Political maneuverings

The city hummed to Larry as he turned up the collar of his coat, the building door swinging shut behind him. Patting his coat, he found his .38, and ignored it steadily as he walked down the alleyway into the street light. A group of kids out trick or treating bustled past, fake fangs and pointy hats all over, with Halloween lantern collecting boxes. Watching them as the rain stayed on coming down, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and with his thumbnail lit a match. Cupping it to his thin face he puffed hungrily on the fag, it lit and with a shake of his hand he threw the match to the ground and walked on to meet with the boss in a warehouse on the more bumpy side of town.

The trip to the boss' hideout was cold, rain spattering on him sieved through the fire escapes and clothes lines of apartment buildings, muddy underfoot, and darkness pervading. As he got to the place Larry took a last drag from his cigarette and stopped staring at the door which was open. A quick look either way and his internal alarm started beating in his head making his heart beat a carioca on his ribs. Screwing up his courage, he drew his .38 and smoothly moved to the door side. He booted it in and as it swung open he took a careful look at the inside as it was revealed, the silence broken only by the sound of the rain hitting his coat in soft thup noises. Playing the angles, he moved around slow, watching the interior. Satisfied and checking the lighting rigs in the ceiling, Larry walked into the building.

Dimly the lights glowed as he stepped in, shadows in the corners and the rain still beating making its presence heard on the roof a tap dance class that wouldn't quit dully intruding into his concentration. Larry, with his pistol out in front of him looking more like a juve every second, hugged the wall and took a good long look. Fat Sam's place looked like some one had taken it by the ankles and dragged it through town for a few days. Boxes and crates all over and a chair in the center of the room with a table next to it. A man was slumped in it, head down. With his hand outstretched on the table, palm down as if he was a drunk, in his last breath pushing the bottle from him. Larry knew him. Of course he did. He'd worked for the guys brother for three years. 

It was Gianni Capello. Larry's hair nearly lifted clean off his head as he approached the table. Whoever wanted Gianni had wanted something out of him first. As he got to Gianni he could see the reason for the hand being outstretched. It was nailed to the table through every finger nail and then every joint. In a moment of gruesome clarity, he saw they'd only done his thumb and three fingers. Larry looked and shivered. The blood on the floor was sticky and cold. As he cleaned his hand on his pant leg, a scrape sounded behind him. Larry dropped and spun on one knee at the door, splashing his knee in Gianni's blood. Checking the door out with his barrel, he nosed it over and about some before looking down and tightening his mouth as the cold wetness spread over his kneecap. [ Next ]

Written by David Simons