Wise Guys (1054 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: The_Malleys
Rating: 1.8 on 19 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Axolotl (View user info) at 2006-06-12 17:15:29 EDT
Grand Army Plaza and Prospect Park flew by as John Broadus piloted his small Ford down the wide Brooklyn streets. Alex Collins sat beside him, barely awake after the long drive. The dashboard digital clock said it was three-thirty in the morning, August 1, 2005.
"The brain is least active between three and six in the morning," John said, startling Alex out of a light sleep. "The Soviet secret police used to arrest people between three and six. The FBI does raids between three and six. We're going to kill Emilio Pierro in his sleep between three and six."
"At least there's no traffic," Alex Collins mumbled. "I prefer killing people in broad daylight. More of a challenge."
"That doesn't make you a better assassin," John said in a monotone, his mind focused on his job. "You do it quietly, without any fuss. Where is this guy?"
"The fuck should I know?"
"Check the directions!" Broadus snapped as they neared Washington Avenue. Alex reached onto the floor and picked up the Mapquest print page.
"Washington Avenue, between Prospect and Saint Mark's," Alex said. "If the owners of Mapquest ever thought we were using their site for this..."
"No traffic, what are you talking about?" Broadus said, driving down Washington. "I drove out from Lincoln Park all the way to Lodi to pick your ass up, over the George Washington Bridge, and all the way down the Henry Hudson, to Brooklyn. Thirty-five miles so far, and it's been an hour and a half drive, through Paterson and Flatbush, two of the shittiest, most crime-ridden—"
"Sh, we're at Washington," Alex said. John Broadus pulled up on a quiet street, where Emilio Pierro lived. Setting the car in park, John and Alex got out of the car, pistols in their holsters, and moved up toward the townhouse. John Malley had given him a key, which he had gotten from Vito Lucarno.
John Broadus slipped the key into the hole and opened the door, his gun at the ready. Emilio had a nice house, everything very clean and tidy. No family to awaken, though. Broadus walked up the stairs with his gun drawn, Alex Collins directly behind him. They made their way to the single bedroom at the top of the stairs, and Broadus opened the door.
Emilio Pierro was asleep in bed, the blankets shuffled over him. Alex Collins strode up quickly beside him, and immediately clamped a piece of masking tape down on his mouth. Choking and struggling to breathe, Emilio sat bolt upright as Alex drew the tape tight, gagging his tongue.
"You should have thought before you acted, Emilio," John said cruelly, clicking the slide back on his silenced pistol. "Did you think Don Vito didn't notice you taking an extra cut of those waterfront warehouses? Now look where you are."
Emilio screamed into the tape, shaking wildly back and forth while Alex held him down. "Bye, Emilio," Alex whispered.
John Broadus fired his gun with a silenced pop, and Emilio's stirrings ceased. "Why did you tell him why he was going to die?" Alex asked, releasing Emilio's body.
"It's the least we can do for him."
* * *
It was past closing time at Malley's Irish Pub and Restaurant in Newark, but still John and Peter Malley sat at a table with Michael Brecher and discussed business. Virgil O'Duinen Jr. directed some of the late-night cleaning crew in the kitchen, and Pat Coyle was on the phone in the back office.
"Now, Representative Steve Dressler was interesting in stopping this development in Secaucus," Michael Brecher said. "It's this plot of land right off Garrett's Reach near the Jersey Turnpike. Peter?"
"I spoke to him today in his Newark office on behalf of the Sullivan Company," Peter Malley said. "His constituents fiercely support protection of the Meadowlands, and a man called Warren Rigley is trying to circumvent laws to construct a large office building in a part of the Meadowlands. For the sake of staying in office, Representative Dressler wants this project stopped."
"We'd better do this," John Malley said. "I need the continual support and assurance from Dressler that the Sullivan family is not disturbed in our business. It's always good to keep on Congress' good side. Not to mention the Meadowlands is a nice secluded spot for murder. Michael, this is your job."
"All right, John," Michael said. "I'll go talk to this Rigley guy. Wasn't your brother trying to get in deeper with the family?"
"Now that I'm boss and Peter's a capo, Willy's feeling a bit isolated up in Demarest," John said sardonically. "We can give him some small assignments. He doesn't have the heart for killing, but in for a penny, in for a pound. I hear that Don Dimiglio has finally taken over..."
"Paul Ciceri's not very happy with the Dimiglio family's new boss," Michael said knowingly. "I was talking to him. Dimiglio is a scary man, they all won't say his name. They just call him 'the good-looking guy.'"
In the back office, Pat Coyle spoke calmly into the telephone to his FBI handler Agent Ross. "Monday...your men will be here?"
"Monday. We have the evidence provided us by your wire that Virgil O'Duinen Jr. was involved in disposing of the body of Barry Ranier last April," Agent Ross said into the phone. "Tell anyone to clear out of the way, you and the proprietor. Our agents will be moving in quickly and arresting Virgil—"
"Pat? You there?" Peter called into the office.
"Goddamnit, can't you give me some privacy?" Pat snapped, slamming down the phone. He stood up, walking out of the office, his heart pounding fast.
"Cool down, Pat," Peter said as Pat angrily brushed by him. It felt like there was something solid and wiry in his shirt, but Peter dismissed the idea. Peter Malley walked back into the office and closed the door.
* * *
It was the early morning on the next Monday, and Peter Malley had just arrived at the Restaurant and Bar in Newark. Walking in through a side door off University Avenue in the North Ward, Peter exited his alley ad walked in through the ground floor.
Virgil O'Duinen Jr. was ordering around the waiters and last-minute cleanup crew through the tables of the restaurant and the elegantly finished bar. The wine glasses hung glittering from the top of the bar, and Virgil checked all the beer taps to make sure they were functioning.
"Morning, Pete," Virgil said, his green staff uniform stretched tight on his pectorals. "We open in fifteen minutes, Pat still hasn't shown up."
"Pat Coyle?" Peter asked curiously. "He's usually down from Hudson County early. Maybe there was traffic on the Pulaski. Have you called him?"
"No answer," Virgil said, sounding less sure of himself.
"Everything's been cool with the Dimiglios, right?" Peter asked, growing nervous. "I hope he's all right, I'm going to go into the office and try his house phone."
There was a loud, heavy knock on the main entrance door. Peter looked over toward the pair of oaken double doors, and said, "They can wait fifteen minutes..."
A few seconds passed, with Virgil and Peter glancing over at the door while the maintenance workers continued their final preparations for the routine opening. Virgil shuffled his feet warily and said, "Should we take a—"
With a startling crack of wood, the doors swung wide, the lock shattered. As the cleaning staff froze, a blur of men in suits with drawn guns swarmed into the store. Holding out a mixture of Federal badges and Heck and Kochler pistols, the agents quickly moved through the tables. Cries of "We have a warrant!" and "Keep your hands where we can see them!" interspersed the stomping feet and creak of the swinging, broken door.
Peter Malley and Virgil O'Duinen Jr. froze in place, their hands in front of their faces, stepping back into the bar. Agent Ross came into view, sunglasses obscuring his lifeless eyes, and he immediately grabbed a terrified Virgil O'Duinen's shoulders and forced him to the ground. Agents began strapping handcuffs on him and shoving Peter Malley out of the way, reading Virgil his rights.
"For the crime of accessory to murder..." one agent began to say, but Agent Ross stepped into Peter's face, blocking Virgil.
"Agent...officer..." Peter gasped, his heart pounding against his chest. "What's going on?"
"Nothing that concerns you, Mr. Malley," Agent Ross said dully, firmly pushing Peter Malley away from the arrest. Virgil grunted as an agent dragged him up, pulling him across the floor and toward the broken door.
"My restaurant, my manager," Peter muttered as Virgil O'Duinen disappeared in a hungry pack of black suits.
"Just be glad it's not you we're after," Agent Ross said, turning to leave. "Yet."
Within a minute, Agent Ross was the last Federal to leave, stepping over the ruined doorframe. The maintenance workers and waiters huddled in their corners, not daring to move, just watching a crushed Peter Malley stare at where his beautiful door had once been.
"Will we have to close the restaurant again?" a headwaiter asked gloomily. The restaurant had only been open less than two weeks ever since Alex Collins had murdered a Dimiglio soldier in April.
"For today...yes..." Peter choked, stumbling back toward his office. "Close everything. You can go home...just clean everything up..."
Peter slammed the door to the back office, and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He shakily selected John Malley's name on the address book, and lifted the phone to his ear.
"Hello, Peter," the electronically-processed voice of John Malley said, filtering over the connection.
"John..." Peter breathed. "The FBI just came and arrested Little Virgil..."
There was a moment of silence, and John disappointedly said "No..."
"I think we have an informant," Peter said. "And I think I know who..."
* * *
Pat Coyle walked out of his West New York apartment building and began his brisk evening jog toward Hudson County Park, where he had been taken often as a child. The memories of the summer picnic with his parents and dog had affected him even as an adult, and when he had moved to West New York, he had started a routine of going jogging around the park to keep in shape.
As Pat Coyle traveled down the wide avenue, he turned across the road into the smaller 76th Street, lined with apartment buildings and housing projects, less lighted. A shiver ran through him for some strange reason, and he decided to keep an eye out for trouble.
"Yo, I gotta go," he said into his cell phone. "I'll see you soon, bro. Bye."
He lowered the phone and replaced it in his pocket, checking that it was secure in his pants. As he raised his head again and picked up his jog, a shadowy figure darted from behind a car and swung a heavy crowbar into Pat's stomach.
Pat wheezed and doubled over as he realized it was Virgil O'Duinen Sr. who had attacked him. Before Pat could move, Virgil punched him in the face holding the crowbar, bloodying his fists. "You took away my son," Virgil growled, grasping Pat by the neck.
Virgil grabbed a hold of Pat's hair, forcing him down and bringing his knee into his face. Pat's nose cracked, and blood spattered onto the sidewalk; Virgil held him up and slammed him into the side of the car, crowbar in hand.
"That's right, wise guy," Virgil snarled, dragging Pat's incapacitated body behind the car and smashing the crowbar into his leg. Pat gasped in pain, and his eyes widened as John Malley stepped into view, the pistol in his holster in open view. The terror multiplied exponentially as Malley stepped into view.
"Hello, rat," Malley said coolly.
"Do you have it from here?" Virgil asked, releasing the winded Pat.
John pulled out a set of keys and popped the trunk of the car. Virgil grabbed Pat by the neck and armpit and hoisted him up and threw him into the deep trunk, banging his head against the car's frame. The trunk shut, leaving Pat alone in the dark with just his wheezing screams.
Total darkness. The car started, and Pat felt he was moving a long way. His heart was throbbing so intensely he felt dizzy and faint. The ride lasted a sickeningly long time, and Pat tried to lucidly organize his thoughts, to pray, and wonder how to escape.
After maybe forty minutes, the car stopped. The trunk opened, and Pat found himself in a deep forest, the stars shining down between the trees. The nearby glow of the city of Paterson told Pat he was somewhere on Garrett Mountain, high above the city.
John dragged Pat out of the car and pulled him to his feet, a shovel in hand. Pat's legs were wobbly and numb from his fetal position in the trunk, and he leaned against the car by a patch of land.
"Here's your shovel, rat," John said coldly, tossing the tool to Pat. "Start digging. Take as long as you want, I have all night. The deeper you dig, the longer it'll take for the wolves to get you."
Pat Coyle slammed the tip of the shovel into the ground with a grunt, and upturned a load of soil. He had dug a shallow hole, six foot by two foot, in several minutes, moving the dirt off to one side. Pat dug for about a half-hour in the warm summer air on Garrett Mountain, and said shakily, "You know, I thought you might throw me off Passaic Falls, like Virgil did with Andrew Monaghan back in 1999."
John Malley didn't reply; he clicked back the slide of his pistol, aiming it at the back of Pat's head.
"You know, John, I liked this mountain when I was a kid," Pat said, his voice cracking and speeding up. "I used to drive past it going out to Whippany to visit my friend when I was a kid, and my mom used to say—"
"Shut the fuck up, Pat," John said with a sense of duty. "You're not part of the family anymore. As soon as you put on that wire, you were dead to us. Goodbye, Pat." John Malley closed his eyes and set the barrel against Pat's head.
With a roar Pat Coyle ducked and spun around, bringing the shovel's blade into John Malley's leg. John cursed and fired into the empty grave, falling to his knees. Pat stood up and smashed the flat end into John's back, dropping him to the floor.
"Shit, shit, shit..." Pat muttered, frantically going through John's pocket's to find the keys. John groaned, blearily opening his eyes and sensing the blinding pain in his legs and back. He rolled over and shot his gun wildly, hitting a tree branch. Pat grabbed the keys and set off in a dead sprint, abandoning all thoughts of killing John.
John Malley fired twice more, just out of instinct, hitting nothing. The pain was overwhelming him, and he felt warm blood tricking down his leg. Somewhere, his car roared into life, Pat Coyle at the wheel. John pulled his cell phone out of his dirt-caked jeans pocket and dialed Raymond Ventry's number. Raymond lived in Paterson, just down the mountainside. He could get here before the police...
"Hello? John?" Raymond answered.
"Garret Mountain," John breathed painfully. "I'm hurt..."
John fainted, dropping his gun and his cell phone beside him. His eyes closed, and he fell into a deep slumber.
http://www.ubersite.com/u/Axolotl/l/the_malleys
User Reviews
Submitted by DirtyDoubleEntendre (user info) at 2006-06-14 02:19:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
happy birthday
Submitted by eleanor_rigby (user info) at 2006-06-13 13:15:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 21:27:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Ranking: 2
whoever said nothing was happening?
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I always try to have one episode a season where nobody dies...the next one, part 15, is that. Some characters will soon be turning to the FBI, or worse, to Dimiglio...
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 21:24:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
"I think we have an informant," Peter said. "And I think I know who..."
----
Wow, that seems cliche in retrospect.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 21:23:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by ThoreauMe (user info) at 2006-06-12 21:16:06 (#)
Ranking: 0
Little bits of the dialogue were excellent, but the bulk of it (dialogue) was too expository.
Tough to make that type of dialogue sound real. It's a short story, you can cram in all the info you want without quote marks.
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I thought the sentence where John Broadus describes his route from Paterson to Brooklyn was a bit off, I just wanted to put it in there for my own region's benefit. It's expository now, but later in the season it gets better.
Submitted by ThoreauMe (user info) at 2006-06-12 21:16:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Little bits of the dialogue were excellent, but the bulk of it (dialogue) was too expository.
Tough to make that type of dialogue sound real. It's a short story, you can cram in all the info you want without quote marks.
Submitted by Chroniclysm (user info) at 2006-06-12 20:32:31 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
yes yes yes
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-06-12 20:32:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
whoever said nothing was happening?
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-06-12 19:11:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
ace
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 18:59:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I found this sick gif animation program online, you can convert animated movies into swf and gif. I must post them.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 18:44:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by retrospect (user info) at 2006-06-12 18:40:09 (#)
Ranking: 2
i think you may be the highest rated uberuser. thats based on speculation, of course. you deserve it the title though :)
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Thanks, Retrospect. Pentameter has that title, though. I've done enough shitposts that I'm around the 1.45-1.50 range.
Submitted by retrospect (user info) at 2006-06-12 18:40:09 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i think you may be the highest rated uberuser. thats based on speculation, of course. you deserve it the title though :)
Submitted by Merlina (user info) at 2006-06-12 18:08:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:32:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by BobLobla (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:31:45 (#)
Ranking: 2
FUCKING AWESOME, first one I have read.
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I'm glad you didn't start with the first few, #1 2 and 3 aren't written as well as the rest. The third season is going to be good though...
Submitted by BobLobla (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:31:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
FUCKING AWESOME, first one I have read.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:30:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
About twenty-five million people live on that map.
I'm somewhere around the middle, in North Jersey.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:26:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:24:16 (#)
Ranking: 2
ITALY 2-0....what's a matter for ghana?
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World Cup? Pah!
Poland lost, I heard. How's the Yanks doing against the Czechs?
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:24:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
ITALY 2-0....what's a matter for ghana?
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-06-12 17:16:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
The Sopranos sucks.