Blood in the Golden Palace

Chapter 3: Angelo-1

Chapter 3: AngeloIf there was anywhere in the world more corrupt than Santa Notte’s Fisherman’s Bay, Angelo struggled to name it. The bay itself was polluted with all sorts of plastics and chemicals, despite any half-hearted movements to get it cleaned up by the city. It was so rancid that Angelo was almost positive there wasn’t a single fish brought in that wasn’t farmed somewhere far beyond the City of Night’s waters. Once, he had heard, the bay was home to small family boats and hardworking immigrants. Now, it was a point of entry for drugs, guns, stolen artwork, rough diamonds, you name it. And occasionally some high end sushi if you got lucky.

Currently, it was Angelo’s destination. Sitting in the back seat of his car, he thumbed through his phone with bored eyes. No new information on their rat problem. It’d been a few days since feelers had been put on Ernie, but no suspicious activity reported. If anything, between the TV dinners and single’s chatrooms, Angelo wasn’t sure if he was glad or embarrassed on Ern’s behalf.

The car slowed down, and Angelo looked up from his phone screen. “What’s up?” he asked.

Hank, his driver, glanced at the rear view mirror. “Sorry, boss. A little bit of traffic up ahead. We’re almost at the bay.” Angelo leaned back into his seat and returned to his phone. After a few moments of silence, Hank spoke again. “So uh…I heard about last night.”

“What was last night?” Angelo didn’t stray from his phone.

“Heard you had to deal with some handsy drunk. Boy what I wouldn’t give to see that, boss.”

Angelo tucked his phone into his pocket and laid his arms on the headrest behind him. “Wasn’t much to see,” he said. “Just some ‘nice guy’ who wanted more than a dance. Nothing unusual. Girl was pretty much a deer in headlights, poor thing. Luckily she had the nerve to get out of there when she did.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank grinned in his reflection. “She cute, boss?”

Angelo toyed with the leather on the back of the seat. “I mean…sure she was,” he said. “Adorable, I think. Probably the type to let everybody walk all over her and then apologize for getting their shoes muddy. She kept going on about how she should have just given the douche what he wanted.”

“And what’d you tell her?”

“I mean, what could I tell her? I’m not her boyfriend. She wants to trust a jackass like that, that’s her decision. Still…I hope she gave it some more thought after she left.”

The car inched forward at the traffic stop before coming to another halt. Hank’s eyes glittered as he continued. “So?” he said. “How’d you handle her date?”

Angelo admired the bruises on his knuckles. A few cuts had small bandages on them, and there was a distinct purple splotch on his ring finger. “Oh, you know,” he said casually. “Company policy kicked in. Though I think we need to get thicker towels. Fucker had a black eye when he left.”

“That’s it?”

“Well…if you don’t count the broken arm.”

They arrived at Fisherman’s Bay not long after. It was a wide open space, complete with concrete docks, a maze of shipping containers, and plenty of dock workers tattooed from head to toe. Hank parked just outside of the main dock house, and opened the door for Angelo, letting him fix his jacket as he stepped outside. “You mind if I go grab a coffee, boss?” Hank asked in his distinct, East Coast drawl.

“Sure,” said Angelo. “We might be here a while, so don’t sweat it.”

“Got it.” With that, the two split up, and Angelo wandered into the harbor house with a casual stride. The main house was a wide building, with plenty of space for loading and unloading cargo. The far wall and a good chunk of the floor were carved out to allow boats to travel in and out with ease. Currently, a small tugboat was latched to a post, and workers carted heavy boxes off the deck and into a pile to the left. To the right were a few fold out tables where the sweaty number guys did their work.

“Ahhh, here he is!” Frankie the Wise approached Angelo with open arms, and the two embraced. Frankie was a middle aged Guido with enough spray tan to rival a carton of Florida Orange Juice. As for his nickname, Angelo had heard that of his old crew, Frankie was the only guy the Feds could never get to talk, which was probably the wisest thing to do for a mobster. These days, Frankie was more of a free agent, but Don Luciano trusted him enough to do frequent business with his trades. When the hug was over with, Frankie put his arm around Angelo’s shoulders and turned him to present the tugboat.

“Your pops is gonna love what we got for him today. Oy!” He whistled sharply through his two front teeth, and one of his dock workers looked up. Frankie waved him over, and the dock worker grabbed a large tuna from a pile of fish, holed up in a recently deposited crate. Frankie snapped, and the worker pried open the fish’s belly.

Inside were bags and bags of cocaine, wrapped in plastic and stuffed into fish guts. Angelo plucked one up and examined it. “Seems sanitary,” he quipped.

“Ahhh, come on now,” said Frankie. “It’s coke, Angelo! Who gives a f**k if it’s ‘sanitary’? Here, you wanna try a bump?”

“Uncle Frank!” A new voice garnered their attention, and they turned to see a young man step off the tug boat with his hands shoved into his pockets. He was about nineteen, give or take, with hair fried from bleach, and clothes that were about two sizes too big. “How long are we sticking around here? This place reeks.”

Frankie stormed over and grabbed the kid by his toothpick arm with a shake. “Hey! Can’t you see I’m busy here, you little f**k? I told you not to interrupt my work.”

The kid turned and eyed Angelo up and down, seemingly unfazed by his uncle’s wrath. “Who’s this dude? A gangster?”

Frankie looked ready to pop a vein, and addressed Angelo apologetically. “You gotta forgive Sam here. My sister made me watch him for a few months while she deals with some…personal matters.”

“My mom’s in rehab for meth,” Sam said casually. “Do you do meth?”

Angelo c****d an eyebrow, still holding the dime-bag. “Not really my scene, no.”

Sam noticed the coke and slid from Frankie’s hold. “What’s that?”

“Cocaine.”

“Wicked. Can I have some?”

“No.” Angelo handed the dime-bag off to one of the numbers guys passing by and put his hands in his pockets. He turned to Frankie. “I hope you don’t mind me sticking around for the count. Don DeRossi has been more cautious than usual lately.”

“Oh sure, sure,” said Frankie. “Anything the Don wants. He’s my best customer, after all.” With that, Angelo was ushered to a comfortable chair and offered a cigarette and a fresh coffee. The count itself was fairly monotonous, considering the severity of the crimes being committed. Something most people didn’t know about crime: a lot of it was boring. Angelo took breaks from tallying up the pounds of coke to occasionally check his phone, while making small talk with Frankie. Sam was about as stimulating as a lukewarm glass of milk, so Angelo didn’t bother trying to keep up conversation with him. About an hour into the count, Angelo decided to stretch his legs and hit the head. It was the kind of bathroom with only stalls, so he went towards the one with the least amount of damage and questionable liquids on the floor. Closing it behind him, he started to do his business when he heard the door open, and two voices broke the silence.

“…heard he wasn’t actually the Don’s son, you know? He’s, like, non-legit or whatever.”

Angelo stiffened, his ears pricking distinctly.

“First of all, it’s ‘illegitimate,’ you f*****g moron. Second, you got that mixed up.” As the conversation continued, Angelo heard the two men unzip their jeans and start to piss. “Supposedly, he’s the Don’s real son, but his wife ain’t the mom.”

“No s**t. First marriage?”

“Nah. They were definitely married at the time. Way I hear it, Don DeRossi had a stillborn with the wife, and f****d off to Italy for like six months. A year after he came back, he gets this letter from this gypsy b***h talking about how he’s got a son or whatever. And get this? Stupid fucker falls for it. Takes the kid in, raises him up.”

The second man whistled. Done peeing, the two headed back to the sinks, though not to wash their hands. “That’s some ballsy s**t. I mean I know he’s the Don but fuckin’ still. And his wife still sleeps with him?”

“f**k if I know. But they got that daughter, don’t they?”

“Oh yeah. Nicole or whatever the f**k? I hear she’s a real bitch.”

“Only until you get to know her.”

Like a lightning bolt striking the room, the two dock workers turned in horror to see Angelo DeRossi standing next to them, cool as you please. Ignoring their utter horror, Angelo wandered to a sink and rinsed off his hands. “Good to see I’m still considered hot gossip after all these years.”

“M-Mr. DeRossi—!” The far man, a short, pudgy ex-con with a few poor-choice face tats, straightened up immediately. “A-ah! Sir, we were just uh—!”

Angelo ignored his blubbering. Turning with wet hands, he took the hem of the second man’s work shirt and dried them. “Word to the wise,” he said coolly. “Nobody uses ‘gypsy’ anymore. It’s offensive. If you’re gonna talk behind my back, at least do it correctly.” He finished up his hands and patted them against his slacks. “You don’t want to sound uncultured, do you?”

“No, sir,” the first man muttered.

Angelo pat down his front pockets with a frown. “Hmm. Either of you got a smoke?” The ex-con pulled out a pack of cigarettes immediately and handed one to him. The minute that filter touched his lips, the second man—a stocky worker missing a chunk of his left ear—lit it for him. Angelo took a drag and then examined the cigarette. “Menthols…”

Mr. No Ear, pale as death, sputtered out, “We didn’t mean anything by it, sir. It’s all just whispers, you know.”

“Th-that’s right. We know you’re not some gyp—er…We know you’re the real deal, right, Carl?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s right. The real fuckin’ deal.”

“Oh no, you got your information correct.” The two workers’ faces fell even further as Angelo enjoyed his cigarette. “I’m the product of an affair my pops had thirty years ago. You’re right on the money.”

“O-oh…” The dock workers shifted uncomfortably. Angelo didn’t appear bothered.

“Well?” said Angelo.

“W-well?”

“Aren’t you two going to wash your hands?”

The workers stalled and looked at their filthy mitts. “Uh…”

“You know that’s how germs spread. Go on. Wash up. Soap’s right there.”

The air was palpable. Mr. No Ear—Carl—was the first to turn. With trembling arms, he flipped on the sink and began to wash. Angelo made a move like he was about to leave, before grabbing Carl by the back of his hair and slamming his face directly into the porcelain sink. Carl didn’t even have the wherewithal to scream, and collapsed on the floor in a sputtering pool of his own blood. The ex-con had no time to process what happened before Angelo knocked his leg out from under him. Once he was down on his knees, Angelo took his arm, braced it against the sink, and rammed his own knee straight into the bend of his elbow. It broke instantly, and the ex-con shrieked in pain. He collapsed beside his friend, the pair of them whimpering like wounded dogs.

Angelo, his face devoid of emotion, squatted down next to them both. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and held it between his knuckles. “I hate menthols.” With a flick, the lit smoke landed on the ex-con’s face. Angelo stood straight just as the door swung open.

“The f**k—!?” Frankie looked at the scene in shock. “Angelo, what’s—?”

Angelo didn’t address his concerns. Instead, he left the bathroom in a smooth stride, and stepped out to meet up with Hank. While others rushed to the bathroom to see what had happened, Hank, like Angelo, registered no surprise. “Are we cuttin’ out early, boss?”