Hipster Holocaust Chapter Ten

 

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Ten- A Rat In The Mouth is Worth Two In The Bush

Anna Feola poured an espresso and took the small white cup and saucer to the dapper elderly grey-haired man at the corner table. He looked up at her and smiled a shy smile that was out of place on his pale, elegant face. His resting face was a hard one, like he had seen bad things. Done bad things. Things you didn’t want to know about.  

It intrigued her to no end.  

“Here you go, sir,” she chirped cheerily. His smile deepened if that was possible. “You don’t have to call me, sir sweetie. Vincenzo is fine. Or V if you want. That’s what my friends call me.” “Okay, V it is. Say, I wanted to ask if my landlady ever called you V,” she teased him. He looked at her with a deadpan expression that almost scared her. “Whose your landlady?” “Celestine. Celestine DiMartino. I think you know her.”  

The old man leaned back until his back was against the wall. He smiled a little in remembrance. A fond remembrance, it would seem. “Yeah, I know her. From a long time ago. She is your landlady? Good, that’s good. You give her my regards, ok?” “I will V when I see her when I get home. I am sure she will be happy to get them.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Maybe, maybe not. But give them to her all the same.” 

Anna gave him a quick smile and scurried back behind the counter. The line had already formed in the few moments she had spent at the table. She had to hurry to get out of the weeds. 

Vincenzo looked at the street as he did every other minute. He had lived a long time by being careful. With his wits and with his fist. Occasionally, with a pistol. Once and a while with a bomb. Those days were gone, and still not that far away if that made any sense.  

He had great eyesight. Sniper’s eyes, they used to call it. He saw a guy leaning against a Con Edison junction box in front of the barbershop. He was out of place in the new neighborhood. A guinea in a Member’s Only jacket circa 1986. That wouldn’t have been a surprise in this neighborhood twenty years ago. More like forty years ago. Still, there were a few holdouts. It was not as prevalent as the 1980’s but not anything unusual for some of the cheap ginzos who still lived around here. They never threw anything out. Some of them still had their communion suits and the envelopes that came with them. What was unusual was that he was studiously avoiding looking at the coffee shop. He was nervously peeping all around. Except at this front window. Vincenzo had super strong radar. When something was out of place, he noticed it. And he acted.  

He reached into his very expensive designer Italian black leather jacket and took out his burner phone. He always had one along with his regular phone. It was one of the only things he liked about living these days. The cellphone was an absolute delight for a hitman. No more searching out pay phones that were often broken and unusable. You had the world in your pocket, and you could call anyone at any time. When you used a one-time burner, nobody could track you. Or tape you. It was an invaluable asset in his line of work. 

He walked out of the shop and to the corner. He went up close to the shrine of St. Lucy with her eyeballs on a plate, so his back was to Court Street. Nobody could get a bead on him or read his lips. He hit a predetermined speed dial number and whispered into the phone. “Geno. There is a mook in a Member’s Only jacket across from the café. Find out what’s his story. When? Right now, you idiot. Take Huey and Frankie with ya.” He hung up. He made the sign of the cross as though he were saying a prayer and walked back to the cafe. The mook had not moved from across the street. 

He wasn’t packing these days. It had been a long time since he had, and he couldn’t stand a gun charge these days. Vincenzo was semi-retired, so he didn’t think anyone had a contract out on him for what he was doing in the here and now. You can’t rule out the sons and grandsons of some of the people he had taken out back in the day. There were over eighty of them after all, so the odds are that one of their descendants went into the life and wanted some payback. Or to make a name for themselves. Not that it would be any great accomplishment to take him out in his dotage. He was a tough nut, but he didn’t have the reflexes that he used to have. Still, why make it easy for the strunz. 

A black SUV with tinted windows pulled up across the street. It was the made-man’s transport of choice these days. Geno and Frankie got out and walked up to the Member’s Only Jacket. They discreetly went to either side of him. Geno spoke to him briefly and then put his arm over his shoulder and ushered him into the SUV as if he were a friend who was helping his buddy into his car so they could go out on the town. The only thing is, he probably had a pistol in his stomach where no one could see it. You knew something was up if you were paying attention. A civilian would start yelling and screaming for help. This mook acted like he just didn’t want anyone to see what was going on. Back in the day, people made sure they didn’t see what they didn’t want to see. With all the liberals in the neighborhood, you never knew who wanted to be a hero, so it was good that he went along without too much fuss. They didn’t need to make a scene. 

Vincenzo would have to find out and see what was up. You can’t leave something like this to those idiots. They could barely handle their everyday work. Anything out of the ordinary caused a big budel. If it were nothing, it would not be a problem. A couple of dollars and a little threat here or there would take care of any inconvenience if this guy were a civilian. If it were something different, then he could make the call.  He just couldn’t trust them to handle it, so it wouldn’t blow back on him. 

Vincenzo sipped his espresso and watched the street to see if there was any reaction. Maybe the cops would show up. Maybe the guy this strunz was meeting would show up. Maybe nothing would happen. A lot of fuckin’ maybees. He sat back and waited. He could be patient. It was how he had lasted this long. Slow and steady, and everything planned out. The quick ones like Crazy Joe and the Gaspipe would have been out the door in a New York minute. Beating the guy down like they were Sonny Corleone.  That’s why they were all either dead or in the can while he was here eating cannoli.

After a half hour, he took out his regular civilian phone and hit the speed dial. When it was picked up, he murmured into the old-fashioned flip phone. “Send Louie to pick me up at the store. Use his car.” He wouldn’t use the same car that picked up the mark. Or his Caddy. Fat Louie had a nondescript Jap rice-burner crash car that nobody would notice. 

Fat Louie pulled up in a battered, monkey shit brown Celica and parked at the hydrant. Vincenzo put a twenty under his cup and slipped out without anyone noticing him. He never paid since he had a tab, but he always left the girl a big tip. The young girl was busy serving a nasty twat who was arguing about how much cream cheese was on her bagel. He walked outside and crossed Court Street and got in the passenger side, and closed the door. He put on his seatbelt. Safety first. 

“Where did they go?” he asked in his raspy business voice. “The cherry factory.” He nodded as they drove down Court and passed under the highway. They slowly rolled up to the more industrial side of Red Hook. The part that had not quite been gentrified.  

Fat Louie had the right moniker as he was enormously fat and sweated out buckets of grease from the shit that he ate. His silk shirt was slick from sweat, and Vincenzo could only shake his head. He didn’t have much to work with these days, and believe it or not, this fat fuck was one of his more reliable men. If he didn’t get distracted by a passing ice cream truck. 

They pulled up in front of a battered building covered in graffiti and grime. Nobody had told them about gentrification. Of course, it was a choice. They wanted a low profile, and grime was a good camouflage.  Vincenzo didn’t wait for his minion to get up to open his door. Just squeezing out from behind the steering wheel of a Toyota was a big operation for that fatso, and he didn’t have the time to waste. “Head back to the club. I will call youse when I need to come back.” “Okay, boss,” Louie blurted. “I will make sure there is lunch for you when you get back.” Vincenzo just shook his head. Not everybody thought about lunch first. 

Vincenzo punched in the code to open the front door. He walked down a long corridor to another locked door that he opened the same way. It led to a long stairwell that went down two flights to a sub-basement. The Cherry factory offices were on the first basement level. The second level was where they packed the cherries in the little glass bottles with green labels that went all over the United States. It was one of the first hustles that the family had gotten involved in back in the thirties, when everyone had branched out into food. They should have gone into artichokes or olive oil, but instead were stuck with cherries. Maraschino fuckin’ cherries! Which kind of worked out for them. Now their brand was one of the most beloved condiments in America. Every bar and bistro carried their cherries. Little did anyone know what went on where they made the cherries. Or who made them. 

When he got to the second sub-basement, he pushed open the door and walked into a larger workspace. The cherry-pitting machines were up against the walls with the conveyor belts for the automated packing of the big commercial bottles. Boxes of bottles were stacked in the corner, waiting to be pitted and mixed and sorted, and pushed into bottles by the complicated automated system. Normally, there was a crew of wetbacks working to sort the cherries and to make sure that they flowed seamlessly into the bottles that they used to pack up the cherries. But no one was around. They all cleared out when they had to use the place. It was deserted even though it was the middle of the day. 

Except for three of his men and the mook in the Members Only jacket. He was tied to a battered metal kitchen chair over a drain. He already had a couple of bruises on his face. He had olive skin and a bit of a belly. You could tell he was a guinea, so there was a good chance he was connected in one way or another. ‘So, whose is this chooch?” Aiello asked. “He wouldn’t say,” Geno said as he gave the mook a quick slap in the face. “I just got started, boss, but I got this if you want. I can figure it out. You don’t have to stay. I tell ya, I got this.” 

Vincenzo shook his head. Geno wanted more responsibility. He was always pushing to get it. He was the best of a bad lot, but still, he didn’t really seem to have what it took to be a leader. He wasn’t smart enough. Alternately, he wasn’t brutal enough. He had to be schooled about every little fucking thing. This would be what the liberals called a “teachable moment.” Just not something they knew how to teach. Mob 101. 

“I ain’t got time for this shit,” Vincenzo rasped in his Mob boss voice. He walked up to the trembling figure in the chair and stared down at him. The sad sack was crying. He wasn’t weeping like a bitch, but the tears were definitely flowing. “Who the fuck are you, scumbag?” No response. Geno backhanded him, and he rocked back in his seat. Nothing. Frankie, the rat-faced weasel who had been the driver, spoke up. “Ya know, he looks kinda familiar to me. Like, I know him or something. I just can’t place him.”

Vincenzo looked a little closer. Yeah, he was right. He did look very familiar. He nodded to Geno. “Step it up. Find out what he wants. Was he strapped?” “Yeah, he had a twenty-two. With a silencer. He came here for a reason. I think we know the reason. Just not the why.” Frankie piped up again. “Does it matter what the reason is, boss?” Vincenzo shrugged. “It does because we need to know if it is a solo job or do we have a bigger problem. I will leave it to youse. Come see me at the club after you clean it up.”

The mystery man picked that moment to speak up. “Fuck you, Aiello. Rot in hell, you miserable fuck. You killed my father, and I am going to kill you.” Geno laughed. “Good luck with that fuck face. You ain’t gonna do shit.” Vincenzo paused for a moment. “So, who was your father?” “Salvatore Conte, you prick. A better man than you would ever be.” Well, that put a different slant on the matter. Conte had been a capo who had a lot of friends. In fact, there were several of his relatives who were still in the life. This shit-bird must be one of them. He didn’t have much to do with the Bonannos. That hit had strictly been a money job. Most likely, Conte’s son was a low-level associate. But the fuck was at least forty years old for fucks sake. He had whacked Conte in the nineties. What was he waiting for? He needed to do something to discourage this kind of thing. Just whacking him wouldn’t really do that. He needed to get creative. He loved to get creative. It had been a while since he had to make a statement. Might as well make it a good one.

“You want I should take care of this, Boss?” Geno smiled. He loved the idea of whacking someone. Anyone. It was one of his few pleasures. “No, I think we don’t want to just off this piece of shit. It leaves us with the rest of his fucked-up family. Plus, a bunch of shit-heads who watch too much of the Sopranos on the fucking TV and want to make a name for themselves without knowing the consequences. We need to show the fuckin’ consequences. Who knows who else might get it in their head to try their luck? We need to send them a message. I want them to see what I am talking about. Really see. Hmmm.”

Vincenzo walked over to the bench at the back of the room. He picked up a manual cherry pitter and walked back over to the chair. “Hold his head,” he said to Geno, who grabbed the struggling gavone in a headlock. Vincenzo put the cherry pitter to Conte’s eye. And plucked it out. Just like that. Like it was just another cherry. Then the other one. The poor fuck screamed, convulsed, and then pissed himself and collapsed.

Geno let go and backed up. He licked his lips and looked at the older man. Who didn’t seem to react or have any emotion after blinding someone as quickly and easily as if he were pitting a cherry to put on a banana split. “Looks like you lost your cherry, pal,” the old man cackled. He turned serious. “Now you can get rid of him. Two behind the ear. Then bleach him so we lose the DNA. Wrap him up and drop him off in the trunk of one of our burner cars in the Bonanno neighborhood down in Marine Park. Next to the golf course.  Oh, put a rat in his mouth. I think they might get the message.” Geno just nodded. “You got it.” He was in awe of the violence that had erupted from the frail older man with so little commotion. He deserved his rep, that was for sure. Maybe someday he can get the same rep. He was here to learn from the master.

Vincenzo wiped his hand on a rag and took it with him to dispose of it himself. Along with the cherry pitter, which was the only other thing he had touched and had his DNA on in this joint. He wrapped the bloody tool in the rag and turned to walk away.

He needed another espresso. Wet work always made him sleepy.