Authors: Anthology
Men of Mayhem (14 page)
“Vinnie found him and brought him back, but he didn’t want any part of it. So he left again, vanished. He resurfaced a year later, and he had gotten married in Vegas. When I sent Sly to speak with him to remind him that he had duties to uphold, they slipped away.” Sly shifted. “Not before Charlie left Sly with a…parting gift.” Sly craned his neck, and I saw a scar along his shoulder. “Three years later, they popped up at a party, and their picture ended up in the newspaper. Three days later, I paid him a visit, but they knew we were coming.” His finger traced in Tommy’s blood, spreading it outward. “I’m starting to understand how they were tipped off.” He waited a beat.
“So, I followed them home one night. Only they caught on and tried to make a run for it.”
“Into the scrap yard,” I whispered with my palm held up to my face to get a better look at the casings.
“I knew Charlie would hide the girl, and sure enough, when we were close to her, he showed himself. Vinnie dragged him through the dirt to my feet. He didn’t beg. He was smarter than that. He just closed his eyes and said a prayer. It had never made sense to me, and when I thought I understood it, I was proven wrong.” His glance moved over to Sydney then back to me. “It wasn’t easy, but it had to be done. He knew too much.”
“How did his wife play into all of this? Why kill her?” My mouth was dry.
“She saw. If she had just stayed put, I would have let her be…maybe.” He smirked. “But instead she dropped to his side and died right alongside of him. True love and all that shit, I guess. I don’t like loose ends, Agent Colin.”
I cleared my throat and set the bullets upright. My pointer finger rested above my lip while I chose my words very carefully.
“One last thing.” I felt an eerie calm pass over me. “How was Charlie connected to you?”
Vinnie laughed behind me as Sly smirked at Bobby.
“He was my son.”
“Hmm,” I mumbled, then in a blink, I grabbed my knife and jammed it in his throat. Sydney grabbed my gun and held Vinnie and Sly at bay. I moved around the marble and watched as the blood squirted from his main artery, soaking his expensive dress shirt and pooling on his lap. His eyes showed me his life slipped from his grasp. “Sorry, Grandfather, but you had to know it would end like this.”
“Holy fuck,” Vinnie gasped behind me. “He’s Charlie’s boy.” His expression changed as he glanced at Sydney. You could see as it all clicked together for him, “you’re not their daughter.”
I ignore him and look over, “Syd,” I called over my shoulder, “call it in.”
I looked back at the man I hunted for years. I knew he was connected, but I never had enough proof, until now.
“This is Agent Sydney Claire, badge 768 with the Santa Monica agency.”
I looked down at my blood-soaked hands, then at a body that struggled to live, and finally at the woman I love who agreed to help me with this case, and follow me through until the end.
“I can’t believe I’m looking at Charlie’s boy,” Vinnie grunted as he tossed his gun at my feet in a state of defeat. “He would have been—”
Pop, pop!
Two bullets burrowed into his flesh. I turned to Sly and did the same. No loose ends.
I bent over Bobby’s lifeless body and pulled his ring free of his fat finger and slipped it on my own.
I looked at Sydney, who gave me a wicked grin and joined me at my side.
I finally got what I wanted—justice and my seat at the head of the family table.
I had mafia ties, and I planned to use them.
The End
About the Author
J. L. Drake was born and raised in Nova Scotia, Canada, later moving to Southern California where she now lives with her husband and two children.
When she is not writing she loves to spend time with her family, travelling, or just enjoying a night at home. One thing you might notice in her books is her love of the four seasons. Growing up on the east coast of Canada, the change in the seasons is in her blood and is often mentioned in her writing.
An avid reader of James Patterson, J.L. Drake has often found herself inspired by his many stories of mystery and intrigue. She hopes you will enjoy her books as much as she has enjoyed writing them.
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The relationship between myself and the woman I planned to hook up with behind my wife’s back started with an early morning bang, or more accurately, a clank.
Four months ago I was considered the top sports-betting analyst outside of Vegas. Now, after a Don from a rival family forced my hand to turn on my boss, I’m just another nobody hiding in the FBI’s witness protection program. My assigned cover includes the glorious job of head groundskeeper for the Quad Angles City Park, and living a quiet suburban existence partnered with my fake wife.
Aw, does that change your outlook of me, knowing the buxom brunette lying in my bed isn’t really my wife? Please don’t let it. I’m not a nice person. I’m not even decent.
Anyway, the clank. Two weeks ago I jolted awake with an urge to pee like my life depended on it, so I stumbled to the bathroom. A chilly breeze blew across my chest from the cracked-open window just a few inches away from the toilet. Leaving anything open, unlocked, or exposed in any way is a no-no for a couple in hiding from connected hitmen like Vito Rossi, but this bathroom had become my designated smoke lounge. Not as lively as The Ritz or Joey’s Place back home, but a man needs somewhere to get away, especially after The Calvin Hughes show had me in stitches last night. His whole monologue focused on bribing refs. Hell, I used to be in charge of paying them off myself.
As I sat on the toilet and lit a smoke, I caught my first glimpse of the sun coming up. Glad I did too, because underneath the first rays of light, I noticed a female jogging up the street. Her hair was long, but her legs were longer. Actually, just about the only thing short that I could see were her shorts. What a fox. With the window cracked I could hear thumping bass circling out from her headphones, the beat of the dance-pop tune matching her stride. Her stunning lips and petite nose, half-hidden by the brim of her Kansas City baseball cap, entranced me. Eh, a Royals fan—I guess my mother was right; there are no perfect women out there.
Knowing that my view of this mysterious jogger would soon be blocked by the not-so-undercover FBI van parked out front, I pressed up against the window to take in as much of her as I could.
Fortune, however, fell on my side as the jogger decided to use the sidewalk in front of my house to pause and readjust. She glanced around to verify she wouldn’t impede anyone else trying to use the sidewalk before bending down to straighten her socks and retie her shoes. Wow, sexy and courteous.
With her back to me I was able to enjoy the view. There had been precious few moments of true relaxation for me these last four months, so I had no hesitations in indulging.
“Delvin, are you okay?” My fake wife Betty’s voice cut through the silent dead of pre-dawn from our bedroom.
Startled, I stepped back, my government-assigned ankle tracker knocking into the toilet with, you guessed it, a reverberating clank.
I grabbed onto the counter for balance, and peered out of the window just as the jogger glanced back to determine what that sudden noise had been.
Content to allow the darkness to hide my presence, I froze. That is, until the jogger stood, triggering motion-sensor floodlights in my landscaping. Plastered by the brightest lights government money could buy, I stood shirtless, disoriented, and yet not as overwhelmingly embarrassed as I should be.
I’ve never considered myself a prime human specimen, having spent my entire adulthood surrounded by the best athletes in the world to compare myself to, but I spend enough time on my image to confidently declare myself handsome. That is, if you ignored the ‘V’ shaped scar on my forearm. The cut represented a constant reminder never to fail Vito Rodeani again.
No matter how I felt about myself, the important thing was that the jogger appeared curious, maybe even excited. She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her left ear and ducking her head, either nodding hello or feeling timid.
A familiar rush of life exploded in my chest, the first time for such excitement since pulling four million dollars for the Furlotti family during a playoff football game. Has any one-handed catch ever proved more profitable?
I waved.
She grinned and returned the gesture.
We held each other’s attention for a few moments until I backed away from the window. Lame, I know, but a creaking floorboard in the hall alerted me that my fake wife wanted to check on me after the toilet seat clank. Before exiting the bathroom I glanced back, but my jogger had disappeared.
Entering the hallway, I straightened my robe and exhaled my excitement. “Hey, toots. Sorry, that damned dog woke me up again.”
I avoided eye contact with Betty, focusing instead on the framed photos of my fake son, who died in a made-up motorcycle accident back in ’03. Any resident of Melford will tell you Quad Angles City Park has the cleanest-looking safety signs in the state, and the residents all appreciate why I hold the signs so near and dear to my heart.
Betty followed my gaze, understanding my grimace didn’t come from mourning a dead son, but the loss of my own former life. She, of course, is trapped on the same boat—until we get called into open court, that is.
She reached out, no longer preoccupied with hiding the small scars that track up her arm along her veins. “Sorry I used your real name just now, Frank. Come back to bed.”
I nodded and followed her down the hall, appreciating her concern and her figure. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I know. And really you didn’t.”
I cocked my head to the side, wondering what she meant. Guessing, I asked, “The same dream?”
She paused in the hallway. “Even though getting caught saved my life, I still miss certain things about my strung-out days, like living in an abandoned warehouse with my friends. We didn’t have a care in the world. That’s totally crazy, right? And then I pop awake to find the bed empty and I hear loud noises in the house.”
Betty exhaled, obviously still on edge. Both of us live under the constant fear of being found by the mob.
Rubbing her shoulder, I said, “If you truly thought someone had broken in, you should’ve gotten out the gun. I keep it for a reason.”
“I know, I know, but you have to remember, I grew up with my hippie father always saying, ‘live and let live.’ I’m terrified of guns. Hell, I’d probably just end up shooting myself.”
She tried to reengage eye contact, but I purposefully locked onto another photo on the wall and tried to affect a thoughtful expression.
“What is it?”
I pointed to the photo that held my attention. “You mean to tell me that man in the photo, the one who showed up to our wedding in his military uniform—with a loaded gun, I might add—and told me, ‘you always need to be prepared, son’ was a pacifist?”
Betty grinned. “Okay, you’re right. My bad. I guess my memories are all a bit fuzzy. My dad was a badass.”
Reaching forward, I gently pressed my palms into Betty’s shoulders. “It was the only time he called me
son
.”
I chuckled to lighten the mood, but I hated that I always had to remind her of our cover stories. Betty allowed me to massage her as we stood just under the doorframe that leads to our bedroom. After a few moments, she backpedaled until her body pressed against mine.
She peered over her shoulder. “You’re so good to me.”
I ran my hands down her goose-bumped arms.
Betty shivered and giggled. “What on earth were you up to, anyway?” Before I could respond, she continued, “You, sir, have a mischievous glow in those emerald eyes of yours.”
She faced me, her thin t-shirt allowing her breasts to press against me with minimal interference. Grabbing my hand, Betty pulled me toward the bedroom, our bedroom.
For a scumbag like myself, I’m sure living a pretty decent fake life, though it’s odd to feel genuinely close to a woman without even knowing her real name. Still, I can imagine us growing old together, carving out a comfortable existence for ourselves, or at least I could before I spied that jogger. Now, no matter how hard Betty flirted, my mind was elsewhere.
Two weeks passed and I still hadn’t spoken with my jogger, though it became clear we were building toward something.
Using my short clippers, I trimmed the hedge bordering Quad Angles Park and Lancaster Road. This was how I spent most of my days, half-heartedly pruning bushes as I scanned the area in hopes of not only seeing my jogger, but creating a decent excuse to introduce myself. Well, that and offering fantasy sports advice to my FBI-appointed bodyguards. Sure, I’m not in the action anymore, but I still know the inside info.
The still-nameless jogger paused anytime we were close to lace her shoes, straighten her bra, or retie her hair. No matter what she did, it was sexy. You know what I mean? Even the most routine, benign actions were done in such a way that I wanted her more and more. And she totally enjoyed teasing me from a distance.
One of the agents assigned to protect Betty and me approached with his pair of long-handled shears in hand. “Looks like your mystery girl is a no-show today.”
He guffawed as he walked past. I scolded myself for letting down my guard enough to mention her to Agent Cloverfield. Dealing with my own frustration is bad enough, I don’t need arrogant FBI agents laughing in my face on top of that.
My only recourse was to pull rank. “Bobby, I’m going to start cleaning up. All of my court-appointed volunteers are expected to finish the day by cleaning the bathrooms, so you’d better get started.”
Agent Cloverfield glared at me a few moments, keeping in character. He nodded, gritting his teeth, and walked to the bathrooms with his head down. I’d love to tell you that bossing around an FBI agent makes my day, but for years, making the amount of money I did for the mob, I rarely heard the word
no
.
In fact, my bosses encouraged cutting loose and indulging in wine, women, and whatever party favors they possessed to avoid the burnout often associated with people working the razor-sharp edges between legal and criminal activities. So now, dumping my frustration from suburban boredom, withdrawal from the action, and worse, failing to arrange a meeting with my jogger behind my fake wife and the FBI agents guarding my life felt pathetic. If there’s one term no one has ever gotten away with calling me, it’s pathetic. Seedy, arrogant, obnoxious, yes, those have merit, but unlike so many others in my field who ended up degenerare gamblers in deep with their former bosses, I’ve always handled my business without needing to beg. Don’t you dare bring up the whole Woodie Wodyzewski fiasco either, because that wasn’t on me. Baseball players can be stubborn, and he was a straight prick at the end.
