Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) (6 page)

Amanda looked at the other agents in the room. Junior agents. Working for her now. Or more accurately, not working for her. Not taking the initiative. Not being responsible. In short, being the lazy bureaucrats they would all wind up being. They all looked like men whose sphincters were puckered in anticipation of the firestorm about to erupt.

Amanda felt like she knew what it was like to be the coach of a basketball team where no one is taller than 5’ 5”. Looking at your team of this caliber makes you want to bench them all and just play the game yourself.

But she was part of administration now. She would be partially judged on how well she did as a “team.”

It was a new concept for Amanda.

She was used to doing it all by herself.

It was a strategy that had served her well.

Amanda knew how she appeared to the team before her. She’d overheard some of them talking once, comparing her to Brigitte Nielsen in Red Sonja. That was fine with her. A big warrior woman with whom it was not a good idea to trifle. A spear and a good reason was all she needed to julienne an organ or two.

“I’m trying very hard to control my temper,” she said.

She turned to Arnold Macaleer, a chubby young man of twenty-nine years. He had a librarian’s body with a head of thick, black curly hair. His clear blue eyes looked out at her from beneath thick glasses. He had an almost patrician face with fine features. Rierdon didn’t think he had much of a future as a field agent. He would do better in the reference center organizing the Bureau’s periodicals.

“Well?”

Rierdon thought the look on his face was pathetic. If his face got any hotter it would be classified as Sizzlean. She noted that he kept his eyes on the point of her chin, too chickenshit to make eye contact.

“Uh...” he said “No word as of yet.”

Amanda watched as Macaleer snapped his jaws shut and tried to recover, like a hiker who’d been attacked by a grizzly and was now curled up in a fetal position, waiting for the big bear to get tired of batting him around.

Amanda looked around the room at the other agents. Daniels, with his linebacker body and crewcut, carefully studying the tops of his shoes. Rupert, a slim man with a bald head looked out the window. Rupert liked the idea of being an FBI agent, but didn’t like the work. In fact, Amanda thought he didn’t like work at all. The only part he enjoyed was telling people he was an FBI agent.

The room fell back into an uneasy silence.

“We’ve got flags on his credit cards, the cars, his cell phone, everything,” Daniels said. He was dumb, but the most ambitious of the three. He would probably go the farthest.

“I have one request that I’m sure the three of you are going to accomplish with some breathtakingly original answers that are based on sound logic and textbook police work.”

She folded her arms across her chest, pictured Vawter smirking at her. Stripping her of her promotion. Demoting her and sending her to some godforsaken place like North Dakota.

She tried to think of what her anger management course had taught her. But her anger was too great, her mind locked up in a blistering wave of murderous fury.

Amanda took a deep breath.

And then the words flew from her mouth in a torrential roar.

“Find that fat-assed dogshit-eating whore-bastard Tommy Abrocci!”

12.

On the 52” high-definition television in his soundproofed media room, Vincenzo watched the poorly produced, poorly conceived and barely watched local news program, “Your Detroit.” Today’s program featured approximately four human interest stories including a woman whose garden vegetables were a booming mail order business, a man who trained his dog to mow the lawn, and a daring exposé on unsanitary habits in the Kroger meat department.

The final story, however, was the one Romano was waiting for. He’d been phoned by several associates regarding the final piece and now watched with amused tolerance as Amanda Rierdon beamed with pride as her supervisor announced the added responsibilities being given to this doyenne of Detroit’s organized crime.

“Organized crime in Detroit is a big problem,” she said to the camera. Romano watched, partly fascinated, partly disgusted, as this green-eyed red-haired giant sequoia of a woman slandered what he did for a living.

“Too many people believe the image of the Mafia that Hollywood has perpetrated,” she said. “The whole Robert DeNiro, goofy, fun-loving guy shtick. It’s just not true. These are common criminals. What they do is support other criminals, prostitution, pornography, illegal gambling, burglary. It’s not some colorful fraternity full of guys that used to hang around with Frank Sinatra.”

The hell it isn’t
, Romano thought. I’m colorful and I met Sinatra a couple times. What a prick.

Just then, Gloria walked into the room, and sat next to him on the expansive leather couch.

They both watched as the reporter asked Rierdon what the public could do to help.

“Support your local politicians who support what we do. Detroit would be a much safer, much better city without these common criminals. Show your support for us at the polls. And don’t believe what you see on television. These people aren’t the good guys.” She looked directly into the camera. “They’re nothing but bottom feeders who belong out at the Jackson prison, not in Grosse Pointe mansions.”

“Bitch!” Romano shouted and snapped off the television. His face was slightly flushed. He stood, the pain in his chest momentarily constricting his movement. “What a bitch,” he said. His voice took on a high, singsongy falsetto. “They belong in Jackson prison, not Grosse Pointe mansions.” His voice returned to its normal deep baritone. His cheeks were puffed out, his breathing labored from the simple act of being royally pissed off.

“I ought to sneak the bitch into Jackson, put her in a cell with some three hundred pound black guy for a few days. It could be arranged.” A smile crossed his face at the thought of it.

“They have to talk tough,” Gloria said. “She just got a promotion, she has to show her superiors how strong she’s going to be. She’s just using the words everyone wants to hear. She’ll be no different than the others.”

Vincenzo looked at his wife. She was still beautiful, he thought. And smart, too. It was too bad they’d grown apart, but it happened – especially in his line of work.

“Job or no job,” he said. “She’s pushing it with that Jackson talk.”He looked at Gloria, but she was staring at the darkened television screen. Sometimes, he forgot to dial things back for her.

He was glad they never had children. It was after a few years of marriage that they had learned it wouldn’t be a possibility.

For awhile Gloria had been unhappy. So he’d figured out how to keep her happy. He bought her expensive jewelry, and eventually when he lost interest in her, he set her up with men like Big Paulie.

Romano said, “You want some espresso? I’m gonna make some.”

Gloria was still watching the screen. Romano was perceptive enough to understand that no one appreciates hearing their husband labeled a petty criminal.

“Gloria,” he repeated.

“No thanks,” she said. She didn’t turn her head to look at him.

13.

Loreli took Liam to her mother’s house.

Walking in the front door to her childhood home made her feel like a child all over again. She was ashamed. Hot, roiling shame in her stomach that gave her a constant fear of vomiting.

She looked at Liam. How could she
have
a child when she herself felt like a child?

Loreli’s mother brought a small plate with some cookies. Her mother went to the refrigerator and poured some milk into a coffee cup for Liam.

Loreli picked up a cookie and gave it to Liam. She took one for herself, bit into it and sat back in her chair. She looked around the small kitchen. The cabinets were a light oak whose laminate was curling up at the edges. The countertop was a faded yellow and showcased a plethora of scratches accumulated over the years. The linoleum floor was clean but well-worn enough to reveal traffic patterns from the sink to the fridge, to the living room. The room was dominated by the table. It was a dining room table, passed down to Loreli’s mother from her mother. The table was too big for the room, so Loreli’s mother had pushed it into a corner. There were two chairs- one for each exposed side. The windows on one side of the table looked out onto the cramped backyard where a rusted grill sat next to the back corner of the house. A clothesline stood in the middle of the yard, its thin cables empty.

Loreli turned back from the window, watched her mother put away the bag of cookies into the cupboard. Her mother was a rail-thin woman, with light brown hair and blue eyes. She was in her late fifties, but looked more like early seventies. A look courtesy of years of hard drinking and hard living. Those days were over, but their remnants were visible.

Evelyn Karstens worked as a clerk at the local Wal-Mart, just a four minute drive away. She owned the house as well as her 1992 Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. She made just enough at Wal-Mart to cover both payments and still survive. She had nothing that could help Loreli.

Evelyn lived alone, and liked it that way. Loreli’s father had succumbed to cancer a long time ago.

“Thanks for the cookies, Mom.”

“Yeah, Grandma,” Liam said, sporting a thick milk moustache. “They’re good.” He had come down from the excitement of playing video games and now looked exhausted.

Evelyn turned to look at her daughter and grandson.

“Why don’t you spend the night?” she asked. “We can get a pizza and watch a movie.”

“Frankenstein!” Liam shouted. He loved horror films. The more gruesome the better.

Loreli rolled her eyes “You’ve seen that ten times at least.”

“It gets better each time,” Liam said and Loreli had to laugh.

Loreli leaned toward Liam. “Honey, how would you feel about spending the night with Grandma?”

Loreli felt her mother’s eyes upon her, but she continued looking at Liam.

“Could I watch Frankenstein?”

“I think so.”

Evelyn nodded.

“What are you going to do, Mommy?” Liam asked.

Loreli felt a cloud pass over her soul. “I’ve got some errands to run tonight and some things to get done tomorrow. How about if I pick you up tomorrow night? Maybe I’ll spend the night tomorrow. We can have a slumber party!”

Loreli risked a glance at her mother. She read the look in Evelyn’s eyes. Loreli’s mother had seen it all, and because of that, knew what she was seeing now.

“Maybe I’ll even get some Ben & Jerry’s for the movie,” Evelyn said.

“Chubby Hubby!” Liam cried.

“Chubby Hubby it is,” Evelyn said.

Liam polished off his cookie and took another from the plate. Loreli felt the pressure ease from her shoulders and a coldness enter her stomach. She stood, and walked past her mother.

The living room of Evelyn Karsten’s home was good sized. A hallway branched off at one end which led to the two bedrooms and one bathroom. It was a small house, barely a thousand or so square feet, but it was all her mother needed.

Right now, what Loreli needed was to make a call. She walked outside and punched the number into her cell phone from memory.

A voice answered on the other end of the phone.

“Rhonda?” Loreli asked. “I’m ready to do some freelance work.”

14.

“She’s gotta be a blonde,” Tommy said into his cell, which was a recently purchased burner phone. Just one of many he’d picked up in anticipation of his move. He sat in a wing chair that had violet upholstery with wide gold stripes. His feet were up on the matching ottoman. “Nah, doesn’t have to be real blonde. But she’s gotta have great tits,” said Tommy. “And she’s gotta be skinny. I don’t want her to have big tits and then a big roll of fat around her belly. Or thighs that run together with fat, know what I mean?” He uncrossed his legs and itched his crotch. Things were stirring down there. “And she’s gotta be willing to do it all. No job is too dirty, understand?”

Tommy reached out to the small, dark cherry table next to the wingchair. He picked up the bottle of brandy he’d ordered from room service and poured a small shot of it into a snifter. He took a deep pull from the glass as he listened to the woman on the other end of the phone. Tommy swirled the brandy around the inside of his mouth. When the woman stopped talking, Tommy said, “You’re not dealing with a rookie here, babe. I want the best. I know what the best will cost. I can pay for the best. You insult me with a question like that.”

This was phenomenal, Tommy thought. This is what it must feel like to be Vincenzo Romano.  A big wheel.

Tommy picked up the unlit cigar that was on the table next to the ashtray. Tommy gave the woman on the end of the phone the hotel’s address and his room number. He hung up the phone, grabbed the cigar, and bit off a small piece at the end. He lit it, inhaled and then blew thick clouds of smoke at the ceiling. For a while, he watched the smoke curlicue against the room’s ceiling. This was going to be the greatest gig in the world. Money for life. A new name. A new city. And he wouldn’t bother looking over his shoulder.

Tommy marveled at the complacency of people. That money had been there for the taking. It was a giant plum just waiting to be plucked. No one else had the balls to do it. No one else had the
gumption
. Tommy liked that word. No one else had the
gumption
to cross the big Vincenzo Romano. The hell with them all, Tommy thought. They could kiss his ass until it was soda cracker white.

He was going to be rich.

And he was going to be happy.

But first, he was going to get laid.

Tommy smiled, a parting of his thick lips behind the thick haze of cigar smoke. The thought of sex always made him smile, but not so long ago, he was sure it had been his downfall.

***

Tommy Abrocci had never married. He’d been engaged twice, but backed out both times. He claimed he’d gotten cold feet, had joked to his buddies that he wasn’t ready to be henpecked. The truth was, he’d found out that his first fiancé had been cheating on him. Some guy who’d she met at college before she dropped out to have an abortion. The guy was a jazz musician downtown. Tommy had caught them in her apartment. He’d shot the guy and dumped his body in the Detroit River. Tommy’d given the asshole credit, though. He’d never been scared. In fact, he’d spit in Tommy’s face.