Author's notes: I'm excited for these next 2-3 chapters, as it's an idea that I have kept under wraps for roughly four or five months. I hope you all enjoy this!
As always, a big thank you to readers, wallflowers, and reviewers. I always love to get feedback.
Chapter 57: Chiaroscuro
Mario's and Luigi's simultaneously eyes expanded in potential recognition. "Maybe they would," the former breathed.
Pete walked over toward Salvatore and Miles. "What do you mean, Mario?"
The younger plumber sniggered, which earned quizzical looks from the rest of the group, including several detectives, uniformed officers, and the visibly bored Lucas. "I don't know if Polina was this stupid on purpose or if it was … serendipity. Columbia University's a big campus. And Miles's right that, normally, she wouldn't dare to bring a hostage there. But the intersection of 116th Street and Amsterdam Avenue's unique. The tunnels."
Daisy's and Yoshi's eyes widened in recognition. "Holy shit!" uttered the latter.
"Tunnels?" asked Sam in a puzzled voice, looking to his cousin and uncle who shook their heads in ignorance.
"Tunnels," affirmed Luigi with a mischievous grin.
"Yeah," interrupted Mario, nodding. He turned to the now knowing DK and Salvatore as well as the still perplexed Coloradans and Abravanels. "Weegie's and my grandfather – Nonno Masciarelli – came to New York in the late '40s or early '50s. One of his first plumbing jobs was workin' underneath Columbia University – in the tunnels. Back when they kept addin' steam and gas pipes underground. When I was twelve or thirteen, Nonno used to take me down into that area. It was a secret – since Columbia charges non-licensed or unassociated personnel with trespassin', we went late after hours when, uh, Pops was workin' and wouldn't have known. Though Weegie was too young to go with us, I've told him about 'em. He knows 'em just as well as I do. Right next to that intersection is a square manhole cover that used to take guys down into there. It's sealed now, I think, but it's become something of a landmark on campus."
"Jesus, Mario," breathed DK while pinching the bridge of his nose. "Even if you're right, rumor has it there's miles of tunnels, access points, and dead ends – and that's just what's mapped. More rumors say that there's plenty unknown. Not to mention that it's university property, and they've even barred the NYPD from entering without a warrant."
"Can't the brass lean on the administration?" inquired Harry.
"With what, Mr. Abravanel? They're an Ivy League school. Even with the mayor and Albany breathing down their necks, they'll likely stonewall us, and then it'll be too late," he rasped. "They'll require us to get a warrant; you as a lawyer know that we'd need probable cause in addition to a general fix on Lepeshinski's or Joe's location. We have an uncertain position on campus – that's it. Neither the D.A. nor any judge will want to risk losing Columbia alumni donors over this."
"Plus," added Yoshi, "part of it is protected by the Atomic Energy Commission or whichever fucking agency now. Enrico Fermi, Leo Szilard, and a couple other Columbia scientists created the first American nuclear fission reaction in the basement of Pupin Hall. The tunnels served as the access point to keep it secret from potential Soviet or Nazi spies. That, uh, fission reaction became the first step for a series of nuclear reactors as well as the Manhattan Project. The first atomic bombs."
Whereas Yael gave an impressed look, Harry's enlarged into saucers. "They had nuclear materials down there?!" he exclaimed.
"Yeah," affirmed the physicist. "That was one of the reasons why certain tunnels were and are very off-limits. There's telecommunications for the university there, too. Or so they say."
Shifting her amber eyes to her pensive lion, mentally apologizing to him prior to voicing the necessary question, "How much time do we reasonably have before Polina decides to … ?"
The police lieutenant exhaled harshly. "Practically speaking? Well, based on my experience with ransom negotiations and missing persons cases, forty-eight hours tops. And that's if Joe isn't seriously injured. From what Luigi told us on the way to the hotel, he had a mild to moderate concussion in addition to a weakened immune system."
"Lieutenant," interjected Peach, "if that is true, and Polina did take him into those tunnels, the unknown microbial agents would put him at serious risk in his current medical state. I am speaking as his pulmonologist."
He acknowledged her comment with a grateful smile. "Understood, Doctor Venier. Based on this information, I'd say we have twenty-four hours max."
"Agreed," affirmed Pete. "And she'll probably stall for as long as she can. Though I don't know exactly why she'd barricade herself there." Sighing, he glanced ruefully at his questioning son and nephew. "I think …"
"Hey, guys," DK cut him off, addressing his subordinates, "would you mind taking him," he gestured to Lucas, "back to his room? Also, I'll need someone to get in touch with Nassau County." Taking the hint to leave, the NYPD detectives and uniforms began to file out, dragging the protesting man to his makeshift jail down the hall. Once they were absent, he then said, "I'd, uh, request everyone except for Mario, Luigi, Pete, and Salvatore to give us a moment." Though reluctant to leave their lovers, Peach and Daisy allowed themselves to be led away by their peers and Abravanels. A minute afterward, the room was deserted, save for the five men and, unbeknownst to them, one eavesdropping Russian intelligence agent. "The less that know, the better. I'll take the heat for this. Pete, Mario, I … I don't think they'll get the green light from Columbia and the D.A. in time. I really fucking don't. And I don't know just how the fuck the Vor and Vinny DiScala will play into this. As a sworn officer …" He trailed off, shaking his head in silent, budding anger.
"You can't condone vigilantism, but your hands are tied," finished Salvatore.
Rubbing his face in exasperation, he gave a faint nod and continued, "Plus, there's the issue of the tunnels themselves. None of our guys even know where the fuck they'd be going. And without the assistance of the university, we'd risk going into a firefight blind. That not only puts us at risk, but Joe and the student body, as well. I'll make every attempt to expedite this, but it's best to be, uh, realistic."
"We won't give up on Joe. Out of the question!" vowed Pete. Facing his first cousin once removed, he queried, "Mario, how well do you know these tunnels?"
"Back of my hand," he immediately replied. "I'm goin' in if youse ain't."
He nodded with a reassured grin. "I figured. I'm in."
"So am I," said Luigi.
The older plumber's eyes flickered surprise and fear. Then he shook his head violently. "Weegie, nah, nah, nah! You stay here. Besides, you don't know how to shoot a gun or defend yourself. They'll be packin' heat, fratellino, and I didn't just break you outta Jersey just to lose you in the bowels of Manhattan!"
He regarded his brother determinedly. Moving to put his hand on the portly man's shoulder, he murmured, "Fratello, I know you want to keep me safe." He stroked it reassuringly, managing a smile. "But I also know those tunnels. And I have an idea as to how we can find Joe. I'll need Miles's, Yoshi's, Sam's, Matt's, and Daisy's help with the tech assembly. And before you make some bullshit comment about Daisy's mouth, she's got a physics degree from Oxford, so she knows how to wire and test a circuit. Plus, you don't speak Russian; I do, or at least, more than anyone here. You were right a couple months ago – we are a package deal. Even in fucking Manhattan."
"DK, you might want to cover your ears for this one," taunted the capo. "I can teach him how to shoot. Gene and I taught my son and nephew prior to the latter joining the Navy."
"Hear what?" DK deadpanned innocently.
"Nah, I'll take him to shoot!" retorted the red-hoodied man, extending his index finger.
DK's phone rang; answering it while holding up a finger, his already grave face fell even more. Muttering a thanks, he ended the call and let out a string of swear words. "Junior's been pronounced DOA. We still don't know where Carlo and Tony are. Apparently, it's now every man for himself in Bensonhurst and Flatbush. Three known or suspected Morano soldiers have been killed. And, uh, a couple guys who were on the street, who had nothing to do with any of this, were caught in the crossfire. One's dead; the other's been taken to Maimonides and is in critical condition."
Pete bit his lip in disgust, Mario and Luigi stared at each other in horror, and the priest became deathly pale. Following several minutes of silence, DK, Pete, and the plumbers looked at the taciturn Salvatore. "What about you, Sal?" beckoned the caporegime. "Despite what Polina wants or claims to want, this doesn't have to be your fight. You can go back to St. Rosalia's; your, uh, flock probably need you now more than ever."
Chuckling mirthlessly, the former mafioso quipped, "While I lose Joe and my entire family in a single night? Not to mention that … more innocent people around Columbia and in Brooklyn could die? What …" his voice suddenly dropped, tripping over the words, "what kind of man would I be to sit in a church and be a martyr?" They collectively cast a gaze of both compassion and comprehension. He swallowed back tears. "DK?"
"Yeah, Sal?"
"I need a favor. It's important."
"Name it, man."
Sal raised his watery brown eyes to the lieutenant, pleading for something underlying and unspoken. "I need access to a phone and permission to invite two people. Father Alvarez at St. Rosalia's and Bishop Deegan at the Brooklyn Diocese. They will keep our location confidential. I'll also need some place private to speak with them."
The lieutenant nodded, albeit confusedly. "Of course. I'll send a car to take them to and from Brooklyn."
"Thank you," he whispered. Wiping his eyes, he stared at the four questioning men. "I'm with you."
"Alright," affirmed Pete. "We'll go tonight, once a plan and preparations are firmly in place. Until then, let's lay low. Mario, let's, uh, get the Crew together – Sam and I will get physical necessities for a night raid. Luigi, you, Miles, Matt, Yoshi, and Daisy will work the engineering and create a heat map of this fucking place. Sam can help as needed. I assume that's what you're creating with your gadget – a heat or infrared sensor of some sort. DK, do what you can with 1PP. And Sal, should we talk later?" Taking out his rosary, he nodded mutely.
They heard a telephone sound for the second time.
Mario frowned at his ringing phone. "Hello?" he answered. "John, what the fuck? Yeah. Yeah, I know. My brother saw 'em. What? I don't think that's … Alright, meet me on the corner of West 45th and 6th Av? Thirty minutes? Aight. Bye." Hanging up, he addressed the keen group of men. "That was John Bowser. He wants to talk about Wendy and Louie. I, uh, can't deny him that. I'm going to meet him in a public place, just in case he's workin' for someone."
"Don't tell him what we're doing, Mario," warned the capo.
The plumber rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock."
"Alright, let's, uh, go break the news to Peach and Daisy," Luigi spoke nervously.
DK laughed in sympathy and understanding. "Good luck, boys. Sal, let's get your phone call taken care of." As he escorted Salvatore to a secure phone and desk in the hotel security office, Mario and Luigi exchanged a knowing, albeit terrified gawk, crossed themselves, and, to Pete's raised eyebrow, waited on the other to take the first step toward the women.
"Boys, if you're gonna marry the princesses, you got to face their wrath every so often," snickered the Denverite, who had decided to take the lead.
Still arguing with their hands over who would end up in second place, the brothers eventually made their way to the irritable Peach and nervous Daisy. The latter stood anxiously with her parents while Peach crossed her arms and directed a stare at her guilty-looking near-spouse. "Mario Masciarelli, che cazzo trami?!" she demanded in Italian. Yoshi and Miles coughed uncomfortably at the impending blowup between lovers. Pete, gesturing to his son and nephew to give the couples a bit of privacy, wrapped an arm around Matt and exited to another room, Sam following two steps behind them.
Daisy faced her sighing boyfriend and, walking to him, asked in a flat tone, "You're going down there, aren't you?"
"Are you two fucking daft?!" screamed the blonde physician in English. "We just you back, Luigi! And how close was that … donnaccia to killing you?! And in addition to almost losing Mario, my best friend just came out of theatre and very nearly died! No, you both stay here. Let the police do their jobs!"
Mario steepled his hands to placate her, muttering soft words in Italian, but she stomped away from him, letting a string of fast and coarse words in her native tongue fly from her lips: stronzi, vafanculo, andate a farvi uccidere, stupidi cazzoni! A second later, the plumber dropped the softness in his voice and became more forceful, crying back at his physician lover that non posso sedermi con le mani in mano!
"Kerido, I'm with Peach on this one," said the auburn-haired woman more calmly, though with an edge to her voice. "You don't know how to fight and … an enclosed space will make it easier for her to shoot you."
Soon, Yoshi, Miles, Harry, and Yael interjected with their opinions, seconding Peach's invectives and Daisy's uneasy reason, with Mario yelling back at them in Italian and English. The back-and-forth became so loud that Luigi could hardly hear himself think, and, out of other options, yelled a forceful Basta, whichechoed throughout the suite. Stunned at the normally passive man's shout, they quietened. "Look, you know me – I don't like fighting, and I never will. If I thought that … we could get Uncle Joe away from Polina through any other means, I'd do that in a heartbeat. In fact, I even … offered myself to them. Willingly." He cast his eyes away from their aghast looks. "So I tried. It didn't work. By your own admission, cognata, Joe's got forty-eight hours max, and I'd wager even you think that's optimistic. It'll take time to get the NYPD brass to go along with a rescue mission. Additionally …" Luigi inhaled deeply, facing Daisy and her parents. "People are dying in Brooklyn now. It's not just the Mafia assholes. Innocent people who had nothing to do with this. She also took Wendy and Louie – two little kids!Mario and I are in a unique position; we're one of the few outside of Columbia with sufficient knowledge of those tunnels to conduct a successful rescue mission. If we don't get Uncle Joe, if we don't stop Polina now, more people will die. The man who raised me will die!This is our home! I think, of anyone, youse can appreciate that." Wiping his mouth and mustache, he fixed his blue orbs upon Daisy's worried visage. "Kerido, I love you. And I will come back alive because you'll be here. But I could never look you in the eyes – you who have battled your own demons and challenged bullies – unashamed if I sat on my tuchas and did nothing."
Whereas Mario and Peach blinked at their family member's speech, Daisy's terror-filled eyes promptly incorporated a swift pride and admiration. She left the custody of her parents, moved into his personal space, and interlaced his right hand with her left. "Let me come with you, then," she whispered.
He laughed a little. "That's my Daisy – Ass-kicker of Bensonhurst!" Nevertheless, he shook his head, tilting it toward her father and stepmother. "I don't want an angry Brazilian lawyer and a former IDF sergeant to beat my sorry Italian ass. I also don't want to jeopardize your law school acceptance. And I need you to be here when I return. But I do have a job for you. A necessary and legal one." He hesitantly glanced in Harry's direction, who was giving him an unreadable expression. Turning to Yoshi and Miles, he added, "Youse, too."
"What about Manhattan?"
Luigi nodded deliberately. "Still … not my favorite place. But … despite that, Joe, those kids, and Brooklyn are worth a few hours of discomfort."
"I … I can give you anti-anxiety medication that won't affect your judgment," sniffled Peach in an unenthusiastic, yet resigned voice.
"Whatever hardware you need, man, you got it," avowed Yoshi. "Brobot Boys forever."
"And I can set up whatever tech – servers, firewalls, other services – you need," interjected Miles.
Harry coughed uncomfortably to attract their attention. "Though I hate to be the bearer of bad news, vigilantism is illegal in New York. As an officer of the court, I have to, you know, say something. And ethically, I'd have to report prospective criminal activity to the NYPD. Yet I suspect they're already aware." Mario shrugged, a slight smirk passing over his features. "Right. Legally, you're still not covered, especially on a hypothetical trespassing charge, plus whatever else you decide to do. Yael and I shouldn't know any more about this. Neither should Daisy, for the reasons that Luigi mentioned. Nonetheless, I have an alternative in mind that protects everyone and allows my daughter to assist you. There are three people involved – Polina Lepeshinski, Vinny DiScala, and George Kariolis. You're 'handling,'" he made finger quotes, "the first individual. I'm sure Salvatore and Pete have a clue about the second. We can handle the third. I know someone in my firm who is fluent in Greek. Yael and I, uh, speak Arabic well enough to do research on that front."
Mario and Luigi nodded at each other. "Yeah, that works," acquiesced the latter. "What do you think, kerido?"
"Yeah, I can do that," Daisy agreed, squeezing his hand.
Luigi brought their intertwined hands to his lips, and he pledged in a murmur that only she could hear, "When this is over, sweetie, when my family's safe, I'll go wherever you want. If you'll have me."
Wordlessly, she touched her forehead to his.
On the corner of West 45th Street and 6th Avenue, Mario checked his iPhone for the fourth time in five minutes, grumbling about that late bartending fuck as he paced back and forth. He groaned sadly; Peach had given her patented look and vafanculo when he went for a kiss goodbye. The soldier had always hated doing this to her, having to depart for East Bum Fuck, Iraq or Fuck Me, Afghanistan to kill Terrorist 6583 or blow up another piece of infrastructure valuable to Al-Qaeda. During the years post-injury, he remained largely stateside, which had calmed his high-strung Venetian beauty. Secretly, Mario enjoyed the quiet time, as well: remodeling and bickering over the kitchen; taking Luigi out on optionally mandatory dates; going to the Mets-Yankees baseball game; making World Series bets with the Sfacciata; watching Wendy and Louie in California. However, he craved that rush whenever he was on a mission or about to make a bully's nightmare become reality. One might have argued that, between the Hawkins Murder and September 11th, he had developed a taste for adrenaline; however, the plumber had first felt something akin to it as a preteen with his paternal grandfather.
Mario had long forgotten about the tunnels, Nonno's domain. The nearly twelve-year-old boy had lost his mother just a month prior and was acting out in school, particularly in Religion class. His father, who was in the midst of heavy depression and grief, absconded to the firehouse, leaving him alone with an equally devastated and struggling Giuseppe and Lucia. True to his word, Mario Senior had steadfastly refused unsupervised visits between his sons and their grandparents; but with the adults all distracted, the sixties-something, gray-haired and mustachioed Italian in blue overalls and a red shirt began bringing his eldest grandson to his plumber's shop after school or detentions. Unbeknownst to Fathers Rosetti and Rosso, the older Abruzzese treated him with an Italian ice every time he was thrown out of religious instruction. Contrary to Mario Senior, who had been furious at his son for getting suspended, the old man laughed heartily at his grandson's flip books – a rarity from him. "Ah, those tight-assed hypocrites! Even Christ could take a joke!" Nonno commented in Abruzzese with a satisfied smirk. Soon after, he began teaching him the basics of plumbing – severely at times – but the hands-on Mario was a willing and obedient apprentice. The young man's anger quelled, and the outbursts stopped once he was no longer required to sit through Father Rosso's "sermons."
Though he rarely spoke of his life in Italy, Nonno once opened up to the adolescent when, ironically, they were trudging through one of the many secret paths within the underground tunnels. Stopping for a water break, he suddenly muttered, "Nipote, there are only three certainties in the world – the passage of time, war, and death. Nothing you can do about 'em. You'll be a man in a year or two; that's when life starts getting serious, when you will … know all those things. And when it does, remember, you got your family and work. That's where you can make a difference. A man who takes pride in his work creates a world – life – for his family. Chi dorme non piglia pesci, huh? If you make something well, like these tunnels, the pipes in them, the buildings above us, then they'll withstand the passage of time and the hour of our own death. If they're particularly loved or used, then they'll be reconstructed even after war, after we're long gone. This," he tapped lightly on the steel and lead of the pipe with his short fingernails, producing both a rung and a ping, "gives ever-lasting life. We know what we touch, what we make, bambino mio."
"Yo, asshole!" called out a familiar voice, which interrupted the red-hoodied plumber's musings. Spinning around, the mustachioed man spied a tall, redheaded John Bowser, whose face spouted a day-old reddish-brown shadow, in dirty clothes and a worn Yankees baseball cap. Stopping a few feet away, the bartender growled, "Don't knock my cap off! Not today, Plunger."
"You look like shit, Irish," he responded without malice.
"Yeah," Bowser conceded with a bob of his head. "Getting your kids taken by a crazy bitch does that. I heard from Junior – Ryan – that your relatives were plugging Joey-B for information about your kid brother and uncle. You get 'em back?"
"Let's get a regular, huh?" John quickly flanked Mario as they crossed to the small coffee shop on the other side of West 45th Street. Entering through the glass doors, the latter ambled to the barista standing leisurely at the modern counter and point of sale. After she greeted the men, Mario ordered two regulars and two blueberry cheese Danishes. With a twenty-dollar bill, he paid for his second and John's first breakfast; by the time he calculated a tip and pocketed the remainder, the barista presented both food and drink to each man. As they exited the café, the plumber started walking toward 6th Avenue and an open food court. "I figured you haven't eaten since at least yesterday," he stated between sips of his coffee.
The bartender shrugged. "Yeah, and you haven't missed a single meal."
Crossing the busy street, Mario retorted, "Go fuck yourself." They passed several tall, glass office buildings and nearly-leafless trees before turning left to the open green metal tables and chairs surrounded by a wiry group of trees in their autumn state. Choosing one of the empty tables nearest the sidewalk, they sat across from each other. Bowser bit into the Danish, nodding his approval at the pastry. "So," the plumber continued, "Weegie's with us. He, uh, saw Wendy and Louie. They're aight, for now. He tried to stay with 'em, but those Russian assholes forced him to make a choice: stay with Joe or them. The Crazy Bitch, uh, nearly executed him. She's still got Joe."
John slowly chewed on the Danish and sipped on his coffee while listening to his frenemy's account. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that fucking bitch!" Huffing a little, he licked his fingers. "Luigi tried at least. Kid's got balls. And taking a man with cancer? No offense, Plunger, but what kind of a sick bitch would do that?"
"A crazy bitch," he deadpanned, biting into his pastry. "And what the fuck happened in Bensonhurst last night?"
"You know what happened – now that Junior's been whacked, Carlo, Fat Tony, Joey-B, and the other high-ranking, coward capos are AWOL, either planning to rat or plan an attack of their own. It's kill or be killed. Not to mention members of the, uh, other families are gonna fly in like the fuckin' vultures they are. I sent Ryan and the kids to their mother's in Queens. I gotta keep the bar runnin', but better to put a bullet in my sorry ass than theirs." Taking another bite, he asked, "So what are youse gonna do?"
Mario shrugged lightly as he drank more coffee. "Sit tight; wait for the NYPD."
Mid-bite, Bowser gave him an incredulous look. "Bullshit. Sergeant Mario Masciarelli, Plumber's Prick and All-Purpose Crazy Italian Asshole, does not sit by and wait for the lazy brass to give their blessing. I say this as a cop's kid: 1PP's garbage." The Brooklyn Italian did not respond, instead continuing to sip his regular. Nodding at the man's intentional silence, he glanced around him for eavesdroppers. "Fine. Have it your way. I'm gonna assume you've got the family stashed somewhere around here. Let me meet you tonight, say, nine o'clock? Somewhere away from pryin' eyes. I got something for you."
The plumber smirked. "I don't want your officially-minted Yankees dildo, but thanks for offering. I'm touched."
"Shut up and listen, you Mets cocksucker," he barked. "I wouldn't waste a trip to Midtown during peak business hours, on a Friday night, unless it were important or valuable. Let alone to see your fat ass."
Curiosity now peaked, Mario raised an eyebrow. "Aight, you got me there. How about Sutton Place, underneath the bridge? That shitty enough for you?"
He nodded, rising from his chair. "Yeah, that'll do. Also, bring a vehicle." Chugging his coffee cup, then tossing the container into the trash, the redhead picked up the last third of his Danish and made a cheers gesture to his companion. "See ya. Thanks for the sugar bomb, ya fat Abruzzese fuck."
Giuseppe moaned from his throbbing head and burgeoning nausea, only to find his sight reduced by the black cloth over his eyes and his breathing limited by the piece of duct tape over his mouth. Having dragged the struggling and screaming man from the house where Polina had butchered his son, her thugs had bound, gagged, and blindfolded him inside the SUV, then injected him with some sort of drug. He had no idea where he was or how much time had passed; despite a residual grogginess, he focused on the sounds and smells of his unknown surroundings – metal humming, drips of a liquid, musty, damp, hisses of steam. Next, he tried to move his hands and feet. While his legs were free, his wrists were cuffed securely to some sort of rounded surface – like a large lead or other metal pipe. Steadying his breath, Joe tried to relax the muscles in his stomach to prevent regurgitation, as his vomit could be a lethal choking hazard.
Inwardly, he laughed like a madman at his cautiousness. Part of him wondered if he really wanted to stay alive.
Luigi.
His nostrils vibrated with a sound resembling both a whimper and a scream from the shooting agony inside his heart. To hyperventilate or not to hyperventilate; that was the question. Whether he should surrender, perchance to sleep and end the heartache? In his mind, he saw memories of his cherished Luigi Gabriele Isidoro: holding the newborn boy at night; reading The Cat in the Hat to him; watching him play with his first small wrench; the boy hiding underneath the table during one of many arguments he and Mario had; teaching him how to play baseball; sitting in the audience of his ballet group's production of the Nutcracker; chasing him on the streets of Newark after running away for the fourth time; family dinners; embracing him upon his and Daisy's return from the Middle East. His lungs, attempting to prevent his imploding heart from suffocating him, signaled for his nose to draw in more air; his eyes heaved, leaking tears of misery, rage, and exhaustion. Nevertheless, his mind flashed new images of Lucia, his mother, sister, daughters, grandson, Mario, and Salvatore. Giuseppe could hear his beloved son's words: Va tutto bene, Zio. Sono passato a miglior vita. He burst into tears once more.
Figlio mio, per il resto della vita, mi mancherai. E anche se vivrò, sarò dilaniato dal dolore.
His family, or what was left of it, needed him to survive; yet it would not stop him from allowing grief to take up permanent residence in his mind and soul. But that could wait. Abruptly as inconsolable sadness had seized his thin frame, the deepest, opaquest delirium filled his insides, leaving the plumber with a cold, albeit delicious satisfaction. Inasmuch as the tape on his mouth permitted, he grinned chillingly. Even if he died before it could come to fruition, three men would inevitably annihilate that evil thing from the Earth and toss whatever was left into the lowest circles of Hell.
He could hear his priest in Staten Island cite Leviticus to rebuke him: "You shall not take vengeance or bear any grudge against the sons of your own people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord."
God's a little late on that one, he retorted. Luigi was a good boy; he loved his family and friends, had a good job, and a decent girl. Evil took him from us! Where the fuck were the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit when that filthy bitch needed a thunderbolt up her ass?!
Giuseppe did not care how many Hail Maries or acts of contrition he would have to perform; he would pray to God and all the saints to demand retribution – the more brutal, the better.
In the distance, he heard a chain rattle, a door open, and several footsteps approach his position. They halted in front of him; a man's foot kicked his leg, causing him to grunt involuntarily. A hand ripped the tape from his mouth, and he screeched from the pain.
"Oh, you're awake, shitstain," a familiar feminine voice chortled. "I figured you might be, as that little cocktail we gave you lasts up to twelve hours. And since you haven't eaten in a while, I brought you a protein shake. It's vanilla-flavored; it should be … a familiar taste." Before he could reply, a masculine hand secured his head and chin, and Polina set the straw into his mouth, forcing him to drink the thankfully cold concoction. Once he had ingested a little less than half of the thick milkshake-like formula, she removed the straw. "That's enough for now. I don't want the place stinking of your vomit."
Joe let out an enraged growl.
"What's wrong, Giuseppe? Still hungry?" she taunted. "Be patient; you'll get your binky again." Concentrating on the click-clack of her Italian leather heels, he waited patiently until they moved closer. At the moment that the sound discontinued, he inhaled and let out a spray of saliva straight ahead. He smiled upon hearing an incensed, high-pitched shriek; he reacted ambivalently when a hand slapped him across the face, the acrylic nails digging into his rough skin. "You fucking nasty pig!" she bellowed.
Wincing from the slap, he nonetheless refused to speak.
Her angry growls persisted while she attempted to wipe the man's spit off her thousand-dollar suit. "Bastard …" The heels suddenly click-clacked again; the plumber felt a hand yank his thinned hair and a sharp blade poke his carotid artery. "If you're going to act like a porco, Giuseppe, then maybe I should gut and fry you up like bacon!"
"Go ahead, bitch," he rasped. "You murdered my son. I'm dying of cancer, so I ain't got a whole lot left. Frankly … I don't know why you haven't killed me yet."
She cackled menacingly, still holding the blade to his neck. "Oh, I'm sure the Great Jumpman would be thrilled to know of your little revisionist history … The brother who, green with envy, stole his son and concocted a fantasy in which he was the father. Let me guess – with Salvatore? I wonder how your wife feels about that." When he remained quiet, she pushed the point into the soft skin; a warm stream of blood began to drip down his jaw and neckline. "Answer me, shitstain. Inquiring minds want to know."
"My wife loves – loved – Luigi like our own."
"Oh, you're no fun. You're holding back on the really juicy details. See, Italian mafiosi are like schoolgirls; they're incorrigible gossips. Rumor has it that the quintessential alpha male – il Mietitore – was an up-and-coming Mafia acting caporegime by day and an equally incorrigible ass-bandit by night. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Joe?"
"Even if I did, what difference does it make?" the plumber challenged. "Sal's been out of the Mafia for decades. He's a priest."
"Is he? Is he really? See, the problem is that he hid Pete Morello from us. He's also been an active participant in trying to save Luigi and you. That's not very priestly."
"You stupid bitch," he groused, "he's trying to prevent a war. That is priestly! See, I know you're too much of a psycho-bitch to care about innocent people gettin' killed, but that's why he left! He didn't want to kill anymore!"
The poke returned, triggering a fresh stream of his blood. "You're rather ballsy to call your captor a stupid bitch."
"Like I said before, you murdered my son, and I'm dying of cancer. I don't give a shit what you think. So get this over with; send me to my father, brother, sister-in-law, and bambino."
He unwillingly shuddered as he felt a pair of lips by his ear. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I hate to break it to you, shitstain, but you're more valuable to me alive, as a worm on my hook. However, I'll let you on a little secret: Luigi begged for his mommy – his real one – when I put a bullet in him. His head, well, it split open like a cracked egg. Then I got to see every little bit of his insides, including his last meal, before we dissolved them in acid and burned what was left. Just so neither you nor your, uh, wife could ever give him a proper burial. I believe that's two Masciarellis who've disappeared into thin air."
Lady Bowser giggled when she heard his screams and curses in Italian. He heard her henchmen unroll the duct tape, then felt them slap a new piece on his mouth. "Enjoy the hospitality, shitstain. And don't worry – you'll join the rest of the Marios in hell soon enough."
Livid sobbing and otherwise incomprehensible sounds emanated from the plumber's tapped mouth as the click-clacks and heavier footsteps disappeared in the distance. Like a leashed, mad dog, he attempted to pull at his cuffs to no avail. Several minutes passed before Giuseppe finally surrendered to the futility of escape. He let his eyes relax underneath the blindfold. Just breathe, he told himself; eventually, Mario, Sal, and Pete will come. And when they get here, it'll be game over for that bitch.
Instructed by Pete and Mario to work clandestinely to avoid arousing suspicion from the NYPD, Matt, Miles, and Sam prepared black market orders of computer equipment such as cables, monitors, terminals, a small server cage and procured other necessities, including weapons and a surveillance van which would serve as the command center, while Yoshi and Luigi began constructing their blueprinted thermal device. Matt had distracted the uniformed officers with an intentional mix-up of their lunch orders, much to the NYPD's annoyance, so that Pete and Sam could slip past them to accept the deliveries. Paying for a nearby twenty-four-hour parking space using crypto and a fake Arizona State ID, he kept the computer equipment inside the van; he, Matt, Miles, Yoshi, and Luigi would work rotating shifts of twenty minutes to install and run tests for that evening's excursion. Carrying medium-sized shopping bags carrying black clothing via twenty flights of stairs, Pete and Sam inwardly thanked the stars that they were acclimated to high altitude. They returned in time for their pastrami on rye, the cops outwardly none the wiser. Not wanting to chance a flare of his Crohn's Disease, Matt opted for a banana and almond butter protein shake.
As Luigi munched on his pastrami sandwich, Daisy made her way to his room. Per their agreement with her father, and in spite of her audible protests and cat-like glares, they hid their work and refused to tell her details. Salvatore had not yet returned; Pete quietly mentioned to Luigi and Matt, which the auburn-haired woman had overheard, that, on their first trip down to street level, he and Sam had seen DK escort two priests into the hotel lobby and, presumably, to Salvatore's undisclosed location. Having already eaten a little of the vegetarian kosher food that her parents were provided in their suite, Daisy did not partake in their lunch, although she plucked one of the blood orange-flavored Pellegrinos from the refrigerator. Mid-bite of his malt vinegar and salt chips, Pete looked up to see DK entering the living room of Luigi's suite. "Pete, uh, Salvatore wants to speak to you. Alone. I'll take you to him." Nodding, he grabbed a wad of recyclable paper napkins and followed him to the priest. Next came the buzz of Daisy's phone; taking it out of her pocket, her eyebrows raised disbelievingly while she read the incoming text message in Hebrew.
"Kerido?" she called out to Luigi in a whisper. Swallowing the last of his pastrami, he hummed, leaning in attentively to his lioness. "My stepmother wants to see us both in their suite. Now."
His skin blanched. After cleaning up the remnants of his meal, he obediently took her awaiting hand and let her pilot him to the Abravanels' suite. Yael is going to kill me slowly; instead of the Mafia, I'll be whacked by the Mossad! He must have communicated some distress, as Daisy comfortingly kissed the back of his hand during the fifty-odd-foot trip to their suite. Using the keycard, she opened the door to enter, dragging the fearful plumber. Whereas Harry was typing a brief on his laptop at the table, Yael was waiting for them; extraordinarily, she was wearing loose clothing instead of her tailored suits, though her hair was tied up in a gold and purple headscarf, and she was carrying a small metal object in her hands. "Shalom," she greeted Luigi in her usual taciturn manner.
"Uh, sh-shalom," he stammered, stepping slightly behind Daisy.
The Israeli raised an eyebrow at his movement. "I thought you were serious about saving your uncle from the Russian Mafia. Now you're hiding like a little boy behind his mother."
"I am serious!" he insisted. "I … I just don't know w-w-what this is about." Without moving his eyes from the computer screen, Harry coughed at the table, muttering something suspiciously akin to ijit. Daisy narrowed her eyes at her father.
"Do you know how to fight?" she asked. "How to defend yourself? Daisy tells me that you do not."
"No, I … I don't. My father didn't want me to fight or learn how to fight. He wanted …"
"Then you need to learn and quickly," she interrupted flatly. "Otherwise you'll risk doing neither harm nor good. Besides, I'd rather you not acquire skills from that menuval, Pete Morello." She pointed to the center of the salon where several pieces of furniture had been pushed aside or into the corners of the room. "You will stand here."
Having been reassured by his girlfriend, Luigi treaded cautiously toward the woman, stopping at the position to which she pointed. "Uh, alright. N-n-now what?"
"Prepare yourself. First, I will show you how to defend from knife attacks. Then how to best avoid a gunshot. However, the likelihood of being injured is high in the case of both weapons. Hand to hand combat is always preferrable, but I highly doubt that Russian thugs will give you the courtesy."
Luigi's eyes enlarged. "What?!"
She handed him the object – a metallic toilet paper roller. "Pretend to stab me from high. Overhand attack."
"Uh, w-w-with a toilet paper roller?" She raised her eyebrows seriously. "Uh, okay." He held the roller like a knife and made a swooping arc downward, only to be immediately caught up Yael's hand. "This is in some way the easiest attack to defend. You can avoid by jumping out of the way – backward or to the side. However, at some point, you'll want to disarm him. Step a little to the side, away from the knife, as I have done. That protects your vital organs – head and neck. Start the grab at the arc between your thumb and finger, then grab the wrist so that the grip is secure. Then strike quickly by hitting the groin, instep, point between the nose and lip, or knee. Within two seconds because he will cut your arm if you are slow. It's natural to freeze, but you must resist." Letting go of his wrist, she took the metal from his hand. "You try now. The first five times, we will do it slowly. Then I will make you do it instantly."
Luigi nodded uncertainly. She adjusted the knife so that she could overcome the nearly six-inch height differential. He gently blocked the incoming attack, though his grip was soft.
"You will not harm me if you grip harder. However, if you don't learn to do it now, the Russian gangster will not care. Yalla – again."
They repeated the motion; even though the man gripped much harder, his breathing increased tenfold, and began to turn away.
"Focus, yeled. If you take your eyes away, you'll end up dead."
Yelling out of frustration, the plumber revolved fully, hiding his face. Daisy held up a hand to her stepmother, who patiently stayed in place. "Kerido, I …" he began. "This was a bad idea. A bad idea! I don't know how to fight and even if I did, these guys have guns, knives, and fuck knows what else! I'll just be in the way!"
"Sweetie, look at me," she beckoned. He fearfully lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with several different colors of blue. "No one wants to fight. I don't want you to fight. And, if I could," she shot a glare at her father's back, "I would gladly do it with you. You'll have Mario. Salvatore. And even that slimy capo prick. Yael's right, though; you have to learn some, if only not to be a distraction or cause injury to the others. Including Giuseppe." He nodded again as she cupped his cheek. Closing into his space, she whispered, "Trust her. She's brusque and a pain-in-the-ass, but this was her idea."
Inhaling several times, he returned to the defensive position in front of Yael and resumed practice, improving slightly with each iteration. After she was more or less assured that the young man's muscles retained the movements, she changed the attack – a jab and slash. Throughout the practice, Daisy had sent an encrypted message to Miles to let him and the others know that Luigi would be necessarily occupied for the next few hours. On occasion, she had to reassure him or keep the Israeli sergeant from becoming too annoyed at his diffidence, all the while shooting heated glares at her father who, in spite of his feigned concentration on the screen, snickered when his wife chastised her student for pussyfooting around like an Italian slug having coffee break. The plumber pouted at the abuse; however, he persisted, refusing to yield in his lioness's presence. On his own, he used his jumping skills to slide backward or to the side and tagged her with his leg, which earned a brief tov from his trainer. Next came disarming his attacker; he whined a Sòggira when she flipped him over her shoulder. At this point, an amused Harry went to the kitchen for his second coffee while Luigi scrambled to his feet.
A knock came from the hallway. Everyone else being occupied, Daisy went to the door and looked through the peephole. The guard was arguing with a familiar tall man in a hotel-issue terrycloth robe who, clutching some sort of large snack bag, was attempting to sweet-talk him into letting him enter. Rolling her eyes, she cracked it ajar. "I'll only say this once, Lucas: go the fuck away."
"Oh, c'mon, Daisy! I'm bored! I'm having my suit dry cleaned, so I don't have my clothes. I have no money, so I can't watch Pay Per View, which the NYPD won't comp. And I can't call anyone, so I'm staring at the wall," he whined. At hearing Luigi's voice, he raised his eyebrow. "Is Weegie inside?"
"Aight, you heard the lady. Go back to your room!" ordered the non-uniformed police officer.
Lucas reached into the bag and put something into his mouth. Between bites, he answered, "No chance in hell. Not until I see my bestie." The man was about to issue him a warning, but the Manhattanite smugly added, "Man, I'm already in custody. It'd be a shame to let my father know where you all are staying. Besides, what's Luigi's doing in there? It looks like he's …"
Unwilling to risk the police interference in the upcoming operation, she exasperatedly spat, "It's okay. I'll let him in for a few minutes. If I don't, it'll risk too many people."
The man eyed him. "Are you sure?"
Stepping aside to allow Lucas passage, Daisy replied, "Yeah. He's currently a harmless idiot."
"How rude," he griped, sauntering inside. Growling, the lioness shut the door behind him. Upon entering the living room area, he saw Luigi defending against a slashing knife attack from Yael. Unobtrusively reaching into the bag for a third serving, he leaned against the wall next to Daisy. As she watched the pair once more, he extended the sack to her and offered, "Pork rind?" She rolled her eyes in disbelief and disgust.
Ceasing their practice upon spying their unexpected and unwelcomed guest, the plumber barked, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Um," he voiced between bites, "annoying you. Believe it or not, Weeg, police custody kinda sucks. There's nothing to do." For effect, he looked down at his terrycloth robe. "I'm having my only available suit dry cleaned. I mean, I asked for expedited service, but Satan only knows which Korean joint received the ticket."
"Well, go wait for it in your room!" retorted Luigi. "I'm busy!"
Lucas rolled his eyes as Harry, now ostensibly angry at the intrusion, returned from the kitchen, small coffee cup in hand. "Are we still rehashing the shit that happened in Dubai? Okay, I'm sorry that I nearly got Daisy fed to a bunch of raghead wannabe spies, alright?"
Harry, Yael, and Daisy scowled harshly at him while his frenemy irritably crossed his arms. "Yeah, fuck you, Lucas. While Dubai was the meat and potatoes, so to speak, that wasn't the icing on the cake. Now fuck off."
Impervious to the shorter man's orders, the Manhattanite requested with a hint of irritation, "May I talk to you in private?"
The Abravanels, particularly Harry, observed the two New Yorkers carefully; whereas Lucas continued to be self-assured to the point of arrogance, Luigi's body language communicated insecurity and caution. "Yeah, sure," the latter finally yielded, much to Daisy's visible horror. Waving to the livid lioness without facing her, the tall man escorted his frenemy into one of the other rooms and shut the door. Harry followed them a few seconds later, halting shy of the door to eavesdrop. As Daisy began to move, he calmly put his hand out, indicating that she should remain with Yael. She growled at him in protest.
On the other side of the door, Luigi stood with his arms crossed while his ex-friend took a seat in one of the armchairs. "Okay, Weeg, this has gone far enough. I mean, what the hell, man? Taking fighting lessons from the Mossad?! No offense, my man, but you aren't exactly the secret agent type! Now, c'mon – stop this stupid shit. Let's get some popcorn, room service, and do a Robocop marathon, huh? Just like we did back in the day."
The plumber narrowed his eyes. "You're right; it is stupid. It's stupid that Carlo Morano and his band of assclowns got me into this mess. It's stupid that your father has my uncle. It's stupid that I have to fight!"
He rolled his eyes for the second time. "Jesus Christ on a cracker, Weeg! Need I remind you that Joe the Plumber left you on the streets? He's every bit to blame for this! The fucking asshole denied you the right to go to college and make something of yourself! Who cares?! As far as I'm concerned, Crazy Lady's giving him what he so richly deserves!"
"And even if that were minutely true, Lucas," the Brooklynite hissed, "do my Zia Lucia, my grandmother, and his three daughters deserve the pain of his death?! Huh?"
Setting the bag of pork rinds down at the foot of the chair, he bolted up and walked over to his hostile friend. "Then let Sergeant Major Dickerson handle it. Let the cops handle it! Why do you need to be involved? And as for Daddy Dearest, he'll get caught. Crazy Lady will, too. It doesn't have to be your problem."
"Gee, Lucas, are you afraid I'll get killed?" he asked with flagrant snark. "Because the Crazy Lady already tried that. Hell, even the Saudis and, more importantly, you."
"I didn't try to kill you!" the taller man insisted. "I told Crazy Lady a fib! Did you honestly think I'd harm my best friend?! We're …" He sniffed. "We're like brothers, man."
"Oh, bullshit!" snapped Luigi, now irate. "You're here because you're too chickenshit to face your father, who's probably got no qualms over killing you. I honestly feel sorry for you – having met George Kariolis, I can now see how you had little to no chance in life. None! You want to save your own skin. I even understand it. Really!" Inhaling briefly so as not to give his ex-friend time to interrupt, he went on in a more calm voice, "But I have responsibilities, Lucas. You were actually right about one thing, back in February. I'd have lived a half-life had I continued the way I did. And yeah, you did bring me out of my shell. I went to California, dreamed about what hadn't been possible. And you're right that … Joe was a selfish prick. He kept me here because …" he trailed off, snickering to himself, "he wanted to be number one in a Masciarelli's life. And in his own way, he's apologized for it. Same goes for my brother, who's making up for his shit now. If I survive this, I'm going to college and living my life."
"With Daisy," he sniped.
"Yeah, with Daisy. Believe it or not, you're not the only influence on me. She's … everything I want in a woman and in a human being."
"Weeg, no offense …" Growling, he then pointed his finger at the plumber. "Know what? Fuck this, with offense – Daisy's the pet of her family! After two minutes of observing el Señor Abravanel and the Mossad Agent, I can tell that they're humoring you. Dude, they have absolutely no intention of allowing your relationship to continue. You're an Italian plumber! Even if you had a fancy engineering degree from Stanford, which you deserve, by the way, you're not a J-E-W! You won't get the official Fornication Under Consent of the King! You'll never get it! Plus, she's what – twenty-four, twenty-five? Once she's got that flashy law degree from Harvard or Stanford in a few years, she'll have her pick of the litter – guys who blow meaty SCOTUS cock and wax philosophical in obscure journals. C'mon, man! I can get you girls that …"
"That what? Are in my so-called league?" interjected Luigi while making air quotes. "See, that's the thing, Lucas – I fucking know you tried to hit on her. And guess what – she didn't want you! That's why you're pissed – you've always thought you were better than me, that you were more deserving of whatever I got! The little that I got!No, I don't know if she'll want me in a few years. I hope so because I love her, not because I only want to fuck her. But that's always been her choice. And yeah, I know her parents aren't huge fans of mine. They've made it fairly clear that they don't like me because I'm not Jewish and because of my maternal side's relationship to the LCN. I understand their objections, even if I don't agree with their assessment of me."
"Is that why you want to play Cowboys and Indians?" demanded the Manhattanite. "To prove to the Abravanels – what? That you're special?!"
He stared at Lucas blankly. "No, man, I'm doing this because I have the power to do something! That's what I've been trying to fucking tell you this entire time! I don't want to spend one more goddamned moment letting the world and everything in it pass me by because I'm afraid of losing!" He commenced a list on his fingers, shouting so that even Daisy and Yael heard from across the room on the other side, "I've lost my mother, my father, my grandfathers – plural – my brother to an extent, my education, and now my uncle! How much more do you, does the Mafia want to take?! Huh?!" With a deep breath, he yelled, "If it fucking means I die, just so I don't have to lose anymore, then so be it! If I can save one life, if I can save one more Bensonhurst schmo, however insignificant you or the rest of the world might think he or she is, from getting killed, then fuck it, let's go!" Both men were breathing harshly and staring at each other. Luigi tiredly regarded him and, a moment later, rasped, "It's not about being special to the world. I'm not. And I don't care to be. It's about doing what's right as an ordinary human being." Chuckling mirthlessly on his way to the closed door, he added, "Even as a lowlife Italian plumber. Funny, but we're human, too." Swinging it open, he faced a speechless Harry, Yael, and Daisy who had clearly heard at least part of the argument. "I need some air," he mumbled, exiting the suite.
After clearing it with the NYPD officers on duty, who accompanied him down to a blocked-off section of the hotel courtyard, Luigi slumped in a plastic chair at one of the open tables. Though he was still cross, a weight had strangely been lifted off his shoulders; he had finally uttered to his ex-friend every resentment that he had felt since being isolated and relocated to Staten Island. He glanced at his covered arm, feeling a comforting and energetic buzz that emanated from his tattoo. He cast his blue eyes up at the grayish autumn sky. Has the die been cast? Have I already lost?
"I don't miss the chilly weather on the East Coast," spoke a Boston-accented voice. He turned to find Daisy's father, now wearing a windbreaker, approaching his table. Remaining quiet, he watched as Harry sat down in the plastic chair across from him. "Like for many Brazilians, snow and cold are a complete anathema." Sighing, the lawyer went on, "I was born there, in São Paulo. My mother and I came to Somerville following the military coup in 1964. I was maybe two. My father stayed down there and was, uh, interrogated, even though he had nothing to do with the previous government's activities. Like several Latin American governments, the new order consisted of Nazi sympathizers who thought nothing of torturing a few Jews to prove an empty point. Eventually, he made it, but was never quite the same – at least, according to my mother. And my mother never quite adapted to life in America. Me?" He glanced at the curious, yet puzzled young man. "I dedicated myself to logic, the rigor of mathematics so that I … could explain why the world works as it does. Noether's Theorem: if a physical system behaves the same regardless of how it's oriented in space, then there exists some quantity conserved. There exist measurable conservation laws. I'm a firm believer in laws, kid. Universal balance. That's the only way we contain ourselves." Luigi nodded a little, uncertain as to the man's point.
"The thing is, laws aren't meant to be prognostic. They are deterministic, true, but they're really constant. Daisy and I … we've had this little argument going now for, well, years. What is deterministic and what is probabilistic." He laughed, shaking his head. "She knows I hate probability because it's inherently prognostic. What are the chances of something happening?" Silence fell upon the pair for a few seconds, Harry also glancing upward at the sky. "Anyway … Einstein was wrong – Adoshem does in fact play dice. I never expected you, Mr. Cannoli. And you were right; neither Yael nor I approved of you precisely for the reasons that you stated to that pigheaded prick. They go against the laws. Yet … there's a saying: a righteous man may fall down seven times, but he'll always get up for an eighth. That's neither bound nor governed by any law; if it were, the world would be an infinitely better place. Rather, that is probabilistic in that … we cannot guarantee who will possess that essential quality of humanity, of hope." Rising from his chair, he concluded, "Optimism, kid, is a passive virtue; hope an active one."
Just as soundlessly as he had come, Luigi watched Daisy's father re-enter the hotel, leaving him alone in the courtyard. Slumping into his seat, he shook his head at the situation. Although he agreed that hope was an effective tool against oppression and turmoil, he was unsure of the amount he current had in his arsenal. Could hope counter bullets? Keep me from getting killed? He believed what he had said to Lucas; if he could save Bensonhurst or one innocent person, he would do it in a heartbeat. That being said, and he was perhaps too much of a coward to speak openly to one Harry Abravanel, Luigi wanted to return to Daisy alive.
Lost in his thoughts, he failed to see a medium-sized, cat-like figure stroll toward him and hop into his lap. "Jesus!" he cried as an auburn-haired lioness stuck her face into his line of sight, demanding his attention. "Cat-face," he greeted with a wheeze.
"Plumber," she saluted in return.
"Where's Lucas?" he inquired, nuzzling the woman, who elicited a sound resembling something between a moan and a snicker.
"Yael threw him out. He talks a big game, but I doubt he was willing to mess with an Israeli soldier. She also trashed his pork rinds in front of him. When," she snorted gleefully, "he complained, she tossed, I think, like three dollars' worth of shekels at him. Then the guard 'chaperoned' him back to jail."
He grinned. "Serves him right."
"Kerido," she began softly, to which he hummed. "You are special … to me, to Mario, to Giuseppe, to Yoshi and Miles. Even, I think, to my parents. I don't think you intended it, but, uh …" She suddenly looked up to him. "Yael in particular was quite impressed with your speech. In her words, you're still a goy, though there's something about you that's more than goy."
Luigi burst out laughing, his hand moving to rub her back tenderly. "I'm moving up in the world." While laying her head against his clavicle, he brought his lips to her hairline. "I'm sorry that you're involved with this. That your family's involved. This … could get really ugly, sweetie. Can … your parents take you to San Francisco? Just tell the UN and Columbia that there's been a family emergency?"
Raising her head, Daisy let out a cautionary rumble. "Hell no! I am not leaving! I know it could get ugly. Papai and Yael do, too. But we're all staying."
He sighed in resignation. "Alright. You can't come with me, though."
"I know," she said with an edge to her voice. "My father made that clear. However, we do have an idea. Lucas … seems to like harassing me. I think he's willing to play chess; we'll find George."
Alarmed, Luigi studied his plotting lioness. "Kerido, he's dangerous! I don't buy that he doesn't completely know what Polina's up to, or his father, for that matter."
"Well, I won't just sit by while you take the risks!" she snapped.
"And what was Dubai about?" he replied calmly, though not without a hint of sarcasm. Her amber orbs constricted, conveying slight irritation at the turnabout. Realizing that they were pointing fingers at each other for the same thing, he snorted, kissing the top of her head once more. "We're two peas in a pod, aren't we, amore?" He exhaled lightly. "Alright, I trust you. You're right that we need to find the elder Kariolis, as I kind of doubt he's hiding underneath Columbia. A little, uh, downtown for him. Not to mention Vinny DiScala. Just … stay near DK." She nodded. "And I will come back to you, Daisy Abravanel."
Curled up together in the chair, neither Daisy nor Luigi were aware of the furious tall man glaring at them from inside the hotel. The cross-armed Lucas shook his head irritably, outraged that his supposed best friend would allow those crazy fucking Jews as well as his equally crazy fucking famiglia to talk him into getting his head blown off. In the short-term, he could hardly do anything to reconfigure Luigi's sudden suicidal ideations into his plan for the immediate future: first, stay alive and be just useful enough to the NYPD; second, collect information so as to be useful to his father and get out of police custody; lastly, get the idiot plumber boy away from his shitty family and the Mossad of the Amazon. Hitler was right to a point, he thought; they as a community are fucking self-righteous and annoying.
About fifty feet behind Lucas stood a grayish-haired hotel cleaner who was shyly eyeing the scene. Throughout the morning and into the afternoon, Piotr listened in on the barrage of activity, having surmised that an independent rescue mission was forthcoming. A metaphorical fork in the road, he had to decide whether to follow the assault team to Columbia or observe the Kariolis boy and allow his arrogance to lead him to his arms-dealing father. Terrorism or retribution. Perhaps both? He calmly reflected upon the situation, arriving at a plan to simultaneously ensnare Polina Lepeshinskaya and George Kariolis. Regrettably, he would need to free the latter's son at a certain point. Although it can't be helped, I would've loved to see him suffer in an American jail. Leaving his cleaning cart near the men's restroom, he took out a small burner phone and dialed a number. "Yes, I need to set up a meeting with Semyon Stepanovich," he spoke in Russian. "Yes. We'll have dinner."
Mario had returned earlier that afternoon to accompany a pissed-off Peach to New York-Presbyterian Hospital, both to order Luigi's anti-anxiety medication as well as to visit Rospo and Lucia. Though still in a great amount of pain, the Libyan was in good spirits, particularly as the soldier quietly communicated that not only had they recovered Luigi, but they would moreover repay the favor to Polina and her Russian goon squad. As for his fretful aunt, Mario vowed to her that he, his brother, Pete Morello, and Salvatore would bring back Joe alive. The normally fierce Italiana simply nodded, possessing little physical and emotional strength to argue. "Please," she rasped, "bring him back soon. I … I don't think I can break Mamma Maria's heart a second time, nipote. Especially not at her age."
By six-thirty, the van's command center, the four men's backpacks and other necessities were arranged and ready for departure. At roughly the same time, DK, who was dressed in casual, yet dark clothing instead of his normal trench coat, blue business suit, and striped tie, came back to the hotel, dismissing nearly all of the protective detail, save his own team, much to Mario's, Luigi's, and Pete's alarm. "I pulled some strings; 1PP is aware of the situation. Officially, the brass can't condone your actions, but even they agreed that we got no one better. And sending in the SWAT psychos will only get Joe killed. We'll keep protection on the Abravanels, Cristina, and that little shit, Lucas. I'll help as I can. Just know that … you're technically on your own."
Mario, Luigi, Pete, and the newly-arrived Salvatore, small espresso in hand, exchanged a look of agreement. "Yeah, we got that," answered the first man. "So let's run through the plan. Yoshi, Miles?"
Matt and Miles pulled up a blueprint map that they had made of the Columbia University tunnels, around which Sam, Mario, DK, Luigi, Pete, Salvatore, and Peach gathered. "Thanks to Yoshi and Miles," Matt stated, "we were able to backdoor the IT Security Office to pull up the most up-to-date map – or at least what the administration has – of the tunnels. Assuming Miles's little zero-day was a ping – and we all think it was – her telephone signal had to be somewhere along 116th Street. We know that those burner phones don't have much of a signal below ground, so she must have called nearby. Miles thinks it's the College Walk."
The Japanese nodded in agreement. "Yeah, Mario, you know that square manhole cover?"
Rolling his eyes, he barked, "Don't fuckin' tell me that I gotta fit my round ass in a sealed square hole! Nonno, who was equally as rotund, never did that shit!"
"Yeah, no, we checked it. It's pretty small, man. Not even the Crazy Bitch could fit through it." Luigi shook his head to agree that, despite her svelte size, Lady Bowser probably could not. Yoshi continued, "The nearest entrances are in Kent Hall and the Philosophy Buildings. There's also Lewisohn on the other side, going toward Barnard College."
Salvatore shook his head while sipping the bitter coffee. "She's not going to make it easily accessible or observable. What about rumored entrances?"
Miles looked at Yoshi uncertainly, then shrugged. "There are several underneath Schermerhorn, University Hall, and Pupin Hall. Some are wide and walkable; some are red-hot pipes or otherwise impassable."
Pete chuckled. "Welp, I guess someone's got to bring the sledgehammer. Anyway, I agree with Sal – she's going to opt for the least travelled path."
"Carman Hall's your best bet," interjected Mario, pointing to the south end of the campus map. "Nonno and I used to enter near the physical plants. No one was the wiser when a plumber was hangin' around there." Luigi, Salvatore, and Pete each gave a slight nod.
"Okay. Now this part will be tricky," Yoshi resumed. "Since you've been down there, Mario, Columbia's gotten smart. They've added security measures to keep unauthorized people from accessing the tunnel system. Miles, Sam, and Matt didn't find any obvious malware in their systems, so how the hell Lady Bowser snuck Joe down there without the campus cops noticing is beyond us. But Miles and Matt cooked up a nasty virus that will help you. In your backpacks, we've also included tools for any booby traps or locks."
"You're saying someone at Columbia's helping Polina?" inquired Luigi.
"Possibly," affirmed Sam. "It'd be the most logical explanation. But we don't know fuck-all who."
"We'll keep an eye out for any Russian hackers, but right now, there's nothing we can do. The main thing is, depending on how wise the IT Department gets to our operation, you'll have little time to get Giuseppe out. Particularly if the Russians are packing heat, and we know they are," interjected Matt. "We're thinking thirty minutes max. We might be able to get you an additional five. You'll have little cover, so beware of ricochets. Not to mention the pipes themselves."
"Shit," breathed Mario. "Yeah, bullets hitting some of those gas and steam pipes could ignite the place. Aight. Let's get some dinner – no sense storming the fortress on an empty stomach. Afterward, we'll suit up and head to the van. John … Bowser has something to show us. The fuckin' troll wants to see us at nine under the bridge near Sutton Place."
The rest of the group gawked at the plumber dubiously. Luigi rolled his eyes, demanding, "Can you even trust that fuck, fratello?"
He grinned, slapping his little brother on the shoulder. "Relax, bro. It'll be aight; if it ain't, I'll drop his dead body off the Queensboro. Nobody'll miss him."
An hour later, the hotel brought up room service for the self-named Wrecking Crew: portobello burgers and steak fries for Mario, Sam, Pete, with Peach rolling her eyes at her lover hoarding the complimentary ketchup bottle; a lighter fare of rigatoni with white ragù and wild mushrooms for Luigi, Miles, Matt, Peach, and Salvatore. DK abstained with the excuse that he had a late lunch and a few power bars. Whereas Mario ate heartily, the others were in varying stages of their meal by its end. Salvatore, who ate the least, substituted the remaining half of the rigatoni for a badly-needed cigarette. Though he had, under Peach's supervision, taken the anti-anxiety medication, Luigi pretended to ignore his maternal uncle in order to avoid the deleterious temptation of the nicotine as well as Daisy's disapproval. Once the staff had cleared the dinner trays, several of whom wrinkled their noses in distaste at the entrail-like ketchup streaks on Mario's plate, the four men went to change into black cargo pants, tee-shirts, body armor, and an outer jacket with pockets. While they got dressed, Matt and Yoshi performed a final check of each backpack: a black woolen cap, an overhead lamp with two backups, extra batteries, a military-grade knife, lockpick kit, mountaineering rope, carabiners, a small sledgehammer, and a standard mining headset and receiver for communication. Sam and DK noiselessly maneuvered the van at the service entrance so that it would not be noticed by nosey New Yorkers or Mafia lookouts. At eight-thirty, Mario, Luigi, Pete, and Salvatore exited the bathroom or bedroom suite in their all black gear.
Peach, who had been quiet throughout dinner, turned away from her spouse in a silent rebuke of his – their – actions. "Ah, c'mon, Peaches," protested Mario, steepling his hands. "We'll be back before you know it. Then you can tell me to go fuck myself in person, huh?" Angrily, she tossed up her hand at him, earning amused snickers from Pete, DK, Yoshi, and Salvatore. Luigi smiled in sympatico, his eyes twinkling at the scene.
As the blonde crossed her arms, her back to the irked plumber, a discernably nervous Daisy entered the room. The younger plumber immediately went to his lover and pressed his head to hers. "I'm coming back, kerido," he promised.
"You fucking better," she whispered, kissing his lips.
"You know," he leered, "it's really fucking hot when you swear."
They exchanged another passionate kiss when Sam called out, "We better head out if we want to meet the Queensboro Troll."
To limit suspicion, the Wrecking Crew departed in pairs with a trusted volunteer police officer: Salvatore and Miles first; Pete and Matt second; Luigi, who blew a kiss to his sad lioness, and Sam; Mario, DK, and Yoshi last. Stepping across the threshold, the momentarily despondent plumber, whose pleas had fallen on deaf Venetian ears, felt his body being spun around and pink lips slamming upon his. "Bloody stupid Yank plumber!" she hissed. "I'll hunt down your ghost if you end up dead!"
Mario kissed her back with more fervor, eventually breaking apart to plant his dry masculine lips upon her hand. "Bellissima," he murmured before leaving her, Daisy, and the remaining NYPD officers in the suite. Taking the stairs, they made their way through the hotel kitchen and service entrance to the rear of the building, where the van was waiting. Mario's eyebrows raised as he noticed the pink logo on the sides: Toadstool Catering, Co. – Queens, NY 11351 – Tel. 929-654-4786. He and DK traded a conscious nod, then he climbed into the driver's side, Yoshi running to the passenger side, and commenced the journey to Sutton Place.
"Jesus, Yoshi," griped the plumber while navigating Friday night traffic, "who the fuck came up with a catering company?"
He laughed. "It was Pete's idea, actually. It's not a bad one – had this been a plumbing rig, we would've immediately attracted suspicion. Like, why the fuck would there be an independent plumbing truck at Columbia at this time of night? But catering? Friday night party on campus? Cops won't even blink."
Nodding, the plumber answered, "Good point." Trying to quash his building annoyance from the eastward stop-and-go along East 36th Street, he inquired, "Are they aight back there?"
"Yeah," affirmed Yoshi. "It's a tight fit with six people, but manageable. I guess Sam and Matt got this van on the black market; it was a FBI surveillance vehicle at one point."
Inevitably passing the Armenian Apostolic Cathedral, the traffic started to abate, and the plumber made a swift, though smooth left turn onto 1st Avenue. Since most of the United Nations bureaucrats had departed for the weekend, the van easily accelerated north five or six blocks at a time before hitting a red light. Mario grumbled a little upon traversing East 55th Street, where there were a greater number of pedestrians enjoying or dining in the coolish autumn evening. After a couple minutes, he turned onto East 59th Street, just shy of the Queensboro bridge where he spotted the dark-jacketed Bowser leaning against the trunk of a black SUV. Checking for both rear traffic and the NYPD, he eased the van to the curb and behind the vehicle. Putting it into park and shutting off the engine, Mario slid out of the cab to the street and, Yoshi trailing him, converged upon the tall bartender.
"Aight, Bowser, I'm here," he announced. "So what's the state secret? Did NASA find a ring around Uranus?"
John twisted the toothpick in his mouth, rolling his eyes. "You're five minutes late, asshole."
The van's rear door unlocked, and Pete, Salvatore, and Luigi filed out one by one until they were flanking the plumber and Yoshi.
"Yo!" called out another voice. The group twisted or shifted so that they could see the SUV driver's face.
Mario's eyes widened. "Johnny? The fuck you doin' here?"
Dressed in his normal hoodie, jeans, and plumber's boots, Johnny Scapelli approached the men, shrugging sheepishly. "Just … running an errand for my uncle, y'know? He, uh, asked me to help Bowser here."
Pete crossed his arms. "Help him do what, exactly?"
John shook his head. "So fuckin' impatient." He then raised the trunk door, lifted the heavy tarp covering a series of unknown shapes, and stepped aside so they could see. Five pairs of eyes enlarged or sparkled with glee at the trove of two AR-15s, two Uzis, ten Smith and Wessons, Berettas, and Glocks, fifteen boxes of ammunition, and two containers of grenades. "Top of the line shit for youse use!" he proclaimed.
Whereas Pete whistled, inspecting the Uzi, Luigi snorted, "And somehow Scapelli just had this shit layin' around his inventory? Y'know, between the plywood and the cement blocks?"
Johnny's lips parted, presumably to give a bullshit answer to his manager, when Bowser countered, "Does it fuckin' matter where they came from, Greenie? Trust me – no bodies are associated with this shit. It's all clean, and yes, I checked. If you're going after the Crazy Bitch and her band of crazy commie fucks, you're gonna need as much fire power as you can get. Besides," he smirked, chewing on the toothpick, "Mario worked way too hard to get your skinny ass out of her clutches; it'd be a fuckin' shame if you ended up as a maggot buffet."
"Let's load all of this into the back," ordered Pete, signaling for Sam's assistance. Carefully collecting the guns and grenades, Mario, Pete, Bowser, and Sam ran them inside the command center, where Matt, equally wide-eyed at the addition, arranged for a safe and obscured space for them. Johnny, Salvatore, and Luigi hurriedly followed, ammunition boxes in hand.
Jogging back to the SUV, Johnny closed the trunk. From his position, he gave them a curt nod. "Good luck; the guys at the shop are behind youse."
"Thanks, Johnny," responded Luigi with a thin smile.
Salvatore, Pete, Sam, and Yoshi climbed into the van's rear. Mario exclaimed to Yoshi, who was about to lock it from the inside, "Yo, wait a sec!" The physicist peaked his head outside expectantly, still holding the door. Facing the bartender and his younger brother, the portly man spoke, "Y'know … You can spend this evening as Irish Trash, wiping glasses and the bar, doin' nothin', or … You could, uh, come give the Crazy Bitch hell?" Yoshi and Luigi stared at each other in disbelief as John blankly twisted the thin stick in the corner of his mouth.
"I thought you'd never fuckin' ask, Plunger!" he rejoined.
At their leader's thumb-jab toward the van door, Yoshi half-heartedly allowed the redhead to pass, locking up after him. Mario and Luigi subsequently scurried into the front cab. From inside the SUV, Scapelli watched the Toadstool Caterers – the Wrecking Crew – disappear into the night.
