A knock at the door. Shifting from behind it, followed by a voice demanding…
"State the password."
I hate feds. Aloud, Officer Ben Birdland sullenly muttered, "Pigs in blankets."
The sound of a latch being drawn, the turn of a lock, and the door cracked open slightly. A cold unfriendly face with dark shades peered out at him for a moment before turning back around. "It's the delivery boy."
A few clicks of safeties being flicked on. His counterpart then opened the door just enough to let Ben squeeze by, at the same time making a big show of holstering his government-issued weapon back inside his coat. Officer Birdland was no more impressed by this display than he had been the first time. He shouldered past the sentry into the hotel room bearing his burden.
"One plain cheese, one vegetarian with black olives and roasted garlic, and another vegetarian, hold the…" Ben ground to a halt as he entered the main living area. "…the heck?"
"C'mon in, kid!" Wearing a plush white bathrobe, 'Dungaree' Joe D'Agostino waved an expansive hand holding a chicken wing. A half dozen unsmiling federal officers all dressed in the same suit-and-tie combination stood around him. This was nothing new. What had changed since Ben had been sent to pick up their lunch was a white-draped serving cart loaded down with all manner of dishes. There was a half-eaten roast chicken stuffed with apricots and raisins, crab legs still in the shell ready to be dipped in melted butter, baby cauliflowers covered in Hollandaise sauce, risotto with peas and shrimp, and the remains of a cake topped with melted dark chocolate.
As mouthwatering as this meal might have been, the way it was being eaten could turn a man's stomach. Dungaree licked his fingers before attacking the crustacean delicacy like he hadn't eaten in days. Sitting on the edge of the bed, their charge remained stripped down to boxers and t-shirt that did nothing to hide his hairy belly, both visibly stained with grease and other foodstuffs. His shiny bald pate had a few wisps of black hair combed over from the sides, flabby jowls covered in pockmarks and what looked like a week's worth of unshaved beard. Mean black eyes shone with the casual confidence of a lifelong predator. Other than Mafioso, Birdland had a hard time imagining what line of work such a person could possibly make a living at. Maybe he was just unduly prejudiced.
"I wasn't gone half an hour," the young policeman glowered around at his supposed colleagues. "If you were going to order food, why send me out at all?"
"We didn't." The agent ostensibly in charge, a guy virtually identical to his well-groomed colleagues and answering to the name of Earnest Nosegay, spoke from a chair against the wall. "It came by way of room service five minutes after you left."
"Room ser…" The obvious response first. "I didn't even know this flea-trap had room service! And are you telling me you just let him eat food that showed up on your doorstep?! What if it's poisoned, did you ever think about that?!"
At this Dungaree Joe laughed, an obnoxious braying that caused chewed bits to go spewing across the room. "You see that?" he leveled a crab leg at Ben while casting a meaningful look around at his federal bodyguards. "That right there is why I need you guys. If I had gone to the cops, they're so dumb, they'd prob'ly just arrest me! And then where would you be? Nowhere. Am I right?"
The mobster leaned forward, resting both elbows on his bony knees to fix the beat cop with a condescending sneer. "Listen up, junior. No Medici has ever killed nobody with poison. That's for skirts and pussies who can't pull a trigger! And you better believe Lorenzo Medici is not gonna be the first! If they want someone dead the way they want me, it's gonna be in a big, loud, messy way! So everybody knows what's what. That's how we roll. But if you wanna shove your hand up that chicken's ass to see if there's a stick o' dynamite or somethin', be my guest. Otherwise pull up a chair and dig in! Your cheap-ass bosses finally sprang for some decent grub, and this spread ain't gonna eat itself!"
He went back to gorging without waiting for a response. Ben could hardly believe how cavalier this man acted. D'Agostino was no mere enforcer turned informant. He was a captain in the Medici crime family. Law enforcement had been chipping away at that powerful organization well before his own time, trying to get someone important to turn state's evidence, but never in his experience had they come close to landing a big fish of this caliber.
Now out of nowhere no less than Dungaree Joe comes waltzing up and turns himself into federal custody. Rumors as to why were in all the papers. Some said he had made a failed bid to overthrow the head of the family, Lorenzo Medici. Others claimed he extorted an astronomical sum of money from them and had made a deal with the government to keep it once the trial was concluded. Those more in the know simply hinted that Joe had been marked for 'early retirement' and got wind before the bullets started flying. Supposedly his whole crew had vanished overnight without a trace. Something told Ben they weren't all enjoying a well-deserved tropical vacation on Lorenzo's dime. More likely they were feeding the legless variety of fish down in Little Innsmouth. He resolved to steer clear of the cuisine in those parts for at least a few months. Couldn't be too careful.
It was true that the Medici would spare no expense to see their treacherous apostate in the ground, whether in terms of money or ammunition. Which was why the law had doubled down in terms of seeing to his protection. Currently they were in an interior suite on the 12th floor of an aging hotel located in the heart of midtown. Every single other room on this level had been cleared of guests, much to the management's fury. Joe was switched from one vacated room to another every day to keep people from knowing his exact whereabouts. Thirty armed men were stationed in the lobby, with nearly double that many on this floor. No precaution had been overlooked. D'Agostino was being kept out of the public eye, not allowed to leave unless it was to and from the federal courthouse where he was scheduled to testify next week. The risk was just too great. Joe didn't go anywhere without at least six well-armed tagalongs in tow.
Officer Birdland and three other members of his unit were on loan from their precinct. This was by no means a mark of trust. His sergeant had made it clear the feds looked upon them as being one step up from the very criminals they were attempting to bring down. At the same time, though, they wanted someone to blame in case things went south. Can't have their careers blemished by something so unimpressive as failure, after all. Which was why Ben tended to get the short end of the stick in this relationship.
To say that he was eagerly anticipating the end of this assignment did not do it justice. He might just welcome a full-on Medici assault if it meant not having to listen to D'Agostino carping about the quality of the food and his lack of personal amenities. Their precious star witness was not shy about decrying the living conditions he found himself enjoying this past month.
"Yo, junior," the man in question belched and skewered another cauliflower onto his plate. "Don't act all testy, yeah? Look, I'm sorry we sent you out for nothing. We'll eat the pizzas later. For now, siddown and keep an old man company. These damn cheap hotel rooms all look alike. Hell, there's not even a view 'cause these mopes are afraid somebody'll pick me off through the window! Hey, hey, how's this, I got a good one for you. What's the difference between a cop and a pig?"
Glaring down at the preening mobster, Birdland did not answer.
"Anybody? Any of you geniuses think you can guess? No?" Dungaree Joe chuckled and set about cutting himself another slice of cake. "One shits where it eats and rolls around in mud all day… but it's still cleaner than a cop!"
The mobster slapped his knee and howled with laughter, pausing only to belch a few more times. One of the agents actually chuckled a little, only to quickly stop when Nosegay sent a disapproving look his way. Ben could feel his face flush.
"Seriously, though, kid," D'Agostino chuckled, "let's bury the hatchet. How 'bout this: you want me to tell you which of the boys in blue that accompanied you here are dirty? 'Cause ol' Joe knows. I–" He let loose another titanic belch. "Damn. Haven't eaten this good in forever."
He picked up another slice of cake and proceeded to inhale it. Birdland had a clear mental image of how D'Agostino would look with the rest of that chicken stuffed down his throat. Fuming, he stalked over to deposit the pizza boxes on a table.
As he did, something occurred to him.
"Hey, Joe."
"Mrph?" He could hear the gangster swallow behind him. "What?"
Still looking at the boxes, Ben let a slow smile work up his face. "Didn't you say you were lactose intolerant?"
"What a–*BRRP*–bout it?"
This was too good to believe.
"Geez, Joe, seriously?" With that the grinning policeman turned and crossed his arms smugly over his chest. "I thought you guys were supposed to be big on food. Don't you know what goes into Hollandaise sauce? Or what makes risotto so creamy and delicious? And melted butter, of all things?"
Judging by the looks on their faces, all of the government boys were strangers to a kitchen. They were as much in the dark as poor Dungaree. Being a bachelor himself, Ben did all his own cooking. And he had picked up a few pointers.
It looked like Dungaree wanted to say something, but a pronounced rumble from his stomach cut him off.
"Let me put it to you this way, Joe. That cake you're wolfing down? I made something just like it for my Mom's last birthday. She said it was the best she had ever tasted. And I told her that was probably because of the Mascarpone."
He didn't even bother to hide the glee he was feeling at this moment. "It's cheesecake, genius."
Dungaree's eyes slowly widened. Right then another audible groan emerged from his gut. His face went ashen, and he leapt to his feet, hands flying to cover his backside. "Ohhh, I'm about to blow, GANGWAY!" Joe then raced frantically towards the bathroom.
"Hold it!" Nosegay shot up to block his path. He looked towards one of his subordinates. "Jones, did you check the lavatory prior to our entry?"
"MOVE IT, YA TWO-FACED RAT-LICKIN' BALLERINA SUNNUVA–"
"Yes, sir!" came Jones' prompt reply.
"All right, go ahead." The head agent stepped aside and Dungaree went speeding by him into the bathroom. They all heard the toilet seat drop, followed by…
"SANCTISSIMA! HOLY TRINITY BELOW, SPARE ME!"
Casually Ben strolled over and closed the bathroom door. He then turned back to his fellow law enforcement agents with the most innocent of expressions. "He's going to be in there for a while."
They all gave him identical evil glares which he accepted with great pride. For the next few minutes they were treated to loud groans and periodic cries of, "SON OF A SKULLGIRL!" and "I'M COMIN', MA!"
For his part, Ben helped himself to a slice of pizza. The feds glumly did the same, muttering amongst themselves about this and that. The young beat cop munched on his well-deserved repast. A few of Dungaree's more colorful exclamations gave him a deep belly laugh. It was so loud several of the units stationed down the hall came to ask what all the fuss was about. Nosegay had to do the explaining, which Birdland thanked his lucky stars to hear. The older agent shot him a withering glare as he retook his seat. Ben responded back with a look that clearly said, 'Hey, not my foul-up.'
All of a sudden, the noises from the bathroom ceased.
At first nobody commented on it. They were just glad for some peace and quiet. After a while, though, Ben started to feel the silence a little too acutely. He exchanged looks with some of the feds, and was mildly disturbed to find similar trepidation on their own normally impassive faces.
Agent Nosegay was the first to rise and approach the door. He gave a knock upon it. "Mr. D'Agostino? Everything all right in there?"
Silence.
Another firm rap. "Mr. D'Agostino... Joe!"
When no response came back, Nosegay wasted no time and flung open the door. Ben was right behind him as they sped into the washroom.
The smell hit him right away. Next thing he noticed was Dungaree Joe slouched on the toilet with his head between his knees. The first thought in Ben's head was, 'Holy Mother, he had a heart attack!'
Only then did he notice red staining the back of that white bathrobe. More of it leaked down the side of the bowl in thick scarlet streaks.
Stunned, the cop could only stare as Nosegay sprang forward with a curse. He pulled D'Agostino off the porcelain throne. The gangster sagged like a puppet with its strings cut and collapsed to the floor. His eyes were wide open, shock and disbelief frozen on his features. There was a hole the size of a baseball blown through his chest.
Earnest Nosegay stared in disbelief at this utterly impossible sight, then whipped around, head searching from side to side as if trying to determine where the assassin might have come from. He sprang to the shower and yanked the curtain aside, but no one was hiding behind it. His jaw visibly tightened, and that normally staid figure turned to level a look of wild-eyed rage on the shocked men clustered at the door.
"How…" he spit through clenched teeth. "HOW?!"
A tiny plip sounded, like a penny being dropped into a fountain.
They all looked up then. Overhead, directly above the toilet, it soon became evident to everyone present there was a hole in the ceiling. As they watched, another bit of plaster fell into the bowl with a disturbing plop. The water that shot up from it was a muddy scarlet.
For a time everyone just stared.
Then Nosegay pulled a walkie-talkie from his vest and dashed forward, elbowing roughly past Birdland in the process. "All units, the asset is down! Repeat, the asset is down! The enemy is one floor above in the room directly over ours! Converge at once on the next floor! Lobby units, we need–!"
His next words were lost as he tore from the room, his men following close behind. Soon only Officer Birdland and the corpse of Dungaree Joe remained in the bathroom.
For a while Ben just stared at the deceased wiseguy, who stared right back. It was hard to tell which of them looked more amazed.
The Medici. Mother of Mercy… they didn't come with bombs or guns or poison, but with a plate of steamed cauliflower.
Ben moved numbly over to the toilet. Ignoring all the blood, organs and worse floating around in there, he looked up. Faintly visible through the hole was another ceiling identical to the one above his head. He could still hear D'Agostino bitching about how the rooms all looked the same. The floor plan was probably identical from one level to the next, which meant every room was stacked on top of the other. They must have figured out which one Joe was in somehow, but instead of charging in blind, they got him into a position where they would know precisely where he would be located. His old friends guessed Dungaree wouldn't be able to resist such a high-quality spread after weeks of cheap takeout. The walls were thin. Once they picked up on him cursing, it was all over. Move their toilet out of the way, and just fire straight down.
What kind of a mind…?
The sheer indignity of it all was shocking. This realization combined with the sickening smell from below caused his normally ironclad stomach to roil. Feeling a sudden urge to vomit, Ben dropped down by the bloody bowl.
And that was when he saw it.
On the floor by D'Agostino's corpse, unnoticed and unremarked, there lay a flower. It must have been knocked off when Nosegay moved the body. The petals were deep scarlet with pure white tips, concentric rings budding out from the center.
Having been a cop in New Meridian for years, Ben Birdland didn't need anyone to tell him he was looking at a dahlia.
FIN.