Mobster's Angel (Mobster Series) (17 page)

Me: All set. See u Thanksgiving.

Clarissa: Awesom
e


Erin and Vito… I hadn’t thought about that before. It didn’t sound all that bad.

Patrick hasn’t arrived yet. I grab a beer out of the refrigerator.  Since coming here last week, a bunch of shit has changed.  I think Erin does want me, but my insides turn black when I think of becoming the cleaner. 
Will she hate me?  Not want to be around me?
I pace the kitchen, thinking about the consequences of my new job.  I tip my head back and take a swig of beer. It’s become piss warm from me holding it my hand, but I don’t let the temperature  bother me.  Suddenly, I hear someone at the door and Patrick walks in.

“Hey,” I say.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yup,” I respond, guessing that the pleasantries are over.

“Come on.”

Patrick drives. He takes us to the other side of town where suburban houses line up street after street. They’re mainly small sized ranches with one-car garages, all built in the same era.  Some are kept neat and tidy: perfect representations of the America dream. Others are decayed and abandoned.  Color and condition are the only things that set each one apart from the others.

He pulls down a side street off the main drag and into a driveway.  He rides up on the grass next to the garage in the backyard.

“This is a sweep and clean.  In and out.”

I don’t know what the fuck I’m walking into.  This has to be some fuckin’ raid gone bad.  We exit the mini-van.   I look in the back and see that Patrick has brought some industrial strength cleaning supplies and plastic sheeting.  I flick my eyes to the houses around me.  I don’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean no one sees us.

We walk to the back door.  It’s open.  Patrick walks straight in.  A horrible smell assaults me.  Two bodies are on the kitchen floor, both shot close range.  Blood has seeped out onto the tiles in a huge river of blood.  To me, it looks as though they’ve been dead for about a day. 

“Start wrapping,” Patrick orders.

The plastic crinkles as I spread it out on a clean area of the floor.  The sheet is huge, plenty big enough to wrap the body two times around.  I lift the legs first and position them on it, and then I grab the corpse underneath the arms and move it to the center.  I grab the duct tape from the bucket Patrick brought in. It makes a ripping sound as I unravel large sticky strips to roll the body up.

Patrick does the same with the other body. Then he begins to tackle the stain on the floor.  He pours a harsh ammonia all over the crimson puddle.

“Open a trash bag.”

I take a yellow colored trash bag out of the bucket.  It’s thick.  My eyes are running from the intense chemical smell filling the small house. 

“Damn, that stinks,” I comment, covering my nose.  Patrick sops up the blood with the huge blue colored paper towels.  I think they’re the same ones car mechanics use for oil and shit.

“Take your package to the car,” Patrick commands.

I throw my guy over my shoulder and work my way to the back of the mini-van.  Anyone can guess what I’m carrying.  I open the back doors and place him inside.  Patrick comes out behind me with the other body and the supplies.  He puts them in the back too.

“Get in the driver’s seat.”

I hop in and he hands me the keys.  Patrick then disappears inside the house for a minute and comes out quickly.  He gets in and I pull away.

“Where to?” I ask.

“Back to the house.”

We aren’t too far away from the crime scene when the house explodes behind us.  It makes me jump.

“Gas?”

I see Patrick’s affirmation out of the corner of my eye. 

Clean it up.

Blow it up.

Remove all links and proof.

That’s what the cleaner does.  They have to do whatever they can to destroy the evidence. Like disinfecting and removing as much DNA and fingerprints as possible.

In this scenario, an informant with the police would be told to report the incident after the cleaning.  If neighbors call or report anything, it’s put on hold until the cleaner is done.  At some point, Patrick will give me the contacts and information that I need to fulfill the cleaner’s job.  Right now, I don’t need to know.

At the house, we unload.  The rags and trash bags were burned with the house. Consolidated in the hottest fire area annihilates evidence the best. Now it’s just the bodies.  I reach for one.

“We only need him.”  Okay. I carry the body into the house and down the cellar stairs.

“I’m going to show you how to use a laser bone saw.  No mess with this.”

I place the body on the large metal table in the side room.  Patrick unwraps the corpse.  A smell is coming from the body that I didn’t notice at the scene. It has turned more purple in the short ride over here, probably from the heat in the car. 

The air in the house where they were murdered was on the cool side, so the decomposition was slowed. 
Mobster biz 101
you learn through experience and underworld life scenarios.  I’ve seen some pretty fucked up shit over the years, being so close with Tonio.  And when my dad was
working
around here, I went places with him I would rather forget.

Patrick removes a cover. A large device with a jagged blade sits in the corner of the room. I wouldn’t have even known it was there.  He plugs it in and rolls it over.  It’s perched on a roll cart.

“It cuts and cauterizes with no blood.”

I want to ask why we didn’t use this thing before, but I keep my mouth shut.  When he turns it on, it easily slips through the skin and bone. Patrick slices off all of the limbs.

“We’re burying these guys but I want to show you something.”

Everyone the mob whacks gets their remains treated differently.  Some are sent down river, some are buried, some are left to be found for a proper funeral, like Johnny last year.  In some cases, it depends on how fuckin’ pissed Tonio’s father is.

After Patrick demonstrates how to use the laser bone saw, he sticks the limbs on the chest of the victim and wraps him back up.  This body was used for a demo.

“The on/off switch is here.”  He shows me.  “Make sure it’s off, covered, and cleaned after each use.”  Patrick grabs a bottle of rubbing alcohol and more thick, blue paper towels.  He hands them to me.  “If it gets dust in it, it doesn’t work right.” Cleaning the equipment concludes lesson number two of dismemberment.

I’m not stupid.  If the police or the FBI came down here, they would find the DNA of a lot of people.  Paying off authorities and keeping cops in your back pocket is the only way to ensure that doesn’t happen.  Forensics and modern technology make the cleaner’s job easier in some ways and harder in others.

“Wrap him back up, then take him to the car.”  I do, and I soon am climbing the stairs again with him over my shoulder. I stuff him back in the mini-van. 

Patrick drives us out of town.  I don’t ask where we’re going because I know better.  If I needed to know, he would tell me.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Erin,” he says.

“Yeah.”  I’m worried he’s going to take back the “let things happen, don’t force it,” thing.

He doesn’t say any more. I don’t either.  It’s a quiet ride out of town.  We travel for about an hour in silence.  It’s not uncomfortable; it just is.

We turn off onto a dirt road.  Dense evergreens line the roadside.  This place has great cover all year long. Evergreens don’t lose their needles; I guess that’s why they’re called ever-greens.

Finally, we stop.  Patrick gets out and I follow.  He pulls two shovels out from under the seat of the van.  He hands me one.

“We’re going to bury them over that way.”  He points.  The trees cluster, but I can see a break behind them.  We walk side by side.  “This area is good.  It’s out of the way, not well-traveled, and thick with trees.  The bad part is the roots.  Digging can be a bitch.”  I nod in agreement.

Patrick leads me to the area where he wants to bury the bodies.  He forces the tip of his shovel into the packed dirt.  The tip of his shit-kicker boots pushes against the metal.  He breaks through the earth.  I join him. We dig, moving imbedded rocks and debris for an hour.  I’m hot even though it’s October.  The work is boring and difficult.  Gravediggers have backhoes nowadays.

Over an hour passes, and the hole is to my chin.  Animals will dig up the bodies if we don’t go deep enough.  I’m itching to finish this shit up so that I see Erin again. 
Would it be pushing if I called her and asked if she wanted to hang out tonight?

“What are you thinking about?” Patrick says out of the blue.  “Or should I say who?”  He can read me like a fuckin’ book.  He knows.

“Erin.”

“Figured.”

Patrick doesn’t say anymore.  He probably doesn’t want to know.  When we finish burying the bodies and covering them up, I toss my shovel in the back part of the van and pull out my phone.

Me: U wanna hang tonight

A minute or so later as we rumble back down the dirt road I get a text back.

Erin: Sur
e


Me: I’ll pick you up at 6.

Erin: KK

“I’m picking Erin up tonight,” I tell Patrick.

“Hmmhmm,” is the only response I get. The rest of the car ride is silent.

*****

I jump back in my car at the house and race to my apartment to shower. I run through some different things we could do tonight.  I try to keep my thoughts clean, but they keep going to things I know I shouldn’t think about doing to her.  I settle on taking her to a movie.  We watched two yesterday, but she’s safer at a movie theater with me then she is at my apartment.  I need a fucking medal for not ravishing her yesterday on the couch.

Ronnie comes home as I’m running out the door to pick up Erin. 

“Where are you off too?”

“To get Erin.”  I snatch my keys off the table by the door.

“You’re hanging with her again?” Ronnie asks, astonished.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”  My back is up.  Ronnie’s
why
holds a certain condescending air that makes me want to punch him. He knows why. 
Does he think I’m just trying to get a fuck out of her? Or a cheap lay?

“What the fuck do you care?”  My words are brusque.

Ronnie changes his demeanor when he sees the fury on my face. 
Who the fuck is he to judge?

“Stay out of my shit, Ronnie!” I slam the door as I leave.

*****

The movie theater is packed for a Sunday.  We stand in line together.  It’s windy outside, but luckily the line moves quickly and in no time we are through the doors. The ticket line gets shorter and shorter in front of us.  Finally, I step up to get two tickets for the newest comedy on the big screen. 

“Here.”  Erin tries to hand me a ten dollar bill.

“Put your money away.”

“You shouldn’t keep paying for me.  I can pay for myself.”

“No.”    

She stuffs the ten back into her purse, and I take the tickets from the cashier.  Erin follows me as we walk away.  I reach behind me and take her hand to keep her close.

At the concession stand, I order two large popcorns and two large sodas.

“I can’t eat all this,” Erin says in disbelief, taking one of the large bags off the counter.  “If I drink all of this soda, I’ll be getting up to pee all night long.”

“I remember how many tri
ps you made to the bathroom at night in South Bend.  Only drink half.”  I snort. “Never mind, drink it all.  I won’t be there for you to wake up every time you’ve gotta go.”

“You wish you were still in my bed,” her words are laced with double meanings and sarcasm.  I have a comeback ready, but I decide it’s better to leave it alone.

I guess this movie isn’t too popular because we find greats seats in the middle of the theater. Judging by the number of people in line, there must be some blockbuster out.  I never keep up with that shit.

I put my drink in the cup holder of the armrest. We sit. Erin goes to shrug off her jacket and I help her.

“Thank you,” Erin says sincerely.

“For what?”  The thank you is heavy; it’s clearly not for helping her with her jacket.  I can see in her eyes that there’s more to it.

“For hanging with me and stuff.”

She leans towards me and kisses me on the cheek. Sparks ignite between us.  She pauses, seemingly unsure of what’s going on.  Our faces are close. My heart rate races.  I want to turn my head an inch and give her a kiss that she won’t forget, but I restrain myself.  It has to be her. 

The opening advertisements light up the screen and I tell her, “You’re welcome.”

“Now, I think we’re going to start with a nice family dinner on Friday.  The Delisi’s are coming.”  My mother probably doesn’t realize it, but when she talks about Antonio or his family her nose lifts on one side, giving her a miffed look.  I let out a sigh of relief because my mother won’t invite the O’Connell’s if the Delisi’s are coming.  She keeps those two worlds separate as much as she can.  “Then Saturday we’ll have a little sweet sixteen party.” 
Oh, there’s the catch.
  The O’Connell’s are probably coming to that.