The Angel Of Death

[Chickstick]

 

 

One man's journey through twenty years of his life involving the mafia, the US government, Cuba and the assassination of JFK. This is the period of 1957 to 1977 in Jimmy Mattaloni's eyes. You are ready for it. The only question remaining is whether Jimmy himself is...

 

 

CHARACTERS

 

James "Jimmy" Mattaloni: A mobster and assassin working for both the mafia and the President of the United States of America. He has a sense of humour which gets him into trouble and a smile that gets him right back out of it.

 

Denny Marcello: A loyal member of the Puzo crime dynasty, and a close friend of Jimmy. It is Marcello who introduces Jimmy to his life of crime.

 

Bill Rosen: A long-term enforcer for the King, having served him since WWII, and Jimmy's fellow AOD recruit.

 

The King: Little is known about the nameless leader of the Puzo mafia, apart from his ruthless nature and fondness for violence.

 

George S. Henkleburger III An elderly multi-millionaire residing in Miami, George is the main funds contributer to the King, and sponsor of the AOD project.

 

Penny Owens: George's assistant and lover, Penny catches the eye of Jimmy.

 

Maria "Mercedes" Romanov The girlfriend of the King.

 

Fidel Alonso: The main rival and arch-enemy of the King, Alonso took control of his older brother's drugs, prostitution and gambling empire after he was killed by the AODs.

 

Danny Carragher: The leader of the Angels of Death, it is Carragher who teaches Jimmy and Rosen the ropes when they first start out as AODs.

 

 

More character photos will be added at a later date.

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

North Atlantic Ocean

27th November 1937

09:11

 

Mario Mattaloni knew that this was his last chance to make a life for himself and his wife. His olive oil exporting business back in the old country had not worked out, and he had gotten into hot water with a number of local “esteemed businessmen”. In actuality, these so-called businessmen were members of the respected yet feared Cosa Nostra of Sicily. Mario’s hometown of Trapani was riddled with these men. They threatened, they extorted, and they sometimes even killed to get what they wanted. Mario’s wife, Marta, eight months pregnant, knew that more than almost anyone on this huge immigrant boat. Her entire family had been killed in an explosion caused by frictions between two rival Cosa Nostra families of Trapani, the Puzo clan and their deadly enemies, the Zeffirellis. She hated the criminals of Sicily so much she was prepared to give up everything to move to America with nothing more than the clothes she was dressed in and her beloved wedding ring. It was nothing more than a scratched, badly worn piece of worthless iron thinly covered in a gold sheen, but it meant so much to her, that didn’t matter. Mario had worked tirelessly for almost six weeks to get the money to pay for it, and she loved nothing more than the ring but her husband.

 

Mario turned towards his wife and looked at her from head to toe. Even in the state she was in now, tired and dirty from twenty days of travel on the crowded boat, there was something about her that made every man who passed by her turn his head for another look. Her face, even in the semi-darkness of their tiny cabin, was strikingly beautiful. Back in Sicily, Mario used to joke about how Marta could be a movie star like the ones they have in America. She always used to smile and turn red, but the dazzle in her big, chocolate brown eyes indicated that she was happy to have heard Mario say that. They sat like that for ten minutes until wordlessly, Marta undressed and stroked Mario’s hair. For the last time in their lives, they made love.

 

The ship reached Ellis Island four hours later. Ten days after that, Mario was making the first rent payment on their dingy little apartment in Little Italy. It was rat-infested and damp, but it was home. On the night of the fifteenth of December, Marta went into labour. She died five minutes after naming the baby boy “James”. On Christmas Day, Mario became drunk and picked a fight with a group of local thugs. The police found his bloody corpse in the Hudson River on New Year’s Eve. The cause of death was given as “suicide due to depression over the death of his wife”. Really, though, the cop in charge of the investigation wanted a quick solution to his case so he could go visit a high-class society tart that certainly wasn’t his wife. After all, the cop reasoned, who cares about a sh*t-for-brains immigrant?

 

The Mattaloni boy was taken to the state orphanage. Due to his Italian parenthood, nobody adopted him and he lived in the system until he was sixteen. After that he drifted around for a few years before finally getting a plum job as a wheelman for a small time narcotics racket in New Jersey. He stayed with them for two years before finally departing with their good blessings. He worked in a garage, changing wheels and other crap stuff like that, and that was how James “Jimmy” Mattaloni met Denny Marcello. That was how he joined the Cosa Nostra.

*******************************************************************

 

Well, how did you like that? Good? Bad? Any and all replies will be read, trust me!

 

Cheers.

Edited February 8, 2008 by Chickstick

[Oxidizer]

 

Very good! Looking forward to seeing more.

[poikly]

It is a great idea for a story.

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER ONE

New York City

18th December 1957

17:53

 

Mr. Marcello’s car was a beauty. It was a brand new Thunderbird, red and white, with only five hundred on the mileage. Jimmy was still admiring it when his boss walked in.

“Jimmy, what the hell have you been doing for the last twenty minutes?” Karl Harrison, the owner of the Fastlane Garage and Auto Yard spoke with a heavy Alabaman accent. He had lived and worked in New York since just before Hitler went into Poland, but he still sounded like he had lived in the south every day of his life.

“Well, Mr. Harrison,” replied Jimmy, “I’ve just been thinking about how to repair the axle on this car.”

“Bullsh*t.”

“Pardon, me, Mr. Harrison, Sir?”

“That’s bullsh*t, and you know it. Get that car finished so I can lock up.” As Harrison walked away, he muttered, “Stupid Italian” under his breath.

Jimmy cracked his knuckles and flipped Harrison the finger behind his back. Harrison had hated Jimmy from the moment he had started working at Fastlane, and he made no secret of it. Which was just as well, really, because Jimmy hated Harrison as well.

 

It was eight o’clock before Jimmy had finished his repair work on the car. Mr. Marcello (“Call me Denny!” he had proclaimed before waltzing out the door) was a short, fat, jolly-looking man who had a fondness for horrible ties and pink suits. Jimmy wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Marcello was a homosexual but for the fact that on the day he had dropped off the car Marcello had been reading Playboy magazine while waiting for the paperwork to be sorted out.

 

Jimmy was physically the complete opposite of Marcello. Tall and muscular, he had inherited the modest good looks of his father but the brown, somehow sad-looking eyes were his mother’s, but of course Jimmy didn’t know that. He shook his head to ease the cramp that had taken hold in his neck and while doing so noticed a small package in the half-open glove compartment of the Thunderbird. He reached for it and opened it.

 

A white powder poured out of the packet. Christ, Jimmy thought, what is this?

The answer was obvious, of course. It was drugs. “Narcotics” as the cops and snootier papers liked to call them. Wild ideas ran through Jimmy’s head.

 

Maybe it’s a greeting from the boys back in Jersey, he thought, and then decided it wasn’t. No, they were strictly small time; this… hell, this is some expensive sh*t.

“Expensive sh*t…” Jimmy said aloud.

“I’ll say it is. That’s eighty dollars worth of dope you’ve just tipped all over the floor. The King ain’t gonna be happy, Jimmy. Good job he wants to see you anyway, isn’t it?”

Denny Marcello stepped out from the shadows, holding a mean-looking pistol.

He clicked the safety catch off and pointed it at Jimmy.

“Get in the car", he spat.

Edited November 26, 2007 by Chickstick

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER TWO

Washington, D.C.

18th December 1957

17:55

 

Miles away from the place where Denny Marcello was holding Jimmy Mattaloni at gunpoint, Paul DeKramer rubbed his aching head and sighed. He struggled to remember what he had done- had had done to him- the previous night. He remembered drugs, booze, whores… He wanted to reach for his now almost certainly empty wallet and see how much he had left, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to know how much he had paid that Thai hooker to suck him off.

 

The phone rang. Paul picked it up shakily, and tried his best to sound cheerful.

“Hello, FBI. This is Paul DeKramer speaking. How may I help you?”

Sh*t. It was his wife. Gina had been a nice woman when she was younger, but age and an addiction to sherry had made her chest go south and her hair turn grey.

“Hey, honey!” she cried in the way she knew made Paul sick. “Guess who’s just come in right this very second?”

“I don’t know, Gina. Who?”

“It’s a guy who says he knows you. It’s Mr. Rosen, baby. Paul? Paul?”

But Paul didn’t reply. He had rushed off to his car before Mr. Rosen got bored and decided to tell his wife about what Paul really did on Friday nights.

 

Mr. Rosen sat down and sipped his Coca-Cola. He was admiring Gina’s ass (big, but what the hell, he liked big women) when Paul crashed through the door. He briefly said his greetings to Gina and beckoned for Mr. Rosen to follow him outside. They walked for a while until they sat down on a bench in the park. The sun was setting now, and kids were playing baseball down below them. A fat kid hit a homer and, while celebrating, tore his shorts in two. He ran home crying his eyes out.

 

Paul looked to the right. Two teenagers were walking down to the malt shop in the centre of the park. They looked oh so innocent but they’d probably be going at it like rabbits in a couple of hours.

 

Mr. Rosen coughed. Paul had forgotten all about him.

“I have a business proposition for you, Mr. DeKramer. It would be wise for you to accept it.”

Paul just stared straight ahead.

“It would be very difficult,” Mr. Rosen continued, “but the rewards are great. You will be out of my and my associate’s debt if you do this for us.”

That got Paul’s attention.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

 

Mr. Rosen stood up, cleared his throat and looked straight into Paul’s eyes.

“The King has asked you to kill your wife, Mr. DeKramer.”

He strode away, leaving Paul staring at the dying sunlight.

Edited November 26, 2007 by Chickstick

[grim reaper22]

This is new idea for a story...check out mine sometime.

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER THREE

Havana

18th December 1957

18:02

 

Alberto Alonso was a man who demanded respect. He had made his way up from a cheap pimp to the third richest man in all of Cuba. His vast empire of brothels and casinos took in millions of Yankee dollars a month, all of it tax-free. It was a shame then that the Angels of Death shot him halfway through his third course at the Lucky Lobster.

 

The shots echoed in the vast dining room for what seemed like hours. Panicking, the crowd dashed for the doors, not caring what or who they shoved out of the way to get there. A little old lady from Texas fell down hard and broke her replacement hip. She was about to start screaming when a fat car salesman from Las Tunas stood on her neck, snapping it in two. The tallest assassin, the leader of the Angels of Death, winced. He didn’t like civilian casualties, but stuff like this didn’t bother him anymore. Not much bothered him since the day he had walked in on the dead body of his wife.

 

Alonso’s body seeped blood. It had covered the table by now and was working it’s way into the obese Cuban’s spilled wine glass. The second-in-command of the Angels of Death thought to himself how he had never seen so much blood before. He scratched his ginger hair and looked for an exit before the cops came. He spotted one just as the third Angel of Death, a rookie who had been with the team for less than a year, blew his head off with his pistol.

 

 

New York

18th December 1957

18:56

 

Jimmy sat in the back of Marcello’s T-Bird wondering just what the hell he was going to do now. He stared out at the dark highway. They had only passed one car in the last half an hour, and that was at a roadside motel named Clark’s. It started to rain. It started off slowly, as rain tends to do, but soon it was bucketing down. Jimmy wondered when the last time it had rained like this was. He couldn’t remember.

 

Marcello had been silent the whole time. He shifted his position so he had one eye on Jimmy and one eye on the road.

“I’ve been thinking, kid. I’ve just kidnapped you, and I don’t know anything about you.”

Jimmy grunted. “You didn’t give me time to tell you, did you?”

Marcello laughed and fiddled with the radio for a while. All he could pick up was some rock and roll music (“I’m not listening to that crap” he mumbled to himself) so he turned round to face Jimmy again.

“What?” Jimmy asked.

“I hear you were involved in the drugs scene. Over in Jersey. How’s about telling us about it?”

Jimmy sighed. “You’d better get comfortable then. It’s a long story…”

Edited November 26, 2007 by Chickstick

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER FOUR

Washington, D.C.

19th December 1957

00:23

 

Gina DeKramer woke up. A noise from downstairs. Listening, she tried not to breath, as though she would die if she did so. It sounded like footsteps; maybe it was Paul? Only one way to find out, she thought, and pulled herself silently out of bed. She wrapped her dressing gown around her and looked around for a suitable weapon if the noise was not Paul but was in fact a burglar or a rapist. Her heavy eyes fell upon the expensive bottle of perfume (or “scented sh*t” as Paul called it) and she picked it up. She was ready for anything. She crept through to the hallway.

 

 

Havana

19th December 1957

00:23

 

The ginger-haired Angel of Death struggled to hold back the screams as the white-hot poker burnt itself into his naked flesh. If only that damn rookie hadn’t panicked and shot himself, he could have escaped. The security guards would never have caught him. The stocky Cuban fellow torturing him kneeled down beside him and whispered into the Angel of Death’s ear:

“Now, my fine American associate.”

He pronounced American “Arm-er-eec-arn”.

“Why, today of all days, did you decide to murder, in cold blood, my older and most beloved brother, who had never, in his entire God-fearing life, done anything against the United States of America?”

The Angel of Death stammered, “It was business. Nothing personal.”

The Cuban raised an eyebrow. “It was nothing personal, you say? Only business?”

The AOD nodded.

“So is this.”

The Cuban stuck the poker in the American’s eye.

 

 

Miami

19th December 1957

00:23

 

George S. (for “Samson”) Henkleburger III was a billionaire. He was also a recluse. Long years in the Florida sun and numerous bouts with depression had destroyed part of his mind and he spent his long days playing with toy soldiers and watching pretty girls in bikinis lounging on the beach in front of his fifty-room mansion. George was a crazy old coot from the Deep South but he sure knew how to girl-watch.

 

George was startled from his nap (he had recently taken to sleeping by day- he was a night owl) by the soft touch of his assistant, Penny, a dumb blonde with big tits who knew how to use them to get what she wanted.

She purred, “Georgie, it’s the King on the line.”

“What does that dirty Italian want?” groaned George.

“He says it’s about James Mattaloni.”

 

Edited December 1, 2007 by Chickstick

[Vercetti21]

This is really good, dude. Extremely well-written, captivating, and all-around interesting, I was pulled in from the start. I hope you keep going with this, because I will definitely be following along with it myself.

 

Also, thanks again for your support on "Viva Las Vegas" so far.

[Ryunday]

Not bad, not bad at all. I really like the theme of the story. Keep up the good work.

[Oxidizer]

I'm so glad the chaptes are reasonably sized, it makes it easier when you're lagging and catching up like me.

 

So far, so awesome. Keep it up!

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER FIVE

Washington, D.C.

19th December 1957

00:34

 

Gina had time to scream once. Only once. The noise that had surprised her earlier turned out to be a masked intruder with a knife. A long, sharp knife. Her high-pitched scream was cut short when the same knife was shoved into her throat. A quiet gurgling cry replaced it. She died before she had the chance to see that her murderer was her husband.

 

 

Miami

19th December 1957

00:42

 

George put the phone down. His hands were shaking. Penny was standing by the door. For once, she looked like she actually was concerned for his well being, not just acting. Closing his eyes, he thought back to the time he had met her.

 

It had been the March of the previous year. March 14th, 1956. He had been walking down the beach, leering at the semi-naked teenage girls as he usually did, when he saw her. He knew there was something different about her from the moment he clapped eyes on her. Even now he hadn’t realised what it was. He had walked up to her, faltering at first, but then gaining confidence with every step. They had chatted and one thing led to another, and here they were, almost two years down the line, the old and the young. George knew she was only with him so she would collect all of his money when he died, but he didn’t care. He liked the sex.

 

 

Havana

19th December 1957

00:54

 

The two Cubans gently lowered the American’s ruined body into the shallow grave. One looked at the face of the corpse and puked. His eyes and nose were gone, burnt away to a raw mess.

 

They took ten minutes to bury the thing that had been alive only an hour ago. Henry Underwood, Yale graduate, father of five and Angel of Death, was six feet under, as the saying goes.

 

 

Washington, D.C.

19th December 1957

00:56

 

The balding man woke up with a start to see his deputy knocking at his window.

“Quiet! You’ll wake my wife!” he hissed after he had unlatched the window.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” whispered the deputy in reply, “but it can’t wait. It’s very important. Two of the Angels of Death are down. In Cuba.”

The balding man’s stony face shrouded itself in disbelief.

“Get me the King.”

The man outside the window replied, “Yes, Mr. President.”

 

Edited December 10, 2007 by Chickstick

[Vercetti21]

I still think this is good, but you're jumping back and forth between settings and characters really often. It makes it hard to follow. Are you planning to connect these story fragments together soon?

[Chickstick]

I still think this is good, but you're jumping back and forth between settings and characters really often. It makes it hard to follow. Are you planning to connect these story fragments together soon?

That's what I was worried about, to be honest, and I'm surprised no-one else has mentioned that yet. To answer your question, it's like this for two, maybe three more chapters depending on what I change from my first draft. Reading through it again, the Prologue is the best chapter for me, and i intend to make the majority of the chapters like that.

 

Thanks for the feedback as well, everyone. It's good to see that people are reading and also replying- it's gotten my confidence up with writing this story, I can tell you that!

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER SIX

Washington, D.C.

19th December 1957

00:58

 

Mr. Rosen breathed in the cigarette smoke. His girlfriend lay naked and sleeping beside him. Her soft breathing soothed his nerves. Had it really been only earlier today that he had told DeKramer to kill his wife? Rosen had perfected the menacing look his work required, but inside it scared him what he had become. He was an enforcer for the most powerful criminal in the United States- the King. He glanced at the clock next to the bed, squinting in the semi-darkness, and pulled himself up. He wanted a brandy and he wanted one now.

 

Rosen tried to make as little noise as he could but he still woke Marilyn. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. Seeing Rosen looking at her she smiled and pulled the covers up to her chin.

“It’s cold in here all alone, Billy. Come to bed.”

“I will in a minute, Mar’.”

Rosen smiled at her and walked into the kitchen. He poured a brandy (a very large brandy) for himself and a Martini for Marilyn. He took them back into the bedroom and neither of them slept again that night.

 

 

New York

19th December 1957

00:58

 

Jimmy pulled over into the motel car park and wished that he had brought a drink along with him. It had turned out that Denny Marcello was actually a nice guy, and Jimmy had been talking about his past continuously for almost three hours. Marcello had convinced him to stop over at a motel for the night, until they continued their journey to Chicago to meet the King, who for reasons as yet unknown wanted to see Jimmy. Mattaloni knew that he should run now while Marcello’s guard was down, but curiosity had gotten the better of him. Oh well, he thought as he and Marcello trudged silently towards the Sleepy Nites Motel, at least if I’m dead tomorrow I’ll know the reason why.

 

 

Miami

19th December 1957

00:58

 

Penny squealed as George went in again. Her breasts rubbed against his face. He was about to shout “That’s the way Georgie does it, baby!” when he felt a searing pain in his chest. He collapsed. Penny screamed.

Edited December 9, 2007 by Chickstick

[Vercetti21]

Great chapter. I'm beginning to feel more connected with these characters, not that I wasn't before. But you're doing an excellent job of identifying them, something that most writers struggle with. Keep up the good work.

[Oxidizer]

Right. Finally caught up! (I'm just glad these chapters are short otherwise I'd have been pretty f*cked at this point ).

 

What can I say? Other than excellent!

 

Seriously, I like the way you've set it up, the style, the plot. Everything. I'm surprised you haven't got a bit more feedback if I'm honest, but I'm hoping to change that now that I'm getting back into the whole fic thing.

 

Update again soon!

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER SEVEN

Chicago

19th December 1957

02:43

 

The King downed his cocktail in one. His lady friend, Maria, but known to everyone as “Mercedes” whooped with delight.

“That’s it, that’s it, down in one!” she yelled, her strong Russian accent gaining the attention of pretty much every sober person in the nightclub. A couple of times she had been approached by “commie haters” as she dubbed them, but they always left her alone when they found out who her boyfriend was. Nobody messed with the King.

 

The band changed the music to Oh Marie. The singer was a handsome man, Mercedes thought, and reminded her a little of her long-dead husband back in the old country. She still missed Ivan, but her wild life with the King erased his memory day by day. Soon, she supposed, she would forget about Ivan altogether.

 

Sighing, she turned her interest back to the discussion the King was having with his two closest associates, Joseph and Phillip King. Twins, nobody could tell them apart.

 

The King said, “What about that f*cking new kid over in Cuba! Reports came back to me via Ike that he’d blown his head off, and Henry got caught. He’ll be dead now. We’re two down. Danny was the only one who got out alive, and he’s still stuck in some Florida swamp waiting for us to come pick him up.”

Joseph (or possibly Phillip) replied, “We need some new recruits. Three at the most, though two would be preferable. A trio has always worked best in the past. What did the President say?”

“Oh, that bald f*cker? Told me to sort it out. Probably so he could go golfing. He’ll be out of office by ’60, though, so he doesn’t matter. Any suggestions for the new recruits?”

Mercedes was confused. The one thing the King had never discussed with her was the business side of things that she was eavesdropping on now.

“Bill Rosen, definitely. I think it’s time for him to get a promotion. He’s worked well for us since the war.”

There was a silence for a few seconds, until Phillip (or possibly Joseph) said, “What about Mattaloni?”

 

 

Washington, D.C.

19th December 1957

05:23

 

Rosen groaned and wondered who the hell was calling him at this time of the morning. If it were anyone other than his mother calling, quietly growing old and insane at an insane asylum in Colorado, he’d shout so many profanities down the phone at them he’d make Satan himself blush.

 

He never got the chance. Marilyn came back in to the room after answering the phone with a face as white as a ghost.

“Who is it?” Rosen demanded.

Marilyn whimpered, “It’s the King.”

Edited December 10, 2007 by Chickstick

[Vercetti21]

Good chapter. A bit short and more of a transitional thing, but still a good chapter. It's written well and I like that you left it in suspense.

[Oxidizer]

I love that no matter how short this is, that it really does work and is pretty suspenseful and cool, y'know?

 

And that takes talent, and for that I envy you.

[silviodante]

Finally got around to reading it, glad I did too. I like your writing style where you have seperated each chapter into one or more different storylines, must've been hard to come up with. I can see how these characters are going to meet in the chapters ahead.

Loving the story and can't wait to read more about this "King" and the Angels of Death.

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER EIGHT

Havana

19th December 1957

08:34

 

Fidel Alonso drew the rich tobacco smoke into his lungs and leaned back in his expensive leather-bound chair. He was feeling surprisingly upbeat, considering his brother had just been murdered, but no wonder. Already he had been appointed as leader of the Alonso crime empire. He was now the most powerful man in the Caribbean. Indeed, in all of the Americas he had only one enemy with power greater than his- the King. By the New Year, mused Alonso, the King shall be dead and I shall be the most powerful man in the Americas.

 

 

Washington, D.C.

19th December 1957

09:51

 

Paul DeKramer picked up his gun, loaded it, placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

The resulting shot tore the top of his head off, his brain seeping blood as it veered crazily through the air before coming to rest on his wife’s corpse. His neighbour, a certain Vincent Reynolds, thirty-three and already going bald on top, heard the noise and went to investigate. He screamed when he saw the bloody mess inside the DeKramer household. It took four hours and two bottles of smelling salts to calm him down.

 

 

Miami

19th December 1957

11:32

 

“Come on, Georgie, pull through. Please pull through.” It took a while for Penny to realise she was talking to herself in the lonely silence of the hospital waiting room. Closing her eyes, she swept her manicured hands through her thick blonde hair. George had always seemed to her as immortal; as if only God Himself could destroy him, not a heart attack.

 

Her thoughts were interrupted when the doctor, an ugly old bastard with bad breath and worse teeth, eased open the door from the operating theatre and cleared his throat.

Penny sprang to her feet.

“How is he? How is he?”

“Miss Owens, I think you had better sit down.”

“Just tell me how he is!”

An awkward silence.

“Well… Miss… he’s dying.”

[Vercetti21]

Excellent writing Chickstick, as always. Can't wait to read more, you've got me in suspense.

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER NINE

A lonely highway between Washington, D.C. and Chicago

19th December 1957

12:42

 

The Bel Air cruised down the empty tarmac, breaking the still silence. Rosen started to sweat, even in the crisp December air. He rolled the window down a little and lit a cigarette. He was scared. The King had demanded him to come to the safehouse in Chicago for the only time since the war. Word was that to be summoned to the safehouse was a metaphor for being murdered. Rosen prayed that wasn’t the case.

 

To put his mind at ease he thought about what he had bought Marilyn for Christmas. An expensive silver necklace, with diamonds that would charm her ass off. Ten thousand dollars of his bonus it had cost him. Almost all of it, but Marilyn would love it, and that was all that mattered to him. Apart from her and his work, nothing much had mattered to him since he had seen the Japs massacre his entire platoon.

 

 

Miami

19th December 1957

12:43

 

Penny dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, rubbing it black with tears and mascara. George would be dead within the next few hours unless a blood transfusion could take place. She sighed, knowing this was never going to happen.

 

Penny stood up and walked over to the room in which George was sleeping. Through the tiny, dirty window, he looked almost like a baby, peacefully sleeping in a mother’s arms, rather than an old man with a terrible heart problem. She started to cry again, for what felt like the hundredth time.

 

 

Klondike Swamp

Florida

14:10

 

Danny Carragher was bored now. The king’s men were supposed to have arrived to pick him up over two hours ago, but so far there had been neither sight nor sound of them. Danny cursed to himself. How could they leave the best damn man they had out here in redneck county for so long? He was the only Angel they had left.

 

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up. The unseen driver honked the horn and Danny jumped in the back. To his surprise it wasn’t the King who had sent these men to pick him up.

 

The Cuban driver turned round, scowled at him, and took a gun out of his pocket.

[Vercetti21]

Man, I'm loving this story. Keep writing! I love how you end each chapter in a cliffhanger.

[Oxidizer]

Word.

 

This is so awesomely unique, dude. I'm looking forward to more!

[Chickstick]

CHAPTER TEN

Outskirts of New York

19th December 1957

16:41

 

Marcello chewed his tobacco like a cow chewing grass, slowly and almost lovingly. He had been chewing at the same piece for the last two hours, Jimmy noticed. Surely it must have lost all of its taste by now? He was about to mention this to Marcello when Denny spoke first:

“Turn the radio on, Jimmy. We’ll see what the locals listen to in these parts.”

 

Jimmy did as instructed and spent the next two minutes messing about with the radio until he picked up a signal. It kept switching between stations, even in a car as new as this. A preacher first, then a Bible story, then a drama serial (how Jimmy remembered them from his youth in the orphanage!), the new song from Fats Domino… nothing worth listening to, until a news programme came on.

 

“You are listening to SMCBS,” the newsreader droned, “an all-American station, bringing you the most up to date news available in this state. Main news today is the sudden death of noted property tycoon and bachelor George Henkleburger, who passed away less than an hour ago in Miami. More news after this message from Thompson Hardware, in Stoneville.”

 

Denny Marcello turned the radio off, scratched the back of his head, and whispered the word “f*ck” under his breath.

 

 

Klondike Swamp, Florida

19th December 1957

17:12

 

Danny tried to struggle out of the ropes, but the Cubans who had kidnapped him knew how to tie knots. He was lying in grass, odd for this part of the swamp, and couldn’t move.

 

He looked up to the Cuban who had driven the car to this secluded spot and demanded, “What are you going to do?”

He tried to sound fearless, but in reality he was sh*tting himself.

The Cuban merely smiled at him and returned to the small shack nearby in which the three Cubans who had bound him were talking.

 

Five minutes passed until the Cubans came back out into the sticky damp of the swamp. The leader of the men barked an order, and the smaller man walked over to Danny and stuck a dirty oil rag in his mouth. The other man began to dig a hole in the ground. A hole just the right size for Danny.

[silviodante]

Great chapter Chickstick. I'm now making sure I read this everytime I check out Writer's Discussion.

[Chickstick]

 

Thanks, everyone, for your comments. It means a lot that people are taking the time to read my writing.

[Coral_City]

This is a fantastic crime story, and not only that, it's pretty damn original. At first, I thought it was going to be another mafia story but apparently, I was wrong! I love how you interconnect the stories, and your style of writing is wonderful. It's very Mario Puzo-esque, if you ask me. Description is fair, though it can be more detailed and you definitely squeeze more into certain "sections", but other than that -- fantastic Grade A story.

 

Keep up the good writing!