NOW:
Paul checked himself in the rearview mirror and found it hard to recognize the man staring back. The blond hair was longer than his FBI days and stylishly cut, but an occasional errant strand of hair threatened to stage a rebellion. Contact lenses had replaced his wire-rimmed glasses.
Gone were the days of bargain basement clothing and do-it-yourself tailoring. Now it was Italian silk suits, usually gray or light blue, Egyptian cotton shirts, and calfskin shoes as soft as cashmere. No tie, just the top two buttons of his shirt left open to show off the gold chain and dangling Italian horn, lest anyone question his lineage.
He had been living this façade for almost a year, gradually easing into the Tagliani family lifestyle. It was important he didn’t rush things, that he allow his employers to decide how quickly he rose in the organization. If Paul took one misstep, he knew it could be fatal. And his employers were cautious.
Once the contact and initial interview were set up, Paul was not to contact Matrix or Halloran until further notice. They knew as well as Paul the family would scrutinize him in the beginning. Eventually, the family’s watchful eyes would grow comfortable and look away. Then he would have to endure the constant tests, unaware he would pass most of them just by playing his role.
The interview with the two representatives of the family, or the “Brutoni Brothers’ Corporation” as they had presented themselves, had taken place in a busy warehouse outside of Azure City. Dressed in coveralls and sporting chipped clipboards, directing forklifts in the loading and unloading of trucks, the two men asked him a series of rapid fire questions, sometimes repetitiously, trying to catch him in a lie.
Paul had stuck to the truth as much as possible while sidestepping rolling pallets of crates, and they’d been pleased. Months later, he discovered, if he’d answered wrong or tripped himself up in a lie, a forklift driver would have momentarily lost control of his vehicle, long enough to dump several hundred pounds of machine parts on Paul’s head.
The first few months had been more boring than the FBI’s accounting office. He was given tasks any college freshman accounting student could complete—balancing company checkbooks, tax forms, making bank deposits, and the like. And, as far as he could tell, everything that passed through his hands was legitimate.
His third month in, he had been given a manila envelope filled with hundred dollar bills to take to one of the several banks the organization regularly did business with. It was a routine deposit, much like all the others he made, albeit in larger increments. This time, however, he was told to make the deposit alone.
“We need Frankie here today,” his supervisor had told him, referring to Paul’s usual escort. “It’s only ten grand. You can handle it.”
The man had marked the figure in an oversized, hardbound ledger, then handed him the bulging packet. He had left the warehouse office, the pack of money under his arm.
Paul had known a break from the norm usually meant something was wrong, so he had thought he was being sent to the bank, alone for the first time, for a reason.
He had wondered if he’d been discovered. Maybe a slip-up in a conversation with someone? He’d had no contact with Matrix, Halloran, or even his own family, not that he missed any of them.
Paul had slid into his car and forced himself to turn the ignition key without checking under the hood for sticks of dynamite. He wondered what a car bomb would feel like. Would it just be a flash, then nothingness? Would the blast deafen him before it killed him? He almost screamed when the engine coughed before catching itself and starting.
He had driven to the bank, feeling the eyes of everyone in the cars around him, knowing one of them must be following him, maybe waiting to get him on a deserted street, or open fire on him at a stop light, or maybe they had planned to kill him by making it look like a botched carjacking. Every car that passed him, every stop at a light or sign, every person that made eye contact with him, got his heart beating faster and his blood rushing though his veins.
But none of that happened. Finally, he had arrived at the bank, stepped up to the teller’s window, and deposited the money. The teller counted the money twice and looked at the deposit slip with a quizzical expression.
“Sir?” She had bitten her lower lip and shifted her eyes back and forth between the money and the deposit slip. “The deposit slip is made out for ten thousand dollars, but there’s eleven thousand here. Do you wish to deposit eleven thousand?”
Paul had said he did and allowed her to make the necessary corrections. The whole situation had been puzzling, but it had slowly sunk in. This was another test. The family had satisfied themselves that Paul wasn’t working undercover for the cops or the feds. Now they were checking his loyalty. Would he pocket the money or deposit it?
His employers had instantly promoted him to work uptown, auditing the books for the various companies that seemed to spring forth from each other, sometimes merging, sometimes dissolving. Companies sprang up overnight, turned a huge profit, then abruptly went bankrupt. Or they changed names and sold to another company in the same network. Occasionally they disappeared without a trace.
Paul’s job was to make it all look legal, funnel the funds into the appropriate accounts and handle all the tax work. He was one of many accountants working for the same conglomerate, whose corporate name changed every few months. Through it all, Paul never found a reference to the Tagliani name.
Always having something new to learn or some new problem to work out, Paul actually looked forward to the new challenges he faced each day. Being paid well enough and wanting to blend in with the others, he had begun to copy their expensive tastes and dress better, style his hair, and even spring for the occasional manicure. He had settled into its new rut, and given enough time, he worried he may have eventually forgotten his true purpose in the scheme of things.
Paul arrived home and opened his mailbox. Flipping through bills and junk, he found a card from Matrix, and it splashed cold water on his psyche. Whipped back to reality after months of living a lie, his surroundings instantly felt alien to him. His clothes no longer felt stylish and comfortable; they were a costume, the clothes wearing him. Despite his surprise, deep in the recesses of his consciousness, he had always known Matrix’s card was coming sooner or later.
He dialed the number on the card. The phone on the other end rang once.
“Yes.” Matrix’s voice, as devoid of feeling as a frostbitten limb.
“It’s Paul.”
She didn’t respond.
“I suppose you knew that,” he said.
“You’ve made progress.”
“It took me a while, but I feel I’ve moved along as fast as I can. They’re trusting me more and more every day.”
“Don’t rush it,” she said. “You’ve progressed faster than we anticipated. Don’t stray from the plan now. Continue along with it.”
“So you’re pleased?” He regretted asking it, like he was some little kid trying to gain favor with his schoolteacher. But it was what he wanted: their acceptance, to be told he was doing a good job as an undercover operative.
“We’re satisfied,” she answered. “They’ve accepted you. Gradually, you’ll get deeper and deeper into their organization. You can expect one more test from them. Pass it, and you’ll be in the position we need you in.”
“Okay, okay, then-”
“We’ll be in touch.” She hung up.
***
The rest of the year was much like that. Sporadic messages to call Matrix, always at a different time. Her indifferent tone of voice never changed. She rarely asked questions. Paul had the feeling she was staying in touch to keep control, like tugging on a dog’s leash to remind him who’s the master.
His job continued the same, with more promotions and more money, but generally the same work. He excelled at his new profession and occasionally wondered if he was more suited for a life of crime. Not robbing banks or anything as distasteful as that, but with creative bookkeeping, tax fraud, and the processing of stolen merchandise. There was also the business of buying and selling narcotics, and trading in guns and other weapons, but a different department, consisting of long-term employees who were well compensated for their particular expertise, handled that. Paul would have to work for the family for much longer than a year before he qualified for a position in that department. He assumed he would be long gone before then.
Sitting in his newly leased, aqua-toned BMW, his best silk gray suit on his lean frame, his gold Rolex and pinkie ring freshly polished, Paul had the overwhelming urge to pull the cellphone from his breast pocket, call his old boss Walter, and beg him to get him out and give him his job back.
In his side-view mirror, he watched a limousine turn the corner and creep up the street toward him. If Paul hadn’t been expecting his current boss, he would have run right then for sure.
The car eased up next to his until the blacked-out rear passenger window, tinted so dark it practically absorbed, was parallel to Paul’s driver-side window. He let his window down first.
He gazed at the abyss of the glass staring back at him. Anyone or anything could have been behind that window, maybe pointing a gun at him. Maybe his cover had been blown and this was the way they meant to take him out. Talons clutched at his stomach and a cold sweat started just beneath the surface of his skin. Paul resisted the urge to swallow.
The limo’s window slid down soundlessly, and his boss’s smiling visage greeted him.
“Hey Paulie. What’s wrong? You feeling okay?” Joey asked.
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I’m okay,” Paul said. “I just wasn’t expecting a limo.”
“Tonight’s a big deal. I decided to arrive in style. Lock up your car and get in. We got some business to discuss.”
The inside of the limo housed a mini-communications center, complete with a laptop, printer, fax machine, cellphone, and television. Joey, dressed in an Armani tux, greeted him with a good-natured slap on the shoulder. He smiled at Paul, showing off his capped teeth.
“I thought we were just going to a restaurant opening.” Paul pointed to Joey’s tux. “I didn’t realize it would be so formal.”
“Nah,” Joey said, “This restaurant is my dad’s newest pride and joy. The tux is just my way of kissing his ass.”
Joey was not particularly handsome, but striking in a rugged way. His brown hair was coarse and wiry, each strand declaring its independence and going its own way. Though it was trimmed short and smothered in gel, it still appeared unruly.
His rough-hewn face had the beginning of jowls, but his smile hid them. And Joey smiled often.
“I did tell you this restaurant we’re going to belongs to my father, right?”
“No, you didn’t mention that,” Paul said.
Joey shrugged. “It’s really no big deal. My dad is big into restaurants and night clubs. I’m not sure why. They really don’t make us that much money.”
“I should’ve dressed better.”
“Forget it,” Joey said. “You’re fine. That’s a nice suit. You look great. Alright?”
Paul nodded.
“Now, down to business. You been with us, how long?”
Paul said, “About a year. Eight or nine months directly under you.”
Joey was already nodding. He’d known the answer obviously, just wanted Paul to confirm it.
“We’ve kept an eye on you right from the start, considering your background and all. Thrown you a few test situations now and then. It’s the usual bullshit we go through with new employees.”
“I guess I’ve done all right,” Paul said.
“Oh, yeah. Excellent in fact. You didn’t steal money when you could’ve, you didn’t ask questions when we gave you highly questionable work, and you certainly don’t shoot your mouth off. Fact is, you hardly talk to anybody. How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”
Paul opened his mouth to answer and was stuck. Before he could think of an appropriate response, Joey said:
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Maybe you broke up with somebody a while back and you’re gun-shy. Maybe you’re queer. It doesn’t matter. We…I…like the work you do, and I want to bring you further into the organization.”
The car slowed to a stop. The glass partition between the front seat and the rear of vehicle slid halfway down.
The driver said, “We’re here.”
“Ah, shit.” Joey peered out the side window. “That was quick. Mike, tell you what. Drive around the block. Okay?”
The driver nodded and the glass slid back into position.
“So, you think you’re ready for another promotion?” Joey asked.
“Sure. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it, Mr. Brutoni.”
“First, call me Joey. And the last name isn’t Brutoni. You may as well know, my last name is Tagliani.”
Paul kept his face expressionless, though deep inside he felt his heart race at the mention of the name. He had just scored a major breakthrough, perhaps one that would lead him to the finish line of this assignment. Strangely enough, the thought of ending the assignment, although a relief to his nerves, seemed a disappointing prospect.
“I see by the look on your face that you don’t recognize the name. That’s good. We want to keep it that way. That’s how we’ve managed to stay in business so long.”
“So, Brutoni is a front, just like it was a front for all the other companies?”
Joey grinned. “Right. See, the family’s been around a long time. About thirty years ago, my dad decided the only way we were going to survive and continue being successful was to take our business underground. So he threw up a bunch of phony names and, what do you call it, black herrings.”
“Red herrings,” Paul said.
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, we’re into a lot of different things. Malls, restaurants, waste disposal. Plus, lots of, shall we say, slightly illegal properties.”
It was all information Paul had been briefed on by Matrix, but the fact that it was being told to him by the other side, so openly, made it seem brand new.
Joey was enjoying this, Paul could tell, the bragging to the new guy routine. He must have liked the way Paul was taking everything in stride, cool under pressure, because he kept talking and smiling, telling Paul more than he needed to know.
Finally, Joey said, “So what do you think, Paulie? Are you ready for the big time?”
“Sure,” Paul answered. “Sounds like fun.”
As if on cue, the limo stopped at the entrance to the restaurant.
***
The men’s room in Mama Sophia’s was clean enough to eat off the porcelain-tiled floor, not that Dominic would ever want to do such a thing. The plumbing fixtures sparkled beneath the fluorescent bulbs, and discreetly positioned deodorizers filled the room with a flowery scent.
Dominic gripped the edge of the sink and stared hard at himself in the mirror. His brown eyes held a bluish reflection from the silk tie knotted expertly about his neck. He adjusted the lapel of his black, sharkskin suit, which he wore not for vanity but because the material concealed a shoulder holster better than cotton or wool. Sharkskin suits had become something of a trademark for him as well. He considered it his uniform when he worked. Lately, it seemed he was always wearing one of his suits.
Dominic searched the bottomless depths of his eyes for a glimmer of…something, a trace of the person he used to be, or perhaps the person he was supposed to be. He knew it was there, somewhere beneath the slick exterior he presented to the world.
His second-grade teacher, a nun, had told him the eyes were the windows to the soul. After school, Dominic had gone home and stared into his eyes in the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t found anything that resembled a soul that day, nor in all the days after.
Dominic had given up looking for his soul many years ago. He was no longer certain what it was he looked for; at times when self-doubts plagued him or he felt the seams of his steely façade begin to strain, he’d look in the mirror afterwards and feel better, more positive, more certain about himself. There were times, though, usually late at night, when a chilling thought would hit him. Maybe he never saw his soul because he no longer had one. Or maybe he never had one to begin with.
He straightened up, blinked, and let his mind shake the questions of his soul away. He adjusted his tie, though it needed none, and smoothed back his hair, though it was perfect. Satisfied that everything was in order, he unlocked the restroom door and returned to the restaurant.
Dominic had been one of the first to arrive to the opening-night party. It was an old habit: show up early or show up late. Keep everyone off-balance.
He usually skipped these kinds of parties because he didn’t like the pomp and circumstance. He preferred remaining in the shadows. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. However, many of the higher-ups would be here, which meant a lot of business talk that could prove useful. Furthermore, Joe Tagliani Sr. had personally invited him, and Dominic knew never to disappoint the Tagliani family patriarch.
Joe treated him like a son, maybe better than that. Joe’s own son, Joey, was not given as much leeway as Dominic, and in fact, Joey’s advice was not considered as seriously by Joe as Dominic’s opinion.
It had always been a source of contention between Dominic and Joey, the way Joe would defer to Dominic. Dominic’s thinking fell in line with many of the older family members, while Joey came off as too young and brash. Joey didn’t want to wait for anything; he wanted everything right up front, taken by force. If it hadn’t been for the careful members like Dominic, Joe, and many of the old-time hierarchy, under Joey’s direction the family would have long ago succumbed to in-fighting, police and federal investigations, and warring with other families. Joey was too headstrong and too eager for the quick buck, the quick fix.
Joey was given more chances than the average member because of his heritage, but Joe still made him work hard for everything. And when Joey was wrong or ready to make a foolish decision, Joe would tell him so just like he was anyone else.
It was good for Joey. It made him grow and mature more than he normally would have without that added buffer. Still, Dominic saw Joey occasionally straining against the invisible tether, wanting to break loose and do God knows what. If anything ever happened to his father, Joey would be uncontrollable. But then, Dominic would handle that problem.
The restaurant was newly renovated. Joe had converted the building’s top floors into studio apartments and rented them out while building out and decorating the restaurant. Marble tile, inlaid oak fixtures, expansive leather booths, and a mahogany bar in the lounge area. A large room off to the right, set aside for formal banquets and private parties, was equipped with an elaborate fountain system as its centerpiece. Plants were strung in the windows and meshed seamlessly with the scenic, old country murals that adorned the walls. The table cloths, imported from Italy, were hand woven red and white checkered with thin strands of gold thread that shone under the candlelight. Silverware clinked against fine china, and the spicy aroma of garlic and oregano wafted through the dining area.
The crowd at the opening-night party was devouring many dishes. There were the occasional patches of laughter and snippets of conversation, but mostly Dominic heard the rattle of dishes and trays and the sounds of scurrying servers eager to impress the VIPs.
He spotted Manny holding court at a corner table, a half-eaten bowl of linguini in front of him along with a basket of rolls and a small, pearl-white cup of coffee. At the table were three other men, eating, laughing, and talking. Like Manny, they were all drivers, although Dominic didn’t know their names.
The drivers were responsible for more than chauffeuring the others. They were errand boys, bodyguards, sounding boards, assistants, and whatever else was required of them. The drivers worked in tandem with the fixers, a more politically correct term for hitmen, although Dominic preferred the title “problem solver.” Very few were chosen to be fixers, and Dominic had, indeed, been chosen.
“You should’ve seen it,” Manny said with a mouthful of pasta. “Like somethin’ out of the movies.”
The men were listening attentively as they ate, some nodding their heads.
“It was a hit, I swear, only maybe a handful of people in the world could’ve made.”
Dominic kept his distance. He didn’t want to catch their attention and interrupt the story. Manny knew not to talk about Dominic while in Dominic’s presence. It was their silent agreement: Manny bragged about Dominic’s exploits, and Dominic pretended not to know.
He regarded such an arrangement as a necessary evil. He needed the mystique, the aura that would inspire someone to brag about him. It kept people wary and fearful. If people were afraid, they were less likely to plot against him.
“How far away was he, Manny?” someone asked.
Dominic didn’t recognize the guy. Someone new, just a kid really, wearing a gold chain through his shirt collar instead of a tie. Probably saw it in a Men’s fashion magazine. At least he didn’t have that cocky, shit-eating grin most of the new recruits carried on their face until the job knocked it out of them.
Manny said, “A block away and across the street.”
“And all he had was a pistol?”
Manny nodded, and someone whistled.
“Yeah,” Manny said, “His Nine.” Manny put down the fork and spoon he had been using to twirl the linguini, a habit he had picked up from Dominic.
Manny always picked up quirks and habits from Dominic, though they seemed to lose something in the translation. Dominic wore black sharkskin; Manny wore off-the-rack, generic black. Dominic drove a silver Cadillac; Manny drove a gray Buick. And so on.
“The guy’s comin’ out of the building, a bodyguard on each side of him. Dominic’s gotta sight him from around the corner of a building so they don’t see him and run back inside.”
“Why didn’t he pick the guy off from across the street with a rifle and scope?” The kid again.
Manny shook his head. “Couldn’t. The target was too smart for that. They swept the surrounding buildings on a regular basis. And we didn’t have time to set up anything in advance, ’cause the target was leaving the country soon.”
“Manny, finish the story already,” one of the older men at the table said. Dominic silently concurred. Manny could drag this shit out when he wanted to.
“As soon as the guy came out the door, up the street, Dominic drew his gun like one of them Old West gunslingers and shot him. One of those shots, I swear, like one in a million he could hit that target. And he did. Twice. Right between the eyes. So fast, the guy was dead before the bodyguards knew what happened. By the time they could react, Dom was around the block and catching a subway train outta there.”
“He took the subway? What about witnesses?” One of the guys asked.
“Nothin’ to it.” Manny dipped a roll in the linguini sauce and bit it. “With his disguise, nobody paid any attention to him. That’s how he got so close to the target.” He gave it a beat, holding back the punch line. “Dom was dressed as a cop.”
The kid laughed and the two men smiled.
“You know, with a ticket book like he’s giving out parking tickets.”
Everyone laughed that time.
Someone said, “Hell, that should’ve made him more conspicuous. A city cop doing his job.”
Everyone laughed harder. Even Dominic smiled.
It was mostly bullshit. Manny always added to the story. Dominic had never worn a disguise in his life and he wasn’t a block away. The man had come out of the building without his bodyguards. Dominic had been scoping out the building when the man had literally run into him. Before the man could finish mumbling his apology, Dominic drew his gun and shot him twice.
He figured he’d better interrupt the story before the lies became too thick.
“Giving away my trade secrets, Manny?” Dominic said with a gruff, irritated tone.
The men at the table shifted uncomfortably and avoided eye contact. They acted as if the boss had caught them gossiping on the job.
Manny was very convincing, the way he averted his eyes and shrugged nervously. Dominic made a mental note to compliment him later. It was a nice touch.
“Nah, I was just talkin’. You know.”
“Make sure you don’t talk too much,” Dominic said.
Too quickly for the others to notice, Manny gave him a look that said, “Don’t lay it on so thick, Dom.”
Dominic bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He looked around, pretended to check out the restaurant, and savored the uneasiness at the table. Beyond that, he sensed Manny’s hidden amusement. Manny enjoyed working with a person that made so many others in the family nervous.
A few mid-level guys were sampling the buffet table. A few were at the bar, and a few were in the banquet room mingling. Besides that, there was the occasional wife or girlfriend, but only the most trusted. Most of the men had come unescorted, knowing this was more a business party than a social event. Dominic noticed too that the restaurant staff was quick to serve their customers and not linger too long near any one table or group of people. They were trained to do their job and maintain discretion.
Besides the high-priced décor and over-prepared food, the only thing that stood out more was Dominic was the only fixer at the party. He supposed it was a compliment of sorts, but then he’d always known Joe favored him.
The three men at the table were focused on their meals. Manny gave him a quick wink. Dominic nodded imperceptibly and decided he had enough of the stifling silence.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us for a moment.” Dominic motioned his head towards Manny. “I have to speak to my associate.”
The three men abruptly stopped eating and looked up at Dominic, forks and bits of food caught in mid-bite. Dominic stared back. Then, as if in telepathic agreement with each other, they rose in unison, juggling their plates of food, utensils, and drinks.
The two older men slinked away without so much as an acknowledgement or departing comment. The kid, however, lingered a moment longer at the table. He cleared his throat twice, and said: “Can I get you anything, Mr. Carelli? A drink or somethin’?”
“Tell you what, kid,” Dominic said, “give me and Manny a few minutes to talk, finish your meal, then bring me back a Seven and Seven.”
The kid nodded, picked up his plate and drink, and walked off toward the other end of the restaurant.
“You want him to come back? Usually the young guys get on your nerves,” Manny said.
“I like him. He’s respectful.”
Manny grunted, dipped his bread in the linguini sauce and brought it to his mouth. A drop of sauce slipped to his shirt, landing just below his breastbone. Oblivious, Manny engulfed the soaked bread with his mouth and sucked his thumb and forefinger for good measure.
“You got a little something there.” Dominic pointed to the droplet.
“Ah, shit.” Manny wiped it with his napkin, turning the small red stain into a large pink one.
“You’re just grinding it in now,” Dominic said. “Here. Just keep your tie hanging a little to the side.” He shifted Manny’s tie to the left so it covered the stain.
“Yeah, okay.” Manny gave a nod of satisfaction and went back to his plate of food.
“What’s the story on the kid?”
“His name’s ‘Little John’ Mancini. Seems okay. A bit rough around the edges maybe.”
Dominic smirked. Manny calling someone else “rough” was almost a compliment.
Manny said, “He’s an errand boy mostly. He gets on people’s nerves cause he doesn’t show everyone respect, only the people that intimidate him.” Manny shrugged. “Ah, you know. He’s young.”
“Keep him around, show him the ropes a little bit. We could use him.”
Manny stared at Dominic.
“What, you looking to replace me? Dom, you mad at me for something?”
“No, no.” Dominic grinned. “Your job is secure, Manny. I just want to recruit some people. I think Joe Sr. is itching around to retire soon, and that piece of shit son of his is going to try and step into the old man’s shoes. A power struggle is coming, and I want to make sure the deck is stacked in my favor.”
“But the kid’s too young, Dom. What good is he gonna be?”
“Most of the family don’t like, and don’t trust, Joey. But he still has some of them in his back pocket. Plus, a lot of the guys will side with him just because of his name. I need people in key positions. I need ringers. If the tide starts to turn in Joey’s favor, I want to make sure I can pull it back. Understand?”
“Yeah,” Manny said. “You want a few aces up your sleeve in case Shithead Jr. tries to take control of the family.”
“Very succinct, Manny.”
“Thanks. Whatcha got in mind for the kid?”
Dominic said, “Joe Sr.’s been talking about setting up an industrial complex in Pennsylvania. A big operation with a lot of merchandise flowing through it. It’ll wind up being the nerve center for operations on the East Coast, including a whole new computer network system.”
He watched Manny for a second, making sure he was still following. Sometimes food got the better of his attention. When he was sure Manny was still with him, he said, “Joe’s going to need someone to run back and forth to help set things up and report back on the progress. I want it to be someone who’s loyal to me, and not to Joe Jr.”
“So the kid.”
“Right,” Dominic said. “The kid. I’ll recommend him to Joe as soon as he arrives.”
Manny finished the rest of his food and pushed a piece of bread around the plate, soaking up the remaining sauce.
“Dom, try some of this linguini they got here. Better yet, get it with the clam sauce.”
“No, I’m not eating this food. I already had a look in the kitchen. Everything’s precooked. They just heat it up. You know how I hate that.”
Manny stifled a belch. “I don’t think it’s too bad. The sauce is good.”
“You don’t have what I consider a finicky palate, either.” Dominic gave him a wink to show he was just ribbing him and not insulting him. “Besides, the bread is store bought, the pastries are frozen, and they don’t even have veal on the menu. I guess the family’s becoming politically correct.”
Dominic saw a flurry of activity by the entrance. Some of the guys were falling over themselves to open the door and greet the newest arrival. By the tone of the voice, he knew it was Joe Tagliani Jr..
The voice was a little too loud, a little too cheerful, a little too plastic. Joe Jr. tried too hard to be everyone’s friend. It came out forced and unsure of himself—a man telling bawdy jokes to a group of nuns was what Dominic likened it to.
The blond-haired man with Joey, however, set off all sorts of warning bells with Dominic. The hair style and suit was classic young up-and-comer, mob style. But the face was all wrong. He didn’t seem comfortable in his surroundings, or in himself, although he was putting on a terrific act otherwise. Dominic’s instincts told him there was something else going on there, a blurred image beneath the fake one that shifted and changed from second to second. There was a storm raging underneath the schoolboy face, and Dominic’s instincts told him that meant trouble.
***
Across the room, Joey was introducing Paul to everyone in machine gun succession. Names and handshakes whisked by him as he tried to keep his bearings. Joey seemed eager to show him off and appeared to revel in the fact he remembered so many personal anecdotes about people.
“Paulie, this is Vito. Easy on the handshake. Vito took a bullet in the arm three months ago. This is Mikey and his wife, Marie. How are the twins, Marie? Getting big? Paulie, this is Cheeto and his brother, Tooch. How’s your old man doing? Feeling better? This is Shotgun Paul. We’ll have to come up with a nickname for you, Paulie, so people won’t get the two of you mixed up.”
And so on. Paul shook everyone’s hand, smiled, and tried to get in a few words before Joey dragged him to the next table.
He picked up on the laser-beam stare of a man in a shiny black suit, sitting at a corner table.
“Who’s that?” Paul asked a little too loudly.
Joey looked, frowned, and purposely turned away. “That’s Dominic Carelli. Some people in the family think he’s the Prince of Darkness. Me, I think he’s just a royal pain in the ass.”
“What’s his story?”
“He’s a fixer,” Joey said.
Paul gave him a questioning look.
“He solves problems,” Joey said. “If you know what I mean. He’s been with the family a while. My dad thinks he walks on water, but I hate the son of a bitch.”
“And the man sitting next to him?”
“The man next to him is Manny. That’s Dominic’s pet,” Joey said. “Years ago, Manny was a boxer named Jackie ‘The Hammer‘ Terranova. A ferocious brute in the ring. I saw a few of his fights when I was a kid. He would tear his opponent up.”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t think I ever heard of him.”
“You didn’t. Manny became a boozer before he could make the big time. He would go into the ring so drunk, he basically became a human punching bag.” Joey laughed. “And let me tell you, you never saw a guy that could take a beating like Manny could. I guess his brain was too soaked in alcohol to let him fall down half the time.”
“If he’s such a loser, why’s he with the family?”
“My dad felt sorry for him.” Joey smirked. “He remembered Manny from his heyday and didn’t like what he’d turned into. He bought out his contract and put him to work as hired muscle. Even then, he was still the family joke. Hell, half the time he was so drunk, he’d piss himself. Everybody called him Jackie ‘The Fat Man.’ Joey glanced over his shoulder at Dominic, then looked away. “Then asshole Dominic came along, cleaned him up, made him quit drinking, and adopted him as a driver and assistant.”
Paul grunted. “Must have been quite a job.”
“No,” Joey replied. “The hard part was getting everyone to stop callin’ him Jackie ‘The Fat Man.’ That’s why everyone calls him ‘Manny.’ Dominic says callin’ him ‘fat’ adds to Manny’s low self-esteem and hurts his feelings.” Joey had added a mocking tone to his voice for the last part, then he turned serious. “Well, I got news for Dominic. The day my dad hands the reins over to me, I’m getting rid of him and his punch-drunk friend.” Joey stole another look over his shoulder and said, “Don’t look now, but the Prince of fuckin’ Darkness is on his way over.”
AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY:
More set-up. More character bits.
Hopefully, you learn a bit more about Dominic and get a better sense of him through his interaction with Manny. There’s some stuff with Paul, although he might still be a bit of an enigma.
Oh, and you meet Joey, who seems like a goofball. But he’s a dangerous goofball. Mark my words.
There are four main characters in this story: Dominic, Paul, Matrix, and Audrey (who shows up in the next chapter). One of the things I used to do when I would come up with characters, main characters mostly, was to base their physical appearances on actors. It helped solidify them in my head. Then, as the story developed, they would change a bit and kind of become their own person.
I don’t really do this anymore. Now when I come up with a character, they tend to pop into my head fully formed, both inside and out. But back when this story started to form in my head, way back in the mid 1990’s, these are the actors I would have cast if I was making a movie out of this book (and bear in mind, I was using late 80’s, early 90’s versions of these actors):
Dominic = Alec Baldwin; Paul = James Spader; Matrix = Nicole Kidman; and Audrey = Jennifer Connelly.
I don’t see these actors anymore when I picture the characters in my head. Like I said, I didn’t even picture them by the time I was finished writing the first draft of the book. But they were instrumental in forming the characters’ physical appearance early on.
Speaking of the late 80’s, early 90’s:
For some reason, in my head, this story takes place in the 1990’s. I don’t know why. It might be because that was when the seed of the story idea took root in my head. For whatever reason, though, whenever I’d tried to update the story, I can’t seem to get past that 1990’s time frame.
A word about setting:
Early drafts had this story take place primarily in New York City. I’ve since changed it to Azure City, which is my version of Gotham City. Anything can happen in Azure City because it’s my city.
The inspiration for Azure City wasn’t originally Gotham City, though. It was Isola, the fictional city that Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct novels are all set in. I never understood why DC Comics had to make up fictional cities for their characters (like Gotham, Metropolis, etc.) when Marvel had all of their characters flying around New York City. As a kid, I liked the realism of Marvel’s setting (you know, as real as a teenager bitten by a radioactive spider, gaining superpowersand swinging around a city can be).
It was only after I grew up and discovered McBain’s 87th Precinct series that it sank in. From a creative standpoint, a city can be just as much of a character in a story as a person. And if it’s a fictional city, I can have anything happen. There could be a mob war in one part of town, and an outbreak of zombies in another. And then an alien invasion happens. Or whatever.
That’s not to say that all of my stories take place in the same universe. They don’t. I have a multiverse in my head. But the one constant in every universe, in every story of mine, is Azure City.
If you’ve read any of my books, you’ll notice Azure City always makes an appearance. Sometimes it’s the primary setting of the story. Sometimes a story starts there and moves somewhere else. And sometimes the city is just mentioned in passing.
Rest assured, the city is always there. Azure City is in all of my stories. It’s the focal point of my multiverse.
(Oh, and in relation to what I said above about reading my books… If you haven’t read my other books, what are you waiting for? Buy one! I need beer money. And man, I’m awfully thirsty.)
Did that come off as too desperate? Anyway…
A good chunk of this story takes place in Azure City, and then (spoiler alert) we move somewhere else for the climax. That doesn’t really spoil anything, but I like saying spoiler alert.
What else? My feelings about this chapter:
I like it okay. I like the dialogue and the interactions between Manny and Dominic, and Paul and Joey. I like the set-up for the next chapter when Dominic and Paul meet, and Audrey enters the story. There’s some good stuff here, I think, despite the fact nothing really happens. The chapter starts with a bunch of telling rather than showing, but it’s necessary to set the scene.
The bit with Dominic looking in the mirror…
There’s this thing a lot of writers do where in order to describe a character, they have the character look into a mirror and describe what they’re seeing. It’s supposed to be clever and is kind of a cheat so they don’t have to stop the story to say, “John was a handsome man, a little over six feet tall, with eyes as blue as the ocean.” Instead, they say, “John looked at himself in the mirror and saw a tall, handsome man with piercing blue eyes looking back.”
Yeesh.
Yeah, I know both descriptions suck. They’re just examples.
My point is, writers try to think up clever ways to get physical descriptions across. The whole “looking into the mirror” thing is a way, and I see it pretty often. Hell, I’ve even done it myself (in BLAKE TWENTY-THREE), a fact I’m not very proud of.
The thing is, once you use that trick, you tend to see it in other people’s stories. The more you see it, the more annoying it becomes. You realize it’s kind of cliché and kind of “hacky.”
Yes, that’s right. I used a hack move to describe my main character in BLAKE TWENTY-THREE. There, I said it. Now let’s move on.
I wasn’t doing that with Dominic in this chapter. I already described him (through Charlie’s eyes) in chapter one, so there wasn’t a need for further description. No, the reason he’s looking at himself in the mirror was to show that he is more than he seems. He’s not a stereotypical Mafioso. He’s a man playing a role. He’s also a man who’s a bit burnt out and has to force himself to stay in his role.
The “eyes are the windows to the soul” thing really happened to me when I was a kid in Catholic school. Our teacher (Sister Mary Francis) said that, and I went home that day and stared into my eyes in the mirror looking for it. I’m not sure how long I looked. Probably just until Bugs Bunny came on.
I never found it. Not then, and not in the years since. I’ll find it one of these days.