A/n: Okay, the ugly truth of the matter is, Chapter 13( the final chapter) is still not done. It's mostly done, I think I literally have just a few paragraphs to get through. But I am posting Ch 12 on time anyway. Friday it may be late afternoon before I post 13, but somehow, I will get it finished between now and then.
Chapter Twelve
Sunday morning dawned brightly, one of those overly sunny days that follow heavy storms where the sun is too yellow and the sky is too blue. Mario Vincente started his day as he did every Sunday, with a pot of freshly brewed Jamaican Blue Mountain Blend coffee, a soft boiled egg, two slices of rye toast lightly buttered, a bowl of seasonal fresh fruit, and the paper. Or more accurately, several papers, including both the New York Times and the Bayport Gazette. His order of reading never varied either. First the Obituaries, then the Stock Market, then the local news, followed by the Crossword puzzle. He never got to the crossword this particular Sunday. He idly gave a cursory glance at the headlines of each section of the paper, pausing to read an article that intrigued him.
It was on the front page of the society section of the Bayport Gazette. In prime view, above the fold, was a striking picture of Bayport's most recent newlyweds. He snarled as he sat straight up, knocking over the bone china coffee cup as he reached blindly for the phone at his side. "Bring me Mazolla. Now." He did not wait for an answer before slamming the phone down.
Less than ten minutes later, Aldo Mazolla was hastily escorted into Vincente's presence. "Care to explain this, amico mio?!" he snarled, all previous affability he had ever presented to his underling absent. At first confused, and a little out of it due to fatigue, Mazolla took a long minute to focus on the picture that was thrust in his face. When he finally made sense of what he was seeing, he blanched and staggered a good three steps back.
"Capo..." he began but stopped abruptly as his boss slammed both hands on the table, this time causing the coffee mug to fall and shatter on the floor. He cursed himself silently for assuming without verifying. For the first time in decades, he began to fear for his own life. One did not fail Mario Vincente without consequences. Not even one of the Mafia's most feared enforcers was immune to the code. He knew he had no excuse and his only hope of salvaging his life was to face the wrath with dignity. Taking a deep breath, he spread his hands in an imploring gesture and basically begged for his life. "Signor, I have no answer that can be justified. I made an error in assuming that because I did not hear any call for help, there was no one left alive. I chose to not visually confirm that the car went over the cliff. I beg your forgiveness. I will not be so careless in the future."
"No. You will not." Vincente's voice was brittle. "The matter is closed henceforth. You will not pursue it. Am I clear?!" The glare that accompanied the words left nothing to the imagination. Vincente's word was Law. Retribution would not be forthcoming. Still cursing himself bitterly, Aldo Mazolla nodded once and quickly turned and left his Master's presence before he would be ordered to atone for his failure in a more permanent manner. He knew he would need to be on his guard for many weeks, in case Vincente ordered his removal.
Mario Junior, meanwhile, was walking around all self satisfied and smug. He laughed evilly at the Bayport Gazette's society page's headline, taking the time to gloat privately. "Enjoy it while you can, young Hardy. Soon enough you will be mourning your brother and father. She's pretty enough. Perhaps I will take her as well and make you watch before I end your pathetic existence." All day he was quite pleased with himself and more than one person who saw him that day commented that he looked like the cat who had not just the canary but the cream too.
Monday came, as Mondays must do to the annoyance of most of the adult population. Bayport went about it's business. Shops opened, mail was delivered, lives were lived. The fire department had a busy day, being called to three different small brush fires that had gotten out of control when careless homeowners tried to save themselves the chore of bagging the fall leaves. The local volunteer EMT squad was also busy with several 'difficulty breathing' calls, one bona fide heart attack and a series of minor injuries ranging from a sprained ankle at the playground to a head injury at the skating park. Junior spent the day glued to the emergency scanner that was standard equipment for most criminals, the better to listen in on the cops. At first he was eager, focusing all his attention on every crackle of static that permeated the air. But as the day wore on, his mind began to wander and it became more background white noise than anything else. He got caught up in the minutiae of running a crime business, taking inspiration for his daily routine from Tony Soprano. He'd even gone so far as to purchase a pair of ducks and moved them into his pool.
As Mondays eventually do despite their inherent evil, the day ended. With a start, Junior realized that he must have missed the 'announcement' and was furious with himself, having wanted to pop a bottle of champagne at the appropriate time. He made it a point to go out of his way on the drive home so as to pass by the Agency, fully expecting to see police tape and a blocked view of the rubble. So when his way was unimpeded and the Agency building didn't have so much as graffiti spray painted on its' brick facade, he was so incensed he nearly crashed his Mercedes. Once he regained his composure he recognized the cars in the driveway belonging to Frank Hardy, Sam Radley and the new chick he hadn't bothered to learn the name of. Furious, he whipped out his cellphone and made a call, demanding a meeting at "the usual place" at 7 pm.
7 pm rolled around and Junior was at a little coffee shop adjacent to the Bayport Mall. They made a semi decent espresso here and the tiramisu rivaled his mother's. He grabbed his usual table, in the back near the employee door and restrooms. Five minutes later, a middle aged man wearing a rumpled grey suit coat entered the shop, ordered a mocha latte and lemon poundcake and joined the younger Mario Vincente. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" he asked in a surly tone of voice.
"Why didn't the Hardy Detective Agency explode today?" Vincente growled.
The other man looked startled. "Was it supposed to?!" he asked, honestly confused.
"I wouldn't have asked you why it hadn't if it wasn't, now would I?" Junior seethed in a barely audible voice. "Find out what the hell happened. Frank Hardy should be dead by now!"
Still confused, the man in the sport coat nodded as he stood up. "I'll ask around."
"You do that." Vincente waved a hand dismissively and ignored his informant from that point on.
It took 2 days, but the informant finally got enough of the rumors in the precinct to piece together the story. He called the number he had been given and passed along the request to meet. Given a time, he was there before Vincente for once. His mocha latte was half gone by the time Junior showed. "Riley called in the bomb squad on the QT. Kept it very quiet and off the books. He got called by Radley Sunday morning. Rumor also has it the bombers have been apprehended in Rio." That was all he knew, but it was enough to send Junior into a fit of rage.
By the time he had verified the story through his own network plus discovered that the twins had been taken and were in the custody of Interpol, about the only thing he could smile about was that his name had not surfaced in any way. The twins had kept their mouths shut and in gratitude he wired a million dollars to their off shore account for 'legal fees'. It proved to be a mistake, as the next day he was forced into his father's office. At gun point.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Vincente Jr. screamed at his father as he was shoved through the door.
"Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing." Vincente Sr's voice was icy calm and even his son knew not to provoke his father any further with histrionics. The old man waved a bank draft in his son's face. "Care to explain why you have wired a million dollars to an off shore bank account and why it follows a prior deposit of another million?" He had long ago given his approval for transactions to be conducted without his knowledge but two million was pushing it.
"It's for a job." Junior replied sullenly.
"What job?" Senior pressed, anger narrowing his eyes to slits. "There are no upcoming jobs that require this kind of money."
"What does it matter?!" Junior screamed, going on the defensive in the hopes of being able to deflect the line of questioning.
"Was it successful?" Senior asked, the anger in his voice evident. "And do not try to deceive me my son. I will verify independently."
Faced with that pronouncement, Junior had no choice but to tell his father everything although he emphasized the fact that the twins had kept their mouths shut and could be counted on to not incriminate them due to the second million.
"Coglione*" Vincente seethed. "It does not matter whether they talk or not! The money can be traced back to the Family!" He stood up and although he was a few inches shorter than his son, he managed to give the impression of towering over him in rage. "If Hardy looks further, you will have brought ruin upon us all! He will have the proof he needs!" Vincente continued to rant in a mixture of Italian and American and heaping insults upon his son until the younger Mario could stand it no longer. He pulled out his pistol and shot his father point blank in the chest.
*Coglione means 'idiot' but less politely ( it refers to a piece of male anatomy)
A/n: Dad had a really bad day. By the way, if you think that is the end of it, you don't know me very well...