I’m told I will get a car. A top of the line, spic-and-span, new car. Any car I want.
All I gotta do is kill a guy.
Mark Bacucci says it just like this: “Any car on the lot, doesn’t matter which one, is yours. The price, someone’s life.”
Imagine me, sitting across from fat, beady-eyed, dome-top Mark Bacucci. My left leg bouncing up and down with all of the energy I got from a line of coke in the bathroom. Me saying, “Well, that’s a pretty interesting way to get a car.”
Bacucci leans forward. He rests his huge and hairy arms that could crush a human’s skull like a nutcracker on his desk. Sweat drips down the side of his face in thick drops. He’s always sweating, just like my leg is always bouncing. Up and down up and down up and down.
I lean forward, too, our faces no more than two feet apart. I do this to patronize him more than anything.
The truth: I don’t really want to kill anybody. No, not even for a brand new car. Nevertheless, I’m not about to disclose this information to Bacucci.
“Who’s the guy?” I ask twenty inches away from his perspiring face.
He stares into my eyes, trying to stare into my soul. It’s the same way my mother looks at me. “Rickie,” she always says, “there isn’t much there.” To which I always reply, “What am I supposed to do about it, ma?”
Penetrating my stare, intimidating me, he answers, “Sullivan Raymond.”
I don’t recognized the name. Quite frankly, it doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Not when both names can be either first or last names. It sounds weak, especially the way Bacucci says it, with a slight, hardly detectable lisp. That way he says it, it doesn’t surprise me he wants this two-first-namer’s blood.
I lean back in my seat, Bacucci doing the same. His cigarette burns out in the ashtray on his desk. He lights another, offering me one. I decline, saying I’m trying to get off the stuff.
“That and smack, right?” he says sarcastically.
I shrug, my left leg still going at it. “It’s a work in progress. So, why do you wanna put Sully Ray in his grave?”
He takes a long drag on his cigarette before answering, “He killed Santori’s son last night.”
“Why’d he do that?”
“Santori’s son was tryin to rob one of Jack Bruno’s fight nights, poor son of a bitch. Raymond and five other guys were taking bets and keeping the money. It was in Bruno’s house, a quiet job away from where the fight was takin place but that’s where business was being conducted that night.” He flicks a clump of ashes into the try, a few flakes flying onto the back of his hand. He wipes them off and goes on, “I guess Santori’s son was tipped off by someone––don’t know who yet––but he decided it’d be a good time as any to collect half a hundred grand.”
“Shit,” I murmur under my breath.
“So, Santori shows up with not one, but two guns in his hands, a bag, and a mask. Of course, anyone can recognize that little prick’s whiny voice anywhere, but Raymond didn’t care. Word is, he didn’t even think twice about pullin his gun and pumping three slugs into Santori.” He leans forward again. “He does this before Santori is even finished giving his threats.”
“Shit,” I repeat louder this time. “That guy does not like to be interrupted, does he?”
“Everyone’s callin him ‘Trigger Finger’ now,” Bacucci jokes, though there’s not one ounce of humor in that grim expression of his. “A man who shows no mercy doesn’t deserve any mercy himself.”
It’s a good thing you’re not God, I think to myself. “Why do you want me to do it? I’ve never killed anyone before. Shit, I’ve never even tried.”
“Because you’ve never let me down, Rickie. Never.”
That and he knows how desperate I am for a new set of wheels. More than once I’ve expressed that I’d do just about anything to get one. I guess taking another man’s life is how he took it.
Though I’m flattered, I still don’t want to kill anybody. Not even a double-named bastard like Sullivan Raymond. So, what do I do? I get someone else to do it for me.
I still plan on collecting my end of the bargain, of course. What’s promised to me is promised, I just don’t feel like soiling my hands in blood to get it. Dirt is fine. Sure, I’ll dig Trigger Happy’s grave, but I’m not going to be the hands that push him in it.
Lucky for me, I know a guy who’s cut out for the job. A guy who not only doesn’t mind some blood on his hands, but who also somewhat enjoys it.
His name is Newt. Now, being a full-bred Italian myself, I can confidently swear on my mother’s grave that this man is also Italian. Sicilian, more specifically. Why the hell his parents named him Newt is far beyond me. It’s beyond everybody. It’s like they tried creating a generation devoid of culture, let alone Italian heritage. Newt? Where the hell do a couple of Sicilians come up with a bizarre, nontraditional name like Newt? Did his mother think she was being cute? Because I’ll be the first to tell her she was wrong.
Anyway, getting back to it, how I met Newt Alfieli was at a quiet poker game about a year back. The tan, beautiful, brown-eyed son of a bitch managed to suck every one of us dry that night, earning almost ten grand. Frank Gallo got a little sore about it and tried to bully Newt into giving some of his cut back.
I kid you not, I’ve never seen a man knock the lights out of a three-hundred-pound bull named Frank Gallo like Newt did. I was frozen with shock in my seat as a couple of guys tried to resuscitate Frank. Newt went on counting his winnings, the knuckles on his right hand bleeding. I ain’t never seen Newt smile, but I could tell he got some sick sort of pleasure out of cracking Frank’s skull. It’s like he got dreamy-eyed all of a sudden, as if he was replaying his fist colliding into Frank’s cranium over and over again.
Since that night, I’ve only come across Newt Alfieli half a dozen times. In between all that, there’s been plenty talk of multiple people enlisting Newt to take care of some men for them.
“He’s very good at what he does,” I remember Leo De Luca saying one time. “Scary good. He don’t charge much, either. Wouldn’t surprise me if he pays guys to do their killings for them.”
That’s where I got the idea to call up Newt Alfieli, and, just as I suspected, the guy is more than willing to lay Sully Ray to rest.
Right now I’m sitting in Newt’s living room. He owns a condo on the outside of town. Doing what he does, killing people, it pays well. I hear that if you love your job, you never worked a day in your life. Judging by Newt’s comfortable, tasteful lifestyle, I attribute that bit of wisdom to him.
His acceptance of my business proposal is immediate, taking me a little off guard. I doubled my dosage of crack this morning and am a little more antsy than usual. Probably because a man’s death is in my hands. That and a brand new car of my choosing.
Newt passes me a large glass of whiskey. It’s ten in the morning but I’ve never seen Newt without a glass of whiskey within a two feet radius of him. To be polite, I take one sip and find out it’s Irish whiskey. My stomach wants to vomit just at the thought of it but I manage to swallow the poison down.
Newt notices my face tighten, the cords in my neck standing out. “Too early?” he says.
I set the glass on the table next to me where my a lit cigarette is smoldering. I reply, “I’m just more of a beer guy. Not much of a fine liquor connoisseur or whatever people call it.”
“Uisce beatha.”
“‘Scuse me?”
He shakes his head, setting his glass down beside him. “That’s what the Irish call whiskey in their own language.”
“Is that right?”
I glance around Newt’s expanse living room. Perhaps stealing old clunkers and flipping them for outlandish profits isn’t the right business. Perhaps one can get more use out of an Italian leather sofa or gold-tipped coffee table rather than an ounce of coke. I’ve never gotten much use out of anything that can’t be consumed through my nasal cavity.
“So.” He takes another swig from his whiskey before continuing. The alcohol seems to have no affect on his palette as it slides down like battery acid. “What’s in it for me?” he asks.
Despite what I’ve heard and what I believe about Newt Alfieli, I was prepared for this question. No matter how much he enjoys killing, he still has to earn a living.
Trying to impress him, trying to appease him, I take another sip of the whiskey. It makes me hate it more. Newt stares at me blankly, waiting for an answer. I say, “You’d be compensated for getting the job done, of course. How does five grand sound?”
An uncomfortably still silence fills the space between us. The whole time I’m holding my breath, hoping with all my heart that the price isn’t so low it insults him.
The truth: I’m scared of Newt Alfieli.
“Five grand,” he repeats, stroking his chin.
He can’t see it, but my hands are soaking the armrests of the chair I’m sitting in. He can’t see it, but my balls have shrunk to the size of nickels and floated up past to my liver and spleen. My brain tells me to take one more sip of the whiskey but I can’t do it. I pick up the cigarette instead.
He folds his hands together on his lap. “I’ll do it,” he says.
“Great––”
“Normally I’d laugh in the face of the man who offers me five grand to off someone, but understanding your financial standing, I know you really don’t have much to offer.”
This should offend me. This should boil my blood. This should launch me out of my seat and beat the living shit out of him.
Truth is: I’m terrified of him. I’d never dream of attempting something like that.
Instead, my response is: “Thanks, Newt. Thank you a lot. This is a huge favor you’re doing for me.”
“I know.”
I assume that’s how most business proposals end with him: the employer thanks him, makes sure he knows how big of a favor this is, and he simply says, “I know.”
We agree that he will kill Sullivan Raymond tomorrow night in his home and the following morning I’ll get him his cash. I plan to do it in my brand new car, a huge grin on my face, happier than a teenage boy’s first time getting lucky with a girl.
I spend the next day selling crappy stollen cars to crappy poor suckers, the whole day checking my phone in case Newt decided to do the job ahead of schedule. The plan is for him to do it after sundown, but I’ve heard a few stories about the guy getting too anxious to wait for the agreed time. Like a kid on Christmas morning, he can hardly control himself.
At half past six, I get a knock on my door. I throw on a robe and answer it, finding Newt on my doorstep. It’s raining and he’s dripping on my welcome mat, a fire in his eyes. My heart nearly explodes at the sight of his brown eyes flashing amber, almost orange.
“Newt?” I blurt incredulously. “Did you do it already?”
“No, I’m on my way there now. Are you ready to go?”
“Ready to go?”
“Get some pants on quick. I don’t like waiting long.”
My brow furrows, my heart still hammering. “I don’t remember agreeing on going with you. I’m not supposed to see you until tomorrow morning.”
“I never go alone. Usually the guy who hires me comes with. You know, to make sure I get the job done.”
Behind me a sitcom plays on the TV. Canned laughter touches me ears ominously, sounding like high-pitched cackles. “Uh, ri–right,” I stutter. “Sure. Of course.” I have no idea what I’m doing. I have no idea how to kill someone or how this whole procedure goes; that’s why I got someone else to do it. Just because I don’t want to do it doesn’t mean I want to witness it.
“I’ll go get pants.”
Newt trembles behind the steering wheel as we make our way to Raymond’s. The rain is coming down in waves, making it almost impossible to see through the windows. This doesn’t stop Newt from breaking eighty on the highway. The whole ride I keep my mouth shut.
Truth is: I’m scared shitless right now. From the corner of my eye, I can see Newt grinning. Grinning like that cloaked skeleton with the scythe. The ugliest grin I’ve ever seen.
This is the longest fifteen minute drive of my life.
Newt parks two houses down from Raymond’s. He reaches into the backseat and brings up a sawed-off shotgun.
“Holy shit!” I curse. “What do you need that for?”
“I wanna make sure the job’s done right.”
Eyes bulging, dry as sandpaper, I say, “You’re gonna wake the whole neighborhood up with that thing.” You’re also gonna rip him in half, I think. It’s only five past seven––not exactly the dead of night.
“All right, fine.” He puts the sawed-off shotgun in the backseat. Reaching over me, he opens the glove compartment and finds a .357 Magnum.
That’s more like it, I sigh internally.
I try hiding the fact that I’m shaking in my seat. It’s nothing compared to Newt, however. A shiver runs up his spine, racking his shoulders. A slow shiver travels up mine as well, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end. Acid burns in my stomach, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in the back of my mouth.
Newt checks that the gun is loaded, then looks at me. “Ready?”
“I think I’m gonna stay in the car.”
“You sure?”
Gulping, I nod. “I’m sure. I have faith in you, man. I’ll be here.”
“Suit yourself.” He opens his door, one leg on the wet pavement outside. He turns to me one more time. “Start the car when you seem me coming back, but don’t turn on the lights. It shouldn’t take me longer than five minutes.”
“Got it.”
His grin broadens, porcelain teeth gleaming under the dim streetlamp outside. “Wish me luck.”
I attempt at a smile. “Good luck, Newt.”
Two minutes later I hear four quick pops. Less than a minute after that I see Newt jogging back, gun in hand. I start the car. Through the blurry window, I watch him. For a second it looks like he’s wearing more blood than rain. As he gets closer, I notice that it’s just the orange streetlamp glaring off his wet face. When he gets into the car, I notice a few streaks of blood running down his right cheek in pink rivulets.
He places the gun back in the glove compartment, turns on the headlights, puts the car in drive, and speeds off. Passing by Raymond’s house, I swear I hear a woman’s scream.
Two blocks down the road, Newt speaks, “Aren’t you going to ask me if I got the job done?”
Again, I’m caught off guard, feeling less and less like I have a handle on the situation. “Is that necessary?” I ask. “You got blood on your face.”
He wipes his cheek and examines the light smear of red on his fingers. This makes the grin leak back into his full lips. The fire is still lit in his eyes. Part of me contemplates jumping out of the car. Anything to get me away from this man.
I say, “I can get you your five grand back at my place.”
“You have any whiskey there?”
“No, just beer.”
“Right, you’re a beer drinker. That’ll be fine.”
I procure the envelope that contains his five-thousand dollars in cash from the medicine cabinet in my bathroom, where I also keep my crack. Before rejoining him back in my living room, I inhale one line of powder.
Newt’s already helped himself to a beer. He’s sitting on my sofa, nursing a freshly lit cigarette between his lips. I hand him the envelope and he counts his wages. I sit in my recliner, my left leg shaking like crazy, my right nostril burning and red. These days I’m constantly sniffing.
He stuffs the thick envelope inside his jacket. Staring at me, that fire still in his eyes, that cigarette still between his lips, he asks, “So, what kinda vehicle are you thinkin about getting?”
“Um…” I can’t remember exactly, but I don’t really remember ever telling him that I’m getting a new car out of all this. “I’m not sure yet.”
“You get your pick of the litter. The whole litter. Gotta choose wisely, make sure you don’t get something gay.”
Forced laughter leaves my mouth, sounding more like a cough.
He removes the cigarette from his mouth. “To ease your suspicions, you never told me about getting a car, Rickie.”
“How’d you find out, then?”
“You know how guys are around here. It doesn’t matter who you get along with or who you hate, we all love to gossip. Stay-at-home-soccer-moms know nothing about the grapevine like we do. We men call it ‘word on the street,’ but it ain’t no different than women’s sewing circles.” The cigarette is back in his mouth. He’s still staring at me, that orange spark still burning in his eyes. “I told you that normally a payout like five grand would insult me. The truth is, I would’ve killed that guy if you asked me to do it for free.”
I don’t dare say a word. I just want him to finish his little monologue and leave.
“I’ve also heard gossip among others that offing men gets me off. I enjoy it. Do you think the same way as those other men, Rickie?”
I resist the urge to squirm in my recliner. “I can’t say that I’ve never agreed with those opinions. But opinions is all they are, Newt. I know it’s your job.”
Does that mean I don’t––or shouldn’t––enjoy my job?” Smoke trails out of the corner of his mouth as he talks. “A man who loves what he does never works a day in his life. I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy what I do. Does it get me off? I don’t think I’d ever put it like that, but sure, what I do gets me off. I enjoy the line of work I’m in. It’s the easiest job in the world, pulling a trigger.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
“No,” he agrees, “it’s not. That’s why you hired me, because it’s not for you. You, like most men, are too emotionally attached to life to kill someone. That doesn’t make you weak, and I don’t think that makes me stronger, but it’s a fact. Most people can’t stand the weight another person’s life––or death, for this matter––puts on them. Many can’t kill another man without thinking about his mother, his wife and kids. For me, none of that crosses my mind until after. And by then, it’s too late. All I can do is accept it and move on; that or not think about it at all, which is usually what I do. To put it differently, killing gives me the same high as coke does for you.”
Just leave already, I want to tell him. You got your money, now get out.
“The more coke you do, the higher your tolerance grows, right? That means you have to do more to reach the same peak you got on your first high, am I right?”
I nod in agreement.
“You’ll never be able to get enough. It’ll never satisfy you.”
The longer he goes on about this the more I want to run back to my bathroom and take another line. Hell, all I’ve been through tonight, I’m gonna do two more lines when this maniac finally leaves.
If he ever leaves…
He finishes the beer and lights another cigarette. Looking back to me, he puts up a hand. “Don’t worry, Rickie, I’m not overstaying my welcome. I’m almost finished.”
Dread bleeds into my heart at those words. My fingers puncture the arms of my recliner, pulling out stuffing.
Newt goes on, “That being said about your coke addiction, I’d say it’s comparable to what I do. Yes, I’m admitting that I’m addicted to my job. I get a high pulling the trigger in another man’s face. However, each time seems less fulfilling than the last. The high doesn’t reach the same peak or doesn’t last for as long. Being an addict, that means I have to do more––kill more, to be precise––to reach that same high again.”
Where is he going with this?
“I don’t have another job for you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m asking.”
“Then where are you going…When did you bring that in here?”
He’s grinning again, from ear to ear, and the sawed-off shotgun is grinning with him.
“I’ve never seen no one as eager to get home as you. While you ran inside to get my paycheck and get high, I had more than enough time to hide this between the cushions of your couch.”
“You don’t have to do this, Newt.”
“I don’t have to do any of the things I do.”
I feel my bladder give way and contaminate my recliner. My hands cramp up, shooting pain up to my elbows. But I hardly feel any of this. What I really feel is my thundering heart sinking in my chest, that bitter, metallic taste coming back into my mouth.
“I’m fueling my addiction. You should understand, Rickie. You can sympathize.”
His grin grows, the half-smoked cigarette clenched between his teeth.
“Think of yourself as a line of coke and this gun as the nostril that’s going to inhale you.”
It’s not going to inhale me. It’s going to rip me in half.
Right before he pulls the trigger, the fire goes out in his eyes. They grow as dark as the barrels of the sawed-off shotgun.
The last thing Newt Alfieli says to me is: “I’m just fueling my addiction, same as you. You understand.”
The truth: I understand perfectly.
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