Tommy McCabe closed his eyes tightly as he washed the blood from his hands.
Lately it seemed as if he couldn’t get them clean enough, washing them dozens of times a day. Tommy wondered whether he was developing obsessive compulsive disorder or a conscience. Not that either option was particularly appealing. One would get him an appointment with a shrink, the other a date with the undertaker. After all, getting his hands dirty, and bloody, was part of his job.
Tommy “Two Fists” McCabe has been a career criminal for over two decades. With his partner, Salvatore “Gravedigger” DiSalvo, Tommy currently “fixed” problems for the Manelli Crime Family. The two men had worked together for almost nine years and were incredibly adept at their jobs, but nobody wanted a fixer with a guilty conscience, or a mental disorder. This was the kind of problem usually handled by a bullet in the back of your head, so Tommy had decided to keep his issues a secret, even from his long-time partner.
Despite his predilection against it, Tommy had already washed his hands four times in the last hour. His “condition” always worsened during times of stress and his current predicament was the biggest clusterfuck he’d ever seen. Needless to say, Tommy didn’t like the situation one bit. “This day has been shit from the word go,” he muttered to himself as he dried his hands with the paper towels nearby.
That morning, when he was contacted by Lucifer Luongo, the new boss recently brought in from the Chicago family, Tommy was trepidatious. This was to be their first meeting and Luongo had a reputation for being the kind of man who was almost impossible to please. Rumor had it, he began working for the cartel only 3 years earlier and had quickly ascended through the ranks despite being African American. The higher ups in the syndicate took quick notice of his specific skill set: merciless tactics, lack of conscience and zero tolerance for failure.
Despite his years of loyal service, Tommy knew that if he got on the outs with a man like Luongo, he wasn’t long for this world. Just a little more stress to add to his already voluminous pile. He wondered how long before the proverbial camel’s back broke for good. All he needed was a chance to get his head straight in the form of an easy first assignment from his new boss. Something like “quieting” an informant or perhaps making a body disappear. He could fix those problems easily, with little to no anxiety, and he could possibly score some quick points with Luongo. Then maybe he’d be okay.
When “Two-Fists” got to the office, Luongo’s assistant asked him to wait in the outer vestibule where she performed her duties. He’d been around long enough to recognize the request for what it was, simply a way for the new boss to exert power over his underlings, to let them know they were on his time now.
Tommy had long ago stopped worrying about the politics of the syndicate, instead focusing his attention on whatever job was at hand. Besides, Luongo’s secretary was a real looker so Tommy didn’t exactly hate spending some time in her company. The big man must’ve brought her in with him from the Windy City, Tommy mused as he gave her the once over.
She was almost 6 feet tall, athletic with a tight, toned body and long muscular legs. Her large, sleepy, green eyes were adorned with just enough eyeliner to make them shine. She wore her jet black hair in braids that reached her round, firm buttocks. Her full lips were covered in blood red lip gloss that somehow made her look cheap yet unattainable at the same time. This was a woman of exotic, singular beauty with a complexion like that of a Milky Way bar. Tommy bet she tasted just as good.
“What’s your name, sugar?” Tommy said as he sidled up to her desk. She looked up at him with a mixture of contempt and amusement.
“They call me Harm. That’s short for Harmony, Mr. McCabe.” she replied with a wry smile.
“Well, then I must be a masochist because I suddenly need to be put in Harm’s way,” Tommy retorted with what he hoped was the first salvo in a flirting skirmish that would end with Harmony in his bed.
Harmony’s expression didn’t change at all. She simply tilted her head ever so slightly to the left. Then she stood, her visage growing dark and her eyes narrowing. The room suddenly and inexplicably became much warmer and humid. Despite the heat, a chill ran up Tommy’s spine when her eyes locked onto his. He felt dizzy. The world fell away until there was nothing left but her. Somehow she became everything in that moment: every object he’d ever seen, every thought he ever had, every breath he’d ever taken. He felt helpless in her gaze, incapable of looking away – like a mouse in a trap from which it never wanted to escape.
After what seemed like an eternity, Harmony calmly said, “I expect more from a man of your caliber, Mr. McCabe. Sophomoric come-ons and leering glances don’t do you justice. Raise your game, Thomas. Forget your past. Become the man you want to be.”
“Tommy McCabe!” Luongo practically shouted as he approached the enforcer from his office. “Ol’ ’Two-Fists’ himself! How the hell are you, my man?”
His voice snapped Tommy’s world back into place. Before he could protest, the crime boss wrapped Tommy in a huge bear hug, slapping him on the back multiple times. The fixer could see Harmony over Luongo’s shoulder. She was working on the office computer like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t even been introduced. Was she Luongo’s girl? Was she afraid to show any inclination that they’d been talking? And what were they talking about? Tommy couldn’t quite remember the past few moments, like a dream that fades after waking.
“Come into my office,” Lucifer said. “Let’s get down to business.” His smile instantly made Tommy uneasy. It was an eerie combination of the Cheshire Cat and Norman Bates. He followed his new boss into the room, still reeling from his interaction with Harm and subsequent embrace from Luongo.
Despite being in his 40s, Tommy McCabe still cut quite an imposing figure. He stood at 6’4” and weighed 265 pounds of solid muscle, with only a small beer belly and the growing bald spot amidst his blonde locks to remind him of the passing years. The most visible holdover from younger days was his goatee, which he considered his trademark look. Despite the company he kept, Tommy was used to being the most intimidating presence in any room, but Lucifer Luongo was in a different league. The sheer power of Luongo’s hug had shocked him. It felt like being inside a car crusher for a moment and Tommy’s ribs still ached from the pressure. There was more to this man than met the eye.
Lucifer Luongo certainly wasn’t a huge man. He was only 5’10” but a solid 205 pounds. Still, the magnitude of his strength was in stark contrast to those pedestrian statistics. Everything about this man seemed slightly off in some way. He wore his hair shaved into what looked like 2-inch ram’s horns that ran from either side of his forehead back around his skull until the ends reached a point behind each ear. It was the oddest hairstyle McCabe had ever seen. It was the kind of haircut that screamed “I don’t give a fuck what you think.” He also wore a Fu Manchu style moustache, which reminded Tommy of Hulk Hogan during his wrestling heyday. Luongo’s demeanor seemed to be one of cavalier indifference to the way the world usually worked.
Tommy couldn’t help but notice his new boss’s penchant for the finer things in life as well. The crime boss was wearing a meticulously tailored black, Kiton K-5 Italian suit, Barker Black Ostrich Cap Toe shoes, and a Pink Robert Talbott ‘Sevenfold’ Silk Tie. All of that was accentuated with the obligatory “bling,” including a Rolex Baselwood watch and a ring on his left hand that would make a Super Bowl Champion jealous. Tommy was sure Luongo’s outfit cost more than the fixer’s childhood home. It sure didn’t seem like he was worried about standing out in a crowd like most criminals, Tommy included. McCabe suddenly felt ridiculously underdressed in his simple white shirt, black slacks and blazer.
Each moment Tommy McCabe spent in Luongo’s office felt stranger than the last. Don Gravanzano, the former boss, appreciated Tommy’s unique talents and utilized him as a first option often, so he’d been in that room hundreds of times. This time, it felt completely alien, like he’d never walked through the door before. The only familiar thing was the door to the private bathroom and Tommy suddenly wanted to wash his hands, but he swallowed that compulsion immediately. Three walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with old tomes, various urns, vases, knickknacks and small, clay figurines. The room also looked much bigger than he remembered, despite the addition of the bookcases. Even the air seemed oddly different. The fixer again tried to clear his head, but everything still seemed fuzzy.
Lucifer offered Tommy a seat in front of his ornate, mahogany desk before walking around to sit in his custom-made, leather chair. As Luongo took out a Cuban cigar from his desktop humidor and lit it demonstratively, the fixer took the opportunity to further scan his surroundings. Tommy noticed the edges of the desk and bookcases both had gargoyles carved into the wood like some macabre series of totems while Luongo’s chair resembled a miniaturized throne with intricate and delicate carvings of skulls and birds in the wood surrounding the arms and legs. This guy sure does have some weird taste in furniture, Tommy thought to himself.
Luongo puffed on his cigar and said, “Thomas, I know Don Gravanzano considered you his ‘go to’ guy, but I think you’re capable of more than that. Seems to me he only used you like a shotgun: pointed you at something and fired. I’d like to use you more like a scalpel.” Lucifer moved forward in his chair and locked eyes with his new employee. “You see, a scalpel can be used for delicate surgery or to cut someone’s throat if need be. You get me?”
Tommy shifted a little in his seat and swallowed hard before saying, “Well, I understand the metaphor, Mr. Luongo, but I don’t get your implication. With all due respect, I’ve done well as a fixer, I’m good at it and I like what I do.” Tommy maintained eye contact with no discernible emotion on his face, despite a slight lurch in his stomach. “Exactly what is it you want me to do for you, sir?”
It felt as if Luongo was looking directly into his soul. The new Don continued to stare across the desk at Tommy before smiling broadly once again. “Damn it, Tommy! I like a man who cuts to the heart of the matter without any bullshit. I could tell I was gonna like you, man. I truly did!” He blew a giant smoke ring up into the air as “Two-Fists” breathed a sigh of relief.
Luongo continued more seriously now. “What we’ve got is a big problem, my man. A problem with the potential to cause a shitstorm like you ain’t never seen. You ever heard of Allan Westhoff?”
“The politician? Isn’t he the one that’s been making a big stink about birth control the past few months? From – uh, Missouri, right?” Tommy guessed, unsure of Westhoff’s home state.
“Michigan, actually and yeah, he’s been making a name for himself with the conservative right by condemning all forms of birth control,” Luongo replied. “He’s also pushing for mandatory drug testing on all government assistance programs including welfare, unemployment, even social security. The guy’s got a major stick up his ass, for sure.” Luongo smirked condescendingly.
“Westhoff also happens to have a teenage daughter who’s gone missing. Naturally, daddy money-bags put his security team on her scent but all they came up with was a credit card charge for a bus ticket from Flint, Michigan, to, guess where?” the boss said while raising his hands in the air as if to present a showcase on The Price Is Right.
“New York fuckin’ City.” Tommy said. “Where all the good little runaways go.” He managed a half smile.
“Exactly, my man.” Lucifer Luongo stood up, walked to the window and peered out, his back to McCabe. “Now you see my problem. The Senator’s daughter is somewhere out there and Westhoff has brought his not inconsiderable weight to bear on the situation.” Luongo turned around, walked around his desk and leaned against the front. “A horde of private dicks, bounty hunters and personal security members have been flooding into this city to bring his little girl home and collect a big payday in the bargain. If little Miss Sandra Westhoff is discovered as the syndicate’s newest working girl or linked in some way to the family’s drug trade, the entire operation could be jeopardized. That can’t happen, Tommy.”
“Understood, Mr. Luongo.” Tommy said, steely eyed. “You want her found or lost forever?”
“Straight to the heart of the matter again huh, Tommy?” Lucifer said, smiling. He put his large hands on Tommy’s shoulders. “Find her, clean her up and anonymously drop her off at the nearest police precinct. If she’s already too far gone by the time you get to her, make her and anybody that knows about her a distant memory.” He patted McCabe’s shoulders twice for emphasis.
“What about Digger, Boss?” Tommy asked hesitantly.
“Let’s leave your partner out of this for now. The fewer people who know about Miss Westhoff, the better,” Luongo said, returning to his chair.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get it done,” Tommy assured his new boss before turning to leave.
“And Tommy,” Luongo added, just before the fixer got to the office door. McCabe paused. “Remember, more scalpel, less shotgun. Get me?”
“Absolutely,” Tommy replied before turning, opening the door and walking out. As he passed Harmony’s desk, noticing it was empty, he thought to himself, “Whatever the hell that means.”
Once McCabe was gone, two figures, one male and one female, emerged from Luongo’s private bathroom. They stood in silence in front of his desk as the new crime boss stewed in his own very private, very dark thoughts. After a few minutes, he looked up, taking another long drag on his cigar.
Luongo stood and walked to the far bookcase. He opened an urn and removed a frayed, grey bag. “Harm, prepare the ritual,” he said to the woman as he placed the lid back on the container.
“As you wish, my master,” Harmony responded as she scurried out of the room with her head down.
“I need you to watch McCabe. Make sure he finds the girl but that’s all he finds. Get me?” Lucifer said in measured tones to the silent man as he made his way back to his desk. “I will have need of him before my plans reach fruition.”
“It will be done, Lucifer,” the man replied running a comb through his jet-black hair, before walking out.
This was the kind of job Tommy hated. Subtlety and detective work were not exactly his strong suit and he got the feeling Lucifer Luongo knew that fact just as much as he did. Still, Luongo was right about one thing. A quick Google search on his I-Phone told McCabe the junior Senator from Michigan had recently become the Republican Party’s newest golden boy, and was thought to be headed for an eventual run at the White House. If this turned ugly, like these things usually did, the firestorm of shit sure to come from Washington would need a fall guy. Tommy knew the new boss wanted to make damn sure it wasn’t his finely tailored neck on the chopping block. Is this all just a set up? he wondered. Is Mr. Bigshot-New-Boss looking to make ol’ “Two-Fists” his fall guy for this entire Westhoff crap? It bugged him enough that he couldn’t even make it out of the building without a trip to the lobby restroom to wash his hands.
As he walked out of the bathroom completely annoyed, mentally venting his frustrations, Tommy noticed his partner, Salvatore DiSalvo, walking toward the exit from the elevator banks. “What the fuck is Digger doing here?” he muttered to himself. That question opened up a new series of suspicions in the fixer’s mind. “Was he listening in on my meeting? Did Luongo set him up as my tail so good ol’ Sally can take me out once I take care of the girl?” Whatever was going on here, it stunk to high heaven and Tommy felt more and more like a chump. To ease his increasingly suspicious mind, he decided to follow his partner on the sly instead of going back into the bathroom to wash his hands again.
DiSalvo’s first stop was Enrico’s Italian Restaurant, a popular haunt for good fellas in Manhattan. Tommy kept an eye on Digger from across the street at one of the ubiquitous Starbuck’s seemingly on every corner of the city. After ten minutes, Salvatore came out, stuffing an envelope into his inside pocket. McCabe watched as his partner repeated this pattern four more times at various local businesses over the next hour. “Collection?” Tommy asked himself. “Why send a guy like Digger to collect protection money?” It made no sense. Still, he was getting the feeling that maybe he had jumped to conclusions and let his paranoid nature get the better of him. It didn’t seem like DiSalvo had any intention of looking for him so he decided to focus on his assignment and put whatever was going on with his partner on the back burner.
It took “Two Fists” multiple conversations and the better part of the day to find out where a majority of the fresh-off-the-bus, teenage runaways inevitably found themselves: in the stable of Hector Guererro, one of the family’s best earners and most vicious pimps. Hector had worked his way up from a numbers runner in the early ‘90’s and, if nothing else, the creep had ambition. He pushed his girls hard and kept them in line through an effective mixture of drugs, intimidation and the occasional beat down. The ever-increasing profits were a testament to his “work model.” Once Hector got his hooks into Senator Westhoff’s baby girl, she’d be unrecognizable before too long. Tommy had heard through the grapevine that it usually took Guerrero around two weeks to properly break in a new girl. Sandy had gotten off that bus from Flint approximately six days ago.
Tommy had crossed paths with Hector multiple times over the last few years and, despite being a lowlife degenerate, the pimp had always been straight with him. Of course, that might have something to do with Tommy’s reputation as a man who didn’t put up with bullshit. In fact, it was well known that he preferred to break various body parts with his bare hands than tolerate someone lying to him. It was the most obvious reason for his alliterative nickname.
Actually, he’d first been called “Two Fists” by his high school boxing coach. Tommy had always been ambidextrous and capable of inflicting damage with either hand. Coach Hamilton had come up with the name after his first knockout. Tommy liked the moniker enough to keep it long after high school. Once he began his career in organized crime, he felt it gave an intimidating reputation, which allowed him to get things done with just the threat of physical violence, more often than not.
In his younger days, Tommy had truly enjoyed taking someone apart just for the fun of it. Most people knew better than to test him and cooperated long before he needed to inflict any permanent damage. However, when Tommy was forced to lean on someone, he was a true artist in the medium of pain. This talent served him well as he made his own ascension up the ranks of the crime family. As he got older, “Two Fists” took a more diplomatic approach to problems, giving others a chance to talk before breaking something.
In this case, he was prepared to use every technique in his vast arsenal to find out what happened to Sandra Westhoff. If Hector Guerrero or anyone else, up to and including his partner, got in his way, they would know a world of hurt unlike anything they’d ever imagined. It was the only way Tommy McCabe did business: to the fullest extent of his rather impressive capabilities.
Hector Guerrero’s base of operations was in a newly renovated apartment building located in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. Despite the refurbishment, the complex remained a den of drug dealing, prostitution and other illegal activities. The Manelli Family spent the necessary money in bribes to ensure it stayed that way. Hector had an apartment on the top floor: his “penthouse pad,” even though it was little more than a one- bedroom flop house.
As Tommy entered the building with the “work bag” he’d retrieved from the trunk of his car, a few of the haggard-looking working girls tried to sidle up to him. One look at his face told them it was “no sale.” He pounded on Hector’s door and waited, still and silent as death itself. After the third attempt, Tommy kicked in the door with the force of a howitzer. As the splintered doorframe cascaded to the ground, “Two Fists” entered the apartment and surveyed the scene. Slowly his lips twisted into a sneer as his face took on a slight crimson hue.
The first thing he noticed was the small table to the right of the door, littered with razorblades, syringes, pills, bags of cocaine, heroin, and other drug paraphernalia. Tommy placed his bag on the table and headed deeper into the apartment. There was a girl dressed only in a wife-beater T-shirt and purple thong lying face down on the bed. Tommy couldn’t I.D. the girl because her head was turned away from him toward the three windows heading out to the fire escape. The left window was smashed, obviously from the outside judging from the pieces of glass littering the floor and bed. On either side of the bed were bookcases filled with various DVDs, jewelry boxes, magazines and crumbled fast food bags. The top shelf of each bookcase had various teddy bears and other stuffed animals. Across from the foot of the bed was a flat screen television sitting on a dresser with the frozen image of a buxom porn star having sex with two men. Someone had paused it and never started it again.
Near the bed was an unconscious Hector Guerrero slumped over awkwardly, bleeding from his mouth. Blood was caked on his oversized moustache and his short, curly hair was covered in a fine, white powder. Probably cocaine, Tommy mused. He was dressed in a pair of N.Y. Knicks shorts, crew socks (the ones with the gold toes), and an average, Hanes, white V-neck T-shirt that looked like a family of four had used it as a napkin after a particularly messy meal. All in all, the pimp and his apartment looked like the aftermath of one hell of a party. As he made his way toward the bed, Tommy could hear the pimp’s labored breathing amid small, unintelligible grunts.
“Sloppy,” he muttered to himself. “Just fuckin’ sloppy.”
Before he could inspect further, the fixer noticed something odd. The bedroom closet was missing its door. It had been completely removed but with no apparent damage. The door stood leaning against the wall to the left of the closet, right next to the dresser with the TV on it. Upon closer inspection, Tommy realized the hinge pins had been removed and the still-locked door was simply taken out of the door frame and placed to the side. The door removal seemed strangely out of place amidst the other chaos and destruction. For no particular reason, he bent down and picked up the hinge pins, placing them in the right, inside pocket of his blazer.
Stranger still was what he discovered in the closet. On the floor was a makeshift bed, with a small couch pillow, a filthy, hole- filled blanket and half of a thin, stained mattress. Next to the mattress was a half-eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, 3 soiled pairs of panties, and assorted empty water bottles. The closet itself stunk of urine, vomit and ass, a familiar combination to anyone who’d ever ridden the New York subway system. It was obvious that someone had been forced to live in there. Sandy Westhoff, maybe? Were these the lengths Hector went to break in his new girls? Tommy made a quick sweep of the rest of the apartment before finally making his way to the girl on the bed. He checked her pulse but didn’t find one. He turned her over gently and his world turned to shit. It was Sandra Westhoff.
“Aw, for fuck’s sake!” the fixer bellowed.
Senator Allan Westhoff’s little girl was dead in the roach-infested, dingy, drug den apartment of New York City’s most despicable pimp. This had officially become a fuck up of monumental proportions and Tommy had no doubt in his mind he’d be made to get the shit end of the stick because of it. In need of information and with only one place to get it, “Two Fists” went to the kitchen, retrieved a faded chair and roughly hoisted the still unconscious body of Hector Guerrero off the floor. He wasn’t very large, 5’10” and no more than 175 pounds, so Tommy had no trouble moving his limp body.
He sat the pimp in the chair and, unable to control his rising anger, punched Hector directly in the face. The punch shattered Hector’s nose and the pain briefly rousted the lowlife awake before he once again fell into the abyss of drug-induced oblivion. Blood flowed out of the unconscious pimp’s nose like a faucet. Tommy knew it would abate in a few minutes, but he wanted Guerrero to see it when he finally forced the lowlife awake. A large amount of his own blood on a man’s chest was another good motivator when asking questions. Fully aware of the time sensitive nature of the situation, the fixer nonetheless went to wash his hands before starting.
When he returned, Tommy screamed in Hector’s ear, “Wake up, asshole!” The unconscious pimp did not stir. The fixer slapped him across the face. Still no signs of life. Growing impatient, “Two Fists” resorted to some old-fashioned tactics. Luckily, there were two full ice cube trays and a half empty two-liter bottle of Sprite in the freezer and fridge. McCabe took the cap off the soda and carefully flexed the plastic trays until the cubes popped free but stayed in each cup. He calmly pulled open Guerrero’s basketball shorts and poured the 24 ice cubes down his pants before quickly emptying the Sprite over his head, while walking behind the chair. After a few seconds, Hector sprung to life.
“Wha – What the fuck! Hey! What?” Hector screamed as he tried to move to no avail. Tommy had made sure he wasn’t going anywhere with duct tape restraints. His wrists were taped in front of him with palms up; over a dozen strips were around his chest, waist and arms to further restrict movement, while his ankles were firmly taped to the legs of the chair on which he sat. After 30 seconds of frantic attempts to free himself, Hector’s body sagged and Tommy knew the reality of the situation was sinking into his pea brain. Only then did he walk around the chair and into the pimp’s line of vision.
“Hello, Hector,” Tommy said with an icy glare.
“Tommy Two Fists! Oh, shit! Hey...hey, what’s goin’ on, man?” Hector responded with sheer terror in his eyes. He kept squirming in an attempt to free the ice cubes from where they’d come to rest as he continued speaking, almost pleading, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, man, you know me. Whatever you think I did, I didn’t do nothing. I never do nothing, man.”
“Shut up, Hector.” Tommy got another chair and placed it in front of the other man, no more than 3 feet away. He got a TV tray from the kitchen and placed his bag on it. “Two Fists” then sat on the chair and casually removed a ball peen hammer, a pair of pliers, a box of razor blades, an ice pick and a vintage Italian switch blade. As he removed the items, he said in a very low, menacing voice, “Now, you and me are gonna have a little talk, okay? How that talk goes is up to you. But make no mistake, you are going to tell me what I want to know. Do you understand me, Hector?”
As each item appeared, Hector’s eyes got wider and wilder. They darted around the room, desperately searching for anyone or anything that could help him get out of this. Tommy couldn’t help but notice that Guerrero seemed fixated on the closet, his gaze repeatedly coming back to it. He briefly tried to get free again but the fixer’s furled brow quickly dispelled that notion. Hector looked into Tommy’s steely eyes as tears began to fill his own. The realization that he was at the mercy of organized crime’s most efficient and tenacious fixer eventually hit home and he began to whimper like a sick dog. Finally, the most feared and vicious pimp in the syndicate nodded yes over and over again as tears ran down his pock-marked cheeks and cocaine powder wafted down from his scalp.
Guerrero knew he was in deep shit but he had no idea why. “What’s going on, Tommy? Seriously, I ain’t done nothing wrong. Ain’t skimming or no shit like that, you gotta believe me, man!”
“This isn’t about any of that, Hector. It’s about that dead girl behind me. Remember her?” Tommy said without emotion.
“Princess? My princess is dead?” Guerrero shouted trying to look over McCabe’s shoulder to see. “Oh no, Tommy! You didn’t have to kill her, man! She was just some dumb bitch from the Midwest. She didn’t even turn her first trick yet,” Hector said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I didn’t kill her, you dumb fuck!” McCabe replied, his voice rising with each word. He took a breath to calm himself before continuing. “She was dead when I got here but I was looking for her. Now tell me what happened to her, Hector. And don’t even think about bullshitting me.” He picked up a razor blade, unwrapping it quickly.
“I don’t know, man! We was just havin’ some fun, that’s all! I swear! I didn’t do nothin’!” Hector said frantically.
“Hector, Hector, calm down. Just calm down.” Tommy spoke softly in a soothing, melodic tone. Then out of nowhere he sliced the palm of Hector’s left hand four times with the razor blade, causing the pimp to howl in pain.
“Now I’m going to ask you again and I don’t want any more of this ‘I don’t know’ shit, ok?” Tommy continued, taking out some fresh supplies from his bag: two lemons and a shaker full of salt. He gently wiped the blood from Hector’s palm as he said, “What happened here?” He then poured half the contents of the salt shaker into the captive man’s outstretched hand. Hector screamed in pain as Tommy rubbed the salt into the open wounds.
“I don’t – I mean, I mean we was partying, yeah we was doin’ some blow and some bags but Princess got sleepy after the dope so she laid down!” Hector said as fast as he could, hoping it would appease the fixer. “That’s what happened, man! For reals!”
“Two Fists” McCabe backhanded Hector across the face, blood flying out of the pimp’s mouth as it twisted to the right. He then took the ball peen hammer and smashed the big toe on Guererro’s right foot, causing the loudest screams yet. Hector began to stammer incoherently as Tommy grabbed the ice pick, moved around behind him, and forced him to look at the bed.
“Look at her, you lowlife piece of shit! Look! Does she look “tired” to you? She’s dead, motherfucker and you killed her!” the fixer screamed right next to his ear, spittle flying out of his mouth and mixing in with the blood on Hector’s t-shirt.
“No, no, no, no, no, man! I only gave her half a bag! No way she O.D’ed on that shit! No way, Tommy!” Hector pleaded, half crazed from the pain. “I always been straight with you, right? There ain’t no reason for me to hurt my Princess. I’m good to my girls.”
Tommy had to admit, Hector had a good point but his gut told him the pimp was hiding something and he didn’t have time to coax it out of him gently. Shit! Tommy thought to himself before plunging the ice pick into the soft spot between the clavicle and the acromion bone of Guerrero’s left shoulder. Tommy left Hector writhing in agony as he went to wash his hands.
By the time Tommy got back from the bathroom, the pimp was a whimpering, quivering mess. Tears, mucus, saliva and blood had congealed all over his face making it a disgusting smorgasbord of bodily fluids. Tommy sat down in front of him again without a hint of remorse.
“Please, Tommy, please. Don’t do this, man. I didn’t do nothin’. We was always cool...why you comin’ down on me like this, man? Why?” Hector pleaded between gasps for air. He sounded like a man with the worst head cold in history due to his continuous weeping. It was pathetic.
“You say you weren’t doing anything, just partying like normal, but one of your girls dies and you have absolutely no idea how that happened?” Tommy began quietly. “Let’s say I believe you, Hector.”
“You gotta believe-” was all Guerrero got out before “Two Fists” punched him in the left eye, snapping his head back like a rubber band. He groaned loudly but otherwise kept his mouth shut.
“Like I said, let’s say I believe you about ‘Princess.’ Here’s what I’m wondering, Hector. What happened to the window? Who did you have stashed away in that closet and how the fuck did that girl end up dead on your watch?” Tommy stood, once again causing Hector to flinch dramatically. Tommy got close to Guerrero’s right ear and whispered, “Do you have answers for me, Hector, or do I have to start getting serious with you?”
Hector gazed up at Sandra Westhoff’s dead body for a moment and the look on his face was genuine sorrow. He whispered, “Princess” softly before quickly looking over at the closet. His eyes narrowed and his face became angry as he stared at the empty space for almost a full minute. McCabe waited him out patiently, hoping he was ready to break and spill his guts. Guerrero’s face then turned to pure terror and his body began to shake before his head dropped once again. He shook it from side to side yelling, “I-I-I don’t know, man! Please, let me go! I ain’t done nothin’ wrong! I just do what I’m told, man! Ask Digger, man! He’ll tell you! Ask Digger!”
At the mention of his partner’s name, Tommy snapped. All the frustrations of this bitch of a day came pouring out of him in a stream of obscenities as he began to beat Hector mercilessly. His fists smashed repeatedly into the captive man’s face and body, drawing blood and shattering bone. After three minutes, Tommy unleashed a haymaker to Guererro’s midsection that caused the pimp to involuntarily vomit all over himself. His body continued to retch and convulse long after Hector lost consciousness. The only sound in the apartment was Hector’s moans, groans and rasping breaths as Tommy once again walked toward the bathroom.
After finishing his now frequent ritual, Tommy wanted to let Hector stew for a bit so he searched the kitchen for supplies. He found a recently opened box of Glad Forceflex large garbage bags, an unopened roll of paper towels and, surprisingly, a bottle of Dewar’s White Label Scotch. He poured some whiskey into an old, Loony Tunes glass that looked reasonably clean and took a hearty swig. McCabe then methodically wrapped up the last remains of Sandy Westhoff using the garbage bags, the comforter from the bed and an entire roll of duct tape. Her body looked like a giant pupa inside its chrysalis right before it emerged as a butterfly. Alas, there would be no such metamorphosis for Senator Westhoff’s baby girl. Her fate was sealed the day she met Hector Guerrero.
When Tommy was finished, he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment collecting his thoughts. From where he was sitting he could see directly into the closet. Something about it still bothered him. What was Hector hiding? “Two Fists” slumped over, leaning his chin into his hands when he noticed something shiny in there. Without thinking he got on his hands and knees and crawled over to the closet to retrieve what had caught his eye. It was a cookie tin decorated with cartoon reindeer and Santa Claus in his sleigh. He sat leaning on the door frame of the closet as he opened the container.
The first thing McCabe saw was a faded, worn picture of a middle-aged woman with two younger women hugging her from either side. None of them were Sandra Westhoff. “X-mas ‘09 Montana” was written on the back in faded, blue ink. He rifled through the other items in the tin: a heart locket, two large fake- emerald earrings, an Army medal, a pair of glasses with one lens cracked and several letters. Tommy opened one of the missives and saw they were love letters: the kind teenagers write declaring their undying love for each other before the world wears them down and beats the romance out of their hearts forever.
“Nnnnn –whathafuck?” Hector mumbled as he began to stir.
Before the pimp fully regained consciousness, Tommy closed the cookie tin and placed it in his work bag. He intended to ask Hector about the closet, and its occupant again, but he didn’t want Guerrero to know he’d found anything, lest that information prejudice his responses. McCabe looked over his captive and it wasn’t pretty. Hector’s face was a mass of bruises, contusions and open wounds. His eyes were almost swollen shut, like Rocky Balboa at the end of the original movie when the fictional pugilist begged his trainer, Mickey, to “cut him” so he could see again. That gave Tommy an idea.
“Hector! Hector, wake up!” he shouted while playfully slapping the ice pick still protruding from his shoulder. “Time to finish our conversation. Are you ready, Hector?” Tommy quickly removed the ice pick, cleaned it on Hector’s shorts and placed it back in his bag.
“Tommy, man...Tommy, wait...please jus’ wait a sec. Please.” Hector whined through bloody teeth and swollen lips.
“Who was in that closet, Hector? Tell me who it was now or I’m going to get creative. You don’t want that, do you?” the fixer said without any humor.
“Tom, I-I-ca-I can’t...I don’t know what you want from me, man. Really, I don’t know.” Hector said so low it was barely audible.
“Okay, have it your way.” Tommy took another razor blade and cut Hector across both eyelids causing the beaten man to scream uncontrollably and shake his head violently back and forth. “Two Fists” then cut a lemon in two and squeezed them directly into the pimp’s eyes, causing even more violent body upheavals and caterwauling.
Tommy sat back in his chair and studied the effect of his handiwork. He couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little to himself. The lemons reminded him of Miracle Max’s line from The Princess Bride. After being asked if he was the one who worked for the King all those years, Max said, “The King’s stinking son fired me and thank you so much for bringing up such a painful subject. While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?” That always cracked Tommy up, right from the first time he saw the movie with his former wife and son. He hadn’t thought about that movie or his family in a long, long time. He grabbed the paper towels and headed for the bathroom yet again.
Unbidden, Tommy’s mind drifted back to what he considered the moment of his greatest failure. The marriage had been over for years but they’d stayed together for Chris’s sake, trying to give their boy at least the semblance of a happy home. Eventually, it got to be too much for Margaret. Being married to the mob isn’t easy and it was especially hard for an honest, compassionate and God-fearing woman like her. She tried to be the doting wife and not ask questions but she wasn’t blind or stupid. There were only so many times you could wash out blood stains before you knew the answers without asking any questions. One night Margaret finally said, “This is no life for a man, cow-towing to thugs and criminals for scraps. You’re nothing but a mad dog to them, Tom...to be let off the leash if and when they need you.” In response Tommy slapped her, the only time he ever laid his hands on her, telling her to keep her mouth shut about things she didn’t understand. She left the next day without a note, message or good-bye.
Tommy knew they’d be better off without him so he didn’t even attempt to find them. Maggie was still a fine looking woman and she’d be able to remarry some solid, dependable guy who’d be the kind of man she and Chris needed, not a mook like him. Yeah, he rationalized it every time he thought about it but the fact was, it was a relief when he got home and they were gone. It was easier for him that way. Marriage and fatherhood were too hard and he was no good at either of them. So he just let them go, telling himself it was for the best, but deep down he knew. He knew he was a coward. He took the easy way out and look at him now. He was washing his hands for the fourth time in an hour while working over a lowlife pimp on the orders of a crime boss who was probably setting him up as a fall guy for the whole, fucking situation. Yeah, things had really worked out great for ol’ “Two Fists” McCabe, alright.
He shook his head in frustration and took a few long, deep breaths, exhaling dramatically after each one. Picking up the paper towels to dry his hands, Tommy muttered, “On top of everything else, the last thing I need is to start thinking about this crap. This day has been shit from the word go.”
“Hey! Leave me alone! No! Don’t! Toooommmmy!” Hector’s shrieks broke Tommy’s reverie.
He bolted out of the bathroom like an Indy racecar right into the business end of a Sig Pro semi-automatic pistol. Tommy simply frowned and said, “What the fuck are you doing here, Digger?”
“You know me, Tommy. Just looking for a little fun,” DiSalvo responded while holstering his pistol. “What do you have goin’ on here? Looks like a good time. Well, except for Hector there and the wrapped-up stiff on the bed,” he continued, laughing.
“Seriously, Digger. What are you doing here?” Tommy repeated, cold as ice. McCabe was less than pleased to see his partner. Even if he didn’t have trust issues with him right now, Tommy hated being interrupted while interrogating someone. He felt Hector was just about to start talking, but now all bets were off. With the addition of “Gravedigger” DiSalvo, the pimp was beyond terrified and on the verge of shutting down completely.
“Hector and me go way back, buddy. He always has the best shit and I felt like gettin’ some party supplies. You know how I do,” Digger said as he meandered around the room casually.
Salvatore DiSalvo wasn’t the kind of guy you could call inconspicuous. He was slender but tall, topping out at over 6’3”. He always wore his hair slicked back and when he was nervous he continually ran his ever-present comb through his raven locks. Digger had deep set eyes with bushy eyebrows that made him look angry even when he was smiling. He dressed much like Tommy, but preferred the classic pin-striped suit jacket over the more casual blazer. McCabe had known Digger a long time now, so it was easy to recognize that his partner had already been “partying” throughout the day. DiSalvo was definitely a coke man and he was pretty wired right now.
DiSalvo stopped near the bed, giving the wrapped-up body of Sandra Westhoff the once over. “So, who’s the stiff? Anybody I know?”
Tommy looked at his partner warily. “You tell me. If you and Hector are such good buddies, wouldn’t you know his houseguests better than me?” McCabe continued to study DiSalvo to see if his body language gave any inclination that he knew more than he was letting on but it was difficult because of the drugs. Digger had a whole host of ticks and twitches when he was high. Tommy knew from bitter experience that he was infinitely more unpredictable and dangerous that way too.
Salvatore just shrugged and said, “Got me. Hec over there has so many whores coming and going all the time, they’d need a nametag for me to know which one was sucking my dick on any given day.” DiSalvo snorted at his comment and started wandering around the room again. He hesitated at the closet and Tommy could see him give it a quick once over. Was he looking for something? Someone?
“And I thought my place was small,” Digger joked, pointing to the makeshift bed.
This situation kept getting more complicated. Not only was there the potential missing witness to Sandra Westhoff’s death that he needed to find and silence, but now his own partner was getting in the way. Tommy still wasn’t sure if Digger was involved but it seemed like everyone still alive in that apartment knew more than he did. It was starting to piss him off. McCabe needed to play this situation just right if he was ever going to find out what really happened.
“Seriously, Digger, enough fucking around. I got shit to do so I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?” Tommy asked calmly.
DiSalvo smirked and sighed loudly. “Let me ask you a question and then I’ll get out of your hair, partner. I know how you hate company when you’re working.” Digger sat on the corner of the bed across from the closet, facing McCabe. Tommy remained all business, not showing any sign he was in the mood for games.
“Can you tell me what the difference is between a crossbow and a hand grenade?” DiSalvo asked coyly.
Tommy face grew angry as he replied, “What kind of fucking stupid question is that?”
Digger stood up with his hands out in front of him passively, as if trying to calm a barking dog. “Hey, that’s what I want to know, man. I met with the new boss this morning and he said he wanted me to be more like a crossbow and less like a grenade! I don’t know what the fuck he was talking about, do you?”
Tommy was stunned for a second before he suddenly burst out laughing. All of the stress and anxiety he was feeling completely left his body and he smiled ear to ear. “Are you fucking kidding me? He said he wanted me to act more like a scalpel and less like a shotgun!” he answered while chuckling. “You believe that?”
DiSalvo laughed so hard his body shook. “Oh, that’s great! Wait...wait! Maybe we should call ourselves Crossbow and Scalpel from now on! Like two douche bags in a buddy cop movie!” Digger shouted between guffaws, causing the two mobsters to laugh even more uncontrollably.
When they finally calmed down, Digger wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Listen, I don’t know about this new guy, Luongo” he said, suddenly getting serious. “He had me in his office early this morning and after dropping that crossbow/grenade thing on me, he makes me wait for another half hour in the conference room for nothing! He just calls me back in and tells me to do a collection round. Can you believe that? Me? Doing fuckin’ collections again!” The look of disgust on his face made Tommy grin again.
“Which begs the question once again, what are you doing here, Dig?” Tommy asked, bemusedly.
“Fuck that guy!” Digger responded. His demeanor changed to that of a teenager who got caught with a joint in his locker. He was indignant but slightly repentant. “I figured I’d get some blow from Guerrero and do my collections in a better mood, y’know?” DiSalvo then asked quietly. “You’re not gonna rat me out, are ya?”
“Why would I?” Tommy said. “There’s a ton of coke on that table by the door. Help yourself. Hector sure won’t be using it.”
Hector suddenly sprang to life again. He’d been quiet as a mouse, hoping the two fixers might get into an argument and take each other out before they remembered him. It was a pipe dream of course but, in his position, a pipe dream was the only chance he had. He said through swollen lips, “Hey now, Tommy. What do you mean by that? I ain’t done nothing, man. I –”
“Shut up, Hector!” Tommy and Salvatore said in unison, causing another few chuckles.
“Seriously, Digger. I have work to do. You should go.” Tommy said, trying to coax his partner out the door.
Salvatore stood and adjusted his coat. “Sure thing, partner. Just let me get that pick-me-up before I go.” He walked to the table and picked up a bag of white powder, walked back to the bed, took down a DVD from the book case and proceeded to form 3 parallel lines of cocaine on the cover. He quickly snorted two, then looked up with a huge grin on his face. “Want some?” he asked.
“No. Finish up and get gone. No more bullshit. There’s a clock ticking on this one, Dig.” Tommy chided, impatiently.
“Damn, why didn’t you say so, Dude?” DiSalvo snorted the last line, dropped everything on the bed, stood quickly, adjusted his jacket and walked toward Tommy slowly. He made various snorting noises as he massaged his nose with his left hand. Just as he passed Hector, he suddenly pulled his Sig and said, “But if you need info quick, just do what I always do.” He pointed the gun at Hector’s right leg.
“Digger, don’t!” Tommy shouted but it was too late. DiSalvo pulled the trigger and the room was filled with the thunder of the gunshot. Guerrero screamed as blood spurted upward like a geyser. Salvatore backed away from the chair to avoid the arcing blood, holstering his weapon. “Bet he sings like a canary now.”
“Dammit!” McCabe screamed as he rushed to Hector’s side. “You fucking shot his femoral artery, you asshole!”
The fixer frantically tried to wrap Hector’s leg with duct tape but the way he’d restrained him in the chair made it impossible. Blood spurted everywhere and Tommy knew it was useless. Hector Guerrero would bleed out in minutes and he’d die with whatever useful information he had in that ignorant brain of his. Tommy looked derisively at his partner but Digger just shrugged again, as if to say “oh well, shit happens.”
“Tuh-Tom –.” Hector tried to speak. The pimp was quickly losing consciousness due to blood loss but he finally had something to say. Tommy put his ear close to his ear in hopes of some pearl of wisdom from his death throes; some “Rosebud” to make sense of it all. Tommy couldn’t help but notice the unmistakable smell of lemons as Hector struggled to talk.
“Juh –Juh –Juh – raffs,” Hector managed to whisper before he passed out. Moments later, he was dead and Tommy McCabe was left with yet another riddle. He turned to his partner.
“So what did that skell tell you?” DiSalvo asked, unapologetically.
“Fucking gibberish! What do you think?!” Tommy screamed, his anxiety rising by the second. “Goddammit, Digger! You fucked up big time here! How am I supposed to explain this shit?”
“Hey! I was trying to help! So sue me!” Digger retorted defensively.
“No, fuck that shit! You’re helping me clean up this god damn mess you made!” Here!” he yelled, throwing DiSalvo his switch blade. “Cut him loose and let’s wrap him up in those garbage bags and...” Tommy frantically searched the apartment with his eyes. “...that throw rug over there!” he said, pointing to the other room. “Move!” he ordered while reaching for another roll of duct tape from his work bag.
Digger did as he was told without any back talk. Together the two men had Hector Guerrero’s body wrapped up in minutes. Only then did DiSalvo offer a tepid apology. “Look, man. I – I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t mean for it to go down like this,” he said, unable to make eye contact with his partner and friend. “I’ll tell the big man it was my fault.”
“I appreciate it, but don’t bother,” Tommy replied. “Hector wasn’t making it past tonight anyway so there’s no need for you to be noble. Plus, we both know you suck at it.” The partners half- smiled at each other.
“Well, at least let me take care of Hector’s body while you take care of the other one, okay?” DiSalvo offered. “I’m guessing you don’t want them together.”
“Yeah, you do that. Go make Guerrero a bad memory. Nobody is gonna miss him,” Tommy said. “I got some other stuff to take care of. Then I have to change my clothes and go tell the boss man what went down. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to leave your name out of it, ok?”
Digger hoisted the throw rug with Hector inside over his shoulder and said, “Thanks for always havin’ my back, Tom. Really.”
Tommy nodded and with that, DiSalvo grabbed a few bags from the table and walked out of the apartment, leaving McCabe to his own thoughts.
“Giraffes?” He repeated Hector’s last word. “What the fuck does ‘giraffes’ mean?”
Tommy was tired and this day had a long way to go before it ended. He was well aware that it still might end with him either set up as the scapegoat or dead, so he figured he might as well get on with it. He cleaned up his tools and placed them back in his bag, making sure not to damage the cookie tin. He wasn’t really sure what point it served to keep the container now, but over the years he’d developed razor sharp instincts about this kind of thing, so he decided to hold onto it for a bit longer.
The fixer then headed back to the bathroom to wash his hands yet again. At least this time, there was a reason. He was covered in Hector Guerrero’s blood. “If I’m not dead tomorrow, I gotta get myself tested,” he joked to himself, looking at the streaks of red all over his body.
Once he was finished in the bathroom, Tommy went to the kitchen, poured himself two glasses of scotch, downed them in succession and then measured out a third into the Sylvester and Tweety glass. He walked back into the bedroom, stood at the foot of the bed and stared at the wrapped-up body of the senator’s daughter. “Two Fists” again went over the lingering questions in his mind: who broke the window, who was living in the closet, where did that person go and how did Sandra Westhoff die? He’d gotten nowhere close to answering any of them and now his ass was on the line.
“Damn it, Digger! He was gonna talk if you hadn’t blundered in! I know he was! Now all I have is ‘Giraffes’!” Tommy yelled out loud, his frustration mounting. He downed the scotch quickly and threw the glass, shattering it against the bookcase nearest the window. The fixer lowered his head, rubbing his temples, attempting to calm himself. When he finally looked up again, he was stunned by what he saw.
“Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, as a broad smile broke out across his face.
By the time Tommy McCabe got back to the building housing Lucifer Luongo’s office it was close to 10 pm. As he rode up in the elevator, carrying his work bag and a laptop computer, he removed his Smith & Wesson M&P45 from its shoulder holster with his right hand. As the elevator doors opened, he gently switched off the safety and strode cautiously into the empty hallway. He’d called ahead to set up a meeting with his new boss, but the entire floor seemed deserted. The fixer gently opened the double glass doors to Harmony’s outer office with his foot. After a few moments, he eased his way into the room. Tommy looked at the door to Luongo’s office, which was open, and then he looked around the rest of the room suspiciously. It was quiet as a tomb.
“That piece for me, Tommy?” Luongo said, causing McCabe to jump. The crime boss was now standing in the doorway to his office. The fixer was sure no one was there a second ago.
“No, sir,” Tommy replied, warily. “Just getting paranoid in my old age, I guess. Anyone else here, Don Luongo?”
“I sent Harmony out for some food...had a craving for steak tartare,” Luongo said as he disappeared into his office. Tommy holstered his weapon and followed him through the doorway. Just as the fixer entered his office, Luongo continued, “Of course, your partner is here, too. Say hello, Gravedigger.” Tommy stopped dead in his tracks, a feeling of dread overtaking him.
Salvatore DiSalvo was sitting in front of Lucifer Luongo’s expensive desk smoking one of the Don’s Cuban cigars, smiling like the proverbial cat that ate the canary. “Hey, partner. How’d everything work out for ya?”
Tommy “Two Fists” McCabe remained silent, waiting for the bullet to hit the back of his head. Instead, he got another series of thunderous pats on the back from Luongo. “Have a seat, Thomas!” the crime boss shouted. “Grab a cigar!” Each word sounded like a cannon shot in the quiet office. The fixer again noticed the room felt different, somehow darker and more foreboding. There was a faded odor he couldn’t place, something akin to burnt hair and cinnamon. The fixer walked around his partner and sat in the chair to his right, the same one he’d occupied this morning. Was it just this morning? Tommy thought to himself. Long fuckin’ day.
“What you got for me, Tommy?” Luongo asked pointedly. “What couldn’t wait?”
“I found the information you requested. I didn’t think it could wait til morning, what with the sensitive nature of the...uh, situation.” Tommy said, unsure if the boss had clued Digger in or not. The crime boss once again locked eyes with McCabe across his desk. He took a deep breath and exhaled.
“DiSalvo, get lost for a while. Me and ‘Two Fists’ have things to discuss,” Luongo ordered without even looking at Digger. “And close the door on your way out.”
“Guess it’s the conference room for ol’ Digger again,” Salvatore half-heartedly joked.
Once he was gone, Luongo’s demeanor changed. “How much did you find out, Tommy?” he asked almost coyly, like he already knew what the fixer was going to say.
Tommy reached in his work bag for a moment and then threw two stuffed giraffes, one lavender, the other peach-colored, on Luongo’s desk. “Pretty much everything, sir.” he said. “It’s all here.”
Luongo looked at the two stuffed animals incredulously. “What’s here? Children’s toys?” he said. “Are you playing games with me, man? Is DiSalvo right? Are you having mental problems, McCabe?” Tommy stiffened as it became clear just what his partner was doing in that office before he’d arrived. Digger was throwing him under the bus to save his own ass.
“Absolutely not, sir,” Tommy said. “These are anything but toys. One is a motion activated webcam and the other...well, see for yourself!” He picked up the lavender giraffe and ripped it apart. Dozens of flash drives fell out of it like a broken piñata at a quinceañera.
Luongo smiled. “What did you find out, my man?”
“Let me show you,” Tommy replied. He set the laptop up in front of the crime boss. He took a USB cable from his bag, plugged it into the computer and then ran it to the underside of the peach, stuffed giraffe.
Tommy started his tale as he performed these tasks, “I traced Sandra Westhoff to the apartment of one Hector Guerrero, a mid- level pimp in the syndicate. He recruits new girls for his stable at the usual haunts: Port Authority, Grand Central, pretty much anywhere young, naïve girls pour into the city. Apparently, he worked his magic on Sandra. She was in that apartment, but dead by the time I got there, sir.” He paused for Luongo’s reaction just as he finished plugging in the cable.
“Damn,” Luongo said with a hint of annoyance in his voice, pausing for a moment. “Where is she now?” he finally asked.
“Forever a part of the foundation on that building going up over on Van Dam,” Tommy said. “The foreman has a problem with playing the ponies. I made his debt go away for a favor: look the other way for a half hour. He doesn’t even know she’s there. No one does ‘cept you and me.” Tommy smirked.
“Well done, Thomas,” Luongo said. “What else is there?”
“Just click on that file right there and see for yourself. Guerrero was highly paranoid...his whole place was wired with nanny cams.”
Luongo did just that and the video file began to play silently. It looked like something from a department store feed: no sound but decent enough resolution. The video began with Sandra Westhoff walking to the edge of the bed in Hector Guerrero’s apartment. The pimp came onto camera, talking to her, trying to persuade her of something. She argued. He slapped her hard. Sandra started to cry. Suddenly, Salvatore DiSalvo came into frame and hit Hector. He yelled at the pimp and Hector left the room. Digger comforted Sandra for a few moments before he began to feel her up, laughing as he did. She tried to get away but he was too strong. DiSalvo forced her down and started to undress her, ripping her clothes. Sandra got one arm free and tried to scratch his face but missed.
DiSalvo pushed her down to the floor and walked off camera only to return a minute late with a syringe. He put her on the bed, slapped her a few times until she stopped squirming and then injected her. Mere moments after the fix, Sandra Westhoff began to drift away, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. Digger then raped her unconscious body. He got up, put on his pants and exited the room.
Moments later, Hector came back into frame. The pimp puts a pair of purple thong panties and a wife beater T-shirt on the girl, placed a pillow gently under her head and then walked off camera.
“The cam stops recording after a minute,” Tommy said. “He gave her more than enough heroine to cause an OD. She was probably already dead by the time Digger got done with her. I don’t think he knew who she was, sir.”
Lucifer Luongo sat back in his chair and breathed deeply. “It’s a little late to protect your partner, Tommy. Besides, it doesn’t matter if he did or not. Even if she wasn’t a senator’s daughter, DiSalvo used syndicate property for his own ends.” Luongo turned and looked at Tommy pensively. “You know this is bad for your boy, so why didn’t you just bury all this with the girl? Why show me?”
“I thought about burying it, Mr. Luongo, ‘cause me and Digger go way back. We been through a lot together but, bottom line is, I work for the family, not for myself and certainly not for Dig. A guy like me doesn’t have much choice in somethin’ like this. It ain’t like I like doing it. I don’t, but this wasn’t the first time. Those flash drives show dozens of encounters with various girls plus numerous episodes of him shaking down Guerrero for drugs, money, whatever. He’s off the rails, boss.” Tommy paused, gathering himself. He swallowed hard. “You needed to know. When you boil it down, it’s simple as that.” He began to disconnect the cables.
“Leave it. I want to watch all of them,” Luongo said.
Just then, Harmony came in with the food. She didn’t say a word as she placed it in front of Luongo before quickly retreating to her outer office. Luongo absent-mindedly opened the take-out container and began to eat the pieces of steak inside with his hands. He said with a mouth full of food, “Give me a minute here, Tommy. Go wash your hands or something.”
In the office bathroom, McCabe splashed water on his face, blankly staring into the mirror at the ragged, old stranger looking back at him. He couldn’t help but wonder if Luongo bought his story. If he didn’t, Tommy figured there was no way he’d be leaving that building alive. He was starting to think Margaret was right. Sooner or later, a mad dog has to be put down; it’s just a matter of time before his keepers decide he’s outlived his usefulness. He splashed more water on his face and when Tommy looked in the mirror again, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Harmony was standing right behind him, over his right shoulder.
“Jesus! You scared the shit outta me! What are you doing in here?” Tommy whispered, trying to cover his embarrassment.
Harmony moved closer, and then kissed him deeply. His body responded to her lips instantly. He grabbed her, pushed her against the wall and pressed his body against hers. She met his passion equally, moving her hands over his body like a concert pianist, hitting just the right keys. As his desire rose, threatening to explode right out of him, she bit his left ear hard enough to cause Tommy to cry out. As the pain radiated through his ear, she pushed him away with both arms. Once again, they locked eyes and Tommy felt his world slip away.
“Raise your game, Thomas,” Harmony said. “Forget your past. Become the man you want to be.”
“McCabe! Get in here! Now!” Tommy heard Lucifer Luongo shout from the other room.
“Two Fists” moved past Harmony and back into the office. He was almost in a fugue state, walking across the room by pure instinct. He sat rigidly in the chair, looking at his boss through vacant eyes. He barely noticed that Digger, who was grinning like a hyena, was back from the conference room.
“Hey! You there, my man?” Luongo asked jokingly.
“Absolutely, boss,” Tommy said unconvincingly.
“Okay, listen up because I’ve given this some thought and I’ve come to a decision.” Luongo stood and began pacing. “It’s like this: I want you to be more than just another employee, more than a fixer for me, Tommy. I want you to be my right hand. The person who helps me get this organization running the way I want it to run, need it to run.
I think you’re the man for the job. You’re not afraid to get your hands dirty and you’re loyal to the family. That’s important.”
The boss came over to Tommy, placing the work bag in McCabe’s hands as he stared into his eyes. “But it’s equally important that you be loyal to me. Can you do that, Tommy? Can you be loyal to me? I need someone I can trust to do what needs to be done. To do anything that needs to be done.” Luongo went back to his chair behind his desk before saying, “Get me?”
Tommy’s world began to become clearer, more vivid. His head finally cleared and the magnitude of Luongo’s message sunk in. The fixer knew this was an all or nothing proposition. He could be 2nd in command of the country’s biggest crime syndicate or he could decide to walk away. Harmony’s words echoed in his mind: “Become the man you want to be.”
Without saying a word or changing expression, Tommy stood and walked toward the door. Just as he passed Digger’s chair, he pulled out a scalpel and cut his partner’s throat ear to ear. Salvatore DiSalvo grabbed his throat with both hands as blood gushed from the wound. He fell to his knees, eyes wide and wild. He looked unbelievingly at both men before collapsing to the floor, the pool of blood under his head growing quickly.
“I absolutely get you, boss,” Tommy finally said.
“Excellent, Thomas. Truly excellent,” Luongo responded as Harmony stood next to him, smiling. The crime lord took another handful of steak from the container and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing loudly. He then lit another cigar, took a mighty drag on it and exhaled the smoke up to the ceiling. Lucifer Luongo rose, walked over to Tommy and put his arm around the fixer. “You’ve had a long day, my man. Go home now, get some rest. I expect you back in the morning. It’s time we remade this syndicate in our own image.”
“Absolutely. Good night, boss,” Tommy said with a smile before heading out of the office.
From his desk chair Lucifer Luongo could hear the elevator doors close, carrying Tommy “Two Fists” McCabe to the ground floor. Only then did he move the furniture away from the center of the room as easily as a child moves building blocks. When the middle was empty except for the body of Salvatore DiSalvo, Luongo began to speak in tongues not of this world. Harmony joined with a low guttural chant behind him. The crime boss placed his hands in the pool of blood surrounding the body, spreading it all over his face before tasting each finger slowly. The irises of his eyes turned red as he continued his ancient incantation. The lights flickered throughout the building as his voice rose. The blood pool began to boil, like oil in a hot skillet.
Slowly a gnarled, boil-coated hand emerged from the blood. It was more like a claw, with sharp nails, pointed knuckles and covered with a fine layer of something that looked like pus. Defying the laws of physics, the hand dug its nails into the floor until the rest of the arm sprang free from the puddle of blood. Then up from the pool emerged a face of pure evil, with reptilian features, a horn above each pointed ear and snake-like eyes glowing red under a protruding brow. The back of its skull was encrusted with living parasites that undulated in their own twisted dance, feeding off the host. The creature’s mouth was lupine in nature, with sharp rows of teeth behind snarling, cracked lips. Its tongue darted out of its mouth, licking the blood from its countenance as it continued to climb. It crawled out of the blood like a spider, its spine, arms and legs twisted in unimaginable ways as it moved across the floor. Every inch of it was covered in slime, maggots and rotting flesh. The demonic creature stopped in front of Lucifer Luongo and grew, rising to its full size before bowing its head in reverence.
“Yes, Botis, rise and take your place on Earth with your brethren,” Luongo said, touching the creature on the top of its head.
Almost faster than the eye could follow, the demon shrank down and skittered over to the body of Salvatore DiSalvo. The creature burrowed its way in through the slit in the dead man’s throat, causing the body to convulse for several moments. When the demon was fully ensconced, it steadied itself and stood in its new form. The wound created when Tommy cut Digger’s throat was gone, replaced with a small, thin scar. The Digger/demon amalgam smiled deviously and licked the blood off its new, human hands with vigor.
Luongo raised his hands to the sky and shouted, “Our time is come. Each day our numbers grow until we are legion and we will rule this world.”
At 3:25am, Tommy McCabe sat in his living room staring at the frozen image on his computer screen. He held the two hinge pins from Hector Guerrero’s closet door in his left hand, constantly rotating them over and over again like a pair of Chinese Stress Relief Balls. He’d been staring at the image for the better part of an hour now, since he finally gave up on trying to get some sleep. After what he’d been through today, an inability to sleep would seem normal, but it wasn’t Harmony, Lucifer Luongo, Hector Guerrero, Digger DiSalvo or even poor, unfortunate Sandra Westhoff that was keeping him awake.
It was this video image from the only flash drive he hadn’t given to Lucifer Luongo that kept him from peaceful slumber. This drive contained the most important video of them all for Tommy. It provided the explanation to all the questions he’d been unable to answer that day. As was usually the case, that resolution presented a whole host of other, more disturbing questions. McCabe closed the file, got up to leave but then paused.
He walked to the door leading out to his garage and opened it. He stared at the large, freezer in the corner of the garage that was now home to Sandra Westhoff’s body. A little insurance for the coming days, he thought to himself before returning to the study and sitting back down in front of the computer. He started the video again.
The image of Hector Guerrero’s dingy apartment came into view again. The Senator’s daughter was lying on the bed where he’d found her. Hector Guerrero was sitting next to her trying to wake her up, offering her lines of cocaine from a small mirror. The timestamp showed this video was from earlier in the day, a little while after his erstwhile partner raped and killed Sandra Westhoff.
That’s when things take a surprising turn. The bedroom window was suddenly smashed in, causing Hector to throw his arms up to protect his face. The mirror and coke landed on his head, showering him with the white powder. A man came in the window, rushed Hector and promptly punched him in the face, knocking the pimp out and off the bed. He quickly injected Hector with something, probably a sedative, so the pimp stayed unconscious. The stranger was dressed in something that looked like blue battle armor, definitely Kevlar of some kind, equipped with multiple holsters holding a variety of high-tech, automatic guns and other weapons.
Tommy had never seen this man before but he knew who he was from reputation. He called himself “Hardline,” a mercenary/ bounty hunter who never took a job that didn’t fit his very narrow definition of right and wrong, hence the codename. The fixer had seen his handiwork around town for the past 5 or 6 months and the guy was a pro. The merc had definitely begun to draw the attention of Don Gravanzano by disrupting syndicate business on numerous occasions. In fact, the problems Hardline was causing the syndicate was one of the reasons Lucifer Luongo was brought in to replace the former Don.
The mercenary checked Sandra Westhoff for a pulse. Tommy could see him curse when he realized she was dead, just as he had. As he turned to leave, Hardline was distracted by something to his left and he moved towards the closet, pausing the porn movie as he did. Tommy watched him remove the door and place it to the side. Tommy stared at the hinge pins in his hand.
From out of the wardrobe crawled a thin, white female dressed in pink shorts and a stained yellow halter top. The girl had long, dyed-blonde, curly hair, big brown eyes and the all-too-familiar look of a junkie. McCabe recognized her as one of the women from the photo he found in the cookie tin. She looked around, confused, and then saw the senator’s daughter. She rushed to her side and tried to revive Sandra, repeatedly asking the man for help.
The gun for hire simply ignored her, heading to the window again, but before he could make it onto the fire escape, the girl from the closet grabbed his belt. She seemed to be pleading with him. He angrily said something to her and left the way he came. The girl sat next to Sandra and began to cry, her body shaking so hard it kept the motion-activated webcam running. Less than two minutes later, Hardline came back and offered the girl his hand.
This was the clearest shot of his face on the entire video and Tommy once again froze the image. He already knew that this bounty hunter and the girl left together. The fixer checked with his contacts in the police department so he knew she wasn’t dropped off at any precinct, hospital or shelter. He also knew they were the only two living witnesses that could place Sandra Westhoff in that apartment. As he stared intently at the image on his computer screen, Tommy “Two Fists” McCabe also knew one final thing:
The mercenary called Hardline was his son, Chris.
THE END