R. Ellory - A Quiet Vendetta

‘Who?’ Ten Cent said.

Calligaris shook his head and sighed. ‘Cagnotto… Stefano Cagnotto, the dumbass sorry excuse for a piece of motherfuckin’ shit.’

‘Aah fuck, I liked him,’ Ten Cent said.

‘Well, you ain’t gonna get to like him any more, Ten Cent. Asshole got himself picked up on a speeding ticket, they searched his car, found a bag of coke and a.38. He was looking at a year, two tops if he screwed up the trial, and he’s talking about turning States and walking if he gives up me and Tony Pro for the cop’s brother.’

Ten Cent turned and looked at me. ‘You remember him from the Blue Flame?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘but you can show me who he is… and he sure as hell is gonna remember me, right?’

Calligaris smiled. ‘You’re a good one, Ernesto, and it sure as shit is a shame you ain’t from back home otherwise you’d be getting yourself made before fuckin’ Christmas.’

Don Calligaris left then. Me and Ten Cent sat for a while in silence, and then he turned to me and said, ‘Sooner the better, kid. Let’s go check out where the motherfucker is and see how we’re gonna do this, okay?’

I nodded. I stood up. I asked if I had time to clean my shoes before we left.

That night, middle of a hot June in New York, I sat in the back room of Stefano Cagnotto’s overnight apartment in Cleveland Place. A block away was the Police Headquarters building. I appreciated the sense of irony. I had been waiting for the better part of two hours before I heard the sound of feet on the risers below. The tension felt good in my gut. I wanted to take a piss but it was too late to move.

The apartment was dark but for a thin film of light that seeped through the curtains to my right. In my hand I felt the weight of a silenced.38. I was dressed in a good five-hundred-dollar suit. I had on a white shirt and a knitted silk tie. Had you seen me at the Blue Flame with the Luchese crew you wouldn’t have thought twice. I was part of their family, Cuban blood regardless, I was part of the Lucheses, I was someone, and that someone felt good.

Stefano Cagnotto wasn’t drunk, but he carried a skinful, and when he came through the apartment door he fumbled and dropped his keys. He swore twice and searched around in the darkness to retrieve them. I heard the jangle of metal as he picked them up. He closed and deadbolted the door. That was instinct. In this business you always deadbolted even if you’d only come back ’cause you’d forgotten your pocketbook.

Once inside he flicked on the light. I heard him sit down. Heard his shoes scuttle along the floor as he kicked them off. He started singing to himself. ‘Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars…’

Anytime now , I thought. Anytime now, motherfucker, your wish is gonna come true .

I worked my feet around in circles until I heard the ankle bones pop. I eased myself forward in the chair and took the weight of my body in my knees and my feet. I rose carefully, soundlessly, and I took a step towards the front room. By the time I reached the doorway Cagnotto had walked out back to the kitchen. I heard the rush of the faucet.

I held my breath and waited for him to come back.

In his hand he held a glass. He saw me. He dropped the glass.

‘What the fu-’

I raised my hand.

‘Ernesto,’ he said. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Ernesto, you gave me the scare of my fucking life! What the living fuck are you doing here?’

I brought my right hand out from my side.

Cagnotto’s eye fixed on the gun.

‘Aah Jesus Christ, Ernesto, what the fuck is this shit?’ He looked down at the ground. ‘Look what the fuck you made me do,’ he said, indicating the shattered glass at his feet. He stepped over the broken shards carefully and took a couple of steps into the room.

‘Put the fucking gun away Ernesto. You’re giving me the fucking creeps. What the fuck’re you doing here? What d’ya want this time of night?’

‘Sit down,’ I said quietly. My voice sounded gentle, almost sympathetic.

‘Sit down? I don’t wanna sit the fuck down.’

‘Sit down,’ I said again, and then I raised the gun and aimed it squarely at his gut.

‘You must be fucking kidding,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck put you up to this? Is this that fat fuck Ten Cent? Jesus, what the fuck does he think this is… April fucking Fools’ Day?’

I took a step forward and raised the gun so it leveled with Cagnotto’s eyes. ‘Sit down,’ I ordered.

‘You don’t come down here and tell me what the fuck to do, you guinea fuck… Who in fuck’s name d’you think you are?’

Cagnotto’s fists were clenched tight. He took another step forward and I went for him without a moment’s hesitation.

Thirty seconds later, no more, Stefano Cagnotto was seated on the edge of a two-thousand-dollar Italian leather sofa nursing a wide cut on the side of his head. He was still stunned, so whatever the hell came out of his mouth didn’t make a great deal of sense. He was a little incoherent, but he didn’t have any difficulty understanding what was going to happen when I placed a bag of coke on the glass table ahead of him and told him to get busy.

He knew he was going to go out one way or the other. He didn’t even protest, didn’t even try to defend his actions or himself. Came down to it he had some degree of honor, and there was something I could respect in that regardless of the situation.

Four lines and he was having a hard time concentrating on what he was doing. I set my gun aside and helped him a little, holding his head back while he pushed cocaine into his own nostrils. I opened his mouth and threw some in there myself, and when he started gagging I put my forearm against his chest and pushed him back against the sofa. He started puking then, and every time he retched I pushed his head down so he didn’t puke over me. I never did coke, never would, and I didn’t know how much these assholes would stick up their noses at a time. I had brought a bag with me that Ten Cent had gotten from somewhere, maybe a cupful all told, and by the time we were done more than half of it was down Cagnotto’s throat or up his nose.

I didn’t need to shoot the motherfucker. Had never intended to. He died after about ten minutes.

The Feds case never resurfaced. June closed up, as did July and August, and I never heard another word. Don Calligaris just told me Good job kid , and that was the end of that.

September I followed Angelina Maria Tiacoli three blocks before she realized I was behind her.

She looked mad. She turned on her heels and walked back towards me.

‘What are you doing?’ she snapped accusingly, but there was something heated and passionate in her voice that sounded a great deal more purposeful than just anger.

‘Following you,’ I told her.

‘I know you’re following me,’ she said. She took a step backwards and pulled her coat tight around her. This one was black, like a heavy woollen fabric, and on the edges it had a silk trim. ‘But what are you following me for?’

‘I wanted to speak with you,’ I said. I felt brave and bold, like the schoolyard boss.

‘About what?’

‘About whether I could take you to go see a movie or maybe have something to eat, or maybe just a cup of coffee in a diner or something.’

Angelina Maria Tiacoli looked dumbstruck. ‘You can’t ask me that,’ she said. ‘You understand that you can’t follow me down the street and ask me that.’

I frowned. ‘How come?’

‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked.

‘Angelina Maria Tiacoli,’ I replied.

‘Yes, that’s my name, but d’you know who my father was?’

I nodded. ‘Sure I do. Ten Cent told me.’

‘Ten Cent?’