it as Sal was proposing a toast of sorts, wel a toast for Sal at any rate. Sal stood up a bit from the rest of them, making himself appear important.

He cleared his throat to ensure the effect of his words as he eloquently began. “Here’s to the breezes that blows through the treeses and lifts the girls’ skirts above their kneeses and shows the spot that teases and pleases, and yes, spreads diseases, oh jeezes. Here’s to the snatch, down the hatch.”

Victor heard him make the same toast a dozen times. So had Jimmy and Tom, Victor heard it with them every single time. Sal didn’t drink with anyone else, except his son.

Jimmy and Tom didn’t care, though, they laughed as if they heard it for the first time. In fact, Victor was pretty sure they were laughing harder now. Perhaps it was the booze speaking, or perhaps it was the nature of Sal’s work this evening that had huge promotional value written al over it. Victor looked at them hard for a moment and he thought that maybe, just maybe, there was some brown shit on the tips of their noses.

Victor shook his head; he was the only one stil holding his shot. Sal looked at him and made a look towards his shot glass hand. Victor looked at it a little sheepish, then in one gulp swal owed the whiskey down, for a moment letting the last drop fal into his mouth. He must be getting tired. He felt irritable and his mind was wandering.

Sal couldn’t help jabbing him for the delay and Garducci could hear him muttering something about “First New Mexico fries his brain then it makes him forget how to take a shot like a man. What the fuck?”

Then he heard something indiscernible and Sal was taking down a second shot. The liquor and being on his home turf, or at least his own little island of security, was doing wonders for Sal and he was starting to regain his cockiness.

He put an arm around Victor and his other around Frankie and whispered into their ears, “To the top boys, to the top.”

As he whispered his dreams of glory into their ears, Aldo lifted a hand, and in a calm voice said,

“Hey Salvatore, can you come over here for a moment? We have things which we would like to discuss with you.”

With that Sal whispered one more time into his comrade’s ears, “To the top.”

He whirled around and walked over to his superiors with long strides. After a moment they sat down and started discussing what transpired. Victor noticed how tired he was as a yawn escaped his lips. It was time to get some sleep.

Victor Garducci lingered there for a moment, had another shot, and then stood up to leave. He waved to Aldo and Muro, letting them know he was leaving and then walked out of the double doors at the entrances. Those two were some tough old gangsters. That’s why when he was a few blocks from home; it didn’t surprise him to notice that a second sound of footsteps was shadowing his. And it surprised him less when he rounded a corner and stole a glance over his shoulder and noticed Tom Coughlin in the distance, minding his own business.

Garducci wasn’t worried though, he was pretty sure Aldo just wanted to make sure that he wasn’t running to Don Ciancetta with al that he learned that evening. It would be best to report to the bil iards hal in the morning.

Victor walked on for a few moments then decided to take a left, where a right would bring him home. A few blocks later and he was getting a room at a local motel. It promised a rate of thirty-five bucks a night and free HBO. More to the point, it offered an immediate bed. He registered under the name John Smith and after a suspicious and yet indifferent glance from the clerk; he got a key to room 126.

At least I didn’t have to walk up any stairs
, he thought.

He entered the sparse room which contained a bed, a nightstand with two drawers and a smal bathroom. The T.V. was set on top of the nightstand across from the foot of the bed. The sheets on the bed looked like something out of the seventies, but that didn’t bother the exhausted Victor Garducci. In the morning he would report to Wizeguyz, and then find his way over to Inhaled Imports.

It was there that my journey is sure to begin
, he thought.

He began reminiscing taking shots with Sal at the bar. The last time he drank with anyone was with Jack at the Old Irish Pub outside of Angola. Sal’s Jack at the Old Irish Pub outside of Angola. Sal’s face began to morph into that of Jack’s and the toast morphed into the soothing lyrics of Lynyrd Skynyrd as reality succumbed to dream. A few moments later, and he was asleep on the rough mattress that made it feel almost like home.

The sun drifted in through the bend in the blinds covering his living room window and set upon the assassin’s closed eyelids. He lay there for a minute, knowing that the sun had risen and was the reason for the warmth he felt even as winter continued on in Buffalo.

After a moment or two he blinked his eyes open and strained his neck to the left and heard a satisfied crack as his joints released the pressure that built up inside of them during the night. He was surprised that he fel asleep so deep and for a moment he worried about his carelessness. What if Falzone sent another hit squad after him?

As the assassin stood up and stretched and walked toward his fridge to drink some milk, he began to think with a clearer mind on the events which transpired the previous day. The thing that bothered him the most was the issue concerning the attempted hit on him. What if Ciancetta arranged the hit, to do away with someone with as much knowledge as himself? Knowledgeable personnel had a way of becoming an il -affordable luxury, especial y with the turn coats like Sammy ‘The Bul ’

Gravano in the Gotti crew, or the Henry Hil s that were running rampant al over La Costa Nostra.

Perhaps the wary Don decided to do away with Rontego. Perhaps Sonne Pieri was lying al along. He knew he was a dead man, perhaps he wanted Rontego to fly off the handle and make a mistake.

However, Falzone was smart. For years he succeeded in manipulating the politics while staying out of the limelight. He even helped clean the crews of informants who worked to link his guys to undercover police and FBI units, most of them anyway. He served Ciancetta in a fair and faithful manner and used his clout in the unions as a rare bargaining chip. And if a war was indeed going on, then what if Sonne was trying to stir shit up by having Rontego think it was Falzone, when al along it was Ciancetta? Al he had to go on was the word of a dead man that he bound in his kitchen, not even a dozen feet from several of his dead friends.

Rafael was contemplating what his next move would be when it came to him. He hadn’t even taken a moment to look at the matchbook Don Ciancetta gave him at their last meeting.

A few strides took him to the kitchen counter where his wal et was resting. He slammed the milk carton down on the counter and some of it splashed out on to the counter top. With his left hand the assassin scooped out the matchbook from the side pocket of his wal et and flipped the little white cardboard flap up. On the inside was written a name in cursive script:
Muro Lucano
.

As Rafael Rontego read the name he stepped backwards and leaned on the counter.

Sonne was not as smart as Rontego assumed.

Neither was Joseph Falzone. Ciancetta wanted a hit done on the muscle of Falzone’s crew. That meant war. Either Ciancetta had a leak, and Falzone was moving to eliminate Ciancetta’s muscle, in other words Rafael Rontego and maybe another couple of the Don’s hitters, or the old don heard about Falzone’s hostile takeover and was acting to eliminate the threat.

Either way, the assassin had to kil Muro, a mob veteran, and that would be no easy task.

He lifted his hand to his head and rested his forefinger on his pursed lips. He had no clue how he was going to get close enough to the tough gunner of Falzone’s. Even if he could get to him, the implications here were tremendous. War was going down, and it was never a profitable enterprise, always ego on ego. Wel , for Rontego it was profitable but the risks were exponential as wel . And Muro, he was a guy that Rontego always respected, even considered a kind of mentor.

Then with a sudden realization, he decided,
Fuck Muro
.

That bastard knew about the hit on Rontego, and he would get what was coming to him. It would have to be planned to perfection. Muro would die, that was for sure. For now, though, he needed to report to Ciancetta and let him know about what transpired. The lines were drawn, and Rontego was curious to find out what he could discern about what other events occurred last night while he was busy.

He also needed to remember that he had to meet with the Cleaner for dinner that night at Chef’s and garner what information he could from him.

The next few minutes were busy with the assassin taking an Italian shower, which consisted of assassin taking an Italian shower, which consisted of cologne being squirted over his clothes and a fresh application of deodorant. He slipped on his second favorite Armani, black with grey pinstripes and a dark blue shirt. He strapped his guns to his sides and tossed on his jacket and felt hat.

Suits were the few extravagant items he purchased, as he saved most of his money in secret hiding spots around his apartment and in other safe houses he set up.

He walked over to the door and noticed the broken string across the doorway; the bastards broke his early warning system last night. He retied another one and stepped over the breakaway thread. He shut the door and descended the spiral staircase of his apartment.

As he came outside, he was pleased to note that the snow subsided for the time being and with a clear blue sky overhead, it was a bit warmer. He saw his breath come out in wisps of white smoke, but at least some of the bite had been taken from the chil .

The snow pushed up against the side of the street by the snowplow was stained black by the filth and grime of a city, and the sidewalks were bare except for a sprinkling of salt that most businesses placed in front of their shops out of courtesy.

Rontego supposed that business wouldn’t be as wel off if the customers were breaking their legs as they attempted to purchase their goods. Here and there though, there were patches of fresher snow that melted with the newfound warmth of the exposed sun and glistened with a certain purity which contrasted with its more noticeable surroundings.