Reed Coleman - Onion Street

“How much good faith?” Tony P wanted to know.

“Twenty-five grand worth.”

“I’m still listenin’.”

“Once Bobby drops the drugs off in a safe place for you to collect them, we’re all through. There’s nothing to tie you to Bobby. He’s got nothing to tie you to anything. Me, I never had any real connection to you except the quarters you used to pull outta my ears. I don’t know anything about your operation. And even though I know it was Jimmy that killed Samantha Hope, I can’t hurt you. I got no proof.”

“Here’s the problem with that, Moe,” Tony said, holding his palms up to the ceiling. “You, I trust. I swear.” His expression was as sincere as a first kiss. “I’m sure you mean what you say and I could sleep safe at night knowing you would keep your word. Problem is, I don’t trust Bobby as far as I could t’row him, not where money’s involved. And what I’m thinkin’ is maybe you shouldn’t’ve trusted him neither. What makes you so sure he’s even gonna be on the other end of that phone when you call him up? He’s probably got the stuff stashed somewheres and he’s halfway to California by now, or maybe he’s already got a buyer for it and they’re making the swap as we speak. See, the thing is here that I know Bobby like you don’t. Bobby would never pay me back the money he made and there’s no way he’d put extra on top. Sorry, kid, I think your pal fucked you and left you holdin’ the bag.”

“But — ”

“And you know what else I think, kid? I think those explosives really are bullshit.”

“You wanna find out?”

Tony P’s face turned hard. “Maybe I do. Yeah, in fact, I’m sure I do. Jimmy,” Tony said without looking at his muscle, “this little weasel’s moanin’ and groanin’ is annoyin’ the shit outta me. Do me a favor, shut him up.”

With that, Jimmy reached underneath his coat and pulled out a.45.

“Wait a second,” I shouted, thrusting my detonator hand forward. “You’re forgetting something.”

“No, Moe, I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’. I just wanna see how serious you really are. Are you gonna blow us all up to save this drug-pushin’ piece a shit? You realize he works for me, right? Who do you think supplies him with his product, the welfare office?” Tony P smiled. “Fact is, Moe, seems like all your friends work for me.”

“Wait! Wait!” I shouted again. “I’ll let go of the — ”

Then the world changed speeds. Instead of things happening in a smooth flow of actions, one second spilling into the next, space fractured. Movement is a series of rapid still photos, a series of blackness and bright strobing flashes; sound lags sadly behind. Jimmy Ding Dong racks the slide of the automatic, a chambered bullet ejects into space. I swear I can see each individual tumble as the shell spins in midair and arcs to the ground, bouncing as it hits. Jimmy turns to look at me, his face coming in and out of focus. Then, in an eternal second, his face frozen in that cruel, icy smile of the crocodile, he has placed the muzzle of the.45 behind Lids’s left ear.

I shout again, “Wait!” but there seems to be no sound. I release my thumb from the detonator switch. Tony P is only half right. The plastic explosives are fake. The blasting caps are not. There are two bright flashes. Smoke, lightning, but no thunder. Shocked faces, panicked faces lit by the flashes emerge out of the dark background. Jimmy jerks his gun arm away from Lids and raises it at me. Another figure strobes into the frame. Bobby! Something’s in his hand. Something metal. Something I’ve seen before.

Sound returns to the world in a dizzying rush. I hear everything all at once: the racking of the.45’s slide, the pinging of the ejected bullet shell against the concrete floor, my scream, Lids moaning, the blasting caps exploding, Bobby’s footfalls. Then there is a distinct sound, a new sound: cha-ching . And suddenly I know what it is in Bobby’s hand. This time when lightning comes, it comes with thunder. Jimmy Ding Dong’s neck and shoulder explode in a spray of flesh and blood and bits of bone, some of it splashing onto the skin of my face. It’s warm, I think, almost like human blood. Jimmy falls forward, his.45 skittering along the cement floor to my feet. Cha-ching! Thunder and lightning again. Tony P goes down in a heap, his abdomen and groin a bloody red mess.

“You fuckin’ bastard!” he’s screaming in anger and agony, but paradoxical tears stream down his swollen cheeks. “You fuckin’ little bastard. I’m gonna kill you.”

Bobby, his permanent smile gone forever, puts the sole of his boot against Tony’s face, pressing it against the floor. He pumps the shotgun one last time — cha-ching — and places the muzzle against the soft flesh of Tony’s fat neck.

“What’s the matter, Tony Pepperoni, you fat, ugly fuck, nothing to say to me now? No fucking threats? Beg and maybe I won’t kill you slow.”

“Stop it, Bobby,” I said, voice cool.

“No, this asshole’s gonna pay for having Sam killed.”

“Put the shotgun down, Bobby,” I said, realizing that I had Jimmy’s.45 in my hand and that it was pointed at Bobby Friedman’s chest.

“Look what he did to Lids. He was gonna kill us all. He — ”

“Put it down, Bobby. C’mon, just leave him for the cops. He’s probably gonna just die here anyway.”

Then, as if what he’d just done hit him in the gut, the air and fight went out of Bobby. He laid the shotgun, the one he’d stolen from Detective Casey’s white van, on the floor behind Tony. Bobby dropped to his knees and began sobbing uncontrollably. Killing, I guess, isn’t as easy as it seems, even if the victim deserves it. What happened next is not what I thought would happen, because I found myself kneeling not over Lids but over Tony P. I was kneeling over him and pushing the barrel of Jimmy’s.45 against Tony’s cheek.

“You wanna live, Tony? Gimme the name of the cop who ratted out Samantha,” I heard myself say.

“Fuck you!”

I pressed the muzzle harder to Tony’s cheek and counted, “One … two … thr — ”

“Fitzhugh!” he shouted, his eyes getting big. “Detective Patrick Fitzhugh. He’s on the Luchese family pad. We share info sometimes and they get a taste of my profits. Now get me some fuckin’ help. Jeez, this fuckin’ hurts, man. It hurts bad.”

“Okay, when we get outta here, I’ll call you an ambulance.” I turned to Bobby. “Get Lids into the car. I’ll clean up in here.”

But almost as soon as I got those last words out of my mouth, Tony P’s body started jerking like crazy. He gasped for air, clawing at his throat. Then he stiffened. His body just kind of shook like a jolt of electricity was shot through it. And suddenly it was over. This was no sleight of hand, no illusion. Tony Pizza, or Pepperoni, or whoever the fuck he had been, was no more. There was no rabbit, no hat to pull it out of, no quarter, no ear from which to make it appear. There was nothing left of him but his fat carcass and his beloved car. I looked away from Tony to Bobby, and away from Bobby to Lids, and wondered just how different they really were from one another. It struck me that I was glad there was no mirror in the room, and I stopped wondering.

From Long Island Newsday

Bodies Found in Storage Warehouse

Kathleen Eull

Last evening Suffolk County Police discovered the bodies of two men in an abandoned storage warehouse in Lake Ronkonkoma. The victims, identified as Anthony Pistone, a.k.a. Tony Pizza, and James DiLaurio, a.k.a. Jimmy Ding Dong, both of the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn, were known to police and were suspected of having ties to organized crime in New York City. Both Pistone and DiLaurio died of shotgun wounds.