Author's notes: General warning: this is a low-level Mature-rating chapter for language, adult situations, and peril. Again, there is nothing graphic.
Also, I fully expect an F-U from New Jersey after this one. I like NJ, really. But this chapter was inspired by the, uh, trivia games in the Newark Airport. Remember, Jersey, you earned this.
As always, please review - it's like (or is) fun mail.
Chapter 56: Posse Comitatus
Arriving at the forty-fifth floor of the small skyscraper, Daisy dragged her unwitting companion off the elevator and led them inside the busy, neon-illuminated rooftop bar. Despite it being a Thursday evening, the large space was packed with college students from various institutions in addition to the after-work crowds from nearby law and advertisement firms. Confidently strolling up to the flirty bartender, she ordered a caipirinha with extra lime, whereas an unenthusiastic Miles asked for a Diet Coke. Wordlessly, they took two stools at the bar to remain in plain sight for the purple turd.
"Yo, barkeep!" called out a cheerful, yet arrogant tenor. "Can I get a martini – shaken not stirred?"
The bartender rolled his eyes at the double-zero-seven-wannabe while Daisy and Miles turned to face a bruised Lucas dressed in his trademark purple dress shirt and gray suit. The latter glared at the sight of the blond hacker. "Daisy, chérie, I thought this would be a … tête à tête, not a ménage à trois."
Crossing her arms over her business suit, she smiled thinly. "Yes, I brought … Tails with me. Given our history, I'm sure you can see why I wouldn't want to be alone with you."
Lucas took a sip from his now available martini. "So … how's Twat going to protect you from me, again? Summon Bambi's chakras or some shit?"
Miles stared at him blankly, though the right edge of his lips twitched in a sneer. "Dude … I'm not, like, a terrorist who tries to get his so-called 'friends' killed!"
Raising an eyebrow, the tall man blithely retorted, "So why aren't you at Cal Tech surfing and sacrificing the squirrels to the Tiki God? There are no waves in November, moron. Now, fuck off, and let me and Daisy have our … date."
As Daisy opened her mouth, the blond engineer slammed his soda down on the bar and, now indifferent to his cover story, hissed in his normal voice, "Cut the shit, Lucas! You're either too arrogant or stupid to know what that USB was! Some fucking cybersecurity practitioner you are! You're worse than a script kiddie or a vulture! But I digress … Luigi is in the company of some dangerous people – thanks to you and your shithead father! Not to mention one Polina Lepeshinski! If he dies …" To both the purple man's and Daisy's shock, he stepped inside the former's personal space, "there'll be nowhere you'll be able to hide. There are approximately 1,200 satellites up in space right now, of which at least sixty are used to observe the Earth. Not to mention drones.I'm not only a capable mechanical engineer, but I know my way around a fucking terminal. Have I made myself clear, Kariolis?"
The Manhattanite's brown eyes broadened with every single word. Then he burst out laughing. "Okay, Surfer Dude, I don't what you're pulling, but …"
"… I hacked your phone, dick nose," snapped Miles. "How do you think Mario and company learned of what you tried to pull in Dubai?" Lucas's smile immediately disappeared. "Yeah, I heard your little conversation with Polina and gave a copy to Pete Morello and Salvatore Rigassi. Oh, and who do you think sent your coordinates to Morello in Aspen?"
Daisy chuckled at the tall man's silent, yet deadly glare. "Well, I'd think you'd appreciate the irony, you pissant. Aside from Tails here, the NYPD is just down the block. And that's for starters. So, Lucas, I'll only ask you once: where are Luigi and Giuseppe?!"
"Somewhere that not even you," he spat at Miles, "can reach. My father's friends in the Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs have a house in North Jersey." With a sickly grin, he leaned in to the engineer, who was vibrating with indignation, and whispered, "I'm sure you know what diplomatic immunity is, right, furry cupcake?"
He did not respond. Instead, he fished out a Linux-based, Blackberry-like smartphone and accessed a remote terminal. Slipping a small stylus from his coat pocket, the hacker calmly accessed a GPS system. "Five miles in North Jersey, huh? Let's see … Mansion-like house, urban enough to catch an Uber … And given that Luigi thought he was around Hackensack … Alpine, maybe?" Lucas's eyes glazed over with apprehension. "Yes, I think so."
"Well-done, Tails," purred the lioness, smirking at the defeated Kariolis. Giving her a faint, nonetheless victorious smile, he stepped a few feet away to call Yoshi with the information. "But what I can't figure out is why bother even approach us if you had no intention of coughing up the location?"
"I did, Daisy," replied Lucas while inhaling his martini. "Why else would I escape a frankly nice house? Anyway, it's 25 Dogwood Lane."
The auburn-haired woman crossed her arms. "Why would you offer us this information? Especially since you and your father have been working with Polina since the beginning?"
"I have not!" he insisted indignantly. "Crazy Lady's got a boner for Mario, Pete Morello, and the priest! I can understand the first two – that fat plumber's a little prick that desperately needs to be taken down a peg or three, and Morello's a mountain-town shitkicker who thinks he's a big shit in New York. But … some women like Chad and the Cock Carousel; some, including Crazy Lady, get horny for serial killers."
She took a sip of her caipirinha. "So, you're saying she has some kind of a thing for Salvatore?"
Lucas shrugged. "I guess. Her husband's death must've made her lose all her marbles. I mean, none of those Catholic priests are celibate; his fictitious God knows who he's banging. Probably involved in some Opus Dei orgy."
Rolling her eyes, Daisy responded, "I think that's your thing. So what other safehouses exist in New Jersey? By now, I'm sure they've moved Luigi and Giuseppe."
He shook his head. "No idea – and that's actually the truth."
At that moment, Miles returned from his phone call to Yoshi. "They've got the address. But like us, Mario and Pete think Polina has already moved them."
Setting her finished glass down at the bar and handing the bartender two twenties for her and her companions' drinks, she said to the tall man in a sarcastic voice, "Well, it's been less than nice, Lucas. We'll be off now."
"Wait? That's it?!" he cried incredulously.
"Yep," she deadpanned. Sliding past him, she threw over her shoulder, "It's the last call to jump on the Cock Carousel since you won't help me find my Chad." The blond hacker, trailing behind her, stifled a laugh in his coat.
Gulping his martini twice, Lucas tapped his foot, then finally muttered in exasperation, "Fuck, do I hate Jewish women! Fucking domineering bitches!" He left the glass on the bar and rushed after them. As Daisy and Miles entered the open elevator, and she hurriedly pressed the button for the ground floor, the tall man skidded through the closing doors. Noting their destination a few seconds after their departure from Bar 45, he lightly asked, "So … are we headed to another bar, ma chérie? If you're into bar hopping, I know this great place …"
"We're going back to our hotel. You can fuck off," groused Daisy.
He peered down at her, remaining silent for the remaining quarter of a minute of the elevator ride. At the ding, they all filed out of the lift, Lucas on their heels. "Now, come on, Daisy! You're telling me that you'd prefer Twat's company over mine?! I'm Luigi's best friend!" Without looking at him, she pushed open one of the glass exits, holding it for Miles to pass through, and let it swing back into Lucas's face. Catching it in the nick of time, he followed them outside and used his long legs to quickly flank the woman, even as Miles shot him a hostile glance. "Okay, seriously?! You need me! I know where my asshole father could be hiding Luigi and Joe the Plumber!" The other two rolled their eyes and continued toward the neon lights and LCD screens of Times Square. Turning to face them and walking backwards, he nevertheless kept the pace. "You're not getting rid of me, Daisy Abravanel."
"I'd recommend contacting the Consulate General of Lebanon up on East 76th, but I believe Hezbollah's Syrian," mumbled Miles sarcastically. "And last I heard, Asshole Assad was a tad busy killing his own people."
His brown eyes narrowed to points. "I wasn't talking to you, Furry le Fucker. Concern yourself with your furry porn."
Reaching the crosswalk and twenty-odd pedestrians, she halted at the corner. "You're stalling, prick. And the more you stall, the less you actually have to offer us."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Your Melonious Majesty, I do have something to offer you!" Both his unwilling companions rolled their eyes a second time before starting to traverse 7th Avenue. Once more, he propelled his long legs forward so that he was alongside them. "I have the one-fifty! Well, had the one-fifty. The Crazy Bitch has most of it, but I held back about twenty-five percent in crypto. I'm supposed to transfer it on Saturday morning. If she doesn't get the full amount, her, uh, superior's gonna be pissed."
At the corner of 7th Avenue and West 41st Street, they immediately stopped. Lucas grinned like a six-year-old on Christmas morning.
Pete, Sal, and Mario had been taciturn on the drive north to Rahway; in spite of DK's vehement objections, they had left him with Sam, Matt, and Yoshi, although the latter two, using their computer and electrical engineering skills, had fashioned a wire so that he could listen from the hotel. Mario had also telephoned Peach, who informed them that Rospo had made it out of surgery – alive – with a few broken ribs and a collapsed lung; Maria was standing guard, as was Captain McCollough's entire firehouse, over the concussed Lucia. Although the physician had tearfully pleaded with him to return to the hotel in Manhattan, Mario steadfastly refused, vowing to her that he would come back with Luigi and Giuseppe – alive.
From the backseat of the SUV, Salvatore sat pensively, his rosary threaded across and within his long fingers. Joe. Throughout his prayers, his mind – and perhaps the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – tormented him with their very first meeting. He remembered the exact date: July 19, 1969. A few months prior, Mario had met his soulmate, Gabriella Rigassi, in their fourth grade class; it took him to January of that year to work up the courage to talk to her. Audenzia had been wary of the young man who begged her to let her eldest child come out and play with the boys, and only relented if there was an adult to chaperone. By school's end, the well-mannered, even sly Mario earned the stern Sicilian woman's trust. That Saturday, after stickball, Mario excitedly requested Audenzia, who knew little about science, to allow Gabby to watch the moon landing with him, his siblings, and the Mancinis a few doors down, as the patriarch – Robbie Mancini – had one of the few home televisions on 62nd Street. While she was initially and typically hesitant, citing the late hour of the presumed first steps on the moon, upon hearing that their hosts would be the pious and Sicilian Mancini family, of whom she thought very highly, she agreed. Much to Mario's surprise, however, Gabby struck an even harder bargain: he had to let her bring her younger brother. The eleven-year-old pouted, knowing fully well that he too would have to bring his younger siblings. At seven o'clock, Mario arrived at the Mancinis' backyard cookout with a small, dark-haired girl and a thin, curly-haired boy with thick glasses. Like the moon to the Earth, Salvatore felt an inexplicable pull toward the shy Giuseppe who, like he would do as an adult, tried to hide away in every corner of the room. Nonetheless, he pursued him until the stammering and awkward Joe talked all about Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins; pretending to understand the content, he instead focused on the music of the fellow Brooklynite's voice and excited flickers in his blue eyes. Unlike his engineer father, science and mathematics were never Sal's strengths; he preferred history, art, and classical languages, though he loved the ten-cent Asimov and Heinlein novels from the shop around the corner. That evening and early morning, Joe became his special friend, much as Gabby was Mario's; having gathered with twenty others around the television and silently marveling at Armstrong's famous words, all Salvatore wanted to do was hold Joe's hand.
Following that backyard gathering, they were inseparable for the next thirteen years, spent another thirteen apart, only to come together in a fashion for a brief five before he was deported to San Francisco. During those thirteen years in Montana, Mexico, Rome, and the seminary, Salvatore rarely heard from Joe, who wanted to focus on his wife, growing family, and prospering Staten Island plumbing business. From an ecclesiastical and moral point-of-view, Joe's actions were virtuous; from the human point-of-view, they shattered his heart and pushed him away from returning to New York. Instead, he spent his free time on several Native American reservations and in Mexico, where he was the kind missionary who stood up to the cartels and ministered to the despondent. Until fate intervened – Gabby's declining health. In spite of the risks, he called her frequently and counseled her as best as he could, until an April 1986 conversation and plea in their long-forgotten native language shifted his passivity: "Sal, if I should die, little Mario … and my unborn child will need guidance … from my side. My husband does not understand as we do."
To the alarm of certain individuals in the Catholic Church, he applied to Saint Patrick's Seminary in Yonkers instead of California or Missouri as he had originally intended and requested of the faculty at Carroll College and his mentors in Mexico. The Brooklyn Diocese, worried about his past and the potential retaliation of the Moranos, kept him in Yonkers for an additional year post-ordination. Eventually, after patiently waiting 'his time,' it acquiesced, offering him a choice between Bensonhurst and East New York. However, the deeply-respected and senior Father Rosetti promised a quiet retribution against the Archbishop if such an unacceptable candidate were permitted to profane the Holy Mother Church, and both options were rescinded. Several colleagues and mentors in the priesthood counseled him to leave the past behind and accept more welcoming positions in Denver, Tucson, and Monterrey. Never forgetting his beloved sister's dying wish, Salvatore refused to give up; he took the least desired parish in the Northeast, just to stay as close as possible to his nephews: a nearly-closed Catholic church in one of the worst areas of North Philadelphia, whose predominately Latino and African-American population had long shunned the Diocese's presence, in part due to its prioritizing the richer, white suburban parishes and in part due to rumors of pervasive child abuse. Over the next three years, Father Rigassi tried to repair the church's damaged reputation; although he had some success with Mexican and Central American immigrant populations, as he had spent years in Mexico and spoke fluent Spanish, African-American Catholics were less than impressed with the New York Italian, whom they referred to as Father Wiseguy and Father Cheesecake. The inevitable happened in 1995, and the depressed Salvatore put in a request for an obscure parish in South America. It was denied, albeit without prejudice: his bishop in Philadelphia suggested that he return to New York, continue his education in psychology, and make it even harder for Father Rosetti and the Brooklyn Diocese to refuse his application.
The Denver caporegime maneuvered the SUV into the poorly-lit, backwoods parking lot adjacent to an equally piss-poorly-constructed rectangular building. In the corner of the cracked, raised platform and curb was a large neon sign that read: Exhilaration. Turning off the engine, he rasped, "Let's hope these jackasses are still as useful as they've been in the past."
The three men exited the black vehicle, walked five hundred feet to the windowless gray doors, and entered the neon-lit club where three women in pink, black, and yellow string bikinis and leather boots were twirling and gyrating on long metallic poles to Tyga's "Do My Dance." As the three men watched with varying degrees of interest, Mario mumbled, "Not a fucking word of this to Peaches."
Slowly, they made their way to the bar where a dark-haired woman dressed in tight jeans and a black halter top was waiting in front of the point of sale. "Hi, what can I get youse?"
Pete picked up the drink menu and whistled at the prices. "Goddamn!"
Shrugging, she said, "It's for the girls' college funds. Rutgers's expensive."
He scoffed. "Alright, I'll have Patrón Platinum, please."
The bartender flashed a megawatt smile. "You got it, Cowboy." At his stunned blink, she chuckled, "I can tell you aren't from around here, and especially not from Jersey." Then she glanced at the uncomfortable Salvatore who avoided looking at the pole dancers and the stupefied Mario who was unable to take his eyes off them. "What about your, uh, posse here?"
"We'll split the bottle, just to start."
"Suit yourself. I'll also open a tab." The dark-haired bartender fetched a fresh bottle of the specialty tequila and three crystal glasses. Pete handed her a platinum credit card, which she swiped through the reader. Returning it to him, she carefully arranged the glasses in front of the men, opened the bottle, and poured a little of the clear liquid into each.
Picking up his glass, he gestured a cheers to his cousins, who copied him and downed it in one gulp. Salvatore coughed a little, having abstained from hard liquor for over a decade. Mario paid no attention; glass still in hand, his enlarged eyes still focused on the dancing women. His maternal uncle rolled his eyes and pinched him on his bicep. "What?" cried the plumber. "It's hard to ass-miss, y'know?!"
The Denverite leaned over the bar and spoke lowly, "Just wait a few – Miss Bartender's gonna let her boss know." His eyes suddenly sparkled, and turning to face him properly, he smirked at his first cousin, "Forgot to hold your liquor, Sal? As I recall, you beat Jackie at a drinking contest using tequila. After ten shots, I couldn't believe you were still standing."
Sal cracked a smile. "I haven't touched hard liquor since … Mario's death. Got a little carried away." Pete gave him a knowing exhale while the late firefighter's eldest son's eyes widened at the revelation. "Thereafter, it's been nothing but a little wine here and there. I'm still Italian, after all."
Before either Pete or Mario could reply, the former felt a big, burly hand slap his back and a baritone, Jersey-accented voice boom, "Looks like we got VIPs. Let me escort youse to the champagne room. Take your drink with youse, too." Calmly, the men collected their glasses – Pete grabbing the bottle of Patrón – and followed the two-hundred-fifty-pound Italian guy to the private booths in the back. A moment later, they entered a purple-themed room with cozy, high-backed armchairs all around a central pole. Pete set the decanter and glass on his side table while Mario and Sal sat in the armchairs next to him. Two big guys and a tall woman in a purple string bikini and matching stiletto heels came into the room and hauled the three men to their feet.
"Take your shirts off," ordered the first man. "We're searching youse."
After hesitating for a split second, Pete removed his sweater and tee-shirt to unveil unblemished, whitish skin and light brown hair; Mario unzipped his hoodie, tossed it on the armchair, and took off his gray tee-shirt to expose his belly, Special Forces tattoos, Smith and Wesson which he placed on the table, and bandaged cuts. The woman's and men's eyes lasered through the priest, who took his time stripping his cardigan and black top, leaving the gold cross around his tan neck and a colorful tattoo on his bicep. They heard the click of the stripper's heels against the flooring, watching as she carefully inspected their clothing and dropped each pile on the ground once she was finished. "Hmm," she began, facing Pete, "this one hasn't seen sun or a tanning bed in a while;" moving onto Mario, she sniggered, "This one needs South Beach," to which the plumber mouthed a bitch as she patted his legs down for any other guns; finally, she stopped in front of the prickly Sicilian and whispered, "Now, him, I'd ride like the pole and make him beg for mercy." His brown eyes narrowed cantankerously as she traced the intricate, lace-like multicolored flower with her acrylic nails. "I've never seen this tattoo. What is it, handsome?"
"It's a Ñandutí – it's a design from Paraguay," he answered matter-of-factly. "I spent three years in Asunción."
Nodding, she announced to the three large men, "They're clean – no wires. Let me know if this one wants a lap dance."
"Thanks, BJ," said the man as she strutted off, but not before groping Salvatore's ass. "Okay, youse can get dressed now." The humiliated priest quickly put on his black top and cardigan and sank into the purple armchair as Pete and Mario redressed. The burly man grabbed Mario's gun. "I'll be takin' this. If youse are nice, you'll get it back."
Once more, they were left alone with the tequila.
Wordlessly, Sal held out his glass for a refill, which Pete leisurely poured to the halfway point. The former mafioso swallowed the alcohol and then stroked the rosary which contained the wire. "I hate New Jersey!" he growled.
"Could be worse," his cousin interjected, filling his glass a second time, "we could be in Albuquerque or Jackson."
He opened his mouth to explain precisely why New Jersey was the armpit of America when a fat, forties-something Italian in a striped blue button-down, jeans, and leather jacket waltzed into the champagne lounge, the burly men trailing closely behind him. "Buonasera. It's, uh, no regular Thursday night when the fuckin' wanted man himself strolls into my club. Once again, New York dumps its fuckin' trash in the Great State of New Jersey."
"Actually," retorted Pete, crossing his arms, "that would be your new friends in low places, Vito. You know, if you really wanted to learn Russian, I'd have recommended Berlitz or Michel Thomas."
"The fuck you talkin' about, Morello?" demanded Vito.
He glanced upward with a slight nod. "Okay, let me put it in a much simpler way: are you sucking Russian dick or taking it in the ass like a Moscow mule?"
"Jesus, Pete," muttered Salvatore between sips of a third glass of tequila.
Vito's previously placid face turned tomato red. "You shitkicking cocksucker! Who the fuck do you think you are?!"
"I," he pointed to himself, "am a fucking caporegime in a New York crime family. And not just any – the Moranos. You're a pissant soldier in backwards Jersey! You do our dirty work when we get bored and say, 'Aw, fuck it, let's contract out and go to pranzo instead!' Remember who you're talking to."
"Former captain!" he sneered. "You got demoted recently and are supposed to be shark food. In fact, I'm tempted to take care of New York's little 'problem' myself."
Mario's blue eyes widened, and he surreptitiously started to categorize various, available methods of neutralizing the burly guys as well as Vito. Sizing them up, he mentally calculated the likeliest places where they would keep their concealed weapons. Faintly adjusting his posture to give him a second's advantage for a preemptive strike, he slid closer to Pete when they heard the man in black state icily, "I wouldn't do that, if I were you."
The men shifted their gaze to the calm, yet dark-eyed Salvatore. "Oh?" snickered Vito. "I hear you were embarrassed in front of one of our distinguished ladies, who even offered you a freebie. Why would I worry about a pussy like you?"
Pete laughed aloud while Mario raised an incredulous eyebrow. "More proof that Jersey has a population of roughly nine million small dickheads."
"Yeah, well, for supposedly bein' small dickheads, we New Jerseyans certainly turn out the biggest tomatoes and rock stars. What's New York, let alone Colorado, produced lately?" Making a zero with his right index finger and thumb, Vito spat, "Yeah, bupkis. Colorado's first in being sheep-fucking assholes. We're first in," he listed on his corpulent fingers, "drive-ins, fuckin' light bulbs, baseball – which youse in New York – sorry," he gestured at Pete, "transplant, yuppie-ass New York – corrupted – submarines, robots, locomotive engines, intercollegiate football, and saltwater taffy! Not to fuckin' mention we got the Boss and Ol' Blue Eyes."
Salvatore glared at him. "Yeah, you're also first in toxic waste dumps, and your tomatoes use an … interesting fertilizer. It gives them that signature je-ne-sais-quoi.Your submarine sat in the Passaic for an hour and did … uh, nothing. But, yo, it was a good for a photo op back in the day. Perfect for stationary cameras because, y'know, it didn't move. As for baseball? I think the Hoboken Knickerbockers lost to a New York team. And last, but not least, Sinatra's best known song was about … New York. But you New Jerseyans have always been good runners-up." Lifting his glass with a grin, the priest concluded his rejoinder with a salute.
The red-faced Vito groused, "Who is this motherfucker?"
Mario and Pete, who attempted and failed to hide their mirth, shook their heads, barely containing their laughter. "You'd shit yourself, Vito," gasped the Denverite between snorts.
"Yeah, well, I'm about to waste this fuck."
As he reached for his gun, the former mafioso's eyes changed into a stormy black. "You think that scares me, Vito? Hmm?" he enjoined in an eerily calm tone. "Now, let's cut to the chase. Pete invited me because I want answers. Your … Russian associates took my family – Polina Lepeshinski and her boss, Sergei Shereshevsky. They abducted my nephew, Luigi, and his paternal uncle, Joe Masciarelli. I want them back."
"Well, gee, that's too bad. Really. But who the fuck are you to make any demands of me?" asked the soldier.
Salvatore rose to his feet and moved so that he was within a foot of the man. "Sono il tuo incubo peggiore, compare."
Vito scoffed. "You got a lot of balls sayin' that to me."
The man in black shrugged lightly and gave him a sickly smile. "Pete, what's Vito's last name?"
"Riggi."
"Vito Riggi … Son of Sam Riggi. Disappeared July 24, 1979 – just before dinnertime. Am I right?" The Jersey wiseguy did not reply, though his deepening glare conveyed what Sal had requested. "Huh … Yeah, see, he didn't disappear so much as he was disintegrated. What was left of him … fit in a small trash bag and was dumped in a Newark landfill."
The blood drained from Vito's face. Among the Jersey wiseguys, it was well-known that his father had been whacked by the Commission over publicly peddling heroin and, moreover, against the explicit command of theold-school, anti-narcotics padrino. Popular rumor had it that the New York and New Jersey bosses made a special request to Carlo Morano for his executioner, Il Mietitore, to do the job. "You …"
"Again, your Russian friends took my family. I want them returned. Now, I've been patient. And I can be patient for another sixty seconds."
As if searching for confirmation, the soldier twisted his head to Pete, who regarded him with a straight face and shrugged carelessly. "I … I don't know where they were taken! I swear! All's I know …" The former mafioso, Pete, and Mario waited expectantly. "I'm a fuckin' dead man if he finds out I ratted him out."
"Uh, you're a dead man if you don't tell us," the capo stated.
Eyeing Salvatore, he rasped, "All's I know … is that Vinny DiScala promised me a cut of this new fuckin' deal they're making with the Vor. If we backed 'em, then I'd be made a captain in the new organization. Junior becomes boss and Vinny the underboss. I knew they planned to use the kid to whack Pete. But I don't know anything about the kid's uncle. And I certainly didn't know the kid's related to …"
Salvatore's hand slammed against the top of the Jersey mafioso's head. "Where?!"
"I'm not with the Russians! That's Vinny's brainchild! But … and this is just rumor, they've got a series of safehouses that they use for … kidnapping and extortion. They've got three near Hackensack, one in Alpine, and one … near Mountain Lakes. If they take you to the latter …" Uncertainly, he gazed at the irate Sicilian whose black eyes remained fixed upon him.
"Go on," growled Mario.
"If they take you to the latter, then they intend to dispose of you. Word is that no one has ever been found dead or alive."
Mario and Pete traded a horrified glance while the former mafioso's eyes became impossibly dark, like two black holes; the room fell quiet except for his seething. "If they end up dead, Vito, I swear, as God is my witness, I'll take you with me to Hell to see your father!"
His men began to advance upon Salvatore, but the soldier put up a hand. "Nah, guys. The others are nothin'. This man, however … he's beyond dangerous. If youse want to see your families again, let 'em go."
Pete stood up and poured himself a third glass of the expensive liquor. "Before we go, two more things. First, give Mario his gun back; you wouldn't want him reporting that stolen. Second, give your amico, Vinny, a call. Tell him that I, Mario Masciarelli, and … the Patriarch of the Rigassi family were here to see you. Tell him that we are very displeased with his plotting." Downing it, he added, "If you don't use those exact words, Vito, you'll become the personal problem of our … patriarch. Is that clear in your pea-sized brain?"
"Yeah," gasped Vito.
"Bene. Thanks for the, uh, Jersey hospitality and chat. We'll be in touch." The three men, led by the Denver capo, filed out of the champagne room. A fourth man, who was at the bar next to the bartender, wordlessly retrieved and slid the Smith and Wesson back to Mario. With a slow, satisfied nod, Pete motioned for them to leave; exiting the gentlemen's club, they jogged to the SUV, jumped into their original places, and drove toward East Hazelwood and Interstate 9.
The plumber's phone rang soon afterward, which he answered and put on speaker so that everyone inside the cab could hear. "Alright," began DK irritably, "aside from how many laws you guys just broke in that club, from Mario's concealed carry registered in New York to Sal's little allusion to a potential hit, just what the absolute fuck are you thinking by tempting the Russians and Vinny DiScala?!"
Pete smirked. "Hey, I'm aware that Major Case likes 'by the book,' but we in the LCN don't play it that way. If we did, we'd be dead men. Mafia 101, Lesson 1A, DK: How to Play Chicken. Mario, do you want to say sorry to the NYPD for bringing your Smith and Wesson?"
"Nope," he replied with a mischievous smirk.
"Well, Lieutenant, there you have it. See, as a red-blooded American and Coloradan, I'm a firm believer in the Second Amendment."
"Fuck you, Petey."
"Give my regards to One Police Plaza," he taunted in a lighthearted tone.
They heard the police lieutenant exasperatedly let out a bout of air. "So, what now? If they are being moved …"
"It's almost certainly to Mountain Lakes," interrupted Salvatore from the backseat. "If Lucas did in fact escape, and this isn't one of his puerile games, then the Vor will likely order Shereshevsky to clean up the mess. I mean, that's … what any smart guy would do, Italian or Russian. He may even order a hit on Vinny and let Junior take the heat. Let the Moranos eat themselves and join the Bonnanos in the proverbial graveyard."
"So that means … the Crazy Bitch, both Kariolises, Weegie, and Uncle Joe are all on the chopping block," concluded a now angry and frightened Mario. As he looked out of the window into the darkness on the edge of the New Jersey town, Sal mutely gave a single nod.
"Alright," echoed DK's voice from the speaker, "you guys come back to the hotel for the night. Let me make some calls; we'll handle this."
"The hell we are!" the plumber hissed. "I am not going to sit by while two more members of my family die!"
"Mario, you may be a Special Forces bad ass, but only on weekends!" he shouted. "In the eyes of the City and State of New York, you're a civilian. I've already crossed the line by letting you three go to that cockroach shelter. If the Jersey authorities find out …"
Merging onto Interstate 9, Pete chuckled lowly. "The Jersey authorities care even less than you think. Frankly, if a bunch of guys from the LCN and a sergeant in the Special Forces take out some Russian dirtbags, they'll consider it a job well done."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Petey."
"Do what you want, DK; you always have. But it isn't your family, is it? Anyway, since we're somewhere near Ass, New Jersey, I'm going to find a late-night diner to stop at. I haven't had an actual meal since this morning. And Sal, I don't think, has had any food."
"What the hell are youse up to?"
"Gotta go. Mario will give you a call in a few hours. Ta-ta." He reached over and ended the connection before his childhood friend could continue arguing with them. Once the cab was silent and the stretch of highway was less densely occupied, Pete said to his passengers, "You know, he's right. Mario, this could really screw over your career, not to mention land you in jail; think of Cristina. And Sal … you're out and have been out for thirty years. You could be defrocked. Me? I accepted my fate long ago. And I don't mind dying to save Luigi or Joe. I can return you guys to New York and make a run on Mountain Lakes myself."
Turning in his front passenger seat so that he could look at both Pete and Sal, Mario bit out, "I'll be honest with youse; this is your goddamned mess. But … I wouldn't be able to look Peaches, Lucia, not to mention Nonna in the eye and say that I did a big-fat nothin' while their brother-in-law, nephew, grandson, my fuckin' fratellino, was facin' his last hours on Earth! See, I've already had that experience when …"
As he trailed off, the Denverite, while watching traffic ahead, prompted, "When you were in Iraq?"
Seconds passed without a response. Salvatore was about to refocus the conversation when they heard a tortured voice utter, "No, at the Pile. The media called it 'Ground Zero.' I was with Uncle Joe … in Manhattan. After the, uh, Towers collapsed, I was wanderin' from the smoke and shit-whatever-else was in the sky. I don't know how, but Joe got Maldonado's fiber optic cameras, so we went. Followed Chief McCollough down to seventy-story piles of rubble, fire, smoke, and … We, uh, worked throughout the night – no rest, no food, some water. We'd have to stop, y'know? It was like fuckin' Jenga – remove one piece, and the whole thing could collapse underneath ya. But I … could hear tapping."
The priest's eyes reflected a dreadful comprehension. "Some were still alive."
He nodded. "And every time we'd stop and go back, there'd be … less tapping."
Pete winced, glancing in a mixture of remorse and sympathy. "Jesus. I didn't know you were with Joe. And then, you never found …" A moment later, he inquired in a shaking voice, "Did you get checked out? 'Cause Joe … ?"
"Yeah. In addition to the mandatory physicals in the military, Peach's a pulmonologist. They think that … because I wasn't at the Pile for as long as some of the others, there's no lasting damage. At least, not that they can see right now. I was there for thirty-six hours, give or take a few. Joe was there for months."
Salvatore, who was gripping the ever-present rosary between his whitened fingers, closed his eyes and let a tear fall. Pete caught it in his rearview mirror and bit his lip. "Alright," the latter whispered. "I wasn't lying to DK about the diner. I know of a twenty-four-hour place just down the road from Mountain Lakes. It won't do to plan an assault while we're hungry."
Luigi knelt by the sleeping Giuseppe's bedside in a multi-story, ivory house somewhere in rural New Jersey. Shortly after they had been taken upstairs in the Alpine mansion, Lucas had apparently escaped, much to the visible wrath of Sergei and Polina. Although the nervous Giorgios attempted to placate them, the prisoners were rounded up and separated; Wendy's screams echoed throughout the garage as she and her older brother were unceremoniously loaded into a black SUV. Sergei sternly gave him a choice: he could go with either the children or with his uncle. Despite Joe's pleas for him to go with the kids, Luigi opted to stay with the ailing man, and they were blindfolded and placed inside another waiting SUV. Roughly after an hour and a half, several Russian men carried the weak Masciarelli into one of the large upstairs bedrooms, Alek more gently guiding the still blindfolded Luigi behind them until the Italians were left alone.
During the ride to the new safehouse, he had overheard one of the Russian men jokingly refer to it as Дом Особого Назначения – The House of Special Purpose. The name made him shudder, for that was the code name of the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg, the infamous execution site of the Russian Imperial Family in 1918. Glancing at the old analogue clock on the simple night stand, he read the time – 12:05 a.m. Hearing a faint knock on the door, he saw Baranov standing in the frame. "You will follow," he said softly in English. Squeezing Joe's hand, he then obediently trailed behind the Russian mobster to the living room downstairs where Sergei and an unknown man were assembled by the fireplace, each possessing a glass of vodka.
"Sit, Luigi Mariovich," gestured Sergei in Russian.
Unsure of what else to do, he did so. The fifties-something captain refilled the man's glass, then poured two small glasses of vodka and handed one of each to Luigi and Alek. His companion raised his glass, to which the Russians and American murmured вашездоровье.
"Now, Sergei tells me that you're a … unique young man," stated the unknown man in lightly-accented English, which visibly stunned the young plumber. "You speak a little Russian, which isn't common for an Italian-American boy, have mathematical and engineering talents, and come from a family's that quite … well-known, from the grandparents' generation to the present. You're also … devoted to your family of origin. That's not something we thieves value, but it is respected in our culture of origin. In Russia and the Soviet Republics, one could only trust бабушка и дедушка not to report you to KGB. You are innocent, unblemished, yet associated." The man directed his dark brown eyes to him, studying his body cues like a lie detector. Luigi neither replied nor moved, in spite of his mind pleading with his mouth to voice his fears – would they kill him and Uncle Joe. After a full minute of thoughtful silence, the Russian inquired, "And this confuses me. Because I cannot understand why the underboss and caporegime of such an illustrious crime family like the Moranos would fear you so much that they would enlist our help in executing you. This … Pete Morello, yes, I can see it. His intelligence is acknowledged, even to us. And I can even … appreciate a woman's wrath over death of her husband. But kid plumber? You have put us in quite the predicament. We cannot let you go; you know too much, though not because of impudence or observation."
He nodded. "Giuseppe's dying of lung cancer. Go ahead and kill me. I'll surrender willingly. But let him go. He knows nothing. Frankly, I don't even know why you bothered taking him."
The man exchanged a pointed look with Sergei who remained characteristically unreadable. "We have heard that he … is also associated. Your other uncle, Salvatore Rigassi. Is it true that he is … Il Mietitore – the Grim Reaper? Polina Yakovna seems to think he is. Answer to us honestly, boy, if you want no harm to come to your uncle."
"Yeah, it's true. Neither my brother nor I knew about his past until recently. But I don't know details."
Giving a single nod, the Russian held out the glass for another refill, which Sergei immediately provided. "And why did he leave the Mafia?"
Steeling his blue eyes to render the appearance of complete candor, Luigi responded, "As I said, I don't know details. I only know that … he left in 1982 and became a priest by 1990. And from what I've understood, I was meant to be his replacement. Carlo Morano picked me himself."
"Then you were supposed to be trained as mafioso. But you were not. I assume that it was the result of September 11th and family tragedy thereafter. Not to mention American idiot boy named Lucas Kariolis." He downed his drink. "You're excused, Luigi Mariovich. Good evening."
Alek escorted the frustrated young man upstairs to Giuseppe's room, shutting and locking the door behind them. Exhaling and sniffling tears that threatened to fall, he moved to his paternal uncle's bedside. As he sat in the uncomfortable wooden chair, he heard his uncle's voice rasp, "What the hell did they want?"
"More bullshit!" he hissed quietly. Grasping his adopted father's cold hand, he mumbled in a softer tone, "You should sleep, Zio."
"Nah. Too fuckin' over this shit to sleep, figlio. You should've gone with the kids." When Luigi opened his mouth to argue, Joe smirked a little. "That's what your father would've done. As selfish as it is, I'm glad you're here with me. I was … first choice this time."
"But you've always been first choice … Zia, Nonna, Maria …"
The older plumber harumphed. "Never by the … men, kid. For your nonno, it was the bottle and a world that got burned years before I was born. For your father, it was the Fire Department. For Sal, it was the Mafia. For your brother, it was the Army."
Luigi finally let the tears fall. "Yeah, I guess I can do that. If … that's the last thing I ever do, I can do that."
Giuseppe's identical blue orbs suddenly became glassy. "Ah, figlio mio. This … was the hand you were dealt. And believe it or not, you're the bravest of us all. Mario … never deserved you. And I'm not sure that I do." He shut his eyes, feeling fatigue settle in his throbbing head and immunocompromised body. "I ain't sleepin' if you're not."
Gently climbing into the empty space of the king-sized bed, the young plumber groused, "Sure you aren't."
With a snicker, Joe reached for his adoptive son's hand and intertwined their fingers. Luigi felt his penultimate sleep lead him into a bright, sunny apartment where he found a dark-haired, amber-eyed little girl dressed in a purple top and blue overalls playing with a rector set while an auburn-haired professional in her thirties sat at a glass computer desk typing some legal brief. "Papa!" suddenly cried the four- or five-year-old, who leapt into his arms. The woman stopped her work and turned toward him, mouthing the familiar greeting of kerido and buonasera. Smiling as he carried his daughter, he approached Daisy and dropped down to kiss her.
As he was about to ask how their day was, Luigi's eyes flew open to a dark bedroom and a commotion downstairs. He started to settle back down in bed, believing that the gangsters had indulged in some drunken shenanigan, when he heard a loud bang. Heart slamming against his chest, he jumped out of bed and forcefully shook his uncle awake. "What the fuck …?" the half-awake man mumbled.
"Zio, you need to wake up now! I think I heard a gunshot!" he whisper-hissed.
"Che cosa …?"
They heard three more bangs, followed by shouts in Russian. Luigi tossed off the blankets from Giuseppe's body, and he threw his arm over his shoulder to haul him to his feet. Looking around frantically, his eyes fixated upon the small closet. In three steps, he crossed the room, opened the door, and stuffed Joe's body inside. "Stay inside!" he ordered, shutting the door as quietly as he could. Next, he unplugged the desk lamp, ripped off its shade, and unscrewed the base to use the heavy brass as a weapon. Armed with the rod, he nestled himself between the wall and door, listening for imminent danger.
More shouts in Russian, including a woman's voice. Two more voices, one of which he could've sworn was Sergei's. Two more gunshots; silence ensuing. The same woman's voice barked an order – bring those fucking plumbers to me.
Luigi readied himself as he heard a series of footsteps run upstairs and approach the room. His breathing became ragged when the door unlocked and swung toward him. Before he could strike the intruder, another man dragged the latter out of the room and shot him. A bleeding Alek ran inside and, with his gun drawn, barricaded the door with the armoire. He motioned for Luigi to lay down on the floor near the bed while he stepped in front of him, dropping to one knee and pointing the gun at an angle to the entrance. Several men tried to push, shoot, and throw themselves against the cheap fiberboard and much sturdier oak.
Another set of footsteps approached the door. "Luigi, get your skinny plumber's ass out here!" bellowed the woman in English. "You and your cancer-ridden uncle. Now." Alek put his finger to his lips to indicate that he should remain quiet. "And bring that kiss-ass Alek out with you!" she added in angry Russian. Neither of them responded. "Fine. Open fire!"
Luigi ducked at an intense volley of semi-automatic gunfire lit up the room, rapidly reducing the oak and door to a Swiss-cheese-like structure. Alek managed to avoid the initial rounds and returned fire, hitting two of the men, before being shot in the chest. The gangsters broke the remnants of the armoire, rushed inside, and pointed their guns at the plumber. Lady Bowser ambled behind them, stepping over various pieces of wood. "Find the other one," she growled to her men. Then she calmly executed the incapacitated Alek with one bullet to his forehead. Evgeniy savagely pulled Giuseppe from the closet, tossing him to the space next to Luigi. "You should've followed instructions, Greenie."
The younger Italian demanded, "What the fuck do you want now?"
Without providing an answer, she lowered her weapon and marched out of the room. The gangsters tugged both Italians to their feet and manhandled them all the way down the stairs to the living room where several bodies lay unmoving. Luigi winced at the face-down form of Sergei, from whom a stream of blood had traveled several feet. Next to him was the man with whom he had spoken earlier in the evening. "Fucking traitor met with the Vor's security group. I was left with no alternative," Polina explained unnecessarily. With a tilt of her head, the plumbers were shoved into seated positions side-by-side on the couch. "No matter. Junior's going to eat a bullet sandwich tonight, making you," she gestured at Luigi with her gun, "superfluous. And as for you," she pointed at Joe, who glared in return, "well, you'll be a rather appetizing piece of candy. With Pete Morello and your, uh, sweetheart out of the way, I'll own the Moranos' former empire. And not even the Vor will risk vengeance." She barked an order in Russian. Evgeniy tossed Luigi to the floor and cocked his gun; a squinting Giuseppe latched onto the man's arm and, with his remaining strength, tried to steer the barrel toward his chest. Two gangsters jerked the enraged Brooklynite back, hitting him across the face. Polina loomed over his moaning form. "Just for that, Joe, I'll let you wonder for the rest of your short life just where I disposed of your nephew's remains! Get this bag of bones out of here!"
As they carried his struggling build out of the house, Joe alternated between screaming his adopted son's name and several invectives in Italian. Luigi steeled himself for the end, mentally sending his farewells to Daisy, Mario, Peach, Aunt Lucia, Uncle Sal, Nonna, his cousins, Yoshi, and Miles. Prior to exiting the room, he heard the woman request that they dismember his corpse so that the Masciarellis could never give him a proper burial. Once he heard the SUV's engine roar to life, he closed his eyes and visualized the afterlife: his parents sitting at that old kitchen table in their Bensonhurst A-frame; a happier Nonno Mario across from them; Nonno Luigi tinkering with an old bicycle as Nonna Audenzia prepared her famous lasagna in the kitchen.
Daisy, when it's your time, I'll be here waiting for you.
A relaxed grin passed over his visage, and he inhaled at the sound of the loud bang. Expecting a soundless obscurity, his blue eyes flew open in shock at the thud of Evgeniy's body and confused shouting in Russian. Every man for himself, Luigi was thereafter forgotten on the floor. The gangsters returned fire from handgun and automatic weapons fire; some were gunned down and some escaped into the night. The shooting having stopped and the smoke cleared, his surroundings were quiet again. He heard rapid footsteps advance toward his location, and three men entered his line of sight – Mario, Pete, and an unarmed Salvatore. Luigi blinked in disbelief. Before he could react further, the red-hoodied, mustachioed man sank to his knees, tossed his Smith and Wesson aside, and crushed his fratellino's body to his. Pete, assault rifle in hand, exhaling in relief, dialed a number. "Yeah, DK, you better send the calvary. We've, uh, recovered Luigi. Alive."
At a little past sunrise on Friday morning, Mario, Pete, Salvatore, DK, and a badly bruised and dirty Luigi ambled onto the floor of hotel rooms where several NYPD detectives, officers, Peach, Matt, Sam, Yoshi, Daisy, her parents, and Miles were waiting. Upon crossing the threshold of the his assigned suite, the tall plumber found himself in the midst of a group hug, save the Abravanels, preferring to observe from afar. They cleared the way for the auburn-haired lioness, who subsequently glared at her boyfriend. "Never do that again, you fucking stronzo of a plumber!" she yelled before slamming her lips onto his. He gratefully returned the kiss, murmuring against them that she kept him alive and that he'd never leave her again.
After DK handed Luigi a gift – undergarments, tee-shirt, and blue sweatpants – he retreated into the shower ensuite and let the hot water massage his sweaty skin. Working the hotel shampoo into his soft hair, he failed to notice the bathroom door unlock; hearing the glass creak, he spun to face an exposed Daisy whose amber eyes reflected love, pain, and raw desire. They stared at each other for a few seconds while he rinsed the soap out of his hair. The last of it out, Luigi's eye color instantly changed to that deep blue, and he tugged her into the water with him, his lips descending upon the sensitive spots of her neck. Her nails raked through his mane, a wordless response of pleasure to their reunification. In spite of the group gathered in the salon area of the room, their rasps of encouragement were louder than normal; Luigi howling how much he missed her, that she kept him going and Daisy insisting he show her, that she never gave up hope. After the water ran cold, they exited the shower, dried off, dressed, and in his case, shaved his day-old scruff. Her eyes glided over the FDNY-issue sweats on his slender form.
"They chose well, plumber," she said throatily, to which he, razor still in hand, serenely lifted his lips in the hint of a smile. Rinsing and setting the razor aside, he dried off his face and kissed his lioness. She moved away from the briefly confused man, reclaimed the small gold ring that had been left in the corner of the marble countertop, and slipped it on her left ring finger. To his unvoiced question, she spoke, "One day, we'll … But I don't mind wearing it now." Beaming, he gently took her adorned hand and kissed it.
Side by side, they left the ensuite's intimacy to face the group of family, friends, NYPD detectives, and a seated tall man who was encircled by several enraged males and female. Pete, Mario, DK, Yoshi, Sam, Matt, and Yael, in front of an unnervingly calm Salvatore, smug Miles, and emotionless Peach and Harry, closed in on the man in the same purple suit from the previous day, who was growing more and more alarmed. Giving a few strokes to his lioness's back, Luigi excused himself to intervene in the emergent mob.
Lucas's eyes zeroed in on his frenemy. "Weeg, bestie, thank the non-existent-Jesus you're alive!"
Angrily, he stopped in front of his ex-friend and crossed his arms. "Bestie, my fucking ass! I nearly got killed, and your new girlfriend's got Uncle Joe! Give me one reason why I shouldn't just walk away and let Pete and Mario take care of business!"
"Um," he began in a falsely uncertain tone, "because that would be illegal, and I'm under NYPD protection? Besides, I just saved your life, man!"
Luigi turned to DK, Mario, and Pete for an explanation. "That's how we were able to find you, Weegie," answered his older brother, glaring menacingly at the seated man, who batted his eyelashes at him. "Since we knew they had you somewhere in Mountain Lakes, Lucas told us of a house that his father once, uh, visited during some fucked-up tryst. Miles and the Sfacciata did the rest."
"Hey, for the record," contended Lucas with his index finger, "I did not know that Giorgios was fucking Polina! I mean, I know Daddy Dearest is into some really kinky shit, but this takes the taco. I mean, I wouldn't bang her even if she had three tits."
Mario jabbed his finger at the man. "I wasn't talkin' to you, fuckstick!"
"Too bad, fatboy."
As the plumber advanced on the sniggering man, DK put his out to intercept the inevitable assault. "Easy, Mario; he's just trying to rent space in your head. He's in enough trouble as it is. So if he wants to keep running his mouth," he threw him a pointed glower, "let him."
"What?" he asked the group innocently. "Too much?" Clearing his throat, he continued, "Anyway, there is that little issue of the Vor's money."
"Except that it's now moot, you fucking twit!" snarled Pete. "Polina went on a rampage and killed Shereshevsky, Baranov, and several of her little … comrades. Probably because of that stunt you pulled! If it hadn't been bad enough before, Joe's in imminent danger. You're lucky that the police got you first, son!"
Lucas's eyes rounded faintly, though he did not otherwise react to the caporegime's implicit threat.
At that moment, one of DK's detectives tapped him on the shoulder to pull him aside. Holding up a finger, the lieutenant excused himself, leaving the group to harass their prisoner. Mario, Yoshi, and Sam in particular inched closer to him.
"I insist upon two feet of personal space!" cried the Manhattanite, gesturing wildly around his chair with his hands. Looking to their right, he called out to the bruised man, "Yo, Weegie, pretty-please-with-sugar-on-Daisy's-ass, call off the dogs."
Luigi stared at him, arms re-crossed over his chest. Yael and Harry curled their lips in complete disgust at the man's illicit comment involving their daughter. As for Daisy, she bore her knuckles at him.
Suddenly, Sam and Yoshi stepped out of the way for Salvatore, who was carrying a chair. Mario's eyes began to twinkle self-contentedly, and he made a show of sliding near his brother, Peach, Daisy, and Pete. Setting the piece of furniture in front of the tall man, the Sicilian sat down and regarded him. The room stilled in both anticipation and fear.
"Oh, so are you going to minister to my faith?" taunted the younger man. "Okay, fine then. Weeg can relate to this one. How is Catholic school like a game of chess? Hmm?" The group, save for the blank-faced priest, narrowed their eyes at him. "Sooner or later, you end up with the bishop up your ass."
Salvatore stared at him without a single reply.
"C'mon now, Father, we're in public, and I was never an altar boy."
His eyes darkened, yet he said nothing.
Undaunted, Lucas shrugged. "You know, Weegie and I heard an … interesting rumor. Now, it was the Crazy Lady who made the comment, so one must, of course, factor in the probability of the aforementioned insanity. However, she seemed to think that you're a serial killer. I'll admit, I have trouble believing that one. I'm sure that you have some sexual perversion hidden underneath those robes – most priests do, hence the 'Let us prey' bit – but I don't see you as Gacy or Bundy."
He remained silent, though his eyes changed to a darker shade of brown.
"Okay, that's enough, you little shit!" interjected Pete while advancing toward the chortling man. The priest held up a hand to his angered cousin. Once Pete refrained from any further action, he raised his eyebrows at Lucas, as if daring him to do more.
"Wow, tough crowd. If Catholic jokes aren't going to do the trick, I do have some Jewish or black jokes somewhere."
Finally, the Sicilian spoke, "I like a good Catholic joke. In fact, I've made most of them in my life, kid. But … you're wasting our time. You know it; I know it. You're holding back. Yeah, you gave us the location of the safehouse in Mountain Lakes. I'm grateful, as it saved Luigi's life. Nevertheless, Mario and Luigi's uncle, Joe, is missing. He means a great deal to them. He means a great deal to me. To everyone here, as well. If you're really Luigi's friend, Lucas, then you'll tell us where Polina took him."
The tall man slowly nodded, absorbing what the priest had requested. "Yeah, I hear you. I'm sorry, but I have no idea."
Salvatore smiled a little. "I figured you'd say that. And I think I know why. You're here, of course, to save your own skin. The minute that the NYPD gets bored of you, your ass is grass – the Russians, my relatives, whatever terrorist group with whom you and your father were double-dealing, Polina, and the Almighty knows whom else. Then there's Luigi; you want his attention, but you also hate him because you want it. And what better way to make him pay attention to only you than to get rid of the people whom he loves – Daisy, Joe, Mario, and perhaps even me." It was Lucas's turn to scowl at his interlocutor.
DK returned to the group, phone in hand. "Sorry to interrupt, but, uh, we've got a big problem. A really big fucking problem." Looking uncertainly at Pete, he murmured, "Junior got whacked at home late last night. Nassau County PD just got in touch with Major Case. No one knows where Carlo or Fat Tony are. Joey-B seems to have gone underground, too."
"Shit," cursed the Denverite. "Now, it's between Vinny, me, and …" He hesitantly glanced down at the still seated priest.
"So what does this mean?" interrupted Yael, who knew next to nothing about Italian-American organized crime.
As Harry was about to explain the situation to his wife, a high-pitched ring echoed throughout the crowded room. Several people – police officers, lawyers, and youths alike – reached into their pockets, only to find that their phones were either on silent or had not received any calls. The ringing continued until all eyes fell on Lucas, who was holding up his burner phone. "I have no idea who this is or what this is about."
"Well, then answer it, you stupid asshole!" grumbled Luigi in exasperation.
"Only for you," he retorted, pressing the green telephone key. "Hello? Yeah. Uh-huh. Yeah, they're here. You want – ? Okay, sure. One sec." He switched on the speaker and increased the volume to the maximum.
"I do hope that annoying floating turd, shitkicker, and cocksucker can hear me now," purred a feminine voice.
Everyone froze. Salvatore deliberately rose from his chair, Mario's eyes glazed over in pure rage, DK gestured to his detectives to put a trace on the incoming call, while Pete ripped the phone from Lucas's hand. "I take it that this is Polina Lepeshinski, aka Mrs. Bowser, aka Crazy Bitch," he hissed.
"Pete Morello, I presume. You should have stayed out of New York."
"Yeah, I'm aggravating that way. So what do you want?"
She chuckled. "Always the consummate businessman. Or so I've heard. Where are the other two?"
"Right here, ready to fuckin' kill you, bitch!" replied Mario from just behind the caporegime.
"Ah, Mario, the two-timing tub of lard. I do feel bad for Marco's whore. She goes from my husband to you … Sleeping with you every night? Definitely a downgrade. But that little slut deserves every ounce of bad sex."
The plumber scoffed and gazed at Peach, who was biting her lip irately at Polina's insults. "Yeah, you were so lucky that your 'husband' was a bigamist. Worry about yourself, honey!"
"That's enough from the shit that never flushes. And finally, where's the ass-bandit?" The Manhattanite frowned, perplexedly mouthing 'ass-bandit.'
Reddened from uneasiness and fury, the Sicilian approached the phone, managing to calmly answer, "I assume you're referring to me?"
"If you're Father Salvatore Rigassi, aka Il Mietitore, aka Ass-Bandit, then yes. Or do you go by Ass Pirate? I can never keep up with the appropriate term nowadays. See, in Russian, it's simple: педераст." The room, including the black-eyed Sal, became noiseless at both her use of slurs and their intended target. When no one spoke, she growled, "I expect an answer: do you go by Ass-Bandit or Ass Pirate?"
"I go by Father Rigassi."
Her sneer was audible throughout the room. "Now that the three little pigs are accounted for, let's get to the reason for my call. And tell the NYPD not to bother tracing it; I got a really good deal on anti-tracing tech. The Chinese really know their shit." More silence; the police lieutenant and several detectives uttered a few voiceless swears upon seeing her prospective location change every ten seconds. Miles, who had fetched his terminals, shook his head in frustration. "I have something … should I say, someone, you want. Since Junior and Alek are no longer employed with their respective organizations, you'll be dealing with me exclusively."
"What do you want, lady?" demanded Pete, whose voice betrayed both a hint of fear and impatience.
"Simple. I want the three little pigs – meaning you – and the pig-plumber's shithead little brother. In exchange, I'll return the cancer patient."
Glancing at the prepared Mario, the resolute Luigi, and the frantic Salvatore, he replied, "Sure. Just tell us when and where."
Abruptly, they heard female cackling from the other side of the line. "Oh, I'm not going to make it easy for you, Sheriff Shitkicker. I'll tell you when I'm ready. I can't have you and the NYPD get all handwringy and prepare a SWAT team, or some other half-baked plan. It won't do – for any of us. Especially, the, uh, cancer patient. He's not doing too well."
"Why do you need him, Polina?! Huh?!" the priest exploded. "Just let him go! Pete, Mario, and I will gladly meet you wherever. We know that you want the Moranos' money and territory. Obviously, we're worth more than one sick plumber."
"Isn't that sweet. The begging. Are you on your knees? Because you're a pro at that, aren't you, Il Mietitore?" She chuckled as the mafioso audibly let out a low growl. "That's precisely the point: Rule Two of the Cosa Nostra, which might as well be the same as Rule One of New York Plumbers – you are all fucking liars. This is an incentive for you to actually show up for the show. And I did notice that you omitted that skinny green freak from the discussion. Bring him with you." At the ensuing pause on their end, Lady Bowser snorted in exasperation. "Don't play games, Salvatore. At one point in our conversation, I actually had some respect for you. I know you, Sheriff Shitkicker, and the Fat Plug saved him from becoming seafood. Let me make a note to myself – never send a bunch of drunk Russian men to do a woman's job. In any case, you four assholes for one sick asshole. Sounds like a fair trade to me."
"Bene," spat Salvatore.
"Отлично. A final point to my friends at the NYPD: make sure that rotten, skinny fuck-up ends up in the deepest and darkest solitary you can find. Because that's what'll take to keep him alive. Until later." The line then disconnected.
"C'mon, c'mon, you motherfucker!" yelled a voice from across the room. Several heads pivoted to the hyperfocused Miles who was typing furiously. "Gotcha, bitch!" Just as suddenly, his face fell, and he jumped from his chair, knocking it over, a litany of obscenities blubbering from his mouth. Whereas Luigi's, Yoshi's, and Mario's eyes progressively widened at his X-rated rant, and Lucas let out a few satisfied giggles, Harry called out in his patented Bostonian accent, "Kid, what's the matter?"
Wiping tears of frustration from his eyes, the blond engineer folded his arms and shook his head. At his visible distress, Father Sal moved away from Pete and Mario, Luigi and Daisy trailing behind, to stand before him. "Miles, you tried. Of all of us, I think, you had the best chance. There's some technology you just can't beat."
Once again, he shook his head while chewing on his nail. "No, I've seen Chinese tech … I don't know why I didn't get her this time!"
"What happened?" asked Daisy, putting a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"I … Once she said the anti-tracer was Chinese, I decided to use a, uh, zero-day. Every real hacker," he threw a glare at Lucas, who rolled his eyes and extended his middle finger, "has a few. We tend to save them for high-value or high-risk targets. Since they're previously unknown tools to other analysts and hackers, once you let 'em out of the bag, they can analyze and counter. I thought I cracked her system. I didn't."
"Why, what did it say?"
Miles laughed mirthlessly through his tears. "Initially, it had me bouncing from Mexico to Japan to the Gobi Desert. So nowhere. Toward the end of the call, I got a hit – New York City. It was an actual place, but it didn't make any sense. And frankly, I don't know that I could trust it, anyway."
"Where, Miles?" inquired the priest softly.
"Within a hundred or so feet of 116th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. But that's … functionally and situationally impossible."
"That's at the center of Columbia University," interjected DK from across the room. "Yeah, I don't think a bunch of college kids and faculty would miss a crazy Russian woman and a sick man in his fifties."
Mario's and Luigi's simultaneously eyes expanded in potential recognition. "Maybe they would," the former breathed.
From a hotel room located on the floor just below the de-facto NYPD-Mafia-Plumber command center, Piotr listened to Polina Lepeshinski's ransom call as well as to the conversations between the priest, police officers, hacker boy, and the others. Posing as a delivery service man, he had effortlessly slipped past the NYPD police guard to put a small bug inside each living room of the protected witnesses – Lucas's, Luigi's, and the Abravanels'. Although the Russian agent had no issue with showing himself, albeit briefly, to Daisy and her friends, knowing that they would keep his secret to themselves, potential exposure to the New York police and thereby the FBI and other American agencies would compromise his mission. Quickly, he did a secured search of the intersection to which the hacker boy referred. His eyebrows raised, and he nodded to himself. Let the Mario Brothers lead him to the Bowser woman and George Kariolis, after which he would complete his assignment. Expediently and terminally.