Reed Coleman - Little Easter

“Smart,” don Roberto gave me the crooked smile. “Jews are so fuckin’ smart. No wonder the rest of the fuckin’ planet can’t stand ’em.”

“That’s a point.”

“So this donkey tells us he’s found Dante’s old puttana and that for the right price not only can he tell me where to find her, but he can drive her into my backyard. I don’t like it, becuse he shouldn’t be calling me. To the rest of the world, it’s my son that runs things. No one should have to come to me. And when I ask him why he did, he-”

“O’Toole tells you that you’re not the first person he’s come to,” I sipped on my beer and paused, “but the last.”

“That prick, O’Toole. He says he’s talked to everyone in the organizattion about that bitch and they all promise to pass the word on. Only no one gets back to him. He has the stones to ask me if the Gandolfos are getting soft. And he wonders how that will play out on the street,” the don’s face grew pink under his luxurious tan and his expression turned as sour as month-old milk. “I sat there and listened to this potato-eating piece of shit insult my family. This moron who couldn’t wipe his ass without written instructions is spitting in my face.”

“But you checked O’Toole’s story out just to make sure,” I put the empty beer bottle down, “and it turns out he’s telling the truth. Dante could have gotten Azrael for months, but sat on the information instead. And you came down here and looked at that bar and wondered why. None of the explanations you came up with satisfied you. Did they?” I asked rhetorically. “So you took O’Toole up on his offer and killed the woman to punish your son and to make sure word wouldn’t get around that the Gandolfos were going soft. Then you whacked O’Toole for insulting your honor and to clean up any loose ends. All very neat.”

“I didn’t touch O’Toole,” Roberto Gandolfo looked at me with fierce displeasure. “Don’t ever insult me like that again.”

Talk about surreal. Here’s a man that just got done telling me he murdered a woman and was sorry only that he couldn’t make the hurt last long enough, a man who murdered someone else just to throw the cops a red herring and he’s mad that I implied he might have killed someone who actually deserved it. Silly me.

“Never again. Scout’s honor,” was what I said. “Can I ask you something, don Roberto?”

He nodded I could.

“What was the canary business all about? It’s a little old-fashioned.”

“So am I, Mr. Klein. But the bird was a message to my son, so he would understand who had taken his puttana away.”

I thought about asking the don why he just didn’t discuss the matter with his son, but I was understandably shy about insulting him.

“Cheech!” Don Roberto shouted at the walls and the stocky man appeared almost instantaneously. “Now that you’ve rested and finished your beer, Mr. Klein,” the old man’s eyes captured mine, “the time has come to save your life and your friend’s.”

“I thought you people didn’t kill cops and civilians,” my voice broke.

“Yeah, and in the big war we only bombed military targets,” he enjoyed his own sarcasm. “It’s nice to see a grown man who still believes in the tooth fairy. Anyway, who said I was gonna kill you? I know a few spies and gooks who aren’t so choosy about who they stick their shivs into as long as the money’s right.”

“So what can I do for you?” I asked, feeling suddenly weak-legged and light-headed. I wasn’t so naive as to think I’d ever see the sun again, even if I had the answers he wanted.

“My boy is soft like a little girl, Mr. Klein. Only once before has he been disloyal to his family. I knew the details then. I don’t know them now. By not coming to me about that bitch, Dante put in jeopardy my whole organization. My guts tell me you know what secret that puttana held over my son’s head.”

Soft like a little girl, huh? To this guy, soft like a little girl meant you hadn’t slaughtered as many people as Attila the Hun and you hadn’t enjoyed it as much as Jack the Ripper.

“Did you ever think of asking your son?”

The don gave his head a quick twist and with that, Cheech put a granite fist into my right kidney. I went down like the Titanic.

“I warned you about insulting me, Mr. Klein,” he slapped my face for good measure. “Roberto Gandolfo does not crawl to his son, capisce? ”

In between gasps for air, I nodded that I understood.

“I’ve also spoken to my attorney,” my inquisitor added.

“Fuck Larry Feld,” I coughed. Cheech rapped a knuckle into the bump on my head which had risen since Johnny’s gun butt had kissed it.

“Mr. Feld tells me you’ve been very interested in these goings-on for a long time. And you know what else?” He neglected to wait for my reply. “My lawyer says you had a meeting with my son and that you received a hundred large to give to a dead whore. That’s a curious thing, Mr. Klein.”

“Very,” I agreed from my standard kneeling position.

“One more time, Mr. Klein, I ask you nicely. What was the puttana holding over Dante’s head for all these years?”

I never really considered telling him about Leyna. He didn’t deserve to know. And as long as I knew something the Mafia king did not, my chances to continue breathing were enhanced.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got big balls,” don Roberto complimented, “but I don’t give out medals for big balls.”

The senior Gandolfo twisted his head again. This time Cheech gave it to me in both kidneys full out. As my face touched carpet, the flavors of iron and salt mixed in my mouth with the remnants of hops and barley. In my waning seconds of consciousness, I heard a feverish exchange, mostly in Italian, between the old man and his rude boy. Unfortunately, the few words I could make out were Vinny, cop, tool shed, wood chipper and snow blower. Even in my diminished state, I could divine that putting a positive spin on what I’d just overheard would be only slightly harder than deciphering the Dead Sea Scrolls.

A motorcycle gang of hornets buzzed in my ears and my nose breathed in their exhaust. My cheek and beard were very wet and when I cranked my eyes open, I noticed my pillow was a shallow puddle, my bed a concrete floor. MacClough was next to me, bloody-faced and face up, breathing very heavily through his battered mouth. I was trapped between my desire to survey the surroundings and yet maintained the outward appearance of unconsciousness. I compromised, swiveling my sore eyes around as far as they’d go.

The hornets were not bees at all nor were the fumes and metal chatter the by-products of idling Harley Davidsons. About five yards past the top of Johnny’s head, I saw an impressive display of yard care equipment, one piece of which was revved up and ready to go. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a John Deere showroom and I was fairly certain no one on the premises had midnight lawn care in mind.

“Hey!” a big paw grabbed me by the collar, dragged me over to the machinery and stood me up. Vinny was my dancing partner. I guess he liked to lead. Cheech did a similar tango with MacClough. Robby “the Boot” bounced on over, doing an excited little tarantella. Gee, how festive the promise of torture made everyone.

Vinny put me in a head lock and towed my stiff torso over to the iron mouth of the wood chipper. The old don joined us there, took out a straight razor and slit my left sleeve up to the shoulder. Musclehead switched holds and clamped my bare arm, forcing it to fully extend. I began to struggle. That only seemed to excite my dancing partner. Good thing I didn’t beg or he just might’ve come in his pants.