“It’s ready to go,” I said. “Remember, your first option is to put one in the back of his head. He can’t fight back if he doesn’t see you coming. Put it right behind the ear if you can. If not, fill his chest with lead — heart and lungs. Don’t shoot him in the face.”
“Why?”
“You shouldn’t have to ask me that. It’s disrespectful. Their relatives can’t put them in an open casket if you shoot them in the face.”
“All these years in the game, Pops, and you’ve never shot anyone in the face?”
“Not one time. I’ve taken out the lowest scum on earth, but a pro doesn’t shoot them in the face. You don’t do that to their families.”
“Seems to me that shooting them in the face sends a message. It tells them you mean business.”
“Sometime tonight, maybe for just two or three seconds, try to listen to one thing I tell you.” I took a breath and rubbed my eyes with my fingertips. “So what’s the story?”
“Same deal as usual. Some gangbangers from Youngstown are poaching on our turf again. Little Tommy’s warned them. Tonight they figure out he’s serious as a heart attack. This guy we’re meeting thinks I want to score some heroin.”
“Okay, remember, don’t get careless and don’t get cute. This ain’t the movies. Don’t be talkin’ to him and makin’ him beg for mercy. You’re not playing for style points. Do the job and get out.”
“I’ve got it. You’re coming with me, right?”
“And what, hold your hand?”
“No, just be my backup.”
“What happened to all that bravado? Five minutes ago you couldn’t wait to clip this guy.”
“Come on, Pops, it’s my first time.”
I groaned. “Fine.”
Just outside of Glasgow we crossed over Little Beaver Creek and turned north onto Calcutta-Smith Ferry Road. We drove east, passed the Ohio-Pennsylvania line, and followed the road to the edge of Beaver Creek State Forest. He pulled onto a dirt road and said, “I think the meeting point is up here.”
“You think it’s up here?” I asked, my voice climbing. “We’re coming out here to clip someone and you’re not even sure where you’re meeting him?”
He swallowed. “This is right,” he said. “I remember now.”
He drove a quarter mile into the heavy woods and pulled to the edge of the dirt path. “Your Bumblebee is going to get all muddy,” I said.
“Let’s get out,” Gaetano said. “I don’t want to be sitting in the car when he shows up.”
“What if he brings company?” I asked.
“He won’t.”
We exited the car. He turned off the engine but left the headlights on.
“Wait by the car,” I said. “Lean against the hood; look relaxed. You want him to let down his guard.” I pointed to a thicket of trees. “I’ll back you up from over there in the brush, out of sight.”
I’d only taken two steps when I heard the click of the pistol hammer locking into place. Gaetano said, “That’s far enough, Pops.”
I turned to find him standing in the glow of the headlights, his arm extended, the pistol I had just handed him pointing at my forehead.
“Me?” I asked.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Pops. You’ve been talking to the feds.”
“No, they’ve just been talking to me. They want me to flip, but I haven’t told them anything.”
“That’s not what Little Tommy heard. He’s still got some friends around the bureau from the old days. They told Little Tommy that you’re going to sell out for a little house in the country.”
“That’s not true. Can’t we talk about this?”
“Nothing to talk about, Pops. It’s time for you to go see your buddy Carlo.” He rolled his wrist, and the chrome plating on the revolver glinted in the beam of the headlights. “Ironic, ain’t it, Pops? You’re going to cash out on the wrong end of Carlo Russo’s gun — I mean, his piece.” He chuckled, but just for an instant before his upper lip curled and his eyes turned to slits. “I’m glad to get rid of your tired ass.” He squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell. Snap. Nothing. He squeezed again. Snap. Nothing.
Gaetano looked down at the revolver and frowned. “What the...”
It took only a moment for him to realize what had occurred, but by then I had pulled Carlo’s 9-millimeter Beretta out of my waistband and had a bead on him.
I had always figured that eventually someone would put a bullet behind my ear — I saw it as an acceptable risk of the profession. But not today. Not this young punk.
“Keep your hands up where I can see them, Junior.” I took two steps closer. “You actually thought I would give a punk like you Carlo Russo’s weapon.” He looked down at the useless revolver. “Carlo never used a revolver, and I would never let you touch his piece. How many times have I told you that you were careless and it was going to get you killed? Too many, and now it has.”
Before he could plead for his life, I emptied the magazine into his chest. It was overkill, so to speak, and the repercussion echoed through the forest. I rolled him over with my foot and pulled his wallet from his pants pocket. There was four hundred and twenty-two dollars inside, and I took it. Normally that is considered bad form in my business, but I didn’t care. I fished through his pants pockets and found the keys to the Camaro. As I was about to walk away, his cell phone started to chime. I snatched it from a jacket pocket. On the white screen were the initials LTF — Little Tommy Fortunato.
I touched the green button on the screen and said, “Hi, Tommy.”
He stammered for a minute. “Uncle Ange, hey, can I speak to Gaetano?”
“He can’t talk right now, Tommy.”
“Is he busy?”
“No, he ain’t busy at all. He just can’t talk.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Oh, okay, tell him to call me back when he can.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.”
“Why’s that?”
“He wasn’t as ready for this job as you thought. I told you he was careless.”
“What happened?”
“You sleep tight tonight, Tommy.”
He was still talking when I hit the red button.
For the first time in years I feel like I’m in charge, and that I matter again.
Little Tommy and Gaetano looked at me like I was a dinosaur, and maybe that played to my favor. You see, when you’ve been in the business as long as me, you know when something is going down. You feel it in your bones. That’s why I filed down the firing pin on the revolver and made up the story about it being Carlo’s. You don’t live to be seventy-two in this business being careless. You’ve got to think ahead.
I squeeze behind the wheel of the Bumblebee and head back to the city. I have to admit, it’s a pretty sweet ride. As I drive, I consider my options.
Maybe I’ll take Special Agent Lawrence G. Braddock up on his offer. The damp winters here were starting to wear on me. Having a little place in Arizona might be nice.
Or maybe I’ll go shoot Little Tommy Fortunato in the face.
I’ll think about it a while.
In the meantime I’ll use Gaetano’s money to treat myself at Undo’s, just like the old days. I’ll get a corner booth, order the bucatini with clam sauce, a Chianti, and maybe a cannoli.
Contributors’ Notes
Pam Blackwood grew up south of Greensboro, North Carolina, surrounded by extended family, a host of animals, and a child’s haven of nine wooded acres to explore. She learned to love stories by listening to those her father told at the supper table on Saturday evenings. Now, somewhat tamed, she lives in the city limits with her husband, Taylor, and two black cats, Jem and Scout.