11
Damon
Waking up the next morning, I lay still for some time, making the most of a contentedness that had long been absent from my life. I usually adopted a steely face to go about the day ahead, which was necessary in ploughing on through an existence like mine, but after my date with Bea, any melancholia and bitterness had fled to the hills.
Is this what it felt like to be in love? Many times I’d up woken with a woman beside me who had provided a source of physical fulfilment the night before, and I’d felt nothing. This time, I’d woken up with no one beside me, but I felt all the more fulfilled because of my connection with the woman in question. I could still feel the softness of her hair on my fingertips and the sensual completeness of her lips upon mine, but mostly I thought of her eyes as they looked up at me, unflinching and content.
I was finally craving a relationship with a woman who was more than just an object to me, but that inner satisfaction was doomed to flee when I finally sat up and decided to look at my phone.
There was a message from Bea.
I’m sorry, I can’t see you again.
What the hell? Had I only imagined how perfectly the evening had gone? Had I simply hallucinated the part where she’d said she wanted to see me again? Or had she lied in an attempt to seem polite, not wanting to reject me to my face? Surely not…her desire to see me again had seemed so genuine.
So what the fuck could’ve possibly caused her to not want to see me again within the last twelve hours?
Unfortunately, I was left with no time to think deeply about this bombshell. Though I was poised to fire a text back, the very phone that was ruining my morning decided to go one step further by buzzing with the request of a hidden caller. On the odd occasion, this had meant some shoddy sales company making some attempt at getting money, but usually it meant my employers were calling, and such was the case when I heard the voice at the other end.
“Damon,” came the voice, without introducing who the caller was.
That was because the mafia head honcho Geronimo Caruso never had to introduce himself.
“Yes, I’m here,” I replied, relieved that I was aware enough to recognize who was calling, though taken aback at the same time. Usually Caruso had one of his underlings talk on the phone for him. “What can I do for you?” I asked.
“You far from the restaurant?”
“No, not at all.”
“Pay us a little visit.”
And with that, Caruso hung up on me. That was as good a summoning as any and could mean absolutely anything when you were dealing with the mafia. They might have wanted to shower me with praise as their star hitman, discuss another job, or interrogate me using various methods, or even just shoot me in the back of the head. Anyone who dealt with the organization did so in a complete state of uncertainty; as a serf to a king of old, their fate completely in their hands.
I was as used to the scenario as anyone could be. There was no point in stressing over a fate that wasn’t in my hands, so I got dressed and prepared to hit the street for a meeting with a man that countless people spent their days praying they would never have to meet.
***
Caruso’s restaurant—a subtle headquarters for conducting his affairs—wasn’t officially open yet, but anyone of importance knew it completed its most important business in the hours before customers started chomping on their pasta.
There was activity inside with some tables being prepared for the day ahead. To the untrained eye there would appear little obvious potential for sinister happenings about the place, even though it was probably where Florida’s most powerful mobster made the majority of his decisions. I’d been here several times, each time knowing nothing of my fate at the point of walking through the door. Even so, I wasn’t a pussy, and I didn’t break my stride as I entered, and upon seeing none other than Caruso himself sitting towards the back of the restaurant and closest to the kitchens, I proceeded to accept whatever shit awaited me.
Caruso, who was shrouded in cigar smoke—and the only person to get away with smoking in the restaurant—was having some kind of jovial exchange with the head waiter, who stood nearby. When he saw me approaching, the waiter was dismissed and Caruso stood up with his arms indicating that we should embrace. It was then that I knew that matters with Batista’s disposal had gone well—even more so than I’d hoped for—because although the mafia boss had always been jovial and welcoming in my presence, he’d never actually stood up to embrace me as he did with family.
“My boy!” he exclaimed, kissing me on both cheeks then bidding me to sit down and help myself to coffee, which was already steaming away on the table.
There would usually be two or three henchmen sitting quietly nearby during these meets, but on this occasion the only additional people present were bar staff, who instantly put themselves out of earshot. A couple of motionless shadows visible to the observant eye on the other side of the kitchen doorway told me that the usual heavies had not gone far, but clearly Caruso wanted this discussion to feel a bit more relaxed than usual.
As was typical, the boss began by choosing a completely casual topic, being used to getting to the point in his own time. He asked me if I was making the most of the perfect beach whether, then said it was a shame that work had to intrude and drag me away from all the female flesh on show. Finally, Caruso took the cigar out of his mouth, leaned forward and got to the point.
“By the way, Damon,” he began. “Great job with that Latino scumbag. You couldn’t have done it better.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “He was a bit more careless than I expected. But you gotta take your opportunities.”
“All balls and no brains, huh?” Caruso replied with an even bigger grin. The mob always aspired to be the most professional of criminals and confirming Batista’s recklessness was the best thing I could’ve done, even though it happened to be the truth.
“Exactly,” I said. “The guy wouldn’t have lasted long in the game anyway.”
“That dart, though,” Caruso added. “A masterstroke!”
“I was just being discreet. Blowing his brains out in that bathroom would’ve drawn too much attention and left too much mess. But killing him with the dart made it easy for me to drag him out of the club— pretending he was just a drunk friend—and lay him in the alley outside. No one even noticed me, because they’re so used to that shit.”
“But you haven’t used poison before, no?”
“No.”
“Well, it was smart thinking!” Caruso said, raising his eyebrows to indicate how proud of me he was. “One of our guys on the inside fed back to us; turns out there’s this wanted felon out of some ghetto street gang that uses the same trick. Consequently, the cops are laying Batista’s death at his door.”
Now I understood why the boss was so pleased. Not only had I eliminated an important rival, but my choice of dispatch meant that everyone was chasing a false trail, and no one was linking it back to the Carusos. After an assassination, the mob usually had to stay tight and put up the defenses against fear of reprisals and escalating blood feuds. There was never any way of predicting how itchy trigger fingers would get when there was so much money and drugs involved, not to mention reputation. Yet somehow I’d managed to take out Batista without bringing any heat, or even a fair degree of suspicion, our way, and the mob were sitting back with their feet up, eager to enjoy whatever war kicked off without them.
I could’ve almost taken as much pleasure from the news myself, if knowing that another job was coming my way didn’t make me reserved. Caruso wouldn’t have called me in just for a pat on the back.
“These are complicated times, though, Damon,” Caruso went on, clearly about to get to the point without being prodded, “and there are enemies all over the place.”
“You don’t want me to lie low?” I asked.
“Ha! Lying low is what you’re about, son. You deserve a few weeks hanging out with broads on the beach for sure, but this next little problem we have is a very sensitive one; demanding the subtlest of approaches you could say.”
“Dangerous?”
“Not in the way you think. Well-defended, for sure, but not one who’s going to cause you trouble if you get him in your sights. Finding someone good enough to put himself there though, that’s the challenge.”
When Caruso said the words “well-defended”, I pictured another mafia boss and wondered if I was going to be dragged into something I’d always dreaded—an inner family feud. Either that or someone who was as organized as them who they’d never had to deal with before, like the Russians.
But the truth was even worse.
“We need you to start keeping watch over our very own Governor Calvin Bentley and his family,” Caruso said, words that I felt sink to the bottom of my stomach in the same way the name of my sister had several years ago.
Fuck.
“The Governor’s family?” I replied, unsure of what else to say.
“Yes, but this isn’t a trigger job—well, not yet anyway. It may or may not come to that, but until we know whether it will, we need to have something on him. Think of it more as a surveillance operation; you have the skills for it. We want you to keep an eye on him, and on his wife and daughter too.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Caruso,” I said, trying to collect my wits and find something appropriate to say that didn’t actually give away my secret—the fact that I’d been on a date with Bea Bentley and had a serious conflict of interest. “It’s just…politicians? Are you serious, I’ve never…”
“It’s okay, Damon,” Caruso interrupted. “You might not be used to that, but we deal with politicians all the time. Don’t worry about it!”
“But that’s…well, it’s notoriety right there. If I end up popping a politician, then I’m a wanted man for life, and someone will find me eventually. This guy is a fucking Presidential candidate.”
“It’s good you know your politics. But that’s nonsense, Damon. Take it easy, haven’t you heard of a certain President named John F. Kennedy?”
“But his wife and daughter too? Our agreement was always no wife and kids. You know I don’t do women and children.”
“Calm down, Damon,” Caruso said, raising his hands. “We’re not planning a bloody revolution; let me explain. We need someone discreet to unearth the weak spots in Bentley’s campaign—or his personal life, depending on what you happen to dig up. We’ll need to blackmail the son of a bitch. His War on Drugs bullshit is affecting our business enough as it is, and now that he wants to make President, he’s only going to be more intent on making it his showpiece. We can’t have that; we need to kick the legs out from under this thing before it even has any. Let the people elect some other moron, but not him.”
“But why involve his wife and kids?”
“All they are is an insurance policy in case things get a little dirty. Chiefly, we need something to blackmail the bastard with. He’s getting too close right now. Soon, once the race really starts, he might want to do something crazy just to prove himself—like coming after us, for instance, and actually doing his job. We aren’t used to politicians doing their job, you know.”
“All the same, if it’s women and kids I’m not interested,” I said, my voice frosty.
“What did I just tell you? We’re not after them. If things get bad and we can’t find any blackmail material, then we might just kidnap them or something. But no killing,” Caruso said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s the problem, Damon? Do I really have to bring up our little agreement?”
A chill went down my spine at the thought of anything happening to my sister.
“No, it’s just…”
Having been desperate to talk my way out of the request, I accepted that I had to make a sudden change of tack. I was going about this all the wrong way. Even if Caruso was in the mood of letting me off the job, wouldn’t that just pave the way for another hitman who didn’t care about Bea to suddenly have her in his sights? The mission would be a tightrope, but there was one silver lining—I’d be the one calling the shots. Dire as it seemed, just as I’d depended on circumstance to take out Batista, maybe circumstance could have a positive say here too, for Bea’s sake.
“I’m your guy, Mr. Caruso. The politician thing surprised me, that’s all, but I’ll deal with it.”
“There’s my boy,” Caruso replied, sitting back and taking a big puff of his cigar. “Don’t worry, you’ll look completely legit.”
That was when I realized I wouldn’t only be tailing someone, but acting a role in the process. Although this was also a concern, as I was used to remaining quiet in the background until the time came for pulling the trigger, I decided not to interrupt the boss anymore at the risk of giving anything further away.
“You’ll be working as a security guard for the Governor,” Caruso went on. “We have friends in the Secret Service who can arrange this. They’ll make sure you pass all the security checks, get a new name, ID and records.”
“You’re going to a lot of trouble for this,” I mused.
“That’s why I’ve put my best boy on it,” Caruso said with a cold smile. “Taking Bentley out—one way or another—is of the utmost importance to our organization and the money we can make. A lot of people are depending on this, Damon, so you’ll get a $100,000 for your troubles.”
I took a deep breath. That was a lot of money, but money wasn’t what I wanted. “On one condition.”
Caruso raised his eyebrows slightly. “Not sure our original arrangement involved conditions, Damon,” he replied, but it was now or never, so I carried on.
“When this job is done, I want my blood debt to be settled.”
Caruso took his cigar out of his mouth and stared back at me, but said nothing. His swarthy face was fixed with a blank expression that could have meant anything.
There was no turning back now.
“This Governor,” I went on, “if I help you deal with him—considering all that means to the organization—then all the debt I’m owing over the Caruso guys I killed, all the favors…all are answered. I want to move on. I might still work as a hired gun, independently…but I won’t belong to you anymore.”
From under his brows, Caruso considered me for several weighty moments, shuffling his cigar back and forth across his fingers as if within that compact stogie lay the answers to every little puzzle that came his way.
“If you do this job well,” he said at last. Then it’s a reasonable request. If it makes you happy, we’ll make it a deal.”
Shit. That almost seemed too easy. I’d expected him to fight me on it, but hey—I got my way, so there was no point dwelling on it.
“I appreciate that,” I said with a nod.
“You’ve always been a sincere kid. It serves you well. Head on home now, and there’ll be further instructions on their way shortly.”
I thanked Caruso for his time and left the restaurant. I still felt the threat of a gun pointed at the back of my head, but I always felt that specter whether it was there or not. At least this time, there was a taste of something different, however. I’d done nothing to disrespect the family and so, unless Caruso was an even more vindictive individual than mob life demanded, it might just be there was an actual exit on the horizon.
Then again, this new job was complicated in all kinds of ways. I’d have to play it to the best of my abilities; a foot wrong could spell disaster.
As I walked back down the street, I took out my phone and took a look at Bea’s strange message once again. Sorry, I can’t see you again.
I put my phone back and thought to myself with an apprehensive smile.
It doesn’t look like you have a choice now, Bea…