The Mafia Trilogy Read online

  “I did explain there would be consequences at the outset.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Darwin asked, his anger coming through. Why do I always get to meet people who have no respect for human life?

  “I expect you to play my game, and now that you have refused, I have one consequence that will need to be dealt with first. Then, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to continue our little game of checkers.” He motioned toward Rosina and the men watching her. “Bring her over here.”

  “No!” Darwin shouted, standing back up. “Don’t touch her.”

  Several guards moved in on Darwin.

  “Can’t you see the odds are stacked against you? Are you that stupid? There is nothing you can do now. You sealed your fate, Mr. Kostas. Just sit back down and enjoy the last game of checkers and the last show of your life because, for you Darwin, it is over.”

  Chapter 6

  Carson Dodge stopped in front of the motel office at the Sleep On Inn and jumped out of his car. He looked at his watch. He still had an hour before Greg’s plane landed. That gave him enough time to talk to the clerk, get what he needed, and then race to the airport. He’d probably have to use his siren and lights, but who really cared?

  Darkness had settled on the area. The middle word in the motel’s sign had burnt out. All it said was ‘Sleep Inn’ with a long space in the middle.

  Yeah, that’s gonna help business.

  Two police cruisers were parked in front of the rooms at the end with the damaged doors. Through the window to the main office, Rudy talked to someone on a cell phone.

  He’s always on that fucking phone. Who the hell could he be talking to?

  Carson entered the office and spoke to Rudy as if he wasn’t on the phone. “What do we have here? Tell me what you got and do it fast because I haven’t got much time.”

  “I’ll call you back,” Rudy said into the phone and then snapped it shut. “All we have is the clerk who checked them in. He said he recognized them from the news on the TV. Three motel room doors have been hit by shotgun blast, but that’s it. Nothing else.”

  “No bodies?”

  “None.”

  “No other damage?”

  “Nope.”

  “Something’s not right. It’s not adding up. Think about it.” Carson watched Rudy for a prolonged moment. “Did you think about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Fucking idiot,” Carson said, shaking his head. “Where’s the clerk?”

  “Over there.” Rudy pointed.

  A bedraggled-looking junkie sat in the corner, bouncing his legs up and down, eyes darting left and right.

  “Hey,” Carson shouted.

  “Hey back,” the clerk said.

  Carson started over to him. “Why do you look so nervous? Need a fix?”

  “No, I don’t do that stuff.”

  Carson stood over the clerk and leaned into the wall. “Are you saying you do not take drugs of any sort?”

  “Sure, but only prescription drugs, man. I wouldn’t touch that other stuff.”

  “Let’s say I believe you. Assuming you have no withdrawal symptoms, tell me why you look like a junkie waiting for the next fix? Because if that ain’t it, then you’re really nervous about something.”

  “Look, mister, I don’t do drugs.”

  “Then what are you so nervous about?”

  “Other than the fact that someone just shot up my motel? You mean other than that? You know, random acts of gun violence? Maybe you see it all the time, but up here, this far from Jacksonville, we don’t get that.”

  “You’d be surprised at how little gun violence we actually see. Ain’t that right, Rudy?”

  “Yup, that’s right.”

  The clerk adjusted himself, twiddled with his hands, and started bouncing his legs again.

  “I’m going to ask you a few questions and I would like honest answers. I get those honest answers and I’m out of your hair. Deal?”

  “Those other cops already asked me a bunch of questions. Go talk to them. They’ll tell you what you want to know. And move all the police cruisers off my parking lot. No wonder the motel is empty tonight. Nobody gonna rent a room at cop headquarters.”

  “Number one, I’m not a cop. I’m Special Agent Carson Dodge with the FBI. Number two, the motel is empty because it’s a dirty motel, rife with cockroaches and termites, and three, you will answer my questions or you’ll piss me off and I’ll be forced to shoot you.”

  The clerk stopped bouncing his leg and looked at Carson, a cold stare in his eyes. “You threatening me, cop?”

  “Yes.” Carson leaned in close and whispered, “Five fellow FBI agents were slaughtered like fucking pigs in an abattoir this morning. The man who did it was here, in your motel, just hours ago. It is my life’s duty, no, my American duty, to locate this maniac and deal with him. If you have answers that I need, but refuse to give them to me, you’re no better than the fucking puke who killed my men. In fact, you’re colluding with him by helping him to hide. That tells me that you are on his side and anyone helping that asshole needs to die. Are we clear?”

  The clerk nodded, his eyes wider, eyebrows raised.

  Carson stepped back and cleared his throat. “Who came and took the man you gave the room to?”

  “I don’t know—”

  Carson slapped the clerk’s face in mid sentence. “I said,” he shouted, “don’t lie.”

  Rudy came up behind him. “Hey, Carson, take it easy. The kid already told us everything.”

  “No, he didn’t. Not everything. Go back and watch the door. If anyone comes to the door, tell them the clerk went to the hospital.”

  Rudy hesitated.

  Carson looked over his shoulder. “Do. It. Now,” he said through his teeth.

  The clerk held his cheek which was already turning bright red.

  “Let’s start again.” Carson lifted his hand high, closed it into a fist and paused. “Who came and took the man you gave the room to?”

  The clerk looked at Carson’s face and then his fist. “It was a cop.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Carson said, lowering his fist to his side. “Do you have a name?”

  “No, but I can tell you he looked pretty bad. I can smell drunks from a mile away. This guy smokes like a chimney and his nose looks pretty bad from all the alcohol. I should know. I have a lot of friends.”

  Carson turned to Rudy. “Sounds like Bob Freska.” Rudy nodded. Carson looked back at the clerk. “What was his deal?”

  “He gave me five hundred bucks. He said he wouldn’t kill anybody and that I wasn’t to worry. All I had to do was tell him the room number and then wait twenty minutes until after he left to call the police.”

  “What else?”

  The clerk lowered his hand from his face. Carson could see the length of his own fingers in red imprints on the guy’s cheek.

  “He said he would make it look like I didn’t give him any information. That’s why he shot two other doors first to make it look like he was trying to find them.”

  “Anything else?”

  The clerk shook his head. “Nothing. I got the money, gave him the room number, heard the shots and waited until after his car pulled out before I started the twenty-minute countdown.”

  Carson stepped away and walked up to Rudy. “Now do you see what I mean when I said think about it? It didn’t add up. If the gunman was just shooting randomly into motel rooms, he could’ve hit and wounded or killed Darwin. Or he could’ve killed innocents. But his intent was to take them alive. Otherwise we’d have two murders on our hands right now and not two missing persons. You would’ve found bodies when you got here and not empty rooms. Get it?”

  “But who would want to kidnap Darwin and his wife? And if Freska was to exact justice on them, why not just kill them here and leave?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out. I want everyone on the lookout fo
r Bob Freska and they’re to report directly to me when they find him. Detain him if you have to, but find him. We have a two-hour window. Find him, Rudy. I’m very serious.”

  Before Carson heard a reply, he walked out of the motel office, got in his car and raced away, headed to the airport.

  Chapter 7

  Gambino brought Rosina closer. He had her sit ten feet in front of Darwin. Five guards surrounded Darwin, with one pointing his weapon at Darwin’s temple.

  “Now, Darwin. This is how it’s going to work. If you move more than one foot, I will have my guard use his weapon to behead you. Clear?”

  Darwin nodded.

  “Good. The first consequence will be a simple one. All I’m asking is that Rosina swallow one spoonful of cinnamon. That can’t be that bad, now can it?”

  Rosina nodded. “I’ll do it.”

  “Will it just be cinnamon?” Darwin asked. “You’re not going to add anything?”

  “What, you don’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll have a spoon and a spice-rack-sized bottle of cinnamon delivered to us with its seal still on. Will that work?”

  Darwin nodded.

  Gambino motioned with his hand. “Get it for me,” he said to one of the guards.

  The people on the checkerboard were offered water. Two guards walked among them with a jug. Everyone averted their eyes from the old man’s dead body not five feet from them.

  The cop who brought them here sat off to the side now, a cigarette between his lips. Gambino stared at the back of the cop’s head. Then he looked at a nearby guard and tilted his head toward the cop.

  The guard moved soundlessly behind the cop, lowered his weapon and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening.

  The cigarette shot out of the cop’s mouth and landed in the pool. The cop’s head bounced back and forth on his shoulders a couple of times and then he bent over and died, his head between his knees as if he was in a safety position on a plane.

  Gambino turned to Darwin. “He was careless. The FBI have been investigating him for a few years as I understand it. They were very close to apprehending him, which would mean he would talk because he was a spineless snake. I can’t have that.” He glanced at the shooter. “Take his body and tie it to the front of his car. Leave it a mile away from the motel where he picked these two up and scrawl on the windshield, ‘Death to all cops.’ Got it?”

  The guard nodded. “Consider it done.” Other men came in to help. After a moment, the cop’s body was gone and a woman in an apron showed up with a bucket of water to start wiping the blood up.

  The five men watching Darwin took turns holding their weapons at his temple as fatigue would slowly set in.

  Gambino turned to him. “Having fun yet?”

  “No, not yet. That comes later when you’re dead.”

  “Whoa,” Gambino said, turning in his seat. “I like you. Big words for a man in this sort of trouble. Maybe there is something to the rumors we heard about you.”

  Gambino’s cell phone rang. He picked it up and hit a button. “Speak.” He waited and then said, “It’s done. He’ll be a mile away from the motel soon … okay, got it … I did my part, you do yours.”

  He snapped the phone shut. “While we wait for the cinnamon, we should talk a little. I checked out what your name means. Kostas is Greek and it means constant and steadfast. Usually the Greeks use it as a first name, but who cares, right? I’d say that about describes you, doesn’t it? Constant and steadfast.”

  Darwin didn’t move or reply. He just stared at the psychopathic mobster sitting on his fancy chair like he owned the world.

  “If it’s the bodies you’re worried about, don’t be. I own the funeral home across the street. Not sure if you would’ve seen the sign on the way in.”

  “Markville Family Funeral Home. Yeah, saw it.”

  “Good observation skills. I use that to get rid of all the bodies that I seem to be disposing of lately. Our private cemetery has so many burials it’s getting out of hand.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “You know, I’m not all bad. I’m a businessman. What we’re doing here is just business.”

  Darwin nodded.

  “I also have a collection of some of the most sought after World War II memorabilia. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Darwin said. Why is he telling me all this if he’s going to kill us anyway?

  “In a warehouse, just over there.” He pointed in the distance. “You can barely see the lights from here. I collect war machines and have them rebuilt as close to the original as I can. You wouldn’t believe it. I have a Japanese Zero, fully intact and able to fly. I have an American Hellcat and a P-51D Mustang that can also fly. I take them out to air shows once or twice a year. One of my favorites is the German Stuka I snagged off a dealer a decade ago. The wings on the Stuka are very cool. Too bad we don’t have the time to show you.”

  One of the older women in her fifties standing on the checkerboard with no shirt on had edged off the board as Gambino had talked. At that moment, she turned and ran for the perimeter fence. Even though it was too high, she ran anyway, no doubt in search of a gate or some other way out.

  Four guns roared at the same time. The woman’s back exploded in red and she was temporarily lifted off her feet, flying forward in a grotesque ballet routine. She hit the grass hard and bounced once before coming to a stop.

  “Wow, that was exciting,” Gambino said. “We get a runner every so often during one of our games.” He turned to the group of men on his left. “Grab another pine box for her and bury her tonight across the street in our private cemetery.”

  The men nodded and moved away.

  Darwin felt his bowels loosen and his insides adjust. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take. Sure, he’d killed before, but that was life or death and in the moment of extreme anger. This was different. Sitting in a chair, staring at his wife mere feet away, and having numerous guns pointed at them as others were shot, with nothing they could do about it, was a form of torture.

  Gambino turned to him. “Now, what was I saying? Oh yeah, my collection. The highlight is an authentic German Panther World War II tank. It still works great. I had it rebuilt and had new treads made and even armed it. Did you know that four, and sometimes five men operated inside those things? I always see myself being under attack by a rival family. I run for my tank and use it to repel the attack just as the Nazis did in World War II. I mean, I’d lose the house, but it’s insured. Pretty good, huh?”

  Darwin nodded. It seemed that was all he could do. Gambino was putting on a show. Darwin could see how powerful and rich he was and how escape would prove futile. He could see that him and his wife weren’t just cornered; they were done. If Gambino didn’t have a change of heart, they wouldn’t see the outside of this mansion’s walls again. The only thing the mobster couldn’t take from him was hope, and he had that in abundance.

  There has to be a way, he kept repeating to himself.

  “But I have a buyer for the tank,” Gambino continued. “They’re coming by this week to pick it up.” Gambino looked down at his fingers and picked something out from under a nail. “I’m going to miss my panther. Maybe one day I’ll get another one.”

  The players still stood on their required squares. The armed men stood around where needed, weapons at the ready. Rosina sat, hands shaking, and waited for her spoonful of cinnamon.

  A door opened behind them. Darwin wanted to turn to see who approached them, but the gun on his temple forbid it.

  “Ahh, here we are,” Gambino said. “The cinnamon.”

  A man came into Darwin’s view carrying a small bottle of cinnamon and a tablespoon. He moved to Rosina and sat beside her.

  “Rosina.” Gambino leaned on the front of his chair. “All that’s got to happen is, you take one spoonful of the cinnamon and swallow it. When you’ve done that, we’ll be able to move on. There will be no water. Are we
clear?”

  Rosina nodded.

  “Okay, but I should warn you. Cinnamon, when taken like this, can feel a little spicy—even hot. So be prepared.”

  Why is he sounding kind? Why warn her?

  “Are you ready?” Gambino asked.

  “Yes,” Rosina said.

  Gambino nodded, and the man beside Rosina cracked open the safety seal on the bottle and poured cinnamon out onto the spoon. He handed the spoon to her, recapped the bottle and stepped away.