Chapter 3 – Mr. Balistreri

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A/N I am posting early because my computer needs a small repair tomorrow. Don't worry, I have everything saved elsewhere too.

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After the shot, hell broke loose. Screaming people either dropped under tables or tried scrabbling for the exits.

The gunman ran away, and Balistreri's bodyguard went after him, his weapon drawn. I could tell from his thoughts he had no intention of catching him, and was in fact the gunman's accomplice.

"ThatfuckerKozlov … itmustbehim." The fallen man was less shaken than one would think. In the chaotic hall nobody was paying attention to us, as most people were looking at the door. I helped him to his feet and pushed him in the private room he had been using. In his mind I caught feelings of obvious gratitude and puzzlement about my identity.

"Listen," I told him quickly, "somebody must have already called the police, and if you are pointed out as the target, they'll interrogate you. If you believe you owe me something, I ask you not to mention me. Can you do that?"

"Of course," he said, thankfully being a fast thinker. "Go back to the hall. I won't be able to identify you or, better, you were never near me. But I owe you more than this. Please, come to my hotel tomorrow. I'm staying at the Grand Ocean View. My name is Joe Balistreri. You won't be sorry," he promised me.

I returned to my table, but not all the other players had returned. Fortunately, nobody had messed with the cards and the chips; in the poker pit the situation was calming down. The false fight had subsided, of course, but the people who had staged it were now very worried, realizing the charade they had been paid for had held a deadly aim. They, however, didn't know anything else. While waiting to see if the game would resume, I was able to monitor what was happening with Balistreri in his room. He made a quick call, telling whoever was on the line to confirm having set an appointment with him. When the bodyguard came back, reporting his failure to apprehend the would-be killer, he was also told not to mention that they'd been waiting for a man named Igor Kozlov.

When two policemen finally went to speak with Balistreri, he was adamant that nobody had tried to kill him. There were other people nearby and somebody else must have been the intended victim. When he'd heard the shot, he had dropped down like everybody else, and then he had found refuge in the safety of his room. As for his bodyguard, he had only done his duty as a citizen, but without success. When asked why he was in the casino and had rented a private room, Balistreri told them he was meeting some friends to discuss subcontracts for the building project he was involved with in Atlantic City; then they would dine in one of the casino's restaurants and maybe have a shot at the roulette. But his friends had been late and now he had told them not to come at all. I thought it very smart on his part, if the police checked his calls. As for why Balistreri had come out of his room, it was due to a commotion he had heard, he said, referring to the staged fight.

The cops remained rather unconvinced. In their minds his smooth denials screamed: "mobster" and so did the look of his bodyguard.They were surely going to check on him and on the friends he was supposed to meet here. They knew well, however, that nothing would come of it. After all, nobody had been hurt, the shooter had disappeared, and Balistreri was not going to press charges, so they had no leg to stand on.

The rule of never talking to the police and settling your scores outside the law was something I was well aware of: it was the way Mafia and Camorra operated in Italy too, so I thought that the policemen were spot on.

No one, including Balistreri, fingered me to the cops. Nobody had noticed what I had done, so I could put the accident and my impulsive behavior behind me. However, as the night progressed, I found that I wanted to know more about the man I had saved. Plus, he'd been sincere when he said he wanted to demonstrate his gratitude and, if he indeed he belonged to the Mob, he could truly help me.

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The next day I went to see him. I didn't give my name to the concierge, asking them instead to tell Mr. Balistreri I was a friend from the Montecarlo. It was enough to gain me admittance to his suite. His bodyguard wasn't present, which gave me an understanding of his frame of mind. I decided to go along with it, giving him a warning without making him suspect my particular abilities.

"Make what you wish of it," I said, "but I happened to notice your bodyguard yesterday. He was looking at the dice table much before the fight started, like … like he was expecting it. All in all, I think the commotion was staged. So, let me say I am not surprised that he was unable to catch the shooter."

Balistreri must have been well over seventy, but his dark eyes were clear and sharp.

"You are a very observant young man," he said. "And you are probably right. He is no longer in my service."

He was curious about me, as I was about him. In this case I had the advantage so, while we exchanged pleasantries and I politely refused refreshments, I got enough from his mind to figure him out. What I found was rather surprising: he was involved in a project to build low-income housing on a large lot in Atlantic City, and he wanted to do it right. As the policemen had suspected, he was or, better, had been prominent in organized crime. However, the powerful Italian family to which he had belonged had been slowly, and sometime painfully, ousted from power by other emerging gangs of different nationalities. He had prudently survived the war, and had been allowed to retire. Now a childless widower, Balistreri had had time to consider his past and wanted to make amends for his crimes. This socially oriented building project was his atonement - after all the money he had earned with faulty and debatable projects carried out ruthlessly. That a hardened criminal was concerned with his immortal soul was amazing – humans were really a tangle of contradictions.

"Would you be interested in replacing my bodyguard?"

Balistreri's proposal came out of the blue, I hadn't read it in his mind before he had spoken, but had gleaned that he had judged me quickly and decidedly. Plus, I'd saved his life once already. Indeed, I could make a fine bodyguard, but one that could operate only after sundown. I was drawn to the old man – albeit he was a human – and I wished to know who this Kozlov was and why he wanted him dead.

I decided to be – almost – sincere.

"I can't," I replied. "As you must have guessed, I am on the run. I just came here to make some money. I am good at poker."

"Pity," he answered. "But I owe you a lot and you must be rewarded. Tell me what I can do for you."

If he had retained some of his old connections, he could surely do something for me.

"I need a new identity," I told him, "with all that goes with it. Can you help me with that?"

"I think I can. I have to call in some favors, but I still have friends. Do you have a name you'd like to go by?"

I thought I could resuscitate the name of the young Scotsman I had forgotten everything about, with a small alteration.

"Edward, Edward Masen." I wanted to preserve something of my real self, quite sure that nobody, vampire or human, would connect it to me.

Balistreri told me to drop off some photos as soon as possible and to return two days after that. Before leaving, I asked if he wanted me to try and find the man who had attempted to kill him. As I was expecting, he was extremely vague, and told me not to bother - he would find a way to protect himself. His mind was, however, not vague at all, and I finally got the gist of the matter.

A Russian big mobster, Igor Kozlov, was interested in the lot Balistreri had purchased and intended to build on, because of its prime location. He was planning to build a high-end men's club there, complete with a spa/gym, and use it as a front for his other activities. The Russian was sure he could easily obtain an authorization for the project's change of use – he had people on his pay in the Atlantic City's local government. To Balistreri he proposed a partnership, or to buy the land outright from him. But, much to his surprise, the old man had refused. Kozlov had then requested another meeting, saying he had terms that would be more acceptable. The Montecarlo, full of people, had seemed a safe place and Balisteri had accepted. Instead of a meeting, obviously, the Russian had planned an assassination.

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After I had dropped the photos the night was still young, so I decided to make a round of night-clubs and bars. What I was looking for was not a game, but somebody thinking in Russian.

It was a slow progress, but at dawn I had located my target.

After two days spent in different casinos, I went to see Balistreri again, and he had everything I had requested. A driving license in the name of Edward Masen - born in Chicago 23 years ago - and a social security card. It was something, I understood, that was essential if I intended to remain in the US. Soon, my host added, if one went to look at the Chicago birth records, my name would pop up at the appropriate date. In the small folder there was also an envelope full of money that he said I'd rightly earned.

We were done, but I could sense that the old man was worried, because he didn't know when the next attack would come. He needed to strengthen his personal security, replacing the crooked guy he had before with at least two people. But whom could he trust?

I had to tell him that his fears were now unfounded.

"Mr. Balistreri," I said, "I don't know how important this is for you but, if you put your ear to the ground, you'll discover that somebody has gone missing. One Igor Kozlov has disappeared from his rooms, and I believe he will not resurface anytime soon."

Certainly not, as his exsanguinated body now rested in Bass River Park, under a tree I had uprooted and replanted the night before.

Speechless, he looked at me, questions spinning in his mind. How did I know his business? How did I know who Kozlov was? And now, I was saying that the bastard had disappeared. Dead? Had I killed him? Why?

I could not answer his questions, obviously.

"Do not be concerned about me, Mr. Balistreri." I told him, preparing to leave. "There is nothing to worry about. You don't know me, and I don't know you. In fact I hope you'll forget the name you created for me. In any case, I'll be leaving Atlantic City soon and I will not return. But I am grateful and I hope I have been of service to you as you have been helpful to me. I wish the best of luck to your housing project."

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I left Atlantic City riding a motorcycle; helmet and gloves allowed me to travel during the day even if it was sunny, and besides, I enjoyed riding. In Italy I had left a beloved Guzzi Norge; here I had to be content with a second hand Ducati GT 1000, which cost about five thousand dollars, the maximum I could afford at the moment. While the road rolled under me I reflected on all that had passed and what I had done.

"Who the fuck are you?" had cried the Russian gangster when I broke through the window of his fifth floor bedroom. Then he had said nothing more, unconscious after a light slap. His bodyguards were clamoring outside, trying to open the door, but when they finally managed it, I had already jumped back, carrying my prey with me. When Kozlov recovered his senses we were already in the park. While he struggled in my iron grip, I could read in his terrified mind that he was trying to figure out not so much who I was – I was something inexplicable – but who could have sent me. And, from what I could see, there were plenty of people who had reasons to hate him. His curiosity I could easily assuage.

"Joe Balistreri sends his respects." I told him politely before I bit him, not bothering to stun him first, as I usually did.

I'd been surprised at myself. The elimination of Kozlov had been a gratuitous decision on my part, but one that had given me enormous satisfaction. I'd felt that Balistreri deserved the chance of doing what he'd set out to do. He had given me my freedom, and I had given him his. But there'd been more: the pleasure associated with drinking the Russian's blood had been enhanced by the fact that I was ridding the world of a despicable individual. I now wondered if choosing my prey according to ethical criteria – something I had never considered doing - would make hunting much more interesting.

Well, I would see. For the moment I had to get to New York, or, more precisely, to Wall Street.

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Notes

I adore reviews and I try to answer every one of them. But last time I might have answered somebody twice and somebody not at all. Forgive me. FF net doesn't allow for checking what you have written, so it is easy to make a mess. I'll be more careful.

And, speaking of reviews, I got some wonderful comments and, in particular, I have to share one that really stunned me with its insight. It was about something I myself hadn't realized. "Emerging from the lake may well be Edward's baptism into a new kind of life and consciousness that will put him on the *real* hero's journey. I am so looking forward to his adventures, his realizations, his changes and his epiphanies." (BelleBiter)

This chapter owes a lot to Serendipitous/Meilleur Café. I used some of her very useful suggestions here.