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Eddie Bracchio rinsed the dried blood from his hands as he leaned in closer to the mirror. He flinched before gently patting the stinging gash on his forehead just below the hairline. He soaped it up and gingerly rinsed away the blood. A quick search of his bathroom drawers confirmed he had no bandages to stop the oozing. He’d have to improvise.
With his hands now blood-free, he could step out of his suit and into the shower. He frowned as he stripped. The evening hadn’t gone as planned. He cursed himself as he thought about his near-miss with death.
Jay Morten, a tall and lanky drug-user with a sweaty pallor the shade of a gloomy rain cloud, had knocked on the door to the private club asking to see Eddie.
“Private club” was an inadequate description of the tiny, rundown room. Dark and dingy, its front door almost hidden, the club sat along the quieter end of a busy strip of stores and restaurants in Brooklyn’s Dyker Heights neighborhood. Its sparse furnishings included a plain wooden bar against the far wall with three chairs pushed up to its front.
Behind the bar, stood long-standing bartender, Stooge. Other than a few old tables scattered about, there wasn’t much to the place. Eddie and the rest of the boss’s crew often spent their downtime there, discussing business and waiting for things to happen out on the street.
The door, always locked, was manned by Big Dog, the short, beefy and neck-less doorman of possible Mexican or Middle Eastern descent, Eddie wasn’t sure which.
“Eddie,” Big Dog called. “Somebody to see ya’.”
Sitting at the bar, Eddie turned from his scotch and frowned. He stood and sauntered toward the door. “Jay—you piece-a shit. You got my money?”
Jay replied by pulling a knife and lunging at Eddie. Eddie jumped back, the knife narrowly missing his gut.
Big Dog pounced on Jay, sending him to the floor in a heap, the blade landing a few feet away.
“You miserable—,” Eddie patted his pocket for his piece.
Big Dog kicked the knife and hurried to his knees to gain control of Jay, who kicked and slapped the bouncer in a frenzy. Flat on his back, Jay wriggled free and reached for a floor lamp standing near the front door. He whipped it back and forth, its small shade tipping and swinging. Big Dog tried unsuccessfully to grab the lamp as Eddie leaned in with his gun. As he waited for Big Dog to move out of the way, the pointed finial of the lamp smashed into Eddie’s forehead, sending him stumbling back.
Stunned for a second, Eddie touched his forehead. Blood covered his hand and rage burned in his belly. He yanked the lamp from Jay and flipped the heavy metal base upward near his hands. He raised it high and smashed it down onto Jay’s face. It connected with a squishy thud. Jay’s body jerked before going limp. Eddie dropped the lamp and stumbled back.
Except for Stooge whispering “shit,” and Eddie’s heavy breathing, the room fell silent.
“Son-of-bitch,” Eddie shouted, as he reached into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. He pressed it on his forehead as he watched Big Dog check Jay for a pulse. He looked up at Eddie and shook his bald brown head.
“Dead.”
“Shit.”
Eddie paced the small room for a minute before pointing at Big Dog. “Make sure that door’s locked. Nobody gets in. Nobody.”
Big Dog moved to secure the lock. He double-checked the blinds and stood near the door.
Eddie pulled out his burner phone and dialed.
“Yeah. Gotta’ little problem, here,” he puffed. “At the club. Yeah. Need some clean-up.” He paused. “Yeah. Now. Who? Some wacked out junkie. No one’ll miss him. Yeah. Thanks. And ah’, sorry ‘bout this.”
Eddie ended his call and went back to his drink.
“I’ll have this cleaned up in a half-hour,” he told Stooge and Big Dog. “Til’ then, sit tight.”
Stooge nodded and continued loading his fridge with beer cans, as Big Dog stood silently next to Jay’s corpse, manning the front door.
Eddie returned to his drink at the bar and dabbed his bleeding forehead with his handkerchief.
“Jesus Christ. I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”
