Old Bones (1 of 6) - The Malleys (582 hits)
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Submitted by Axolotl .58 (View user info) at 2006-09-05 13:18:01 EDT
Repost because I am retarded.
I'm still continuing As I Lay Dying, I just need to post something to get my last one off the front page. This is part of The Malleys, the final six chapters. http://www.ubersite.com/u/axolotl/l/the_malleys
John Malley had a flashy car, a dark navy-blue Lexus bought with money from drugs, gambling, and murder. It was nearing midnight on the last day of April, and John drove the car over the Harlem River Bridge into the Bronx, Donald McMichael in the passenger seat. McMichael was feeling sick, mostly due to the four bullet wounds in his stomach he was recovering from.
"Michael had his first hit right here," McMichael remarked, looking at the bridge as they entered the Bronx. Typical of New York City, the streetlights lit up every corner of the path, but there was something foreboding about the pitch-black night. "I remember my first hit...February 1991, Jackie Kovalski, this little Polish Jew from Gun Hill. When it came to the Polish gangs, the Manhattan Poles would do stuff in secret to dodge the cops, but the Bronx Poles would just shoot a cop dead on site, cool as ice."
"My first..." John Malley said, thinking. "My dad was with me. I kept missing my shots, hitting him in the leg, I had to empty the whole clip into the guy to kill him."
"I got the kike in one shot," McMichael said, a tone of bragging in his voice.
John Malley pulled off the Grand Concourse and onto East Tremont Avenue, where his destination stood only a few buildings in on the left. A large scarlet neon sign read "In The Pink: A Gentleman's Club," and a tall, Irish-looking bouncer awaited them at the door.
"How's the old stomach?" John asked.
"Still a fucking bitch to deal with," Donald replied, checking his jacket for his automatic 9mm Smith&Wesson. "At least I'm still able to have sex with Alyssa without my stitches popping open now."
Chuckling to himself, John approached the bouncer and shook his hand. "John Malley, here to see Damon Petri."
"Hey, I'm Jim Hancock," the bouncer said in a friendly tone, smiling broadly. "Mr. Petri's been expecting you, follow me in."
Damon Petri was one of the sole surviving capos of the enemy Dimiglio family; four months earlier Michael Brecher, one of John's best men, sparked a vicious war that ended in the near-destruction of the Dimiglios. John and Donald were going to discuss terms of tradeoffs with Petri.
John and Don entered the club, and caught a glimpse of the all-nude dancers and cheering patrons before being hurriedly escorted down a side hallway and into the dank bowels of the former tenement. Jim Hancock beckoned them further, stopping at a door marked Manager. "Wait here," Hancock said, stepping into the office.
"Mr. Petri?"
"What is it?" Damon Petri snorted, lifting his powder-stained nose from the mirror on his desk. "It better be real fucking important, I'm busy."
"Some men from the Sullivan Family are here to see you," Hancock said timidly.
"Ah, fuck me," Petri grunted, wiping the cocaine from his nostrils and placing his .357 magnum under his laptop screen, closing it slightly. He had a lined face and a shock of curly brown hair, and ruby-red lips. "Send those greasy micks in and make sure they don't play any tricks."
Outside, John and Donald exchanged looks at Petri's words, audible through the partially-closed door. Hancock exited and waved them in, and took a standing position in front of the door inside the office.
"Hey, I'm John Malley, Sullivan Company," John said, starting his usual businessman spiel, shaking Petri's quivering hand. "I'm here to negotiate about the subject I emailed you about."
"I'm not selling the club," Petri replied haltingly, a trickle of blood running from his nose. Wiping it away, he continued, "In The Pink, this club...I converted this whole place from a ghetto to a thriving adult entertainment center and...I'm...not...uh, selling it, especially not to a bunch of Jersey..." he looked spaced out and shook his head rapidly.
"Damon, we exchanged emails over this," John said warningly.
"And I told you to fuck yourself then, and I'm telling you now!" Petri growled.
"I think we'll show ourselves out," John said, standing up and turning around. Donald arose, turning from Petri, and walking toward the door with John. Crouching and sidestepping, John quickly grabbed Hancock and used him as a shield as Petri drew his magnum and fired. The bullet struck Hancock's large stomach, and he screamed.
Donald McMichael slung his 9mm out and shot Petri twice in the chest. Petri sputtered and fell to the ground, dropping his gun. "Good hit," John said, grabbing the letter-opener off Petri's desk and descending to his enemy. John stabbed him hard in the stomach and chest, sliding the knife in and out of Petri's ribs, Petri moaning in pain all the while.
John arose, and Donald shot Petri one last time, finishing him off. Grabbing a glass of coke off the desk, John poured the liquid out and knelt by Hancock, giving him the ice. "Set that against the bullet hole, and call 911," John said calmly. "And remember, this club is now Sullivan family territory, so we expect the usual cut sent to us in Hackensack."
"Yes, yes...please, I will..." Hancock groaned.
"Good decision," Donald said, walking out of the office with John.
* * *
In a large corporate office building in Paterson, New Jersey, two FBI agents grilled Michael Brecher over coffee. Brecher had been an informant for the last four months, and now that there was a basis of trust, the agents were asking him about more incriminating topics.
"Let's see, the Dan McCourt disappearance?" asked Agent Ross. "Dan McCourt, thirty-eight, of Montclair, missing and presumed dead?"
"Buried in the Meadowlands, by Snake Hill." Michael responded dully.
"How did he die?" Agent Fiumfreddo asked.
"He was second-in-command of the Paterson crew when we went to war with them," Michael replied. "He tried to arrange an assassination of Donald McMichael during the start of the war, and he was one of the first casualties when the war started."
"Whom killed him, and why?"
"McMichael shot him, in Newark," Michael said. "Peter and John Malley helped dismember and bury the body up by the Passaic River, under the turnpike."
* * *
It had been a tough session for Michael to remember all his friends' misdeeds and recount them for the unforgiving, by-the-books agents. It was going to be even harder to confront John that night at Veterans' Park in Ridgewood, where he had been told to meet.
Michael pulled his car into the lot and stepped out into the vast park. He had run here in his old cross-country days, and he remembered the old starting line was by the massive baseball field next to the Ridgewood Library. A group of men were huddled by a fence, and Michael had a feeling he knew who they were.
"You busy next Thursday, Mikey?" called John Malley. He was surrounded by Virgil O'Duinen, Donald McMichael and Jeff Nolan. Nolan was the twenty-year-old boyfriend of Alexa, John's daughter.
"What do I gotta do?" replied Michael.
"Jeff Nolan is going to be made an associate into the family," Virgil answered. "You take him down the shore, to Asbury Park, see? Vince Tabano's down there, and you have to hit him."
"I got it," Michael said, impressed that Nolan had influenced John, who had previously hated him.
"Congratulations, kid," Donald said, nodding in approval. "You're gonna be a real mobster now. Get in the car, you still gotta follow my orders."
As they walked back toward the car, John approached Michael and whispered, "I'm real fucking sick of this kid. Take him down the shore, kill him, and take care of his body."
"What?" Michael gasped.
"You heard me. Jeff Nolan's gotta go, for the safety of my daughter. Take him to the boardwalk and kill him."
"John...all right," Michael sighed, his heart beating fast. He actually liked Jeff, despite his immaturity and callowness. It looked as if he would have to do John's dirty work, and he wasn't liking it.
* * *
In downtown New York City during the middle of the day, two Russian men sped down Canal Street, trying to reach their employer John Malley quickly. Pyotr Goluboy and Arcady Ilyanich had driven all the way up from Brighton Beach, and were roaring toward the Holland Tunnel, escaping their pursuer.
As they hit Broadway, their pursuer tapped the Russians' bumper and they span slightly, squealing the brakes and banging off a lightpost and careening into the street. Jaded New Yorkers took pictures, while the man who had been chasing the Russians stepped out of his car.
The pursuer was a tall Asian man with spiked hair, very young, called Hung Lee Kim. He walked over to the Russians' car in mock sympathy and care, looking through the open window at Arcady, the driver.
"I will help you!" Kim called out, reaching the shattered glass pane. Upon entering the car, he punched Arcady in the face with his brass knuckles. "Hit your head on the steering wheel, Russian communist?" Kim hissed as blood flowed from Arcady's nose.
"Please, leave us alone..." Pyotr begged. "We just want to see John Malley..."
"You listen, Russian cocksucker," Hung Lee growled, his eyes ablaze. "Godfather Gambetta and Godfather Galantro do not want your Russian asses and your drunken red-hair Irish bosses anywhere near their businesses! You get out of New York City, and you stay out!"
"We live in Brooklyn, Hung Lee," Pyotr said.
"Silence!" Kim shouted. "Stay out of New York, or I will kill you both! Chris Virgino does not want you in this place, and he sends me to stop you! Do not see John Malley!"
Stepping back from the car, Hung Lee announced heroically to the gathering crowds, "They are fine! No worry here!" The two Russians groaned and restarted their car, driving their battered, dented Ford down Canal Street.
* * *
"I'm so worried about you," Alexa said, kissing Jeff. "Be careful out there."
"I will," Jeff replied, stepping out the door with Michael. "Goodbye, Alexa. I'll be back for our one-year anniversary!"
Alexa shut the door, praying that Jeff would be all right. Her dad was upstairs in his office, and barely even bothered to say goodbye to either of them, as if he was glad to get rid of the two. Not a minute later, the doorbell rang again, and this time, Alexa opened it to find two large, heavyset Russian men, covered head-to-toe in blood and cuts.
"Mom?" Alexa called out, stepping back.
Her mom walked out of the kitchen, approaching the Russians holding a large steak knife; now it was the Russians' turn to step back, wary. Ashley Malley closed the door, saying, "Wait one minute."
Walking up the stairs, Ashley approached her husband's office. "John, there's some foreign men here to see you," Ashley Malley said to her husband. "They're covered in blood, be careful."
Interest piqued, John looked up from his Excel spreadsheet and walked downstairs answering the door. On his doorstep was Arcady and Pyotr, covered in bruises and blood.
"Guys, what happened?" John gasped.
"The Korean man made us crash our car," Arcady groaned. "We were in the Meatpacking District last night, and he saw us there in his territory. He's working for the Italians now, and he tried to kill us..."
"All right guys, just calm down," John said, rubbing his forehead. "I'll talk to the Italians about this. Just...go home and relax."
"Can we stay here?" asked Pyotr. "We live too far away, and Hung Lee said he will kill us if we're back in Brooklyn?"
"Ah...guys...isn't there a motel?" John said, trying to dodge the question.
"Daddy, they can stay in my room, I sleep in the living room usually anyway," Alexa said from behind.
"Are you sure you want..." John began, looking at the blood-covered thick Russian gangsters. "Ah, go ahead. Make yourselves at home, but just leave your guns on the coffee table."
"You are so kind, my friend," Arcady said jubilantly, stepping into John's house. John sighed as the Russians came in and closed the door, wondering how bad could life get.
* * *
"I understand you don't want my Russians in your territory," John Malley said at a multi-family conference the next night. Malley's conferences were famed for ending in disaster, but the all-powerful Downtown Don, Bonasera Gambetta, was a skilled negotiator. Virgil and Donald sat by John, while Virgino and Gambetta flanked Carmine Galantro.
"You're damn right we don't want your goons in the Meatpacking District," Carmine Galantro said warningly. "You can consider that Dimiglio territory now, under the Virgino crew."
"Since when do you take any interest in New York?" John retorted.
"Since we partnered up with the Korean mob, and Hung Lee Kim," said Galantro. "Since you single-handedly destroyed all my men at the massacre last Christmas. We need an avenue of profit, and Godfather Gambetta is giving us the aid of the Korean mob to get back on our feet."
"Don't bring that up here, Carmine," John said angrily. "My Russian associates in Brighton Beach need avenues of profit as well. Don Gambetta, what do you think about all of this?"
Gambetta paused, thinking. He was one of the richest, most powerful mobsters in the history of New York, and had hundreds of soldiers and associates at his disposal, as well as millions in assets. "Well...John, since the Russians are associates, you cannot go to war over their mistreatment in the first place," Gambetta said calmly. "And besides, Hung Lee only ran them off the road, he didn't kill them...quite merciful, considering what they were doing."
"The Russians did no wrong," Virgil added in uncharacteristic timidity. "They were only inquiring, asking questions...I thought Hung Lee running them off the road in a busy Manhattan intersection was very...too much?"
"They're just thugs, nothing more," Virgino replied. "Kim is under my control, I told him to react like that against any Sullivan associates sniffing around his territory."
"Gentlemen," Gambetta proposed. "Mr. Virgino, please deliver the Russians $40,000 in repayment for their emotional and car troubles. In return, John Malley, keep your Russian friends out of the Korean territory, so as not to cause future problems."
Galantro cracked his neck, thinking, and then said, "All right, agreed, on the condition that if the Russians come at us again, they're dead men."
"Agreed," John said, lifting his hand and shaking Carmine's. "Thank you, Godfather Gambetta."
"Keep out of trouble," Gambetta said. "We don't need any wars."
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WHOOPS
Here's a picture of Warren Zevon.
User Reviews
Submitted by BobLobla (user info) at 2006-09-22 13:37:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-06 15:04:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-09-06 11:54:45 (#)
Ranking: 2
damn man you got shit on.
this was good.
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Thanks Ghola, I expect it. This series is a massive target for alters, I just needed to post something to knock my other off the front page.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2006-09-06 11:54:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
damn man you got shit on.
this was good.
Submitted by paint_it_black (user info) at 2006-09-06 01:57:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Submitted by georgemichael (user info) at 2006-05-19 04:47:02 (#)
Ranking: -2
"Things can change, though..." Paul Ciceri interrupted, not noticing Delgado's remarks. "I was able to make Antonio my personal consigliere even though he was black, due to a loophole in the codes of the family. Even if we can't find a loophole for you, I might get Carmine to make an exception."
______________________
Paul Ciceri looked in his mafia handbook, turning to the section 'loopholes'.
END THIS SHIT PLEASE
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Its been months still the same shit. Its reads as if its paris hiltons take on the mafia
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-05 21:47:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by whysenheimer (user info) at 2006-09-05 21:39:15 (#)
Ranking: -2
One post a day n00b.
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Posted something on the wrong day.
Submitted by whysenheimer (user info) at 2006-09-05 21:39:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
One post a day n00b.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-05 20:10:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by paint_it_black (user info) at 2006-09-05 18:44:59 (#)
Ranking: -2
wow.
that is just utter SHIT
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stfu and rate me with your real user, alter. Remember http://ubersite.com/m/88533
Submitted by paint_it_black (user info) at 2006-09-05 18:44:59 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
wow.
that is just utter SHIT
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-05 15:28:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by UnderOathMeal (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:35:02 (#)
Ranking: 2
Fair repost maneuver.
Excellent content.
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Fair enough I suppose.
I didn't want to post this yet, because I don't like overlapping series.
Submitted by UnderOathMeal (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:35:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Fair repost maneuver.
Excellent content.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:21:33 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Axolotl ----> Knows time.
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:21:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:19:03 (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked the Zevon thing too
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I'll post it tomorrow. When it's Wednesday for real.
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:19:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked the Zevon thing too
Submitted by Axolotl (user info) at 2006-09-05 13:18:14 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
HAHA EMU