Armored (17 page)

Selange shook her head. “You’ve got the verbally abusive dude role down to a T. But, here’s some advice, if you want someone on your good side –try avoiding threats you confused bitch.” Selange quipped and then jumped to her feet as she said the comment because the reaction was expected.

The female bull charged a skilled matador and met hard knuckles.

The women in the cell started shouting for the guard as Selange took a boxer’s stance and punched more spit out of the tough talking stranger. Selange was furious at Teresa, tired of others mistaking her kindness for weakness and angry that she hadn’t eaten.

Selange beat the food out of the hussy’s stomach. She hadn’t broken a manicured fingernail, because she didn’t fight like a girl. Her husband and Crazy Nicky taught her how to curl her fingers. A girl can do damage and she doesn’t have to be a man to do it.

Selange bet the dike didn’t have an inkling who she messed with, but Selange was determined to give her ample schooling. A soft appearance can be misleading. Someone who knows how to tussle doesn’t need to boast and talking loud isn’t intimidating to a woman accustomed to bullets.

She grabbed the boot wearing woman, twisted her arm behind her droopy pant ass and shoved her face in the nasty commode. Sputtering was all the wannabe guy could do against the force of somebody provoked.  And if the guards hadn’t intervened, Selange would’ve cracked the woman’s head against the cement wall many times for every bad episode in her life and every death she witnessed.

Selange’s arms were seized roughly before she could furiously propel her cellmate’s skull to the wall.

C
hapter Twenty-Two

Mature males in leisure attire watched the revelry from the confines of a VIP room concealed by a wall of colored glass.
Those in the elite section could see out, but no one could see the Very Important People in the rear of the club.

Young adults gathered on the dance floor to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of a Mafia’s son. A proud father observed with a lackluster smile his son’s guests who attended. Don Natta’s family emigrated from Sicily before the war, he didn’t speak a lick of the language, yet spoke of it with pride although he visited only twice in the forty odd years on the planet.

To love something’s great, but like a woman there should be a private intimacy, a yearning, an understanding as well as appreciation, and a protective reverence. There’s nothing pretentious or boastful, like a breath –love is intrinsic to the soul.

That is what the distinguished guest at the VIP table in his tailored suit mused as Natta went on and on about the wonders of Sicily.

Then move there pendejo!

Among the paler clan who avoided sunlight, Alfonzo’s skin was a healthy honey-gold hue that shimmered like the natural highlights of his silky hair. His face was stern, and the opaque cobalt irises flittered under the jumping lights.

Natta’s Underboss, Capo, Consigliere and a relative were seated eyeing the less senior, high positioned Big Boss, who’d been assigned the nickname, Concrete Don. He graced their clan with his presence and arrived an hour ago with an entourage of armed shadows with fierce expressions, but he didn’t drink their wine.

They weren’t aware the youth in his Yankee cap slightly tilted to the side, mingling with the crowd was part of their group, too. Lorenzo came late and entered through the front door after picking up the car. Alfonzo hadn’t said anything, it was best to let the kid have fun. Besides, a hot chica asked him to dance and Lorenzo’s smile brought back memories of his philandering days uptown. Carefree is how he felt then; today he was weighted by somber men with questionable smiles.

The car was an extravagant gift; a small token of appreciation.

There are presents that elicit genuine gratitude and then there are those that receive gasps of shock. That is the reaction a Capo de Tutti expected later when he presented the boy with keys to the
Ferrari 458 Dragon Edition, but he had to wait until the right moment.

The
gold dragon decals and Chinese characters on the red body of the vehicle were way cooler than the white flag stickers on the Americana Edition. Only a select number of the cars were made to lure in Chinese billionaires and Alfonzo had one of them. He wasn’t Chinese but appreciated a work of art on wheels, most car enthusiasts can.

The car was perhaps too expensive for a young man –but this was a calculative move to ensure peace. Mafia lords possess large egos; they are sensitive when a Don repeatedly declines their invitations, busy or not they seek confirmation their loyalty is valued by the guy pulling the strings.

Perhaps, what is really at stake is not disloyalty but an insurgence. There was talk, which filtered up the chain to Alfonzo’s ears. Dons had become jittery. This tempest brewing due to Domingo had a ripple effect on business. The triangle, which the Feds sought to bring down, had expanded. Associates of a Capo de Tutti were nervous because Alfonzo’s associates were put under a larger microscope, since the Israeli arrived in the mix. Alfonzo assured them his position hadn’t changed, in case they were skittish about who called the shots.

Becoming a household name is great for legitimate companies but not for organized crime affiliates who prefer to stay low-key. Although, there wasn’t any evidence to support Alfonzo’s connection to the many rackets across the globe, having the eye of the law trained on lower factions stirred mistrust. Allies might grow balls.

Who rats; who acts?

Who sits; who waits?

Big fall and the small seek to rise. This is the daily worry of a Don.

The party music continued to blare. Alfonzo took a discriminate sip of beer. He opted for this beverage in lieu of the heavier stuff; there was something uneasy in his gut. Despite the joyful assembly, he sensed tension in the air.

The hour grew late and the last song by the DJ was a throwback.

That’s the shit, Alfonzo thought as the 50 Cent jam boomed out the speakers. The acoustics in the place was crazy.

The Don smirked as Alfonzo’s head began to bob up and down. “Catchy tune. I don’t particularly like rap, but hey, what do I know about music,” he said.

“It’s a matter of taste,” Alfonzo replied.

The Canadian’s Capo smirked. He was about fifty-ish, prominent nose and when he talked it seemed only one side of his mouth moved. Alfonzo heard the man had a stroke in his thirties. Mob stress, he supposed.

“I met your dad once,” the Capo stated. “Bigger than life he was back then. He lit a cigarette and Alfonzo wished he didn’t in the closed room. The material he wore breathed the odor in. The Capo peered at Alfonzo with a squinty eye as a tobacco cloud formed over his head. “I remember and always polished, like you. He spit you out.”

“Sounds like he made quite an impression on you and apparently so have I.”

“Yeah, I started dressing better, but from the quality of your duds I might have to change my tailor.”

Alfonzo gave a snort. The frayed seams of the Capo’s jacket, polyester blend trousers and those pleather wingtips certainly weren’t testament to that, but then again he didn’t have a throwback picture for comparison. “Do I look like a fashion reporter for Old Hobo Magazine, because I don’t really give a fuck about your clothes?”

The Canadian chuckled. “My Capo just had a little too much to drink.”

But the humor didn’t carry over to Alfonzo or his men. “But the liquor’s not talking; the thoughts are flowing from the brain.”

“My apologies Don Diaz; I was only trying to make small talk.”
The Capo leaned back to say.

“I’m not a small talk kind of person.” Alfonzo sneered. Talking fashion and reminiscing about the Luzo days wasn’t why he was there. Plus he didn’t care for the man’s stare. He didn’t like the vibe he got from the
dude; frankly, he planned to cut out soon. There was a palpable tension hovering in the air.

Alfonzo wondered if the music had increased or had the hyped crowd added to the bass.

‘
Go shorty, it's your birthday,

We gonna sip Bacardi like it's your birthday
,

And you know we don't give a fuck it's not your birthday
…’

Alfonzo took another sip of beer and discreetly scanned the partygoers. There was something odd. Why were there fewer girls in the crowd?

Shit, every party he went to ladies outnumbered the guys. They came
in a group, that’s why.

“I understand the Israeli has joined your family,” The Canadian Don said.

There’s the belief that when a person’s in tune with their soul, instinct can save their ass but only if they don’t ignore the warning signs and act. That’s what he was about to do.

Images of tragic scenes flashed before Alfonzo’s eyes. He saw himself in a coffin. He saw his children without a father and a wife minus a husband.

The Israeli’s enemies were many. They were mainly people who found his business tactics of strong arming competition by threats and death bad for their health. To leaders who used force as a last resort, he was an abomination, worse than the gangbangers who shot innocent children.

Then it clicked.

Sophie’s marriage to Yosef was perceived as unification with the Israeli Mafiya. To some, Alfonzo had forbidden them to partake in certain illegal trades only so he could reap the spoils. These are the sentiments which can spread like a wildfire behind Alfonzo’s back.

“The Israeli and I do not do business. In any case, my position remains the same. Your commissions increase by five percent to cover any additional cost you incur by the
upping precautionary measures to avoid detection,” Alfonzo stated. He put up his finger. “Hold on a sec, let me take this call.”

The lyrics seemed to shout, instead of being the laid-back rap that suave dudes vibe to as they smoked weed and dipped chin to chest and up again in rhythm. The hook played followed by the first verse.

‘You can find me in the club, bottle full of bub…

So come gimme a hug if you're into getting rubbed…

If you watch how I move, you'll mistake me for a player or pimp,

Been hit with a few shells but I don't walk with a limp…
’

Alfonzo didn’t have a call, he made one.

Nico came on the line. “Talk fast.”

“Yeah, why’d you call when I’m in a meeting?”

Nico didn’t skip a beat. “Get out of there. We’ve had trouble and you
’re being cut-off might be part of the plan.”

Nico asked for the driver’s name and Alfonzo told him in code before saying, “Yeah…hold on a sec I forgot something.” Alfonzo turned to his Capo and spoke swiftly in Spanish asking him to text Lorenzo
to bring the car to the rear and keep it running. 

Alfonzo’s Capo caught the urgency in his tone and nodded. He leaned against the wall to text his son with a caution; stay cool and casual; nobody realized they had arrived together, and he suggested
Lorenzo pretend to go for a smoke outdoors.

Alfonzo smiled, as he returned to Nico. “Yeah, sorry about that, I just remembered my gift for somebody. Now what were you saying…our second cousin died?”

The few guards he had discreetly began to move.

“Kid, I tried calling your driver, he isn’t answering. Shit!” Nico scowled. “Cugino…I’m making calls…just be cool...capisce?”

Alfonzo listened to his cousin, Consigliere and mentor. He slowly stood. “I need to take this call in private. I’ll be right back,” he said to the Don who sat amid the table of observant men.

The Canadian’s eyes followed Alfonzo’s ascent. They narrowed suspiciously as Alfonzo stepped toward the door, casually shoving his hand in his pocket as he talked.

The Canadian hadn’t caught on, yet.

Alfonzo’s driver was dead. Nico didn’t have to spell it out. He was on a brazen Don’s turf, and that bastard planned this hit on his son’s birthday. He should’ve known by the seclusion in the encased room, the small number of females and talk of the Israeli that this was a set-up.

Shit!

He was in Canada, and there’s no way he’d have immediate aid. This was a do or die situation, the test of his will.  Alfonzo understood the severity of the dilemma, back in the ‘hood he fought gangbangers alone. The maricón were always turning on a
brother. They used numbers to do it. Broken ribs and shit, Alfonzo had that, too.

He scoffed, but these weren’t small-time teens in a gang. These were adults with the means to wipe him out and dispose of his remains.

A small number of bodyguards plus a Capo de Tutti against a club full of armed Mafia.

What are the odds he’d survive?

Slim to none, but he wasn’t going out alone. That’s the sentiment in the 'hood when cornered. Alfonzo sneered. His hand slipped to his waist, unsnapped the holster attached to the soft leather belt.