Turf
An Amelia City Story
By Joshua T. Calkins-Treworgy
His hand came down in a light swinging gesture, pointer and middle finger out. His man Thomas, taking his cue, swung his long dowel rod in and down at an angle, cracking solidly into a third man's shin, eliciting a scream of pain and apologies soaked in sobs. This third man, tied to a rolling desk chair in the back corner of his tiny office, hung his head and rocked back and forth, his mashed, bloody nose a pulped mess, left eye rapidly swelling shut. Thomas brought the rod to rest up on his shoulder, stepped back to allow the boss to crouch down, hands on the store owner's knees. The boss put on a worried, sympathetic expression, lips pursed.
On most thugs, this would look ridiculous. On Billy Rowan, however, a tall, ruggedly handsome man with the body of a long-time hard laborer or outdoorsman, it enhanced his physical beauty. But that attractiveness didn't reach his eyes. When one looked there, an extended glance would reveal the flat, icy stare of a lifelong predator.
"Mr. Samir, I am not a man known for his patience," Billy said, his Boston accent thick, 'for' coming out sounding like 'fahr'. "Waving a gun in the faces of my men running collections is a surefire way of testing that patience. Now, Timmy Cracker back there is going to get into your safe," he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at another goon in a green suit, working on the dial of an old model safe set in the floor. "This is an inevitable fact of the universe. What is not a fact, however, is that you will be able to walk out of here under your own power. If Timmy has no help getting that safe open, you will find that to be a complete fiction, in fact."
"Got the first number," Timmy said, jotting it down on a small pocket notepad. Billy met Mr. Samir's eyes, and the Iraqi-American sobbed again, drool dribbling down his chest.
"Not good, Mr. Samir," Billy said, standing up. He stepped back, straightened his dark green sport coat and tie. He made the swiping gesture, and Thomas cracked his rod on Samir's leg again. The store owner howled, begging for mercy in arabic. Billy paced slowly around the desk, smiling like a wolf.
"Please, I will tell you," said Mr. Samir. He sobbed further, sniffling hard through his crooked nostrils. "The other numbers are twenty-six and fifty-three." Timmy opened the safe a moment later, chuckling. "Take what I owe you, then, and leave."
"See," said Billy amiably, spreading his arms wide in a 'ain't it grand' motion. "Ain't it so much nicer when we understand the spirit of cooperation?" Billy stepped over to Timmy, swatting him on the back of the head sharply. "Hey! Only what he owes," he snarled, pointing one long, narrow finger in Timmy's face.
"Sorry, boss," Timmy said, eyes cast down. A minute later, Mr. Samir was untied, still seated in his rolling office chair. The three Irish-American toughs were about to head back through the convenience store when Billy stopped, turning back toward Samir, who had cleared his throat wetly.
"Some parting words for me, Mr. Samir," Billy asked.
"Yes," Samir said, gasping for breath. "May Allah's angels hammer your face when you reach the grave, Rowan." Billy, not familiar with Islam's teachings, had no idea what that meant. He just continued to smile, nodded, and led his men through the convenience store and out to the long black Lincoln Town Car idling at the curb for them. He got in the back seat with Thomas, taking the stack of bills Timmy Cracker handed him back and counting. Five-thousand dollars in hand, two months' worth of protection money.
"Where to now, boss," the driver asked, his own Boston accent a perfect match for Billy and Thomas's.
"Anybody else left, Tom," he asked quietly of his friend and top lieutenant.
"Just Marcini's," the gruff enforcer said. "They're up to date, but their place was closed last week, everybody was out of town. Death in the family."
"Tragic. We'll have to offer our condolences," Billy said. "Pop over to that flower shop on Union, Roger, then Marcini's," he told the driver. They pulled away from the curb into traffic, and Billy watched the various walkers of the city going about their daily business. He had struck gold when he and his crew had left Southie, the Boston neighborhood made infamous for its storied history of churning out criminals. He'd been twenty-two, already a mid-level lieutenant in a syndicate rising to power in Boston's underworld. But when the heat turned up, he grabbed Thomas and Timothy and convinced them to skip town with him.
Their timing had been fortuitous. Intending to disappear to Chicago, they were only two days on the road when radio reports informed them that their organization had been raided at their headquarters.
Chicago turned out to be a bust, because none of them had connections that far west. Yet they heard, while there, that several of the old Italian family outfits had tried and failed, numerous times, to get a foothold in Amelia City, over in Iowa. Three months after hearing that, Billy had an established collection of fifteen or so 'gentlemen' working the streets of Amelia for him, starting with the classics of bookies and 'protection' services.
Now, four years later, he'd become the name to know in Amelia City's criminal sector. The car pulled up out front of a floral shop, where Billy purchased a small assortment of flowers for the bereaved. When he and Thomas walked into Marcini's, they were led by the maitre' d to the large, luxurious oak-paneled office of Tony Marcini, who sat glassy-eyed behind his desk.
Billy stood on the employee/visitor's side of the desk and held out the flowers. "We heard there was a passing," he said. Marcini blinked rapidly, looking for all the world like a man who has just come out of a trance.
"Oh, oh yeah," said the older restauranteur, accepting the flowers. "Yeah, um, my oldest son, Frankie." Billy and Thomas both winced. "Thanks for these," he said, getting up and exiting the office for a minute before returning. He was a heavyset man, built like a lifelong food lover, which made sense. He'd been working in his family's restaurant since he was twelve, and enjoyed both ends of the culinary process. He sat down heavily, sighed, and opened a desk drawer. From within he drew out a bulky tan envelope, a bottle of whiskey, and three tumbler glasses. He poured out three even measures.
"What, no haggling this month," Thomas asked, scoffing. Billy nudged him with his elbow, giving him a cross look and shaking his head vaguely.
"No, no more haggling," Marcini said solemnly. "Some things, they have a way of putting life in perspective. Drink with me," he said. Billy took his offered glass, Thomas his, and they lifted them in salute. "For Frankie," Marcini said. The three men drank, setting the tumblers down gently.
"Very sorry to hear it," Billy said as Thomas grabbed the envelope. "Mind me asking what happened?"
"Well, you met Frankie," the cook-turned-owner said. "You know how he was."
"Yeah, you could kind of tell after a few minutes," Billy said.
"Well, there's still a lot of knuckle-dragging down in Kansas about gays," Marcini said. "Bunch of jackasses cut up rough on him at a bar, broke his skull with a tire iron." Billy shook his head, genuinely disgusted with some segments of humanity. "But hey, you're here for business, right?" He put on a fake smile for them. "Hope all is now well, gentlemen. Until next month." He began pouring himself another shot of whiskey by way of farewell, and the Irishmen made a quiet exit.
Business didn't stop for tragedies.
Later that evening, Billy scowled at the back of a man's head as he groaned and bled on the ground in an alley behind one of the city's six strip clubs. "You mean to tell me you chuffed a thousand dollars up your fucking nose, Richie," he snarled, throwing a kick into the man's knee. Richie cried out and fell over, a shiny-skinned black man in a plain black blazer with a blue Minnesota Timberwolves shirt underneath. His eyes were wide in terror, and went twitching all over the place when Thomas shoved a large-barreled revolver under his chin.
"Look, man, I got a problem, Billy," he gibbered. "I'm sick, man! I can't kick the shit!"
"And the girls I got you running in there? Are they trading green for white too?"
"I, I don't know," Richie said. Thomas looked up to Billy, who waved his hand aside in a slapping motion. Thomas pistol-whipped the pimp, getting another grunt of pain and blood sprayed from Richie's gums, along with a tooth, on the ground.
"I pay you to take care of things here, Richie," Billy said. "Part of that includes taking care that our girls don't turn into junkie whores. Now get on your feet." Thomas helped the man up, pressing him against the alley wall with the gun to his forehead. "Now, repeat after me, Richie," Billy said. "I will not become a raging stereotype."
"What?" Thomas slapped him, causing the cokehead to gibber again and suck air through his teeth.
"Say it, Richie," said Billy. "I will not become a raging stereotype."
"I will not become a raging stereotype," Richie stammered. "Man, what the fuck does that even mean?"
"It means you're already a black man pimping in a metro area," Billy said with his trademark wolf's grin. "Don't you think that's kind of counterproductive to race relations? And look at me, I'm an Irish kid out of Southie who became a criminal. Do you really think I should become an alcoholic on top of it?" Richie's eyes cleared a little, understanding dawning.
"Yeah, I get it," he said huskily, voice shaky. "I'll do better, Billy."
"See that you do," said Billy. He motioned to Thomas, and they walked back up the alley to the car, bound for Billy's house on the outskirts of town. Billy remained silent for most of the trip, until he turned to his longtime friend. "Tom, you see that sign on the wall back by Richie?"
"The claws? Yeah," Thomas rasped.
"What the hell is that? I've seen it popping up on more of our spots this month," Billy said.
"No idea, Billy," Thomas said. "But I don't like it. Seems like a cult thing." Billy nodded, looked his man in the eyes.
"Find out everything you can about it," Billy said. "If it's some other outfit's sign, I want to know who to pay a visit to."
Billy had been asleep in his king size bed for perhaps an hour when he was shaken awake roughly. He panicked, swinging wildly and grunting, his fists connecting glancing blows on his assailant. "Billy! It's me, it's Tom," Thomas growled, grabbing his boss's wrists. Billy stared up at Tom's stubbly cheeks and bulbous nose, trying to clear his head.
"Oh, Jesus, sorry Tom," he said, sitting up. He rubbed at his eyes, yawned, stretched. He wore blue silk pajamas, one of his many extravagances, and they felt wonderful against his skin. "What's wrong?"
"It's Timmy," the enforcer said. "Billy, he's dead."
"What?" Now Billy felt like sleep could wait until morning, his mind running at warp speed. "How? When?"
"Got a call from our inside guy at the tenth precinct, they just found him two hours ago. He said it looked like someone had ripped open his chest," Thomas said. "He said he wants us to see the photos, that he couldn't believe it." Billy got up out of the bed and began changing into a pair of light blue jeans and a simple argyle sweater.
"Get the car," Billy said. "Don't bother waking Roger. We'll go see about this just you and me." Billy pulled on sneakers and his watch, grabbed his wallet, his old leather jacket from his mostly empty closet, and a Glock which he tucked into the back of his waistband. He was outside three minutes later, and in the dead of night, the two gangsters drove into the heart of Amelia City.
Detective Greg Mofield looked around to check for rubberneckers, then crossed the street and hurried into the backseat of the car. Thomas drove away from the station slowly, wanting to draw no attention to them. "You guys have to see this," Mofield said. He was a bruiser, a man whose face had been shaped by a great deal of fighting over the years, and whose musculature might make evolutionists question whether his family might have been descended from grizzly bears instead of apes.
Billy reached back for the manilla folder Mofield handed forward, switching on a small flashlight he took from the trunk to look at the contents within. He flipped it open to find pictures paperclipped to the top of the incident report. The first one was gruesome enough, an angled shot from Timothy O'Brien's feet. It showed his body stretched out, limbs akimbo, his chest a gaping, bloody hole. Part of his body lay next to him, still connected by torn skin and fibrous tissue.
"You called him Timmy Cracker," Mofield said, clicking his tongue, "because that was his specialty, right? No safe he couldn't crack, no room he couldn't get into or out of."
"Right," said Billy, still staring at the first photo.
"Well, someone must've decided to dole out poetic justice," Mofield said. Billy flipped to the second photograph, which was directly overhead. Timmy's entire breastplate and ribs had been carved cleanly, stuck by blood and fatty tissue to the flesh that had been removed in a perfect square. The third photograph was of the poor man's body as it had been laid on the gurney, before his bodybag was zipped up.
Someone had drawn a little combination dial over his left nipple and carved his torso with the outline of a door.
Billy drank another shot of scotch, staring down into his main living room's fireplace, the flames reflected in his eyes. It was four in the morning, hardly the sort of time he'd usually be drinking at most days. He couldn't get the image of Timmy Crackers out of his mind, chest carved open in a tasteless mockery of his namesake talents. Somebody, some complete psychotic, had taken to Tim with the kind of vengeful insanity only available to the horrifically deranged.
Billy suspected some rival outfit was at work here, one whose footsoldiers were little more than raving lunatics and hypes. There seemed no other rational explanations available, because nobody would randomly do that without the benefit of enough drugs to kill Bigfoot.
When he finally killed off the last of his bottle, Billy crawled back into his bed, simply wanting the nightmare imagery to go away. His sleep was that of a man saturated with alcohol, which was to say a blurry film of nonsense imagery, much of it conjured from childhood memories. When he did return to consciousness at a few minutes to noon, it was with the clarion peal of high-pitched buzzing in his head.
Teresa, the maid he employed part-time to clean and make meals three days a week, as well as sleep with on occasion made him her Hangover Special breakfast- an english muffin, dry, scrambled eggs and a tall glass of orange juice. She was an attractive woman, mid-thirties (he didn't ask her precise age, one didn't ask a lady such things), and when she gave him the disapproving she wore as she set the plate gently before him, he found her both amusing and beautiful.
"You care to share when you finally went to bed, Billy," she asked.
"Must have been about five, somewhere around there," he grumbled, rubbing his temples. He took a drink of water and grabbed his fork. "Timmy Cracker got ganked last night in his home."
"Oh, my," she said, hand on her chest. "That's awful! I'm sorry, Billy. Thomas didn't mention anything about that."
"Where is he, anyway?"
"He's in the game room, playing the Wii," she said. Billy finished up his food, gave Teresa's ass a slap and squeeze, and headed to the west side of the house, to the game room. Having once been a hotel, Billy's home was sizable and possessed of a certain grand austerity. It also allowed him to keep Thomas and Roger on hand, which worked well for all of them. Even on a slow night when they had no business or ladies to entertain, they had someone to pal around with, like back in Southie.
He entered the game room to find Thomas swinging a Wiimote down and forward, his on-screen avatar swinging a golf club. He landed his shot on the green, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "Nice drive," Billy said. Thomas looked over at his friend and boss, grinned toothily.
"Thanks, Billy." He paused the game, took a sip of coffee from a mug he had on the nearby glass topped coffee table. "I just got up a couple of hours ago. You get something to eat?"
"Yes, mother, I'm taking care of myself," Billy snorted. He smoothed out his rumpled tee shirt, grabbed a cup of coffee from the machine they kept in the game room. "What's on the agenda for today, Tom?"
"Whole lot of nothing," he replied, unpausing the game and lining up his putt. "We ain't expected to hear from Buttons and his boys for a few more days, and the only appointment we got tomorrow is with the captain from the twelfth."
"Roger up?"
"Yeah, he took off about twenty minutes ago for a lunch date."
"That broad from the bakery?"
"Yeah," Tom grunted, pumping his fist as he made his putt.
"Hmm. Good for him," Billy said, taking a seat and settling in for a long day of phone calls. "Hand me the phone. I gotta start making arrangements for Timmy." It was an unpleasant business, but as ever, somebody had to do it.
It was nine o'clock at night when Billy took the call in the den, Teresa handing him the phone, then adjusting her skirt. "I'll see you Friday," she whispered, giving him a peck on the forehead. He gave her a little two finger salute and clicked the talk button on the phone.
"Billy Rowan," he said.
"Billy, Jesus Christ, you gotta get down here," said a shrieky, high-pitched woman's voice on the other end of the line. "Please, hurry up, before someone calls the cops! Oh God, oh God," she stammered.
"Hold up, who is this," he asked, sitting upright, scooting to the edge of the couch.
"It's Violet, I'm at The Rouge," said the woman. One of his pros, then. "It's Richie, he's fucking dead, Billy! He's here, and he's fucking dead!" Billy and Thomas were in the back of the Lincoln eight minutes later, Roger breaking every vehicle and traffic law on the books as Billy clenched his teeth, glaring out the window.
Roger slammed the Lincoln into a parking space reserved for Billy in front of the strip club, throwing it quickly into park and drawing his gun from the glove box. Billy met his eyes in the rearview mirror, seeing his driver's fear. "Best not to take chances," Roger said. Billy nodded, though he didn't like Roger having a gun. Roger was the driver for a reason; of all the skills a gentleman could have in their line of work, driving expertise was the only one Roger had. He was a great friend to those who knew him, a stand-up guy who was reliable above all. But he wasn't a fighter, couldn't shoot for shit, and had none of the talent with numbers or statistics that would make him a decent bookie. He was their driver, pure and simple.
Billy and Thomas got out of the Lincoln and speared through the strip club, nodding to various clientele and strippers as they powered their way back to the dressing room area. Girls in risque outfits, some wearing only thongs or bikini bottoms as they flitted from room to room in the back, were clogging the back hallway, the scent of cosmetics and perfumes overwhelming. Billy wiped a tear from his left eye, covered his nose and mouth with a plain red handkerchief.
"Hey," Thomas shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. All motion ceased, seventeen sets of female eyes suddenly upon him. "We're here to talk to Violet." The girls all moved to either side of the hallway, except for one, a young woman long purple hair, a leather corset barely holding in her surgically enhanced breasts, black and red lace panties and fishnet stockings revealing most of her lower half. Her mascara had run in drippy lines down her cheeks, and her lipstick was smeared sloppily.
Billy had always felt a twinge of guilt about employing Violet. She was a genuinely pretty girl, but she was also one of the sweetest people he'd ever met. She would have been just fine as a stripper, but her son, Jack, had medical issues, and she needed the extra cash that hooking brought her.
He and Thomas led her into one of the dressing rooms, locking the door behind them. She was sobbing faintly, and Billy helped ease her into a chair in front of a vanity. "Calm down, sweetheart, tell us where Richie is," he said quietly.
"Oh God, Billy, it's horrible," she said, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief he offered her. "He's out back. They shoved him behind the dumpster."
"What were you doing out there," Billy asked.
"I keep my purse hidden back there sometimes, so none of the other girls go through my shit or steal from me," she said, sniffling. "I hate doing it, but I went out there to call the sitter and check on my son, and he was just, crammed in there." Billy nodded, rose to his full height.
"Come on," Billy whispered to Thomas, leading his friend out into the alley where they'd seen Richie the previous night. The dumpster was there, pulled slightly away from the building. Thomas, ever prepared, pulled a miniature flashlight from his coat pocket and shone it down behind the container.
There lay Richie, eyes rolled up, body crumpled like a boneless sack between the dumpster and the wall. His nostrils were packed with white powder, and he had foam and drool caked around his mouth and cheeks. Billy leaned over him as best he could, saw that his mouth was full of more cocaine.
"Shit," he muttered, shaking his head. "Okay, Tom? Call Sam the Bagman, have him and his crew come out and clean this mess up. We don't need the cops sniffing around on this one."
"Right, Billy." Thomas clicked off the flashlight and was about to put it away when Billy snagged it from him. He stepped away to make his phone call, and Billy shone the light down again on Richie. There was the edge of a baggie just visible under the pimp's head. Billy reached down and snatched it out, holding it up for inspection. Embossed on the bag was a symbol, four hooked blue claws joined along their tops by a single black line.
Whoever these people were, he decided, they had declared war.
Billy answered the doorbell, still dressed in his blue silk pajamas and slippers, a 9mm Beretta tucked into the back of his waistband. He didn't have the manpower to keep himself covered with guards at all times, and as a point of individual style, he'd never wanted to become the kind of boss who was dependent upon the protection of brainless thugs. With Thomas and Roger living in the house, he didn't feel threatened anyway. Roger couldn't fight, but he was loyal; Billy knew he'd take a bullet for him.
Still, there were always ways of mitigating risk. A security camera display screen in the living room where he'd been sitting showed him a haggard-looking detective Mofield, who should have been at home, in bed and asleep, standing at the fron door. He had some kind of folder in his hand, hopefully with answers inside for Billy.
Billy opened the door and beamed at Mofield. "Greg, come on in! You need some coffee? You look like shit."
"Coffee would be great," the detective said, following Billy down the hall to the enormous kitchen. They sat across from each other at a wide oak table, its rounded edge perfectly smoothed. Mofield slapped the folder down for Billy, who opened it immediately, offering him his coffee in return. "Copies of various reports from the Gang Crimes unit. Your symbol has never been directly associated with a criminal outfit, but it has been seen at dozens of crime scenes they've responded to in the last ten years."
"Long time for a street hood to be using the sam tag," Billy said.
"Actually, that's where things get interesting, Billy," Mofield said. "I spent some time going through our digital image database, which has every crime scene photo from about the mid-70's to current case files. I used a program to scan in the symbol and cross-check every instance where it showed up."
"And?"
"And this thing has shown up over five-hundred times since 1974," Mofield said, sipping his coffee. Billy just blinked at him, dumbfounded. "I know, weird. But I decided to go over to the Metro Archives building on 7th, do some more digging. The oldest crime scene photo we had there was from a homocide in '53." Billy flipped through the pages of copied reports, until he pulled one aside with a grainy black and white photograph of a man who had been pinned to a living room wall with giant wooden stakes. Scrawled on the wall next to him was the claw insignia.
"Jesus Christ," Billy breathed, shaking his head.
"So, I'm thinking this might be a cult thing you're looking at," Mofield said. "By the way, you really shouldn't have had Richie's body moved. That's got a lot of people asking questions. As for what happened to him, your guess was right, massive overdose. His stomach, throat, and mouth were crammed full of coke, as were his nostrils. Coroner has no fucking clue how someone could've managed it."
Billy skimmed over the reports Mofield had made copies of as the detective poured himself a second cup of coffee and then paced the kitchen. "Seems to show up at a lot of murders and suicides," Billy said, shaking his head. When he got to the last stapled packet of papers, Billy almost sprayed his coffee all over the table. "Tattoos? There are people out there wearing this thing on their skin?"
"A few, years ago," Mofield said. "Most recent one was a fellow from Candleton, southern suburb. He was a suspect in several animal mutilations there about three years back. I did you the favor of writing down his address on the last page." Billy looked at the address, then up at the detective. "Yeah, he lives in the city now."
"Thanks for all of this, Greg," Billy said. He led Mofield to the front door, where the detective warned him to stay quiet if he decided to pay the tattooed man a visit. "Oh, quiet as a church mouse," Billy assured him.
Thomas splashed the man tied to the rickety wooden chair with a bucket of ice cold water, drawn from the old pump in Saint Peter's rectory basement. The victim, Victor Holscomb, sputtered and gasped, brought wickedly back to consciousness. He blinked his eyes, spraying water from his mouth, his long, lank black hair hanging in his face.
"Awww, what the fuck," Victor said, trying to move. Eyes shock-wide, he looked down at himself. Thomas was an old hand at things like this; there would be no wriggling free unless Victor was an escape artist. "Um, what's going on here," he asked, looking finally up at Thomas and Billy, both men wearing their green business suits. "Who are you guys?"
"We're freelance entrepeneurs," Billy said, hands in his pockets. He began pacing slowly back and forth behind Thomas, who held a baseball bat in his hand. "You, Victor, are a cook at Frieda's, which, while it is a fine eatery, should perhaps revisit their hiring policies." Billy approached Victor, grabbing him by the bicep. "That's an interesting bit of ink, Vic. Where'd you get it?"
"Wicked Inks, out in Candleton," Victor said, voice cracking. "Guys, what's this about? I don't even know who the hell you are." Billy stepped aside and nodded at Thomas, who swung the bat hard into Victor's shins. He screamed, straining against his ropes, shifting his weight back and forth.
"We ask the questions here, Vic," Billy said calmly, quietly. He looked down on Victor as an aristocrat might look down on a street urchin, his contempt plainly writ in his face. "You answer them, you leave the glory of Saint Peter's property without another bump or bruise, capiche?"
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Vic strained.
"Where'd you get the idea for the tattoo, Victor?"
"Are you kidding me? I've seen this design all over the county. Even saw it once in New York City when I took a road trip about five years back. I thought it looked pretty cool."
"You know anybody else with that design inked on them," Thomas asked. Victor chuckled, shaking his head.
"No, man, that's kind of part of what makes it awesome. I'm the only one with this ink," he said with a dopey smile, which was out of place given his circumstances.
"Yeah, real awesome, genius," Billy said, sighing. "Vic, I'm going to take a wild guess and say you've never done much harm to anybody, right?"
"No, man. Cops once picked me up 'cause they thought I was hurting animals, but that ain't me. That was the Kistenger kid." Billy snarled under his breath.
"Christ on a crutch. Tom, untie him, this dipshit didn't do anything." Thomas didn't argue, just set the bat aside and undid the knots on Victor's bindings. When Victor stood up tenderly, wincing at the pain in his legs, he groaned. "You're not going to mention what happened here to anybody, right Vic?"
"Right," Victor said, climbing up out of the basement, leaving the two men in silence. When they heard the rectory's front door shut, Billy kicked over the chair in frustration.
"This was a fucking waste of time," he snarled. "What the fuck do we do now, Tom? We got two of our people dead here, and we got no idea who's gunning for us."
"There's no saying anyone's gunning for us, Billy," Thomas said. "Could've been some whackadoo got two of ours by coincidence. I mean, not many folks would associate both Timmy and Richie with us."
"I don't truck with coincidence, Tom, and you know it," Billy said. "No, somebody's got it in for us, and they're using this cult mumbo jumbo to try and shake us and the cops. Mark my words, Tom," Billy said, leading his lieutenant up out of the basement. "We find out who this creep is, he's in for new realms of pain."
When the Red Sox game started, Billy settled onto his recliner with a grin and turned up the volume on his sound system. Roger and Thomas took their usual places in the living room, Thomas in the other recliner, Roger sprawled out on the couch. Thomas cursed under his breath.
"What's up," Billy asked.
"I'm out of smokes," Thomas said. "I'll be right back. You guys need anything," he asked, getting up.
"Yeah, grab me some Doritos, Teresa refuses to have them in the house," Billy said. "Somethin' about watching out for my health."
"Can you grab me a couple Twix," Roger asked. Thomas nodded and headed out, leaving Billy and Roger to wait for the opening pitch. Watching the Red Sox on available nights was a tradition for the four men. If Timmy Cracker hadn't been killed, he would have been sharing the couch with Roger. Billy considered this a moment, raised his bottle of Killian's in a silent salute to Timmy, and drank.
The Sox got two men on base before popping their third out, bringing the bottom of the first for the Mariners. Billy finished his first beer and checked his watch. "How long does it take to go down to Holiday and back," he groused.
"Depends on whether or not that Lisa chick is working," Roger said, scoffing.
"Does he dig on her?"
"Tom? Yeah he does. I hate gassing the Lincoln there with him, he spends ten minutes flirting with her when we should be moving," Roger said, complaining but wearing a smile.
"Hmm. I didn't know that. Speaking of, how'd your date go the other night?" Roger's smile started fading, quickly.
"She broke up with me." Billy grimaced. "Hey, no biggie, you know? My dad had a saying, if you want to get over someone you care about, fool around with a few people you don't."
"Wise man."
"Oh, yeah, a regular Dalai fuckin' Lama," Roger said, snorting. As the Marlins got their last out, Billy's cell phone began buzzing.
"Who the hell is calling now," he grumbled, not recognizing the phone number right away. He hit send and held it up. "Billy Rowan here."
"It's Greg," said the man on the other end, and Billy's body dropped thirty degrees in temperature. "I'm over here at Holiday, down the street from you. I'll be to your house in ten minutes. Billy, don't open the door for anyone but me," said Mofield, sounding skittish. He hung up before Billy could respond, leaving him fearing the worst, that someone had gotten the drop on Thomas.
Eight minutes later, he answered the front door on shaky legs. Detective Mofield looked even more haggard than the last time he'd been there, though this was the opposite end of his night, started early. Billy opened the door, and Mofield handed him a digital camera, a photo preview already displayed. It showed Thomas, beaten so badly that his face was an unrecognizable lump of blood, skull and tissue.
"Jesus Christ," Billy groaned, handing the camera back.
"We found a bloody Louisville Slugger, aluminum, about five feet away from him. What we don't know is why he went out behind the building to begin with," Mofield said, shaking his head.
"It was that fucking Victor punk, I know it," Billy snapped, suddenly pacing in the entry room. "Tom hits him with a bat, so he hits back."
"Couldn't have been Victor," Mofield said, snapping the lapels straight on his dingy, dark blue trench coat. "He's in lockup already."
"What?"
"He got into a brawl with some guys at American Red, that sports bar over on Pike earlier today. He thought they were your boys coming to tune him up some more, so he went on the offensive," Mofield said, shaking his head. "Much as we would both love this whole mess to make some kind of sense, it isn't likely going to be as easy as all that. But you boys clearly have enemies around town."
Billy just nodded mutely, his heart full of sorrow for Thomas.
Billy Rowan had a single service for Ritchie, and one for Timmy and Thomas. He paid to have Ritchie's family brought in from Saint Paul, and Timmy and Thomas's folks brought from Boston. It had been a trying few days, but he had business suspended until the funerals were tended to and the families sent back home.
During those three days, three more of his people turned up dead. Stevie Knives, who ran the groups 'survey specialists', was found in his auto shop, stabbed with twenty blades, each one left in. Rumor had it he looked like a pincushion. Roy Barnum, in charge of the bookies, was found with his prized Noel Coward pen, which he took his bet totals with, rammed through his left eye. And lastly came Peter Flats, one of his protection collectors, who routinely threatened to burn down the homes and stores of the organization's marks. Somebody had set him ablaze in his car, wedging a charcoal brickette in his mouth as a grim joke.
Billy, in the grips of a paranoia that had plenty of realistic weight behind it, stayed mostly at home for the following week, a jumpy bundle of nerves. Teresa quit for fear of being associated with him and thusly targeted. Roger stayed in the house, trying to keep conversation sparse and positive when he crossed paths with Billy.
At the end of that week in hiding, though, without word of anymore attacks on his people, Billy rode along in the back of the Lincoln with Moe Sureshot, now his top enforcer and a highly skilled marksman. Moe had been working with a mid-sized operation in the Twin Cities in Minnesota until Billy's clan gained notoriety in Amelia, a ten-year veteran of organized crime life when Billy welcomed him aboard.
Moe ran a polishing rag over the barrel of his favorite piece as they rode towards Franzetti's Pizza, clip on the spacious backseat between them. "Moe, you probably won't need that thing," Billy said evenly. "We never get any trouble from Turner."
"Wait, the guy who owns Franzetti's has the name Turner?"
"Yeah, his grandfather started the place way back when. He didn't have any sons, so his oldest daughter Bella took over. She corked out four boys, the second son runs the place. Don't you read the files I put together on these folks?"
"Not really, boss." Billy shook his head subtly, sighed. When they got to the pizzeria, Billy remained in the car with Roger while Moe went inside. He came out ten minutes later, and they drove in silence to the next pickup.
"Where's next," Roger asked. Billy gave him the next place to head to, and when they pulled up out front, he put one hand out to stay Moe for a moment.
"These folks have given me a hard time before, Moe. They even once had one of their people take a swing on Tom. It proved unwise, but you should be warned." Moe nodded, screwed a silencer on his pistol, and headed inside. He was gone for close to twelve minutes when he came back, a brown baggie tucked under his arm. He peered out the window nervously. "What's up," Billy asked.
"There was a fellah in there eyeballing me the whole time, looked out of place. He had that thousand-yard stare you see in interviews with Charles Manson. Gun or no gun, Billy, he made my skin crawl."
Billy was about to tell Roger to get rolling when the rear passenger door was yanked open and a pair of long-fingered, sheet-white hands grabbed Moe by the throat, tearing him out of the car. Billy called out for him as the door was slammed shut, followed by Roger pealing away like a bat out of hell, gunshots echoing behind them. Billy cursed and turned in his seat to look at their attacker, yet Moe lay alone on the street, shot dead.
"What the fuck, Billy," Roger shrieked, whipping the car around a sharp curve in the road. "We're being hunted like fuckin' rats! Who did we piss off this bad?"
"Just drive, Rog, get us back to the house! We'll figure something out there!" Twelve minutes later Roger brought the car to a halt in front of the house, and Billy and he scrambled out. Billy was halfway up the porch steps when he looked back, Roger standing a few yards in front of the car in the twin beams of the headlights. "Rog, come on! Park the car and get in here!"
"No, Billy," Roger said, shaking his head. He sniffled, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I ain't staying. I'll get the car in the garage, but then I'm out of here."
"What are you talking about?" Billy descended to the bottom step, his movements stiff, mechanical in his terror. "You can't just leave me here alone."
"You got a target on your back, Billy," Roger said huskily. "And as long as I'm still hanging around you, I've got one too." He started to step back out of the headlights' blare, and the vehicle suddenly burst forward, bearing him down with a scream and thick crunching sounds as the left side's tires rolled over him with deadly weight. Billy flinched back, gasping.
He spun toward the house, finding himself staring up into the blank, white eyes of detective Greg Mofield, who stood leering at him like a lunatic. "Pity about Roger," Mofield said, his voice coming out in the twin harmony of people possessed by demons in every film Billy had seen about such subjects. "He could have survived all of this, if he had just dropped you off and driven away. But he felt the need to give you an explanation," Mofield said, thrusting his hands into his trenchcoat pockets and shrugging.
"What the fuck is this," Billy stammered, backing away on legs turned rubbery. "What are you? Why are you doing this to me?"
"Now, now, Billy," said Mofield, bringing one hand out, waggling his finger as he smirked. "You and your outfit started this all. You see, you started it by coming here and setting up shop. Now at first it was cute," he said, descending from the porch to the first step down. "You had a handful of guys, you made book, wasn't anything we're used to with most criminals in the city, but it was very old-fashioned, so we left it alone. Even overlooked the handful of beatings you had administered when people didn't pay up."
"That's business," Billy said, suddenly defensive with the possessed detective.
"Hey, we get that, okay? We're understanding," Mofield said, chuckling. He took another step down, Billy matching him with a step back. "But you made one very crucial mistake, Billy. You expanded. You grew your enterprise, made the people of Amelia City afraid."
"People scare easy," Billy said, trying to smile and failing. "Ain't my fault."
"Ah, but you knowingly use their fear against them," Mofield snapped, brow furrowed, taking another step down. "Too many fear you, William James Rowan," he said, jabbing his pale, bony finger at Billy. Billy backed away slowly as Mofield came down off the last step, lurching forward. The flesh began peeling away in a rapid spiral from Mofield's hand, ribbons of skin and flesh revealing the bleach white bone beneath. His clothes began to flutter away into tatters, which turned to ash and dust as his body continued to disintegrate. "They are ours to strike down with terror, to fill with dread," the Mofield thing rasped, reduced to a speaking skeleton in tattered rags. His left eye slid out of its socket, landing on the ground with a dull splat.
Billy shrieked, hands clamped on the sides of his head. He spun about to flee the apparition, finding his path blocked by the mangled revenants of his fallen comrades. He stumbled over his own feet, falling hard on his ass. The dead men groaned collectively, shuffling toward him.
"Amelia City belongs to us, Billy," the skeletal creature rasped, standing beside him. "It always has." Billy curled into a fetal ball, trembling and gibbering like a madman, and his dead friends fell upon him.
His screams could be heard for miles.
The crime scene unit surveyed the area, gathering what little evidence they could. A young homocide detective stood off to one side, smoking a cigarette and trying not to look at the scattered chunks of Billy Rowan strewn about. Similarly, he kept from looking over at the smashed mess that was another thug's skull, crushed by the Lincoln left idling until their arrival.
The lead detective on all of Rowan's operations came over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You okay, newbie," the older detective asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," the younger man said. "I just can't imagine who or what could do that to someone."
"Well, this sort of thing happens," said detective Mofield, hiding his wide smile by turning away. "After all, this is Amelia City."
-Fin