Bustelos was a coffee house on the Upper East Side of Manhattan that was so non-descript, you’d likely miss it unless someone pointed it out. Unlike some of the more modern places that were popping up all over the city, they kept their menu simple - coffee, espresso and pastries. It wasn’t the most inviting establishment, yet its doors had managed to remain open for the past ten years. Bustelos flew under the radar, and the people who frequented it most preferred it that way. If you tried to search for the owner of Bustelos on paper, you’d find yourself chasing your tail through a bunch of shell companies and probably still couldn’t say for sure who held the deed.
There weren’t many people in the coffee shop, save for some of its regulars and the two yuppie-looking guys, wearing sports coats and jeans that didn’t quite hit their ankles over designer sneakers. They were unfamiliar faces, which meant they were either cops or had just wandered into the wrong spot to get their dose of caffeine.
The old man behind the counter taking orders was a surely-looking character, with thinning white hair and hateful eyes that hid behind thick black glasses. He looked the two backpackers up and down as if they were hobos who just wandered in to beg for some change.
The tallest of the two pranced up to the counter and flashed his sixty-thousand dollar grin. “Two Cinnamon Dolce light fraps,” he said in a tone that seemed to irk the old timer.
“Two what?” the old man asked in his thick New York accent.
The yuppies exchanged glances.
“Coffee, ya know? A little syrup, cinnamon,” the second yuppie explained as if the old man was an imbecile. “And only two-percent. Whole milk doesn’t agree with my stomach,” he added for good measure.
“Does this look like Paris to you?” the old man grumbled.
“Excuse me?” The first yuppie was confused.
The old man rested his withered knuckles on the counter. “Yous two seem like educated fellas, so how come you didn’t read the sign?” he said, nodding at the white poster-board sitting in the window that read “Coffee & Snacks.” “See a frap or any other of that sissy shit you just asked for on my menu?”
“There’s no need to be an asshole about it!” the second yuppie snapped, clearly taking offense at the statement.
“And I’ll bet yous know a thing or three about assholes, huh?” the old man taunted.
Before the argument could go any further, the yuppies noticed all of the light shining through the front window. They initially thought it was overcast, but when they turned toward it, they saw that it wasn’t a shift in the weather, but a man. He stood a hair over six feet tall, and weighing at least four hundred pounds. His jogging suit looked like it was stitched together from pieces of a tent. High black hair sat on his sloped forehead, so slick with gel that it resembled a polished tile floor.
“Problem here, Sally?” Jimmy the Whale asked, glaring at the two yuppies. Clutched in his meaty fist was a fiber bar that he desperately wished was a piece of fried chicken. The doctors told him he needed to lose some weight, but it was a struggle.
“I was just explaining the menu to our whimsical friends here,” Sal said with a devilish grin.
The second yuppie pursed his angry lips to fire off a nasty retort, but the first yuppie touched his arm and gave him pause. “C’mon, I think there’s a Starbucks two blocks from here,” he said as he tugged at his friend’s arm.
The second yuppie gave Sal one last dirty look before allowing his friend to nudge him towards the door. As an afterthought, he knocked down the poster board sign and flipped Sal the bird. “Eat shit you fucking homophobe!” he spat before running out the door.
“Beat it, you damn fairies!” Sal yelled, tossing a sugar shaker at the door.
“How do you expect this shithole to make any money if you keep chasing the customers away?” Jimmy asked.
“I don’t chase all the customers away, just the undesirables,” Sal capped.
The front door opened again, and both men’s heads turned, thinking the yuppies might have found their balls and came back. In walked three men, laughing heartily as if one of them had just told the funniest joke in the world. They barely made it across the threshold before Jimmy moved to intercept them.
“Hey Jim, what’s the word?” Mel greeted him with a smile.
“It’s Jimmy, you smart ass. What are you hoods doing on this side of town - looking for a liquor store to knock over?” Jimmy glared at him. He didn’t care for Mel and made no secret of it. Jimmy was old-school and from an era where rules meant something, while Mel represented the new age Mafiosos who didn’t care whose toes they had to step on to get ahead.
Mel found himself at a loss, not quite sure how to reply to the hostile reception. Thankfully Louie cut the tension.
“He’s only busting your balls, Mel,” Louie said as he stepped forward and shook Jimmy’s hand. “Why you always rousting my guys, huh?”
“He looked like he was ready to shit his pants!” Jimmy laughed, slapping Louie on the back good-naturedly.
Mel didn’t say anything, but inwardly he fumed. It seemed like every time he was in Jimmy’s company, the big man was mocking him for laughs or saying something disrespectful. Had it been anyone else, Mel would have put a bullet, or at least a fist, in Jimmy’s mouth by now. But Jimmy the Whale was a Made man, and until that changed, he had no choice but to suck it up. Mel hoped that if he played Frankie close for long enough, his reckoning with Jimmy would come sooner than later.
“I’m here to see Frankie,” Louie said, getting back to business.
Jimmy looked over his shoulder at a man who was occupying a table in the back, pretending to read the paper, but had been watching the whole exchange. Sitting next to him was a woman dressed in all black. The man told Jimmy that it was okay to let them pass. With a smile, Louie started forward, but was stopped by the Whale for a second time.
“You know the routine.” Jimmy motioned for Louie to raise his hands to be searched. Louie complied. Jimmy kept his searches of Louie and Bruno brief, but took his time when it came to Mel. He patted under his arms, his legs and gave him a light shot to the nuts before letting him join his companions.
“You guys hang out over here at the counter while I straighten this out,” Louie told his buddies before crossing the room to pay his respects to the Cissaro Capo.
Franklin Donatello, known as Frankie the Fish to his friends, did not fit any stereotypes of a typical mobster. He was tall and well-built with a head full of beautiful black hair, and had a smile that could light up a room. In secret, some joked that he looked more like a model than a gangster, but they wouldn’t dare say it to his face, even in jest. He had gotten the name “The Fish” for his fondness of dumping the bodies of his victims in the ocean to feed the things that dwelled beneath the water. Despite his dashing good looks, Frankie was a stone-cold killer.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite of the three stooges,” Frankie said as he flashed his signature smile. He folded his newspaper and placed it on the table.
“How you doing, Frankie?” Louie shook his hand, then kissed him once on each cheek.
“That all depends on what news you’ve brought me.” Frankie motioned for Louie to take the chair across from him. “So, did you take care of that thing?” He noticed that Louie was hesitant to speak in front of the woman.
“Yeah, we took care of it. The ball is in play,” Louie said proudly.
“Good,” Frankie nodded in approval. “How did the kid take it? Did he balk, or jump at the chance to give Gee-Gee a hand-job?”
Louie fell silent. His face said he wanted to say something, but couldn’t figure out how to word it. “What?” Frankie pressed.
“That’s the thing,” Louie began timidly, “I didn’t speak to Shai. He wasn’t available, so I sat down with Tommy.”
Frankie couldn’t hide the surprise on his face. “Tommy Clark? Last I heard, ain’t he a vegetable or some shit?”
“A vegetable with a set of nuts you wouldn’t believe,” Louie said. “You should’ve heard the way that jig was talking. You’d think he’d taken the oath or something.”
“I asked you to present this to Shai specifically.”
“I know, Frankie, and trust me I tried, but the kid wasn’t available. He got called away on some urgent matter right before we got there,” Louie explained. “You said it was important that this get done, so I figure it was better to broker it with the gimp rather than having to come back to you with nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Indeed you are, but what’s done is done at this point,” Frankie said, sliding a large envelope from the folds of the newspaper.
“Frankie, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, Louie. What’s on that tiny little mind of yours?”
“Well, I didn’t know Nicky too good, but near as I can tell he was a stand-up guy. I never would’ve figured him for a child molester.” Louie said.
“That’s because he wasn’t,” the woman spoke for the first time.
Seeing that Louie looked totally confused, Frankie decided to enlighten him. “Louie, I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Constance Tessio.”
Louie’s face turned as white as a ghost when he heard the name of Fat Mike’s widow.
“Maybe now you understand why it was so important for Shai to greenlight this assassination personally? When the shit hits the fan and the Melonis come across the water to claim their pound of flesh, it’s taken out of Clarks’ asses and not ours.”
“But why would Gee-Gee…” Louie began, but stopped short when all the pieces fell into place. “This was never a favor for Gee-Gee, was it?”
Frankie didn’t have to answer. The triumphant smirk on his face said it all.
Two quick chirping sounds to his rear caused Louie to spin in his chair. He was just in time to see both Bruno and Mel fall to the ground with gaping holes in their heads. Standing over them was a tanned young man with slick black hair. In both his gloved hands he held two smoking Berettas. Without bothering to even look at the bodies, he hit them twice more before continuing towards the table they were sitting at. Louie’s brain told him to run, but the fear that gripped his heart wouldn’t let him. The young man loomed over him like a storm cloud, both guns pressed to the top of his head.
“Right on time as always, Enzo,” Frankie greeted the killer.
Louie swallowed. The only part of his body he dared move were his eyes. “Frankie, what the hell is this all about?”
Frankie took his time pulling photos from the envelope and placing them on the table in front of the shocked Louie. In the pictures was a wild-haired man coming out of the building where Nicky was killed. “Restoring the natural order of things.”