Tod Goldberg - Gangsterland

“Might be a nice thing to ask Fat Monte the next time you see him,” Bruno said. His cell phone rang then. He pulled it from the clip on his belt and examined the number. “Oh, fuck me,” he said, and then he answered it after the second ring. “Paul Bruno,” he said, his voice an entirely different tenor. Mellifluous, even. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yes, well, I’m happy to hear that. Yes, of course, it would be my pleasure. I do think a two-story is something to really consider. Those girls of yours will be making a racket in a few years, and you’ll want the refuge! Yes, yes, of course. Okay, we’ll do that then. And thank you for calling, Mr. Stubbs. Thank you again.” Paul Bruno clicked his phone off and slipped it back into his belt clip.

“They want to buy a house after all?” Jeff said.

“Looks like it,” Bruno said. He stood up then and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Jeff stood, too, and for a moment they both looked at the view. It was a bit desolate, though Jeff could see the potential. The air was crisp and clean. The trees tall and stately in the distance. A little imagination? A few man-made lakes? Maybe it would be paradise. Stranger things had sprung from the dirt.

“You get this place built,” Jeff said, “maybe in fifteen years I’ll come back and buy a condo.”

“I shouldn’t have said all that about Fat Monte,” Bruno said.

“No,” Jeff said, “you probably shouldn’t have.”

Bruno sniffled one last time. “Fuck it,” he said. “I trust you won’t mention my name to anyone?”

“Of course.”

Bruno pointed at the Hummer, where Matthew was still sitting. “What’s his skin in this?”

“I feel a debt to him,” Jeff said. “I cost him his job. He’s a good agent, or will be.”

“He doesn’t like me,” Bruno said.

“No,” Jeff said, “he doesn’t. Probably better for both of us, really.”

Bruno spit through his teeth then, a nasty habit of his Jeff had forgotten. “I never understood you, Agent Hopper,” he said after a while.

David had his own preferred method for handling the guns he used for killing, and it involved buying them himself and making sure they were used only once and then immediately melted.

Not sold.

Not thrown in a river or a lake or buried or hidden under the dog house.

Not even destroyed. Melted.

It was a time-consuming process. In Chicago, he rented out a spot in a converted warehouse on West Fulton, near the old Kinzie Industrial Corridor, that had been turned into an artists’ space complete with a metal lathe, foundry, press, and furnace. He’d go straight there after a job to dispose of all his evidence, even the clothes he was wearing. If there was reason to be concerned that evidence had somehow ended up in the stolen car he was driving, he’d disassemble and melt the car doors, or trunk linings, or, one time, the whole front console of a Gran Torino. You don’t spend fifteen years killing people without learning how not to get caught.

David killed young men, middle-aged men, even old men. His first sanctioned hit was that German fucker, Rolf Huber, who’d been running girls in the suburbs since the 1950s and, at eighty, after the Family decided to colonize Batavia, started to talk about writing his memoirs for the feds. That was a gimme. Got him as he was walking out of his bar, the Lamplighter, on Christmas Eve. One shot, side of the head.

Not how he’d do it now; the side of the head sometimes didn’t work, too many variables. But that was before he knew exactly what he was doing. He was only nineteen, and everything he knew about killing he’d picked up watching Cousin Ronnie. Ronnie was more of a bludgeoner, didn’t feel like he’d done a job until he was covered in someone else’s blood. No one knew shit about forensics and DNA back then.

Now, parked a few doors down from Ibiza Tan, the salon Slim Joe visited every other day in order to keep his nice orange hue, David couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been. Killing disposable people helped. No one was sad to see another gangster dead. Besides, in those days, all the Chicago cops were on the take, and the FBI’s attention was focused on New York, everyone working John Gotti.

Back before he was the Rain Man, back before he had any reputation to uphold, he was out hitting street dealers Ronnie said were skimming. Didn’t matter if the kid was seventeen. David would stalk the kid for a week, two weeks, however long it took to figure out how to take him out with no collateral damage, follow the kid on the train out to Aurora, watch him shoplift from Lord & Taylor in the Fox Valley Mall, the next day show up outside his high school, see if there was any recognition on the kid’s part, show up a few days later on his block, walk right by the kid, see if the kid started to mad-dog him, act tough, flash the gun in his waistband, whatever.

Nothing.

No one ever recognized him. His simple secret to killing was that he was always behind the guy about to die, days, weeks, sometimes months before it actually happened. It was the part of his legend he happily cultivated over the years. He was like an embolism: Just because you couldn’t see him didn’t he mean he wasn’t there, waiting.

The only thing that bothered him now was that he knew he’d been trained, that the dealers he killed probably had done nothing in the least to deserve their fate, that it was all Ronnie manipulating him into a perfect killing machine. Ronnie building a legend on the streets to control his bigger business, so that when he had to hit actual hard targets, it was just a job.

David checked his watch. He had a lot of shit on his agenda, and Slim Joe was taking forever. He’d spent the last several days trying to figure out how he’d kill Slim Joe. David didn’t want to do it in the house, not with his own genetic material all over the joint, and he certainly wasn’t going to kill Slim Joe and then clean up afterward. Not after the last job he’d done in Chicago, a few months before the Donnie Brasco fuckup.

That was Frank Picone, the Windsor Syndicate’s guy in Chicago. Ronnie told David at first that he wanted only intel on the guy, find out what the Mounties were doing in town, but not to kill him. It was no use killing a guy if it meant it would open up a job for some other, more capable asshole.

In Canada, the Windsor Syndicate was into the computer and mortgage shit Ronnie and the rest of the Family had no interest in. Ronnie didn’t seem to mind when he found out that they’d moved down into Detroit, and then Chicago, running cons at nursing homes, stealing the identities of the patients, taking their whole portfolios out from under them, selling stocks, moving the cash back into Canada. It was irrelevant and frankly too risky for Ronnie. “That’s civilian business,” he told David. “Civilians have relatives. Relatives call the cops.”

But when Picone started freelancing, flipped his cash into oxycodone, began dealing on AOL message boards, created a network of faceless buyers that handled their business with dead drops like they were the CIA, flooded the streets with an opiate cheaper and easier to handle than heroin? That was some shit Ronnie would not abide. The opiate business in Chicago belonged to the Family. And this asshole had just walked right around the Family, and in the process had taken intimidation and fear completely out of the game. That was a hanging offense.

Not that David cared about any of that. The only thing that concerned him was that Picone was indiscriminate, that he was able to get the thread of his actions by following him for under a week, was able to break into his house twice without incident, even sat behind Picone and his wife at a Chili’s on a Tuesday night, the two of them talking about their business like they were discussing an episode of Law & Order .