Chapter One
Michael
Deciding when someone is telling the truth, especially when you don’t know what the truth is, isn’t an easy task. A combination of reading body language, paying attention to facial gestures, and asking the right combination of questions is instrumental in paving the way to finding the truth. Separating fact from fiction isn’t easy, regardless.
In the end, it comes down to intuition.
In the basement below meatball Pete’s kitchen, we were conducting an interview with Justin Carter—the fucktard who kidnapped and executed my dog, provided the federal authorities information regarding the family, and gave sworn testimony that led to the arrest and incarceration of my soon-to-be father-in-law.
Sitting on the concrete floor with his torso, upper arms, and neck secured to the legs of an old prep table, the only resistance he could provide was verbal, and I had grown tired of him having that luxury.
I wanted answers, not complaints.
During my time in the military, and in my quest to become a street-smart gun runner, I learned not to stereotype people. He, however, looked like what most Americans would expect a drug dealer to look like.
He was six feet tall, weighed one-twenty, and was covered in jailhouse tattoos. His greasy hair was now plastered to his sweat-covered face, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month. He alternated glances between Cap and me, trying to decide which one of us was more important, and stuttered in every effort he made to speak.
I looked at the slobbering piece of human shit, and then at Cap. “Cut off his index finger.”
“Wait!” Carter bellowed. “Wait. I swear, I’ll tell you...”
My patience was worn paper thin. While he continued to beg Cap for mercy, I turned toward Sal and did my best to tune out the incessant blubbering and begging.
“Shove something in his mouth,” I demanded. “Then, cut it off.”
Sal peered over my shoulder and shook his head lightly. “How the fuck you know what’s the truth and what’s a lie?”
“I don’t.”
Carter’s screaming changed to muffled grunts. I didn’t have to turn around to know what was happening.
“Goddamn. That finger came off pretty fuckin’ easy,” Sal said. “Now what?”
I turned around. Standing beside Carter with a pair of pruning shears and a rag, Cap looked at me for direction. “Want to ask him something?”
A puddle of blood pooled at Carter’s side, directly beneath his dangling hand. I crossed my arms and shook my head. “Same hand. Cut off his thumb,” I said as if I were giving an order to a military subordinate.
Carter began to shake his head violently. A combination of snot and tears blew from his nose as he heaved to catch his breath.
I’d seen much worse in my tenure with the Marines. I still had the ability to be a sympathetic man, but I reserved no compassion for people who stuck their respective noses where they didn’t belong, especially when they were driven solely by a desire to save themselves from a mess that they got into on their own. Add to that the fact that this man killed a helpless dog, and I couldn’t muster an ounce of sympathy for Justin Carter.
Without expressed emotion, Cap leaned over, grabbed Carter’s wrist, and stretched his thumb to the side. One squeeze of the pruning shears later, and the thumb fell to the floor mere inches from the severed finger.
I took a few steps toward him and cleared my throat. “I’m going to have him take that rag out of your mouth, and then I’ll ask you some questions. If you argue, scream, or do anything other than answer the specific question I ask, I’ll have him remove the other three fingers. Understood?”
With wide eyes and a face covered in sweat, he managed a convincing nod.
“One word of bullshit,” I warned. “The rag goes back in, and the fingers come off.”
I looked at Cap. “Take out the rag.”
Cap pulled the rag from his mouth, kicked the severed fingers to the side, and tossed the shears onto the end of the table.
“How many people have you spoken to about the family’s operation?”
“Two,” he blurted excitedly. “No, three. I mean...yeah. Three. Gino...and... Special Agent Whistler, and a guy...a guy named Black.”
“Who’s Black?”
He shook his hand, flinging blood across the floor. “He comes instead of Whistler...sometimes.”
“He’s with the ATF?”
He glanced at his hand, paused, and then looked at me. “Yeah.”
I knew it wouldn’t be long and he’d go into shock. I was also aware that we had a small window to torture him effectively. After a certain amount of agony was endured, the tortured reached a pain threshold, leaving the torturer with few options to gain useful information.
“Not one other person? None of your friends, family, business associates, people in jail, nobody?”
He shook his head adamantly. “They told me if I talked to anyone else, the deal was off.”
It made sense, and protected the ATF’s legal interest. A snitch that told one person one thing, and the ATF another, subjected himself to being discredited in court.
“Who gave you the information that you fed to your contacts?”
He stared at his hand.
“I asked you a question. Answer it, or I’ll have him whack another finger off,” I snarled.
He looked up. “I um. Who? Who told me...who talked to me?”
“The names of all of the people that talked to you,” I said. “I want the names. Anyone who gave you any information.”
“Gino,” he said. “That’s it.”
“What did he tell you? I need to know everything,” I said dryly.
“He looks confused,” Sal whispered. “I think he’s lying.”
Carter looked at his hand, craned his neck and scanned the floor for his fingers. Upon seeing the bloody stubs, his eyes stayed fixed on them for a moment.
I cleared my throat. “Cut off his pinkie.”
His gaze shot to me. “No, wait! What? He um...what was the question?”
I glared at him. “What did Gino tell you? Everything. Tell me everything he told you, whether you told the feds or not.”
“He told...he told me about killing the two federal agents. One at the warehouse, and the other in his kitchen. Then, he told me that the boss was going to get their teeth. He wanted the boss to go down so he could get the job or whatever. He told me, and then I kinda forgot. I told them when they interviewed me the next time.”
“Fuckin’ Gino,” Sal said through his teeth.
I couldn’t agree more, but refrained from commenting. “Where did he say the teeth came from? Who was taking them to the boss?”
He took another look at his hand, paused for a few seconds, and then met my gaze. He seemed remarkably calm, considering Cap had relieved him of twenty percent of his fingers.
I wouldn’t expect that he could imagine a pleasant ending to the situation he was in, but to look at him, one wouldn’t guess he was all too worried.
“He um. Some new guy. Irish guy that they were letting in. Young guy. Said he was a snot-nosed Irish kid. Called him a Mick.”
“Fuckin’ Gino,” Sal spat. “That motherfucker.”
I found Gino’s comments equally irritating, but he was no longer going to be a problem. I couldn’t help but wonder how many in the family felt the same way.
I tried to remain indifferent, at least in Carter’s eyes. Not that it would matter in the long run, but for the time being, I didn’t want his statements to become biased. “Did you tell Whistler or Black about the Mick?”
He shook his head. “No. He told me not to.” He looked at Cap, and then at me. “He wanted them to think the boss killed those guys and kept the teeth. You know. Like a trophy.”
It sure seemed like Gino wasn’t simply giving a little information in an effort to save his termite-infested home in Florida.
“What else?” I asked. “When did you two meet?”
“He went to that sandwich place off Metcalf all the time, so Whistler had me go in there and approach him.”
“When?” I snapped. “How long ago?”
He looked at his hand again. “Two months ago.”
“What else did he tell you?”
He looked up. The color had left his face, and he looked queasy. I knew he was far from bleeding to death, but he didn’t look good.
“Um. Nothing, really. Just that he was going to try and set the boss up. He was thinking he could get that spot. You know, be the godfather. And change things.”
Sal looked at me. “You done here?”
“Pretty close,” I said. “Why?”
He turned his head. “I wanna whack this piece of shit,” he whispered. “I’m tired of hearing about that fuckin’ Gino.”
I raised my index finger, nodded, and then shifted my focus to Carter. “Why’d you kill the dog?”
I purposely refrained from telling him the dog was mine, in hopes of him being more comfortable telling me the truth.
Upon hearing my question, his eyes shot wide. “Dog? I didn’t kill no dog.”
“English bulldog,” I said. “You got it from some guy’s house.”
“What?” He shook his hand lightly. “Dog? I don’t know nothing about no dog.”
The expression on his face made me wonder if he had much involvement in the event. I pressed on, nonetheless. “You and Gino went to try and get the teeth together, right? And when you got there—”
“No.” His face contorted. “He told me he’d let me know when the guy took them to the boss.”
“Did you go with Gino over to a guy’s house—”
“I never went anywhere with him.” He looked at Cap, and then at me. “We never went anywhere together. We just met at the sandwich joint.”
“Fuckin’ Gino,” Sal said. “Whacked the dog and blamed it on this kid.”
I wished I could rewind the clock and do something different with Gino. His blatant disregard for the Omertà, lack of love for the family, and apparent jealousy toward me left me feeling that he got off easy.
Justin Carter wasn’t going to be quite as fortunate.
I looked at Cap and gave a slight nod.
While Carter stared at me in wait of the next question, Cap pulled his pistol, pointed it at Carter’s temple, and pulled the trigger.
As if nothing had happened, Sal shifted his eyes from Carter to me. “That fuckin’ Gino. I wish I could whack that piece of shit all over again.”
I had killed because I was ordered to, and in self-defense. Killing Carter was different. It was a business decision, and nothing more. In doing so, however, I’d minimized future threats to the family, myself, and my future wife.
“Looks like we’ve cleaned up the rat population,” I said.
Sal nodded. “With the fed’s two snitches gone, they still got a solid case?”
“They’ve got the teeth,” I said. “That’s all they need.”
“We need to get those teeth,” he said.
Getting the teeth from the ATF evidence room would take nothing short of an army.
Or, maybe, a few retired Marines.