For Nothing (20 page)

Sal gave a little chuckle. “Vic, you don’t think I survived this long by being a fool do you?
Amvet
Thrift
is with us. “

Bingo. But he had to give him one more to keep him off of the scent.

“Ok Sal, but what about this. Why are Aldo and Muro having you hide guns? They could have any one of those punks inside get that job done. I hope you used a fake name. And I hope to God that place doesn’t have any cameras.”

Victor looked at Sal taking in the thought. He looked troubled for a half second, and then brushed the idea off.

“Wel , first of al I used a fake name. Like I said, your pal Sal is no fool.” He flashed Victor a smile and continued. “Plus, that just isn’t how it works. They wouldn’t do that. What the hel do they need a patsy for? Al the cops that ask questions around here end up on the front page, if you know what I mean. Now, we’re going inside. I heard it’s a bit of a mess in there right now so just try and keep your cool. Stay close to me.”

Without another word Sal went inside. Victor fol owed him but his mind ran record laps in his skul .

What did Sal mean al the cops that ask questions end up on the front page? What did he know? Did he know something about Jack? Perhaps he knew something about some of the other officers who were murdered. Was he giving Victor an underhanded threat just in case?

As nightfal started to descend on the city, nothing could have prepared Alex for what he was about to see. He pushed through Wizeguyz’ double doors.

Rafael Rontego snapped his eyes open. He knew that something was awry. He was no longer on the floor, but was reclining on the bed inside the safe house. Had he stumbled onto the bed in his delirium?

As far as Rontego could figure, there was a good chance that he should be dead. His neck hurt and he could barely turn his head to look at the shades. The slight upward crack in the blinds let Rafael discern that sometime passed as nightfal descended on the city.

Rafael lay there, quite stil , barely daring to breathe. The events from earlier began to unfold in a blur of recol ection. The slash across his neck.

Rafael Rontego’s hand crept up to his neck and traced the three-inch long wound. It was closed and he could feel the unmistakable ridges from the stitches that pul ed his skin back together.

With a groan, the assassin rol ed over and sat up in the bed. He heard a noise in the adjacent room of the seedy dwel ing, but he wasn’t too alarmed.

Whoever took the time to stitch his neck probably did not want him dead. Nevertheless, the wary hit man glanced to his right on the nightstand where his twin pistols were resting. He grabbed one from its holster and slid it under the covers and onto his lap.

Against the dim lighting, the silhouette of his unknown savior came out of the adjacent room.

When he took a step closer, bloody dishrag in hand, the assassin took in a deep breath and cocked his head in a slight tilt.

“Truly, you are ful of surprises,” the assassin stated.

The Cleaner took another step closer and his eyes shifted to the solitary pistol on the nightstand. “I don’t think you'l need that, but if it makes you feel better, by al means.”

There was a pause as the two men regarded each other. There was a definite tension in the air, but it was borne more out of uncertainty than it was any particular animosity.

The assassin decided to keep it simple and asked, “How and why?”

It was The Cleaner’s turn to tilt his head as he studied the assassin. He took yet another step forward and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“The answers to those questions are very simple. The ‘why’ is a little more so than the ‘how’. I don’t like being stood up for dinner. Which, by the way, would be right about now.”

The assassin al owed a wry grin to escape his lips. It was true enough; they were supposed to meet for some spaghetti at Chef’s Pasta Place.

“And the how?”

“Raf, you have persuasive friends. Let me tel you something, The Pope is no stupid man. He didn’t send you into Falzone’s place of business without having you fol owed. That Pol ock bastard is watching you as wel as watching out
for
you.” The Cleaner looked the assassin dead in his eye. “You need to be careful. I’m not saying that just because these punks are burning the city down around themselves. People like me, you, The Pope, we’re a dying breed. Hel , even old man Falzone and Aldo and Muro are getting swept up in the changing tide.” The Cleaner stood up then and tossed the bloody rag into another one of his customary duffle bags.

“You can only swim against the tides of change for so long, Rafael.”

The assassin stood up and holstered his pistols as he slung the shoulder holsters around his frame.

“So, what now?”

“Now, you take me back to your place and get me the rest of my money, you stil owe me half. I’m not betting you wil be around to pay me in the future.

Once you col ect your stuff, we’re also going to torch that place of yours.”

“Torch it?” Rafael did not like the sound of that at al . Mostly because he was so damn tired.

“Yeah, you have been on a kil ing spree lately, in case you didn’t notice. Oh, and Falzone and his guys know where you live; or did you forget that too?” The Cleaner took up his duffle bag and motioned for the door. “C’mon, let’s go. Let’s also hope that no one is there waiting for you as we speak.” With a nod, the assassin let the Cleaner lead him out of the safe house and out into the continuing bite of the Lake Erie winds. The Cleaner took a quick glance left and right and then melted away into the shadows along the al ey. Pul ing his fedora low around his eyes, and snapping his stained col ar up around his neck to break the swirling winds, the around his neck to break the swirling winds, the assassin too entered into the comfort of the shadows, leaving nothing but the whisper of his passing in his wake.

*

Alex Vaughn, or Victor Garducci, looked at the carnage that was Wizeguyz Bil iards. Tables and chairs were strewn about the place; blood was splattered on the floor and wal s. Bul et holes were speckled about the interior and some younger thugs were running al over the place. Aldo Marano was in a heated discussion with Muro. Sal saw the animated conversation and went over to see what he could learn.

One thing caught the undercover agent’s attention despite al the distractions in the room.

Over where Muro and Aldo usual y sat, immersed amongst the pile of yel ow cigarette butts, there was one unmistakable black cigarette with a gold foil filter.

Garducci felt his pulse quicken as he approached the table. His hands trembling, he scooped up the cigarette butt. There was no mistaking it, this was a match.

He glanced over in Sal’s direction as the conversation took a dramatic turn. Aldo was showing Sal a napkin, the contents of which were sending Sal into a frenzy. With a shout, he grabbed the object out of Aldo’s hand and marched towards Victor Garducci. Victor held out the cigarette in his hand as Sal came up.

Sal slapped the cigarette out of Victor’s hand and yel ed, “That fuck Rafael Rontego smokes those faggot Russian cigarettes.” With that, Sal threw the napkin on the table, al owing a finger to rol across the slab.

“That’s my boy’s finger.” Sal stated it so devoid of emotion that Victor caught himself staring at the emotional gangster. “Frankie,” he cal ed out to his friend across the room. “Get the car.” He tossed Frankie his car keys and the man hurried off.

Victor eyed Sal, waiting for him to speak. The man did not disappoint as he again stated, “Tonight, we avenge my son.”

Garducci nodded his head and walked past Sal. He needed to tel someone about what was going down. This was about to be some serious shit.

Every time he thought he might be able to find a clean way to disengage, this kept on getting messier. Now though, he had a name. Rafael Rontego. It had to be him. Garducci walked into the bathroom in a daze.

The undercover agent looked under the stal s to make sure he was alone. Establishing that he was, he pinched the sides of the transmitter button on his jacket sleeve. He spoke into the device.

“Suspect’s name is Rafael Rontego. Find his residence ASAP. Prepare for fireworks.” Hopeful y Hi-Def would receive the cal and put the guys into motion. Alex took a deep breath.

The moment for revenge was near. How odd was it that his unlikely al ies would include both cops and cold-blooded gangsters?

Alex splashed his face with some water from the sink. As he toweled off he heard the door swing open and Sal entered the bathroom.

“You ready Vic?”

Alex Vaughn looked at himself one last time in the mirror as he patted his face. “Yeah, I’m ready.” With a wave, Sal led the way and Victor Garducci fol owed to the car idling in wait outside.

They rode in silence. A slight crack in the window al owed a smal bit of cool air to whistle into the car. Frankie DeRisio turned the windshield wipers on pushing off flecks of snow as they steeled their resolve for the mission ahead. The street lights drifted on past one another into the darkness for about fifteen minutes until Sal spoke.

“Pul over here,” he said. “We’re about a block away.”

Frankie did as he was bade, and pul ed the car over under a light post on the corner of the block.

Diagonal and across the street was a low rise building.

“That’s where the fuck lives. I waited out here al night for my boy to come out. I should have had the courage to go in then. We’l say I was suffering from a bit of shock. But tonight, we’l finish what I should have before.” Sal pursed his lips together and walked around the back of the car popping the trunk open.

Frankie came up beside Sal, and looking into the trunk, let out a low whistle. “That’s what I’m talking about, serious firepower.”

about, serious firepower.”

Garducci walked around the car and looked inside. There was a compact sub machine gun of the Israeli variety, an Uzi. Sal grabbed this and tucked his arm inside the folds of his overcoat. There was also a sawed-off shotgun, which Frankie scooped up and tucked along the inseam of his trench coat.

Seeing that there were no more heavy artil ery pieces to be had, Sal looked at Victor and shrugged. “Since you don’t have the big guns, stay a couple steps behind us and pul up the rear.” With a nod, Victor fel into step behind Sal and Frankie as they made their way across the street. As they hustled across the road, Victor took a quick glance down it and noticed a familiar white van paral el parked about a block away. He patted his Beretta tucked in its shoulder holster.

The trio paused for a second outside of the building’s doors which lead into a smal entry way with a dimly lit stairwel . They paused, as Sal took a deep breath, and then entered through the front door.

They entered, as the back doors swung shut in the rear of the building. They entered as another car carrying a large solid block of a man parked at the rear of the residence.

Rafael Rontego pried yet another floorboard loose and grabbed a stack of hundreds rubber banded together from amongst the rat poison that shielded his money from the rodents. He tossed it into a duffle bag that was fast becoming ful of cash.

He then moved on to the last place he had money stowed away.

As he walked to the closet, he looked at the Cleaner who was stil peering out the window on the roadway below. The guy was al business. Rafael respected that about the man.

With a grunt, the assassin took his crowbar and pul ed a panel off of the inside of his closet.

Taking a flashlight he peered into the darkness inside the wal and saw the familiar green of his money, dusty but undisturbed.

“Hey Raf, I think we have company. A white van just pul ed into a parking spot down the road and is just sitting there. Might be time to leave. You almost done?”

The Cleaner, not waiting to hear from Rafael, walked past him and into the bathroom. He took Rafael’s metal trash bin and started shredding up paper and cloth from an old shirt, placing the material into the bin.

Rafael shook his head and tossed the rest of his money into the bag, zipping it closed.

As he continued fil ing the bin with material and dousing it with accelerant, the Cleaner continued, “Rafael, I was serious when I told you that you can’t swim against the current forever. Times are changing. You need to think about getting away from here for a while. What do you have there? Two hundred, three hundred thousand dol ars? You can lay low for a long time with that.”

Rafael shot him a glance as he became aware of the fact that his life savings was very exposed at the moment.

Catching on, the Cleaner continued, “Relax tough guy, you think I need your chump change? I’m getting out of here myself. I have a nice little nest egg and I don’t plan on dying before I get to use it.” Rafael was startled to hear that admission from the Cleaner. He’d been around for as long as Rontego could remember. Maybe the Cleaner had a point. After al , he survived almost as many wars as Rafael. Perhaps things were getting too dicey.

As odd as it was, Rafael never thought much about retirement. He couldn’t go on kil ing for money forever. It would be nice to get away from the life, maybe.