"I know who killed you family." His tone was steady and slightly intimidating.
"Who?" I asked, desperation and insistence dripping from the words.
"Your answer lies with Joey Leone. I'm afraid I can reveal no more."
"And what makes you think I should trust you?"
"Really, what choice do you have? Who do you have left? What do you have to lose? Just remember – information like this comes with a price. You haven't heard the last from me. Good day."
"Wait, I-"
The voice was gone. The dialling tone droned on like a dead man's heart monitor. I returned the phone to my pocket and sat. There really wasn't much else to do. My car sat on the edge of the street. The keys were in my hand. Was it really worth getting answers from Joey? Could he really be responsible? Would revenge really make everything better?
Yes.
Yes it would.
At least for me it would.
Sweet revenge. Making someone else pay. It was a satisfying thought. I raised myself off the cold concrete pavement. It was raining quite heavily, the droplets shimmering against my car. I fumbled in the dark (the time was approaching twelve thirty), and inserted the key into the slot. The door eased open. I looked to my right, where my wife once sat. On the seat was a black briefcase. The money that would buy my fantastic new life in Shoreside. The money that would give me and my family our well deserved happiness. It didn't seem to matter now. I would put the money to other uses.
The streets of Liberty are dangerous at night. As I drove through the pouring rain and gathering mist, dim street lights and the neon lights of seedy bars and clubs my only visual aid, I watched the hookers, the gangs, the drunk and power abusing police officers, the suspicious people with their identities concealed behind oversized trench coats, I wondered how I ended up alone in such a place.
Joey would be "working" at his garage near the docks. Salvatore's convenient little map had all their "hang-outs" listed, and from what I had learned of their family over the years, it takes a real emergency to part a Leone from his work.
The lengthy drive to the shop filled me with adrenaline, a raw rage powerful enough to suppress all logic about what I was going to do. I flung open the door of the dull orange building and looked around. On a table by the door was a power drill. I seized it in my grasp and began to advance. Roughly in the middle of the floor, a blue Bf Injection stood suspended on a jack. Sitting on a table nearby was a woman I felt like I had seen many times. Because she resembled all the other whores in Portland.
I leaned my right hand on top of the car, and coughed loudly. The sound of wheels rolling came from under the buggy, and Joey's head and shoulders slid out.
"Ya wanna take yer hand off the paint job, kid, I just finished it."muttered Joey.
With a swift kick, I knocked the jack from under the car and watched it fall on Joey's body with a crushing blow. He let out a gasp. I grinned as the whir of the drill powered up, covering the girl's screaming as she bolted out the door. I kept my attention fixed on Joey.
"No no, please, please, don't kill me!" he croaked, breathlessly, the weight of the car obviously hindering his circulation.
"Why not? You killed my family!"
"No, no, it wasn't me! It was my old man, I swear!" Tears were forming in his eyes.
"Oh, yeah." I turned the drill off, "why?"
"Omerta. Ya know, the rule of shut the hell up. Pops found out what you been telling your wife about his business, so he had em killed."
"So what if I tell your old man you told me all that? What's the punishment for a family member who breaks the Omerta?"
"God, no, please, no! I didn't do nothin'! He'll kill me!"
"Alright, Joey, thanks for your help. I'll see you around."
I dropped the drill to the ground with a clang and left via the door. I could barely hear Joey screaming for me to lift the car off of him.
Just barely.
Admittedly, I felt better after dealing with Joey. The death of my beloved family had left a void in me, and that void was quickly being filled with hatred and vengeance and a desire to witness the bloodshed of the wrongdoer. Salvatore Leone.
I thought back to the other day. The Don had been so hospitable, generous, even friendly. He must have already arranged it to be done. He would pay for his deceit. I returned to my car, and drove off to Portland's shopping centre. Hundreds of store fronts, signs beaming uninviting advertisements for food, prescription drugs, electrical goods, and the one thing that makes Liberty what it is.
Cheap guns.
Cheap guns on sale. In Ammu-Nation.
I slowed near the store, the right side of the car mounting the pavement. I craned my neck out of the window at the weapons in the front window display case. Comical speech bubbles held the prices, as well as information on ninety day money back guarantees and free grenades with every purchase. I tapped my suitcase companion happily on the lid, unclipped the buckles, and lifted a couple thousand dollars. I presumed this wouldn't surprise the clerk, they probably didn't accept credit cards anyway.
A bell sounded cheerfully as I pushed open the door. The clerk nodded solemnly from behind thick sheets of bullet-proof glass, and left me to browse the stock. I found a basic 9mm pistol in the "bargain bin" for eighty bucks. I kept digging, cutting myself on an unpackaged knife or two – no chance of a lawsuit though, it looked like the clerk's lawyer was kept in the compartment next to the cash register, with plenty of ammo too. . .
I looked further across the shelves. Hanging above them were military type posters. "Your Country Needs You", "Voice Your Opinion In Bullets", "Help Us Kick Australia's Ass", and so on. Targets hung on the back wall. In the middle of them was a life-size plastic figure clad in a blue Hawaiian shirt, his arms cradled around an M4 Colt Commando. I gently prised the gun from his grip and aimed it experimentally at the front window, smiling wickedly.
"Replica model." came the monotone, droning voice of the clerk.
"I have cash." I replied steadily.
"Come with me." He beckoned with his hand and unlocked the door to his impenetrable cubicle. He searched me when I walked over, and discarded the pistol I had picked up earlier, then led me through a grey steel door covered in bright yellow warning signs.
Inside was like a miniature bomb shelter. Heavy powered guns hung from racks on the walls, and canned food was stacked expertly in the corners. He led me across the room, treading carefully over sleeping bags, tents, limbless dummies and various car parts to the back wall of the ten metre square room where Salvatore's potential murder weapon hung. I smiled excitedly and forked over most of the cash from my pockets. He accepted the money graciously, handed me some clips, and my free grenades, and followed me out of the secret room with a quick "pleasure doin' business with ya" to send me on my way.
I stood at the door, scanning the streets for police who could arrest me for carrying such a lethal weapon. I realised this was illogical with all the gangs and shootings occurring on the same street. I opened the door, the bell sounded again, the clerk shot it off the hook above the door (obviously fed up with the constant chiming) and I paced along the narrow pavement to my car, which a couple of homeless people were trying to unlock. They bolted when they saw me with the gun. I smirked and unlocked the door. I started the ignition, the street in front of my car was flooded in yellow-white light from the headlights, as I screamed off and round the corner.
To Sex Club Seven, where Salvatore went to relax every Saturday night, as it said on the stupendously helpful map in my car.
The street on which the Club was located was surprisingly dark at night, the only illumination being the fluorescent aqua coloured sign out the front of Luigi's club. Outside of the club was heavily guarded, dark suited gangsters, almost blending into the starless night, stood motionless all over the road. I drove through, deciding to leave my car round the corner.
I stepped out of my car there, the M4 concealed under a heavy coat, and my face obscured by the shadow of my hat. I ran to the corner and pressed myself against the wall. I stayed close in, sliding silently across the first building from the corner. I was virtually invisible in the darkness. At the corner of the first building was an alleyway, leading to Luigi's club's back entrance. I convinced myself that it would be easier to get in this way. I compressed my body to the wall as much as possible, the two doormen kept their gazes fixed forward, expecting trouble to take them head on.
It was as I was creeping down the alley that I heard the gunshot. I could only hope now that the bodyguards would not come round. I continued down the alleyway.
And that's when I saw it.
Dimly silhouetted by a solitary flickering streetlight was the body of Salvatore Leone, lying face down in a pool of his own blood.
My eye caught a figure moving on the adjacent rooftop. I ran out of the alley and watched a sports car disappear around the corner. I watched as more than a score of suits poured out of every entrance of the building. In my hands I held a gun. I also noticed that in each of their hands was a gun as well. I panicked and ran to my car. The only way I knew they were giving chase was the bullet marks denting into the ground all around me. Round the corner I was frantically fumbling with my keys as I ran, deciding instead to smash the window and open the door from the inside.
I got a grip of the keys, and inserted them with my blood soaked right hand into the ignition, the sound of the bullets deafening me as they flew into the side of my car, sending sparks and chips of blue paint everywhere.
I ran a red light on the way, but everyone in Liberty knows they're just for show anyway. I knew of a decent hotel I could stay in. It was fancy, it had that velvety, better-than-you're-actually-worth feel to it. It towered seven stories high, the steeple on top adding an extra ten or fifteen feet. A clock was embedded in the side, telling me the time was almost exactly two o'clock. A notice out front read that the valets were off duty, so I drove my car into the parking area next door, and parked it between an SUV and a small green sedan, before walking back to the hotel's revolving doors with nothing but my briefcase and the clothes I was wearing. Red velvet drapes hung from every window, golden furniture occupied every corner, drunk guys in suits staggered around the foyer. A blast of perfumed air hit me as I stepped in, and I was greeted not so enthusiastically by the overtired check-in worker.
"Welcome to Callahan View hotel how can I be of service to you?" she droned.
"I want a room."
"No shit. Anything in particular?"
"Can I get one with a nice view?"
"Sir, we're in Portland. You'll get a room overlooking the whore houses and crack dens like the other customers and like it. Enjoy your stay."
She literally tossed a key to me and pointed in the general direction of the elevator. I was on the third floor, in room twenty-seven, and apparently they had just finished cleaning the blood out of the shower. The key jammed in the lock, but the door relented with a shoulder thrust and swung open, colliding noisily with the wall behind it. I threw my brief case and jacket on the bed straight in front of me and gave myself the tour.
Living room contents; bed, chair, window onto fire escape.
I walked through the hole in the wall that passed for the bathroom door into the small square room that passed for the bathroom. Contents; sink, toilet, shower, complimentary shampoo glued into place.
To be honest I wasn't impressed with the room. I picked up my coat, placing the briefcase under the left pillow and went for a walk, back to where the drama started.
Flashbacks and memories haunted me. The screaming, the crying, the fire trucks wailing in vain. I closed my eyes and the flames roared upwards again, scorching into my mind, billowing higher and higher, spitting and hissing like some ghastly demon. And in the middle of it all, my little girl, trapped where I couldn't reach her, screaming, crying out for me, being dragged away in a body bag, leaving me with nothing. Nothing but an empty hole in my heart. And now the malevolent flames that destroyed my life turn into burning rage and thirst for blood and revenge once more. But the one at fault for all my problems was dead, but I still wanted to kill the next person I saw.
I opened my eyes.
The orange glow of the sun poked through the trees. It glistened on the ground, drying puddles of rain and tears and warning Liberty's night life to take cover before complete sun up.
I must have dozed off. . .
I stood up, stretched out my muscles and wiped the dirt off my jacket to go back to my room and. . .well. . . nothing really.
It seemed like it would be a typical day in Liberty. Rare birds whistling in trees, homeless people vomiting in trash cans, and maybe even the odd squirrel scurrying by.
The hotel's revolving door hung off its hinges. One of the panes was smashed. The cheery new receptionist smiled with forced pleasantness and asked what I requested.
"Room 27. Left the key here."
"One moment, Mr. . ."
"Just find the damn key."
She turned and busied herself in the pigeon holes behind her desk, but returned empty handed.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," she giggled with mock enthusiasm, "but someone already took that key earlier. This is your signature, isn't it?"
" "Otto B. Kilt?" Well it's original. You didn't think anything was weird about that name?"
"No, sir. Why would I?"
"You know, I could explain it to you, but frankly I would like to end this conversation right now and preferably have one of us die."
"Have a nice day."
I took the stairs next to the elevator, which took me out right at my room door, which I noticed, was on the floor. It looked like it had been hacked with an axe or something. The room was a disaster, like a tornado had hit. The quilts were torn, the sink had been completely pulled from the wall, leaving a fountain of water spewing. The window had been kicked through, showering the fire escape with glass. I ran to my pillow for the briefcase and opened it up. Inside was a letter;
"You're freakin' dead, kid! We're gonna kill you just like you killed Sal and Joey!"
It was signed by Toni Cipriani.
I felt a surge of panic. I kept still, not even breathing. I looked out of the window, across the street. Someone was there, leaning out of the window.
"Oh, shit!" I flung myself into the bathroom as a bullet shattered the bedside lamp, tiny pieces of glass scattered on the floor, then another impacted the wall. I lowered myself to the ground and crawled, my face not even an inch from the fake fur carpet, and slid slowly out the door and to the stairs again.
I had to get away.
As far away as possible.
Staunton Island.
I threw myself down the two flights of stairs, running, knees bent, back almost horizontal, straight through the revolving door (breaking it off the hinges completely), leaving only my key behind.
A valet stopped me on the way out.
"Can I get your car, sir? Which one is it?"
"The blue one! Blue one, and for gods sakes hurry!"
The young, blonde boy was clearly afraid of me, because he ran to the car as fast as I had seen anyone run, aside from myself just moments ago.
What came next was a shock.
It started off as a faint rumble, then the flames showed and started to engulf the car, reaching about a metre or more into the air. I thought I could hear knocking, and scraping, like he was trying to open the door or call for help, but I could only stand there in horror. The driver door fell open, the valet tumbled out, clawing at the ground and pulling himself away, his face burnt black.
The flames reached the gas tank, and the car erupted into the air like a volcano, incinerating the valet as he screamed in mortal terror.
A fire truck came round the corner, tipping onto two wheels from the speed. They put the fire out quickly, and all that remained were one or two vaguely distinguishable car parts, and a corpse mutilated beyond imagination, flesh peeling and black, what was left of the face was contorted in an agonising scream.
I couldn't watch it any more. I jumped into the fire truck and sped away, sirens blaring, leaving the driver with nothing to do but stare.
As the sun reached the highest point in the sky, I was crossing Callahan bridge, into Staunton Island. All I had with me was five hundred dollars left over from the gun I bought the day before, my cell phone, and a stolen fire truck.
No sooner had I crossed the bridge that my cell phone rang.
"So, you're in Staunton now?" came the familiar voice, the anonymous tipster who called me before.
"Yeah, so?"
"Are you forgetting about what I said? I told you you hadn't heard the last of me. Remember that. . .invaluable piece of information I donated to you? I would like you to work for it."
"Now listen-"
"Ah, don't speak. Just meet me at the toilet block in Belleville Park in one hour, and keep your word."