The Damascus Chronicles (8 page)

“Franco Scarfo probably, that demented psycho would rather sacrifice a small collection to kill any one of this family, the sick fuck,” said Michael.

“After all this is done tonight, I suggest we lay low until pressure from the media dies down,” Anthony suggested.

“Don’t worry about it too much. I’ll tell Paulie what happened. He has most of the cops and city politicians in his pocket; they’ll put a spin on all this,” said Sal.

“That’s fine and all but you forget that the police commissioner, Hamilton, she’s an honest cop. She won’t put up with innocent cops being slain,” said Michael.

“Should we put a hit out on her?” asked Anthony.

“No, don’t be stupid Anthony. They’ll trace that back to us, it would be too obvious,” Jackie fired back.

“Like it our not, we’re stuck, we just have to go quiet, low profile for a while,” said Jackie.

“Fuck!” swore Sal, upset. The car made it to the end of the tunnel and turned towards the wash. They drove out of the subway tunnel and a half hour later at a quarter to ten, the car stopped at the abandoned salvage yard. The place looked like a massive graveyard. The sky was pitch black and the wind was blowing, the dust resembling skulls and dead faces in the night. The broken and smashed cars were piled on top of each other, and some almost resembled crosses, reminding Michael of all the evil done by men in the name of greed and the hunger for power.

“Let’s crush this thing and get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps,” said Anthony.

“Let’s,” said Michael as they got out of the car with the bags of money.

Jackie pulled the lever on the magnetic crane that hoisted the car up and slowly lowered it into the crusher. Michael looked on sadly as his favorite ride was taken from him.

“Cheer up Mike, it’s better the car than us,” said Sal, handing Michael a few grand as a consolation. Michael smiled at Sal in thanks.

Jackie called Paulie to send the private company helicopter he owned from the Turquoise Terrace Tower casino. Within 20 minutes the chopper touched down to pick up Michael and the crew. Jackie handed his cell phone just after he had finished speaking with Paulie on the other line, to Michael just as he was about to light a cigarette inside the cockpit. “Michael, the Don wants to see you and the others immediately,” Paulie said sternly over the phone.

“Right away,” said Michael calmly. The helicopter landed at Paulie’s private airstrip, where a car was waiting for the crew. As they climbed into the car, Michael put in a call to Serena, ”Yeah it’s me, I need a favor.”

“Sure, what is it?” she asked.

“Drop off the case of those things you acquired and bring them down to the phone booth on Rose Street. Wait there until I come for them. I’ll see you soon,” said Michael. Michael asked the driver to turn onto Rose Street and the driver did. Jackie gave Michael a strange look.

“Trust me,” Michael said as the car drove up to the phone booth on Rose Street; Michael picked up the case from inside the phone booth. Serena wasn’t in sight. “Good girl,” whispered Michael to himself as he got back into the car with the black case. “What’s in the case?” asked Sal curiously.

“You’ll see when we meet the Don,” replied Michael calmly.

Back at Turquoise Terrace Tower, old Don Felice Santerini waited. He sat in his favorite chair and the fatigue in his sad blue eyes showed a certain frailty and the many years of leadership to an organization that now seemed to be tearing itself apart in a struggle for survival; gang violence had increased the last few years. The Don was a handsome man even in his old age; his white hair was thick and shone like pure silver, and he had a short grey mustache and always dressed in the richest of suits. Paulie was also present, mulling in his mind how to handle the situation that had just occurred, as he watched the big screen projector play out the shocking news footage of a collection gone wrong.

Paulie Santerini could handle almost anything. A big man with short black hair with gray marks, he was in his fifties. A guy who was always dressed sharp and had the style of a suave movie star, he had it all: charm, charisma, and a proper zeal for business. He ran six of the largest corporate casinos in Las Vegas, owned two night clubs, and was the Don’s right-hand man in the import/export business of smuggling shipments in bonds, paying off teamsters, mass producing pharmaceuticals and illegal drugs, and the production of biodegradable fuel for the United States government. He had a cool head on his shoulders in any situation, and was always one step ahead of the game in the smuggling industry, whether it was before a cop, politician, or Interpol agent.

In the middle the grand entranceway, two large turquoise elevators opened. Michael and company proceeded to the main door of the Don’s office as two guards on both sides opened the double doors. “Gentlemen come in,” said Paulie, upset yet poised. The crew stepped inside with trepidation at what they were about to hear. They sat down. “Gentlemen, what happened tonight was a direct failure of this organization’s ability to do a simple job,” said Paulie.

“Paulie, we had unforeseen issues. However, during the chaos of this extraordinary evening we did recover most of the collection as ordered,” Michael started.

“There is no excuse for failure. This makes us look foolish to the Jews and Koreans working in our organization. I will not tolerate this again,” said Don Felice, seriously disappointed as he drew his pistol to Jackie’s head. Don Felice Santerini, the man who controlled it all. He had taken over after the war between the Costa and Moretti Families ended in bloodshed and after the extermination of most of both families. He was a serious business person all the time; the kingpin of twelve of Vegas’ drug manufacturing plants, running three currency corporations and one large adult entertainment production company, and maintaining ties to three corrupt senators in Washington who closely advised the presidential cabinet. Above all other rules was this: never fuck with the man in charge.

Nervously Jackie stood up, sweating as he said, “With respect, Don Santerini, as we were about to obtain the rest of the capital that was stolen from us, I discovered a bomb that was placed in one of the boxes in the moving truck. So naturally to prevent injury or death we left the scene with what we could.”

The Don lowered his pistol, putting it back in his shoulder holster. “It is obvious that the Scarfos' are behind this, but I’ve known Godfather Scarfo since we were young. He has too much honor to allow a hit like this. This is Franco’s doing, that animal of a nephew of his,” said Don Felice.

“I think I know why,” said Michael.

“Should we call a hit?” asked Anthony.

“No, you do that and the media will be all over us; the public will suspect things. We need to keep the organization to appear as legitimate as possible. If not, it could cost us a massive loss in millions of dollars. No one is making a move, not now,” said Don Felice clearly.

The buzzer on Paulie’s desk rang and the secretary’s voice came out over the call box, “A Mr. Riffman to see you Mr. Santerini.”

“Very well, send him up,” said Don Felice.

A tall, well built young man with brown hair and blue eyes entered the room. He wore eyeglasses and had on a brown suit and a black tie. “Good evening, Mr. Santerini, gentlemen,” he nodded to the others. “I have this week’s transcripts and receipts as you requested.”

“Very well, please transfer these to our offshore accounts,” said Don Felice, nodding to Paulie to hand him the 10 manila envelopes that were stuffed with cash. Mr. Riffman sat down at the Don’s desk.

“I hope that there was no trouble in this week’s business,” said Mr. Riffman coolly.

“None at all,” replied Don Felice.

“Shouldn’t you be going Mr. Riffman? This is private business,” said Michael, annoyed as he felt an unsavory feeling about this man.

“Of course. Thank you for your business, gentlemen.” Mr. Riffman shook the Don’s hand and exited the room briskly. Leaving the building, Mr. Riffman returned to his car, where he activated the miniature earpiece he had planted under the edge of the Don’s desk. Back upstairs Michael presented the gun case to the Don. As he opened the latches to the case and the lid popped up, the Don’s eyes grew large and he frowned in anger.

“This is why Scarfo tried to kill us,” explained Michael sternly.

“Holy Christ!” said the Don, appalled.

“Franco Scarfo is moving high-grade military firepower to win the little war both families have been having for the last 11 years,” said Michael. “Weapons like these could tip the scales in Franco’s favor,” said Anthony.

“Where did you acquire this?” asked Paulie.

“I went and did a little snooping down at Scarfo’s warehouse the other night on a tip made by an anonymous caller. And that’s not all I saw when I was there. I also saw a couple of unsavory characters meeting with Franco Scarfo.”

“Who? Columbians, Feds?” asked the Don.

“It appears that Franco is doing business with a terrorist political group called “Diablo’s de Negro”, also known as the Black Devil’s Society. I recognized a tattoo on an arms dealer that spoke with Franco. The guy’s name is Sergio Garcia, and he is an insane son of a bitch. He’d kill you just for looking at him,” said Michael.

”What!” Mr. Riffman exclaimed, listening over his earpiece.

“Are you for sure?” Paulie asked.

“I’m positive. When I was working as an undercover agent for the CIA some years back I was given orders to take out Garcia’s militia in Spain. Garcia had his headquarters at an abandoned military base,” Michael explained.

“Why didn’t you inform us of this immediately after you found these weapons?” the Don asked firmly.

“Because of the heat that’s been coming down on the organization lately due to the smack that was stolen from that bank four nights ago, that neither family has been able to fully recover. I heard from Sal that the family has been getting too much coverage from the press,” said Michael.

“From this point on, forget about the lost money. That’s not important; what is important is finding the rest of the warehouses that are stocked with these weapons and destroying them before any major harm can be done to this family. The second job I have for you and Jackie is eliminating the source of these weapons,” said the Don.

“Giving Garcia a dirt nap won’t change anything. He has many loyal puppets who’ll just replace him if he’s taken down,” said Michael.

“Well what then?” asked the Don.

“Mike’s right, Don Felice. We need to find a better solution to eliminate this problem,” said Jackie.

“I don’t know boys; if Franco starts hitting parts of town with this shit, he could wipe us out,” said Don Felice.

“Better, however, to form a plan than just rush in,” said Michael.

“I agree. You’ve got balls Mike, you just might be made yet. Very well, lay low for now, and we’ll find a solution for this problem in a few days,” said the Don.

“Agreed,” said Michael. The others nodded in approval of this temporary plan.

Mr. Riffman pulled out his earpiece and as he removed his makeup and wig, he put in a call on his cell phone to the big man himself. “Boss it’s Phillips. The secret is out.”

“The Don is too much of a chicken shit to do anything. He’ll rely on his brains in the organization to make decisions for him,” said Franco over the phone, lighting up a Cuban cigar at his desk. “The guy that discovered our weapons works for Santerini. His name is Michael. I’m scanning databases for information on him.” Phillips hacked away on his laptop. “It seems that our guy is my former partner, Michael Victor Damascus from the CIA. This guy was in the top Special Forces unit and was decorated with the Congressional Medal of Honor. I had a feeling it was him when he mentioned Sergio Garcia; no one else had any information on that mission in Spain. It was classified information; he and I were assigned to that mission as partners. I just know he’s the same man who also tried to kill you at your penthouse and who was at the warehouse the other night with that girl,” said Phillips.

“Interesting. This world is full of surprises,” said Franco angrily.

”That’s not all he’s into; it seems through these sources that he has his hands in local business organizations here in town. I’ll dig more up on him. What should I do with him and the girl?”

“What we normally do in a situation like this, Sergeant Phillips, is eliminate the problem,” said Franco.

“Don’t call me that!” Phillips snapped.

“Shut the fuck up and listen to me good, Phillips! For now I want this Damascus alive and healthy if possible. This guy may be more helpful to us alive than dead. After we have what we want from him, then we’ll get rid of him. I want you to send a message to Santerini’s organization that they will never forget. You know what to do,” said Franco.

“What about the girl?”

“Find her and put her out of the way. We don’t want any survivors; too much has already been found out,” said Franco.

“Understood,” said Phillips.

“That’s right Phillips, don’t forget that!”