Concept THIRD RAIL: A CONCEPT

[slimeball supreme]

THEME

Red Triangle - Red Line - Bohemians & Blackjack - I Rode Mine to LS

 

CRIME, COMMUNISM, AND CAPITAL H

YET AGAIN IN PRE-9/11 LIBERTY CITY, GOD FORBID

THE METROPOLIS THAT GOD FORGOT

 

A COLLABORATION BETWEEN CEBRA AND SLIMEBALL

 

Find yourself in the beaten-down shoes of Derrick McReary and his crew of make-do hitmen and armed robbers - boys killing crooks for a cause. Throughout a multi-year narrative in the height of Liberty City’s 1980’s decay, a setting unexplored in as much nuance and depth, juggle a commitment to criminality alongside counter-cultural politics and a love of the needle.

 

Three inseparable friends.

 

Eldest of the infamous McReary clan, with significant distaste for family affairs. Played high school truant with Bucky Sligo to attend Vietnam protests in the seventies; Derrick picked up a young O’Malley on the way and graduated from activism, to rioting, to robbery. After a Vespucci scholarship fell through, Derrick went to prison, developed a taste for the needle while rotting in the can. May have lost the bars, but he didn’t lose the itch. Now a freelancer for his father and associates: Derrick splits his time and his money between his convictions and his dependencies.

 

Blue-collar Dukes-born communist. A self-taught intellectual who dropped out of school by the tenth grade - fell into Derrick’s crowd of bohemian collegiates and found himself drawn to the ideology more than the free love. Much like Derrick, Buck sees crime as employment; bankroll for his true passions within the militant Marxist left. And he’s willing to do whatever it takes to empower his comrades.

 

Raised in The Settlecots and homeschooled by a Catholic family from Galway: Aiden never lost the accent, nor the faith, nor the pride in his homeland. A move to Steinway brought O’Malley into orbit of the McReary dynasty and introduced him dually to Liberty’s burgeoning underworld and Derrick and Bucky’s world of intellectual respite. Fed up with a confederation of ignorant wiseguys, Aiden has three things left: his crew, his girl, and the cause.

 

JIMMY PEGORINO - Bridge-and-Tunnel mafia brat and pig headed f*cking idiot. Scion of Alderney’s new boss, whose familial connections to the Gambettis and Messinas put him head-first into Irish affairs; now knee-deep in the Sligo-O’Malley stickup crew. A fourth companion playing third wheel, feeling largely out of step thanks to a significant lack in the brains department - though he tries to play it cool. Grows a ponytail in ‘85.

 

JULIA BLEDSOE - Aiden’s longtime girlfriend; he met her a while back at a university club for a university he weren't attending and the sparks flew from there. Largely unknowing of his criminal career if not his criminal past, Julia’s supporting of Aiden’s own delving into activism - even if the protesting ain't always non-violent. To both his and Derrick’s family, Aiden’s love for her is an invitation for scorn, for rather obvious reasons. He loves her all the same.

 

ALISTAIR ‘ALLIE’ O’KEEFFE - Immigrant owner of the infamous Steinway Beer Garden: a close associate of the McReary Crew, longtime friend of the O’Malley family, and significantly connected to the good ol’ IRA. Allie had his tendrils deep in the emigré community peddling petty fraud schemes before being put on the McReary bill; hustling his name onto the deed of a mob bar and sending chunks of cash back home to the Provos on the low. Found his perhaps treasonous activities tacitly endorsed by Big Jack himself - for blood and country, if not for their socialist politics. 

 

FERGAL ENRIGHT - Irish-Catholic lawyer and proud director for the Sons of Eriu Defense Trust. Born, raised, and now operating the SEDT between a Fortside brownstone and South Bohan community center; since the Seventies its been Ferg’s mission to get on just about every goddamn soapbox he can find to spread the gospel on Republicanism. Been banned from entry to Britain twice and violated said ban six times. He’s proud, angry. Some would say a blowhard. He would say righteous.

 

OSSIAN ‘OSH’ HOY - Massive scary f*cking guy and pointman for the IRA’s American gun smuggling ring. An old friend of Allie O’Keeffe’s from back in the day now finding himself working closely with the local Irish, taking loans and giving favors in exchange for guns and explosive by the truckload. Working indirectly with the SEDT: a legitimate aid organization, sure, but always happy to spare handouts for the right people.

 

JARLATH ‘JOCK’ MUNRO - Former volunteer IRA working with the Provos in Belfast; Jock killed an SAS man. Got tackled by ten others and charged with murder. What’d the scrawny f*cker do? Scrawny Jock held the prison guard at gunpoint, locked the guy in his own cell, and fled the country on a false passport. Rat-faced little man is now working under the name Milo Selkirk on a no-work job at the SEDT. Ferg was happy to do it. A bloody saint, that fecker is.

 

QISTINA THAWRA - The fierce leader of the North Holland based Abolitionist Revolutionary Cadre, Qistina was born Helen: moved between Dukes and North Carolina for much of her youth before radicalizing in community college. So came the name. Associated with the Holland chapter of the Leopards of Leandros before splitting into her own organization in a disagreement over tactics. f*ck appealing to the white establishment, she told them. Send ‘em to the f*cking sky. Since 1977, she’s been serving a forty-year sentence at a women’s correctional: robbed a bank with a grenade and killed a cop in the getaway. The Cadre’s keen to let her out early.

 

BONIFACE POPE - Acting leader of the ARC in place of Qistina. Sagacious and well-read, Boniface is openly homosexual and openly anarchist; the f*cker’s temerity has earned him respect. Respect he wields, but he’s never been much a field operator. His mind has always been his preferred weapon. Writes his own theory in his spare time - has eight books to his name that around six have read. Self-published.

 

OTHMAN OVYO - Logistics and information: the ARC’s fixer. Proud Maoist muscle in the footsteps of Birchwood’s Leopards, Othman worked in community detox programs and youth centers for much of his twenties before snapping over funding cuts. Split his time between Lenin and Malcolm X after that. Ovyo’s found that reform is an idiot’s goal - that a house can’t be built with the master’s tools - and has been on the front lines since he joined the Cadre. Licensed acupuncturist.

 

REJEANNE COKER - From a long line of anti-racists from the deep south; Rejeanne saw the value of intersectionality early on, trailblazed her way through San Andreas colleges - brought women’s lib into patriarchal leftist orgs, moved to San Fierro to stand in solidarity with the black power movement by the 70s and joined up with the ARC. Didn’t long last as a free woman; she soon after got nabbed on some loose ammo laying around during a traffic stop and got sentenced up the river for a decade. Got furloughed in ‘78 though, death in the family. She’s been underground ever since.

 

VICKIE JOYNER-BASS - A Couira native and bonafide red diaper baby, Vickie was a nascent political organizer in the wake of the ‘71 prison riots - ultimately fell in with From the Barrel, fell out when it lost its momentum against federal pressure and the cooldown in ‘Nam, fractioned with a trusty sisterhood of Swain, Thawra, et al. It wasn’t long lasted. Before long the bunch’d latched onto a movement with greater immediacy and goals in mind: the ARC. Likes to sue the US government in her free time.

 

DEACON COLQUHOUN & GLADIA SWAIN - Now young parents who first met through NoNIMROD in the late 60s, Colquhoun and Swain complemented one another from the beginning: Colquhoun, the academic, was a political theorist and journalist. Swain preferred direct action. They found a fusion of the two; graduated from NoNIMROD to FTB to ARC alongside their friend Vickie Bass and soon went underground. Deacon cashed out his family’s Israel bonds for funding, Gladia fine-tuned her driving skills. Their love for each other matches that of the cause.

 

JOHN JACK MCREARY - The McReary patriarch. Spends his time between Dukes and his old home in Purgatory; moved to the outer boroughs to raise his boy. Unfortunately, his boy didn’t much care for him. A legend in underworld circles for sheer balls and propensity for trigger-pulling - McReary pulls off hits and muscle-work for two of Liberty’s five families: pro bono work for an admiring Jon Gravelli, and a similar alliance with Sicillian professional Memo Smokes. He trusts neither.

 

MAUREEN MCREARY - Long-struggling housewife and former troublemaker in her youth, Maureen found comfort in the church and married her first flame in her teens: turned a young Mrs. Jack McReary. In a household where bark quickly turns bite, she remains a devout Catholic and Derrick’s anchor to home. May the Lord have mercy.

 

FRANCIS MCREARY - Self-destructive brother of Derrick’s with a clear conscience yet, Frankie is in the process of eschewing the family business in favor of religious education. Now entering the seminary, Frank’s own latent vices won’t stop him from preaching, nor exalting his values upon the weary masses. A boy desperate for meaning: just not in Derrick’s pinko ways, or his father’s criminality.

 

‘KIT SPOILS’ WHELAN - In the absence of his first born, a father-son relationship formed between one Roderick Whelan and boss Jack McReary. Now Big Jack’s right-hand man, Kit has a surplus in brawn and one f*cked up brain - several trips to a psych ward both in his youth and during prison-time and an insanity plea in the early Seventies. Big Jack trusts him enough as his main enforcer, though necrotic gray matter and an antipsychotic prescription leave something to be desired.

 

CRAIG TOLMIE - Professional hitman and clean-up expert: taught Jackie a trick where you cut the bodies up and spread them at different points on the West River shoreline. Sick f*ck. Has a van in his shed called the Meat Wagon used to shuttle bodies, both alive and not-so-alive, from burial ground to burial ground.

 

GRIFF ‘THE BERK’ BISSET - Former altar boy steered away from the church while Big Jack’s second son went and stayed; Griff the Berk serves as an aide-de-camp and lieutenant primarily selling guns and pot for cheap. Despite being a weaker link, Griffin also handles the odd bit of finance, being one of the few Irish entrusted by the Italians to work construction no-shows.

 

KENNY & MERRICK KEIR - Young pair of up-and-comers with a taste for heroin - both for selling and the occasional and not-so-occasional use. Offer Derrick a discount now and then in exchange for an odd job or two: finding themselves rather wary of violence, at least for their profession.

 

DERMOTT ‘DARBY’ MCENIRY - Old muscle with three kids, two of whom want nothing to do with him. Darby is a confidant of Jack’s: comes down for supper with the big man, swaps stories, gives pertinent advice on high profile issues. Always has a couple bucks in his jacket for Patrick and Katey, a couple words of wisdom for Frankie and Derrick. His guidance - let as much blood as possible, and reap the weak for all they have.

 

SIMONE ‘MEMO SMOKES’ TRUNGALE - A demanding, entitled psychopath who got his name for an affinity for tobacco: cigars and cigarettes. Made his bones for the Pavanos killing a dissident from Italy on behalf of Mussolini himself, but skipped for the Messinas when Don Zio became persona non grata. Became Joe ‘the Mess’ Messina’s consigliere, helped settle a squabble in Montreal between the zip family, ensured tons of coke for his fellas in the city. Now acting boss after ‘Tommy Waters’ Bisacquino got sentenced to 30 years in ‘79. He’s intent on becoming official boss. Some don’t like that. Memo don’t care.

 

HARVEY NOTO - The protege of Memo Smokes: a born gangster, moneylender extraordinaire, wise beyond his years in a graduating class of wiseguys who can’t keep their mouths shut. Would’ve been made Gambetti if it weren’t for family ties to Trungale himself, a man he serves dutifully and without hesitation despite Memo’s hostilities. Through his own back-breaking work, even has Trungale’s arch-nemesis Jonnie Gravelli working hand-in-hand with the Messina's now-a-days. Hal Noto never had time for rivalry - just business.

 

HARRISON ‘HARRY THE HAT’ HALL - The right-hand man of Harvey Noto: a talented pimp, pusher, veteran, and degree-holding lawyer who nigh-exclusively manages the Messina Family’s skin businesses. Served years in Vietnam with an honorable discharge and funded his law degree pushing chicks out of hotels. Only ever caught for two crimes: going over the speed limit in ‘78, and lying he was half-Jewish to get into college. Now he lies he’s half-Italian. On it goes.

 

DIODATO ‘MART DIO’ MARTIGNONI - Highly influential caporegime in the Broker wing of the Messinas, loyal only to Tommy Waters. No nonsense; he sees the paths being taken by boss Memo Smokes as detrimental to the family’s already shaky reputation. He’s stockpiling weapons. He’s expecting war. He knows Smokes ain’t one for negotiation. Now the de facto boss of a triumvirate of captains preparing for a coup: alongside his pal Freddy Rigs and a wannabe geep named Dodo Lank. It’s up to Harvey Noto to make sure they don’t pull the trigger.

 

PANCRAZIO ‘CRAZY PANS’ MARTIGNONI - Son of Mart Dio; his nickname may be a bastardization, but the fella’s got a reputation for being f*cking crazy. Brazen hitman under his father’s crew and proudly at his every beck and call, Crazy Pans is being groomed to take over the capo position when his pops (hopefully) gets acting boss from Tommy Waters. Owns a pretty boat.

 

SIGISMONDO ‘JOE MUNDY’ FONTANA - North Broker capo and personal friend of Memo Smokes. One-time cohort of Harvey Noto through blood ties, ditto with Tommy Waters himself before his trip up the river; Joe Mundy’s made his allegiances known all the same. Chummy as they come with new-into-the-fold Sally Boy but significantly less so with Joe Ootz the kick-up bum, Mundy acts primarily intermediary for Memo Smokes himself. The man needs all the insulation he can get - and Joe Mundy’s keen to provide in exchange for the looming spoils of loyalty.

 

EUTIMO ‘JOE OOTZ’ DI NUOVO - Similarly nicknamed soldier of Joe Mundy with reams of personal problems: a drug-addicted son, a tumultuous second marriage, and a severe deficiency in earn despite a mountain of hits to his name. Only one light in the darkness; his protege. A whiny, frugal little man.

 

SALVATORE ‘SALLY BOY’ MANGANO - A Florida-born wiseguy only recently brought into the Messina family fold as the trainee of Joe Ootz. A small-time diamond thief and self-proclaimed expert, Sally’s excited to get made and often lets his stature - 6’2, built like a f*cking ox - do the talking more than the few words he’s willing to say. He’s quiet like that. Earn and brawn.

 

‘KUNG FU’ CARLO TORTORA - Taught in the way of the hit by Mart Dio and childhood friend of Crazy Pans; Kung Fu Carlo is larger than life, with the bodycount to match. For the Messina clan in Broker, he is the go-to guy, a professional killer who finds nothing but joy in his work. Tortora balances a dedication to murder and decapitation with an admiration for the Shaolin - he’s a lover of Byron Fu flicks who spent three years learning kung fu in Hong Kong. There’s rumors he still finds it handy.

 

MELVIN ‘THE SKIV’ SCHIAVONE - Bantonvale capo and common mediator within and outside the family; mostly thanks to the deep, deep roots of his family tree. Fireworks salesman, pigeon coop keeper, many-a cousin to many-a wiseguy - Broker Mel the Wiseguy Broker has aligned himself with the interests of Memo Trungale, but is always looking for a compromise.

 

MARK ANTHONY & ALFREDO VOLPE, JR. - The teenage sons of infamous Dukes capo ‘Freddy Rigs’ Volpe, Sr.; top Bisacquino loyalist and Francis International truck hijacker. The dynamic duo are never too far apart; and always ready to get their hands dirty for the good of their family name. Mark? A lowdown legbreaker always happy to crack skulls. Fredo Junior? Long faced weasel along for the ride.

 

OLIVIERO ‘OLLIE LULU’ GLIUGLIU - The liaison between the Messinas’ Canadian friends: the Cazzini crime family. A serial divorcee and native Quebecois who ostensibly manages a Bohan jeweler and a Montreal pizza parlor. Both are fronts for cocaine and heroin trafficking, both just the beginning of a dark and labyrinthine international network of the world’s most prolific dealers.

 

JON GRAVELLI - Somehow both flamboyant and quiet, somehow both a modernist and traditionalist, somehow both conservative and liberal in his leadership: ‘Teflon’ Jon Gravelli is the much-revered boss of Liberty’s most powerful mob family. A man with exuberant taste in clothes and cars but a habit of keeping his mouth laced shut. A man with a rolodex of proteges to his name in an ever-revolving list of one young, preeminent killer after another. A pragmatist, a stern but cautious voice, a horny old f*cking bat, a titan. Jon Gravelli today, off the back of his predecessor Sonny’s death in federal penitentiary, has modernized a crime family. Sought to mend broken relations with the long-maligned Messina clan. Placed a firm grasp on the white collar - on construction racketeering and union corruption. But the man, ever specious, keeps one eye open and the other shut with his ban against drug dealing. He has clear favorites. Many aren’t pleased.

 

BART ‘THE CHINK’ CHIARUGI - Long-suffering underboss of the Gambettis; a traditionalist in the wholly-untraditional Gravelli regime. Passed over for the boss position after Sonny Cangelosi’s passing and resentful since his death in ‘78, Chiarugi’s respect among the ranks and own personal, wide-ranging profits in less-than-savory business has seen good enough reason for Gravelli to keep him installed as underboss. He’s emasculated. Chiarugi was mentored by men who killed for less. A spry little gossip, Bart Slopes has seen fit to bend the world to his whim from the shadows: a world of backchat, sh*ttalk, and finger-crossing to the face of his boss. His ‘boss’, oh how he loathes it. Wouldn’t even help bail out his son! Disgrazia, he says. Many listen.

 

PETER REA - One of the most ambitious wiseguys in Liberty’s LCN: Jon Gravelli’s protege in the early Seventies, hijacking whiz on the FIA-to-Zephyr route, loan-enforcer, hitman. A charismatic, cocky son of a bitch finding himself a friend to many and an enemy to many more - he’s arguably Jon Gravelli’s unofficial second underboss; captain of a highly profitable Dukes crew with a team of knuckleheads to his name. It’s said Pete Rea is exempt from any family rules: drug dealing, profit splitting, breaking laws of silence. It’s a blind spot that makes Pete a mafia prince. A blind spot soon to be exploited by an envious Bart Chiarugi.

 

‘BOBBY BUFFET’ MAISTO - Lennox Island’s own Pete Rea: just sans ambition, charisma, reputation, and most everything else except position. A f*cking idiot goombah like Bobby who can't take a jab at his expense half as good as a fist? He'd have fallen off the bottom rung anywhere else if it weren't for him being such a goddamn suckup. And Bobby Buffet, brutish Lennox Island greaseball, always sucked up big to Bart Chiarugi - got him position number two. Unsurprisingly most despise him - just not to his face.

 

REGGIE ‘THE REDHEAD’ DELLO RUSSO - Psychopath murderer and recently-made member of the Gambetti crime family. Though Reggie answers to one Gino Sbarra; he runs his own crew out of a Broker nightclub used simultaneously as a hangout and a cemetery. An enterprising car-thief and drug dealer, Redhead Reg formed a particular bond with Bart the Chink around the same time Jon befriended Jackie the Mick - his team serving a third purpose as Bart’s personal hit squad.

 

EUGENIO ‘GENIE’ SBARRA - Reggie the Redhead’s babysitter. Longtime confidant, somehow simultaneously, of both Jon Gravelli and Bart the Chink. Broker farm baby who traded military service for a Weir Ridge barbershop when the recruiters told him no, brittle bone disease don’t cut it in the army. Discouraging, sure, he wanted to f*cking kill Krauts, but he settled for killing Italians on behalf of Teflon Jon instead. After a stint as a personal aide to the boss, he’s now a middle-man for both Jon and Bart’s proxy crews. Whichever man he favors may get an upper hand when conflict inevitably knocks at the Gambetti door.

 

‘JOHNNY CHEESE’ PEGORINO - Together with his brother and underboss ‘Vinny Lumps’, and septuagenarian consigliere Sergio ‘Sergie Goggs’ Serradifalco; Johnny Cheese runs the Pegorino Crew. Crew, family, family, crew - depending on who you ask the family across the West River are either a glorified bunch of hick Tudor farmers; or willing puppets of the Gambetti regime. They’re both. Johnny personally answers to Jon Gravelli and works hand-in-hand with the Dukes-based McReary Gang. His son Jimmy, the dullard, is personal friends of Big Jack’s son Derrick. Big Jack is friends with Jon. Jon is friends with Johnny. Johnny’s an old friend of Jack. On and on it goes.

 

APOLLO ‘CHICK’ POMPA - High school dropout with impulse control disorder - record on paper might not support him but the numbers do. Rare example of a friend of Jon’s just as much personal as business, Chick Pompa’s nevertheless had a hand in nearly every business deal that’s bought the don his kingdom - Messina connects on scag, a paper trail for his social club Stanzino, the works. He’s his number one, no doubt about it. Lowkey business acumen rivals his big f*cking mouth, but the former’s taken precedence of late: more than anything Chick enjoys taking a break from it all, sailing off the Florida coast in his shiny new cabin cruiser. He called her Titania.

 

SEYMOUR ‘ELMER TROUT’ ODIO - Senior capo specializing in the waste management business; Elmer Trout runs contracted dustcarts all over Broker and Lennox Island. Helped the Gambettis run garbage hauling in the city under a common alias for going on three-or-four decades. The man has his loyalties to the family’s older guard through the honorable Bart Chiarugi - seeing both him and his protege Joe ‘the Jew’ lo Giudice take up as some of his most vocal supporters. A modest, grandfatherly figure with a keen eye for surveillance; both against and for the family.

 

ROCCO ‘ROCKY SYKES’ SIACCALONE - Stone cold killer. Another of Gravelli’s greatest confidantes and fiercest loyalists, he’s never been shy to back up his words with the kind of dirty work that makes eager rounds in OC division break rooms. Good personal friend of the don and Chick Pompa alike, he’s never abandoned the bones he made as fixer. When that court officer gave Pete Rea lip? Rocky Sykes dealt. Nosy cowboy cops poked their nose where it don’t belong? Rocky Sykes dealt. High profile bodies jammed the grinder? Rocky Sykes dealt. How does he deal? With brass knuckles, blowtorches, and acid. 

 

RICKY ‘WITH THE HAIR’ CECCHIN - One of Gravelli’s closest lieutenants and a sycophant to his core; serving as an aide and second advisor when the consigliere isn’t available. Unfortunately, hasn’t got much in the way of advice. A likable toady with a thing for spray tan and the kind of jokes that won’t trigger a crisis of the ego.

 

MAFFEO NICHOLAS ‘MUFFY’ CHIARUGI - The greaseball son of Bart Slopes; got his name from his father’s affinity for leaving historical documentaries on while he worked. Loved the Renaissance stuff, the Venetian doges and the popes and the princes. You’d be lucky to get that sh*t out his son, though. A stunted, slimy little cockroach; a pimp and a drug fiend with an inferiority complex and sh*tty dress sense. His f*ckups never precluded his father’s love. You don’t touch his boy.

 

THURGOOD ‘RED TEDDY’ MOORE - Grew up in Dukes: Lenape father, half-Italian mother. As a result, grew up alongside wiseguys. Entrusted by Jon Gravelli as muscle and Pete Rea as a friend; Teddy’ll never get made and feels estranged as a result, with the immorality of his work weighing fiercely on his mind. Maybe he’ll cash his chips someday soon. Teddy won’t say - the fella don’t say nothing to nobody.

 

SILVIO ‘SIL SQUIBS’ RENZULLI - A man in Carmine Lupisella’s image, now family boss: quiet, smart, sociable. Never took a side in the family’s squabbles between Broker and Bohan; being from East Holland himself, his fair hand has made him a worthy fit for the throne. Has avoided wiretaps and surveillance for years and has few charges to his name - largely by sticking to the inside of his Ocelot when discussing operations. After all, he runs half the unions in the city. Can’t do that for long without being a little shrewd.

 

‘BENNY JIFF’ GAIONI - Sex pest consigliere from the family’s historically maligned Broker faction. Runs a bar named Mulligan's in Bantonvale which has become a de facto headquarters for all the borgata’s East Island operations. His knack for racketeering has made him one of the biggest earners of all the Old Families Five: has unions under his thumb, traffics heroin, loansharks, runs illicit gambling, extortion and burglary and homicide and heists. Amicable and clever? Sure. But a rapist. Dismemberer. Scum.

 

SANSONE ‘SONNY THE SAINT’ HONORATO - Depraved hitman for the Lupisellas who gained his reputation while working as Don Vincent’s personal cleaner. Did his first murder for the family at 19, plead his fifth hit and third court case down to a short stint in medium security prison. A pervert, psychopath, sadist. Plucks the eyebrows of the bodies he leaves for the cops and brings whores to family functions. The little words he speaks are vile - but the man values the organization above all. The Lupisellas’ most loyal soldier.

 

SEPE THE WRENCH & LEO PULEO - Frick and Frack. Longtime understudies of and collaborators with Benny Jiff; Dominic Sepe finding a place as his personal aide. Leo Puleo - former Ancelotti associate, stubborn fool, psychopath willing to kill for the smallest of slights. Dom ‘the Wrench’ - crafty, ruthless, ladder climbing sociopath also willing to kill for any and everything. Highly capable henchmen destined for greatness, if Gaioni has any say.

 

MARK LUPISELLA - Mark’s lost two father figures: his real father, Carmine Junior, beaten to death after an argument gone wrong. His Uncle Vincent, a guiding hand through adolescence and the accidental killer of Carmine Jr., has been serving a 15-year stretch upstate for conspiracy. Mark’s outlet? The ring. A talented boxer with the sport slowly fading behind him, Mark’s found his calling in the crime family that bears his name. His uncle encourages him the very same from behind the visiting room glass, though with the wordsmithing of men who can’t afford to let the hacks in on their business.

 

GILROY ‘GILL’ DONOVAN - Lupisella associate with ties to Harry Hall. One of a few Irish gangsters from the Broker side of the family who escaped indictment when the feds made a case in 1980. Some would say it was because he never really did anything of note: being a small time junkie hood who only really smuggled cigarettes and helped with prep work for an airport heist - but Gilly would tell you he was just too clever to get caught. Now Hall’s main guy for smack trafficking and sh*t-talking.

 

MOISHE ‘MOE’ SCHWARTZ - Born to a Neapolitan mother and Ukranian Jewish father, Moe from Bohan became a learned financial expert without attending university. Indebted himself to the family peddling books without tax and became the closest thing Vincent Lupisella ever had to consigliere through his short stint as the family’s "Boy King". He’ll never get made, but will always have high status among Bohan and Broker alike as an accountant and intermediary. A devoted zionist and right wing nutcase with no wife or children.

 

LUIGI VALVONA - The hedonistic boss of the Pavano Crime Family: Big Louie made his bones in the textile industry, mentored by the esteemed Eufrasio ‘Don Zio’ Pavano. Met his wife, a former seamstress more than half his age, and took off to managing the family at a distance. Often caught between a rural horse ranch in Upstate Liberty, an upscale home in Vice City’s suburbia, and many-a bath house in Algonquin’s downtown.

 

BALDOVINO ‘VINNIE BALDO’ ULLO - Geriatric Pavano underboss since 1972; Big Vinnie functions as Street Boss while his superior isolates in luxury. Operating out of a Cod Row social club and Louie Valvona’s cafe in Papaver Village, Vinnie Baldo is boss in all but name, and he wields the respect to boot. His name means business. The man has consulted with presidents.

 

VITO ‘DOG MEAT’ MENOTTI - Always kind of a weirdo: Pavano hitman and soldier with a mostly unremarkable record. Until he bought the dog food plant. Oh, that dog food plant. The big machines for grinding and canning and shipping. Legit income? Absolutely. Great for the family books, fraud, merch distribution, taxes. For grinding up bodies? Couldn’t be f*cking better. Makes the work that much easier when you’re throwing away mulch and you aren’t breaking the bones with hammers in the shed.

 

GIOVANNI ‘GIO THE STOAT’ ANCELOTTI - Gio took the reigns of the Ancelotti Family in a state of turmoil in the Seventies: pushed it even further through phony front bosses and open participation in the drug trade, then picked it back up when his Commission seat was at risk. Called him “Johnny the Stoat” ‘cause the guy was a f*cking weasel. A stubborn, flamboyant hoodlum with a knack for unorthodox business arrangements and a willingness to make dough regardless of moral consequence.

 

‘CHUBBY’ CHARLES MATTEO - Alderney City loanshark, Venturas bookie, Liberty City killer. A man of many skills and one of the Ancelotti Family’s most consistent earners since his early twenties, he’s one of Old Man Gio’s favorite made guys and a distant relative of his through in-laws. After the death of his own fiancee during childbirth he’s become a real sour f*ck: grumpy, greedy, gluttonous, growing into his nickname. As newly minted capo, he’s devoted himself to his don. He hasn’t got much else.

 

‘TONY BLACK’ SPOLETO - One of two sons to a legendary Ancelotti gangster; now one of Liberty’s premier white collar racketeers. Strongarms and owns a variety of legit businesses: leasing companies, entertainment bookers, video stores. When the Russians kicked him out of Hove after trying to muscle in on their gas bootlegging racket, he got his own guy; a doofus Israeli-Romanian yuppie named Mihai Pokrass who’s both braggadocious and deathly scared of him. The Jew drives a purple Enus. Tony Black’s happy to bankroll.

 

Across several years of wheeling, dealing, and stealing; the criminal economy of the city where all roads lead will be ruled by squabbling, greed, and gossip. A heavily intertwined game of power among gangsters will ensue, impacted by even the most minor of hits to the bottom line, in a world of crime more complex than Balkan politics. There’s always a name, always a face, always a beef, and at the end of the end there’ll always be a gunshot.

 

Derrick McReary is a hired gun alongside his two politically-inclined friends - occasionally alongside the less-inclined James Pegorino. Working partly as a liaison between Italian criminals and his father’s outfit of Dukes-and-Purgatory-based Irish; he and the motley crew split their time between the wiles of gangland power, whom they mostly loathe, and the places their payment goes. Money from jobs are often funneled to the most radical of radicals: Bucky opting for an uptown communist organization with a inkling toward direct action, and Aiden opting for a line to funding the Republican Army (both Provisional and Original) through an associate of the McReary Boys.

 

Derrick will divide himself between robbers, revolutionists, and gear. Enter the state of affairs. Get ready for so many f*cking Italian names your head starts spinning.

 

The Messina clan has always found itself marked by infighting and squabbling, and in that regard times surely haven’t changed. Its current leader, Simone ‘Memo Smokes’ Trungale, is just out of the can after a bid for narcotics trafficking. Leader, sure - but he’s only acting boss. Current official boss is Tomaso ‘Tommy Waters’ Bisacquino: only appointed after family namesake ‘Joe the Mess’ Messina’s retirement, and a role quickly lost when Bisacquino was sentenced to 30 years in prison in 1979. Trungale was promptly appointed to family leadership following a Commission meeting; the man’s clout and earn preceded him. Memo Smokes, despite being former Messina number-two, has a reputation: one for being a stubborn Sicilian mutt with a constant grudge and no love lost for compromise. His leadership has marked a quick return to moving scag, largely processed through Quebecois affiliates like Ollie Lulu and Cal Cazzini, many of those orders coming through capo-cum-liasion ‘Joe Mundy’ Fontana. They’re raking it in.

 

Smokes has been jockeying for his temporary leadership to become permanent, arguing Waters probably won’t leave a federal penitentiary before he croaks. A triumvirate of capodecina within the family - helmed by Diodato ‘Mart Dio’ Martignoni, ‘Freddy Rigs’ Volpe, and Edward ‘Dodo Lank’ Salvodelli - have taken the stance that the removal of Memo and his underboss Ugo ‘Hughie’ Nisticò are imperative. Their proposal? Have Mart Dio take over as acting boss, with his son ‘Crazy Pans’ turning Messina underboss. Rumors suggest they’ve already begun stockpiling in case things get bloody - in the form of automatic weapons, and a lot of them.

 

Smokes’ protege, Harvey Noto, has orchestrated his own alliance. Trungale and Jon Gravelli’s rivalry is historic in nature, but they’ve recently buried the hatchet in the name of the almighty dollar - at Noto’s suggestion. Together, using Hal’s right-hand and a-la-carte lawyer ‘Harry the Hat’ Hall, they’ve cultivated the use of Gravelli’s Irish muscle - the McRearys - as a potential line of defense. Family capo Mel the Skiv has reached out to Lupisella gangsters like ‘Benny Jiff’ Gaioni through mutual partner Gilroy ‘Gill’ Donovan in an effort to further assert the Trungale faction’s power. It’s truce or an all-out war - and the prospects of either are riding ever even.

 

The McReary Boys find themselves squarely aligned with the interests of their Gambetti paymasters - John Jack’s friendship with Don Gravelli being the only matter of importance in dealing with the Messina clan. The always distant bohemian first-born, Derrick, has found himself as their reluctant emissary to Trungale in between his own endeavors (John Jack preferring the company of his protege Kit Spoils to his wily leftist offspring) as they maintain protection on joint Gambetti-Pavano construction projects and work enforcement alongside the Pegorino Family. A clan of brutal Irish thugs are squared off with Derrick’s hopeful brother Francis - in the makings of becoming a church boy after getting his GED and maintaining a blissful superiority complex in doing so. Derrick supports his brother. As long as he doesn’t become one of them, one of the hooligan Purgatory scumbags, it doesn’t matter if that support is reciprocated.

 

On the political side, the Abolitionist Revolutionary Cadre of North Holland has been bucked into a tailspin after the imprisonment of former leader Qistina Thawra in 1977 - convicted of murder one and two, pig battery, and armed robbery. In her place, anarchist Boniface Pope has begun a fundraising drive in an attempt to finance a breakout - and, while he’s at it, revolutionary activities in Italy, Afghanistan, Germany - the world. Buchanan Sligo, meanwhile, has found himself a primary benefactor; a good personal friend of the organization’s Minister of Information, Othman Ovyo. Derrick and Aiden chip in. It’s all with the same goal in mind.

 

The regime of Jon Gravelli has found itself in a quagmire: his long uncontested rule is beginning to unravel. The Macchiavelian puppet master and chairman of Liberty’s Commission has slowly become the status quo of a growing rivalry between his own underboss: Bart Chiarugi. Bart the Chink was originally one of the top men of 1950’s boss Gus Gambetti: a man replaced by Sonny Cangelosi in a bloody coup, who was later replaced by the man himself, Don Jon. A bubbling resentment has grown since his appointment to the throne in 1978. Gravelli has fashioned himself as an innovator; his underboss a squarely old school kind of psychopath appointed to his role after being passed over for leadership - a choice made by Gravelli as to avoid any internal disputes.

 

So much for that.

 

Bart Chiarugi has formed a clique of conservative Gambetti capos and soldiers in a mirror organization still fundamentally subordinate. Bart has his protege Bobby Buffet, self-righteous shot-caller Alfie Placanica, old school capo ‘Elmer Trout’ Odio, and Odio’s protege ‘Joe the Jew’ on his tab. Alongside them, he has aligned himself with hitman and crew-operator ‘Reggie the Redhead’ of South Broker, a man closely monitored by Gravelli loyalist ‘Genie’ Sbarra. Bart has reportedly found an audience with rival families: gaining the favor of Lupisella boss ‘Sil Squibs’ Renzulli and the passive admiration of Pavano hardhead ‘Bald Vinnie’ Ullo. Together, they and others make up the Algonquin wing of the family.

 

Just the same, Gravelli has his own loyalists: mob brat Cozzie Cangelosi, his aide-de-camp Apollo Pompa, his favorite bootlicker ‘Ricky with the Hair’, stalwart mob veteran Butch Bove, Alderney wannabe-boss John Pegorino along with his birdbrained son Jimmy ‘the Peggytail’, and his own understudy Peter Rea. Mirroring Bart’s forays with the semi-independent crew of Reggie the Redhead, Jon Gravelli has found an ally in a very old friendship: the Irish mob ran by John Jack McReary. They're the East Island faction. For now they remain the dominant wing - bolstered by the muscle of the Irish (who also remain closely tied to the currently-neutral Pavano family as a beneficiary of construction rackets). But a passive-aggressive war of gossip and reputation is being fought by Chiarugi. Day by day, the man tries to turn as many men against their boss as possible.

 

At home, Derrick has found himself a caretaker for a withdrawn Francis McReary: now flunked out of the seminary for cheating and petty theft. Through Aiden’s family friend and McReary associate Alistair ‘Allie’ O’Keeffe, the trio have found themselves involved in the Bohan-based Sons of Eriu Defense Trust. Spearheaded by political activist Fergal Enright, the functionally legitimate organization has spread funds to less-than-reputable sources as a result of Enright’s political convictions: giving IRA fugitive Jarlath ‘Jock’ Munro a fake name and no-work job as janitorial staff, alongside allowing Jock to funnel money to Provisional IRA operative ‘Osh’ Hoy. Through Hoy, the trio are intent to smuggle weaponry and explosives from the United States to Dublin - as well as using ill-gotten gains, with John Jack’s blessing, to finance the republican cause.

 

If that confuses you, don’t worry. Nobody knows what the f*ck is going on. These guys hardly say words with more than two f*cking syllables. And to Derrick and the Irish, as long as the guys they’re friends with ain’t getting shot, it’s all the same anyways.

 

Why, you ask - if LC is the worst city in America - do you spend so much time there? Too much Liberty for you? Tough f*cking sh*t. There’s nowhere more vile, more criminal, more obscene in the goddamn country. America’s criminal capital. Racketeers of all legalities. We’ll make a million more concepts set in this sh*thole town before we f*cking stop.

 

You don’t need a welcome.

 

 

Home turf. The most diverse place in America is at your mercy.

 

On the border of Meadows Park stands the ancestral McReary rowhouse of three stories, perpetually scuffed wax wood floors, and a dining room under renovation since the 1960’s. When John Jack gets his driver Griff to take him cross-town, he’s headed to the O’Keeffe-owned Steinway Beer Garden in the not-so Irish parts of formerly Irish Steinway. That car would head past the Chinese-Latino neighborhood of Cerveza Heights, past the pompous upper-middle suburbia of Meadow Hills, the decaying industry and project towers of East Island City. And the wasteland that is O’Donovan Airport.

 

That’s just eastern-ways. Cross Meadows Park - see the structurally-sound Monoglobe and the carcass of Liberty State Pavilion Towers - and the borough keeps going. The heavily Mandarin neighborhood of Keering where the boys spit dai-lo on the corners. The cold hard streets of Willis. Zephyr Hill’s guidos and pizzerias in the shadow of Francis International. And more identical suburb than you could shake a stick at. 

 

Dukes is a borough of a million languages - where the old-school white ethnic neighborhoods of Italians and Irish and Germans and Jews cross paths with the Liberty of the new 20th century: the Latinos, Greeks, Arabs, Asians of a million dialects. And they’re in the same America where President Hogan’s on the TV talking trickle-down right after the Cosmos game at Falstreau Field.

 

Rob all those saps f*cking blind.

 

Broker - like Algonquin in Red Line - gets cut off around the Milden Boulevard border of Outlook Park. Shortest end of the stick throughout the McReary parable. You get most of Broker’s northernmost ghettos and graves this time - the blue collar dockland of East Hook and beyond alongside the neighborhoods Liberty abandoned to the scourge of crack cocaine: Suydam, Far-Sleck, East Liberty.

 

From the top to the bottom are the white-ethnic ports getting run over by gangsters or by the tide of white flight. Traditionally Polish Redcape on the Dukes/EIC border, a Hedgebury of Hasidic and Italian and Latino flavors. The mob-ran streets of Schottler all melt in the great pot that is the Humboldt waterfront. The brownstones and bodegas of Rotterdam and Settler Hill, the urban decay of BOABO mixing artist lofts with the grit of the streets. The Bowels; a muddy, lawless graveyard where men fire shots and nobody comes to see why. No 911 where the outlaws roam.

 

Today’s Broker is a series of leftovers. Artists and trendy developers are already picking up the pieces of a ravaged borough. It’s cobblestones and crack addicts, pretty church steeples and used heroin needles dotting gutters and alleyways. It’s the city’s most populous playground. It’s perfect.

 

Financial, cultural, crime capital of the United States - or so they’d have you think on the latter. In Third Rail, Algonquin is spared its Red Line treatment with the lower borough cutoff - you’ve got free reign to all in 1981. Come in via East Borough Bridge and you’re right in Lancaster, Middle Park East character exemplary of an ethnic exodus in favor of the godforsaken yuppies flocking to the borough so they can take the K/C line right down to The Exchange. Let it ring in your head - The Exchange. Algonquin not as ground zero for the reigning anarchy its 70s-on reputation would have you think, but a honeytrap for all the Barium Street moneyf*ckers in the world.

 

K/C line carries through the neighborhoods running parallel to the Humboldt - Hatton Gardens, Easton, Lancet - skyscrapers and medical centers and embassies and minority flight and not much else for the criminally inclined; unless you wanna nod off, that is, in which case you’ll do alright in the shadows in Grand Easton Terminal or the alleyway arteries surrounding Galahad Palace Arena. But generally your interests lie more inland, southwest - take Nickel Street westbound and you’re cooking with gas: Purgatory; the McReary legacy secured in geography, the old watering hole of Lucky Winkles and the future site of the Blutegel Exhibition Hall just broken ground. Star Junction, meanwhile, still half a vestige of the early 70s with its peep shows and XXX theaters and corner girls yet untouched by the Prinz mandate of - gasp - gentrification. 

 

Southern-more, Papaver Village beckons: having long abandoned its identity as hippie ground zero; now a different world with Pavano goombahs reigning over from their little social club on Sheridan Street. Little Italy ever standing the test of time; Chinatown more vibrant than ever, neon on slick streets. But sticking west also guides you north; Rotterdam Tower and the International Center of Exchange won’t leave your shadow between the streets headed up: everpresent city emblems as you zip up Union Drive past the unattainable heights of Middle Park West, now-vacant apartments in Varsity Heights and onward.

 

Highest you got business - the ARC operates out of Holland and you’ll be familiarizing yourself with it more than ever. But remember: gentrification. That’s the keyword. And the time period doesn’t spare you its reach. 

 

Of all the boroughs hit hardest by Liberty’s 1970’s bankruptcy; Bohan lies the lowest of the low. Arson, homicide, gang crime, vandalism - the police don’t care, and neither do the politicians. Because Bohan’s Bohan. It’ll always be Bohan. When gentrification lifts a finger and crushes the city without thought, it’ll come for Bohan last.

 

Northern Bohan remains attached to a significantly more preferable poverty to many establishment figures - white ethnic working class. Much needed to maintain the wealth of nearby Pennyford County, a bastion of upstate suburban splendour marked by picket fences and gated communities. Bordered by parkland and headstones is the Irish neighborhood of Sean-Aird; home to the burgeoning Sons of Eriu Defense Trust and dinky little pubs where the stock Celtic music loops. Arch enemies? The Italians: St. Marks and Morgan Avenue the center of Libertonian-Italian pride, of the always-mentioned tinsel banners and pasta eateries, and the unmentioned element of tracksuit-wearing goodfellas. They march on past the Bohan Zoo into Little Bay.

 

The towers loom in East Bohan - the co-ops of Northern Gardens and the golf courses on the coast with an eye toward Dukes. The former industry of Buttress meeting project towers; burned out warehouses and street solicitors in Chase Point. Riding through the scar that is the Northern Expressway sending you into the true melting pot: the world of South Bohan where the ravages of austerity spit on the poor. Projects, projects, projects. The name of the city’s patron saint, Sinclair Ayton, marked on every corner with the sickening sprawl of highway and the ‘concessions’ the unfortunate get.

 

Bohan tries to be presentable westward. Fortside maintains a hub of commerce along Folsom Way where businesses alike congregate in many-a color. Grand Boulevard and the greater hub of neighborhoods under the district label Boulevard - the rowhouses and the park. Oh, and don’t forget Swinger Stadium! Maintained with taxpayer cash instead of public services, it remains the only thing in Bohan Mayor Prinz thinks worthy of city funds. That is, aside from the police. Liberty City loves its boys in blue.

 

Abandon hope all ye who enter here. Cross the Dukes Bay Bridge with knowledge anything could happen. By stepping foot here you’ve committed ten times as much effort than the mayor ever will. This, my friends, is what the poor get in the glorious capital of capitalism.

 

When you’re out dialing Bucky or Aiden, you can obviously go to the university reading club or whatever bullsh*t suits your fancy. Sure. But the real reason you and the buds are out there? It’s scoping a job.

 

The city of Liberty is ripe for the taking when it comes to information on the newest dime or quarter for chasing. In missions, gang hideouts, talking with the bookies and the dealers; ambient leads to chase will be marked all over the city based on intel you gather. Chasing that information can lead you to local haunts or potential robberies that you and the buddies can set up for payday. These are mob social clubs, rackets, independent wire rooms, drug dens, fences, you name it. Even some unique, high-profile robberies with special rewards and significant amounts of liquid cash. You find the dough, you round up the boys - be it Aiden, Bucky, Jimmy Pegorino, and potentially more - then you split the take between yourselves.

 

Alongside heading out with Bucky, Aiden or Jimmy to look for a spot to rob - the next is searching for a man on the street that can sell you gear. Dotted among Liberty’s seedy alleyways are dealers galore: some sell heroin, some don’t. Never for trade, only to buy and use. Searching or going off aforementioned intel can lead you to dealers who offer you a good price on smack, or can send you chasing wild geese. Maybe you could get ripped off, maybe the price is exorbitant, maybe the load is cut so bad you’re injecting more detergent than you are heroin.

 

Oh, right. Heroin.

 

Derrick McReary is addicted to heroin.

 

It’s anything but glitzy, glamorous, or romantic. Among the alleyways and the detritus of Dukes and Broker lie thousands of addicts just like him, propped up against the brownstone and the concrete and burning that spoon black behind a dumpster. Half the heroin addicts in America live in Liberty f*ckin' City.

 

The chase for the dragon never relents.

 

Derrick’s addiction knows no bounds: it doesn’t discriminate between business or leisure, whether you’re on a job or at the pub. It will affect performance. It will affect relationships. You’re not going to put the man on the straight and narrow, that you can be sure of. Resisting temptation isn’t going to do you any favors; even if Derrick wanted to have a go at ditching it cold turkey - which he doesn’t - you’re kidding yourself if you think LC’s got any methadone clinics on offer.

 

At the crossroads of providing for himself, Frankie, and the political causes of Bucky and Aiden, Derrick’s priority is still getting high. Scrounging up the dough to buy between missions and outings is imperative, and if you let it go too long you will suffer for it - withdrawal will affect gunplay, dialogue, basic navigation - and rather than suffer through it at your hands it’ll manifest in a major hit to the wallet when Derrick saunters into the nearest haunt to get his fix regardless of market price. 

 

So better you play with the cards you’re dealt: give the man what he wants. Let your misadventures dally around personal finance. Shoot up strategically - do it while crashing at home or in your car and you will fare far better than if Derrick starts getting the shakes in the midst of a shootout and you have to duck down below the bullets to stick the needle between your toes.

 

Do it smart. ‘Cause the man won’t change.

 

After a job and factoring in your own - cough cough - acquired tastes, it’s time to divide the cash you got from your latest independent job. The stuff you do for gangsters or your pops John Jack will only get you so far: and that’ll only fund so many political escapades.

 

The take is the take: no matter the job or the breakdown of your crew, percentages are decided before the action - hallmark of any passably organized stickup gang. Depending on your intel, might be a two-man take - one on the wheel and one on the gun - or something more elaborate: you, the boys, each of you with a plus-one of your own - that’s Jimmy the Peggytail for Derrick, Jock Munro for Aiden, and Othman Ovyo for Buck for a potential total of six to a job. Cuts break down depending on role, and of course the more men on the job the more your share shrinks; but just the same, a five-man heist will reap far bigger spoils than some gas station stickup under the moonlight.

 

Your input comes in the aftermath. Every man gets his cut, every man distributes the funds to his respective cause - Aiden giving back to the cause, Bucky donating a hefty cut of each job to the ARC. You’re left to choose how much and to who - if anyone - you feel like giving a supplementary little taste to. It’s a balancing game with perks only to be gained: everyone’s already happy, you can just make ‘em more happy. Perks come in two prongs: narrative and gameplay. Only catch: curry favor in one direction too long and you get locked out of the other. It’s no biggie, there’s no bad blood - but choose wisely.

 

All the while, don’t forget Derrick’s own allegiances to the needle.

 

The Iconoclast. You hitch your wagon to the Provos and it’ll be reflected in your interactions with Aiden and those boys; kicking up to them every job and you’ll see the yield in their eager friendliness, benefits down the line like bigger profits from their jobs. Aiden’s also got a line, no sh*t, on unique firearms and modifications - more carry space, nifty holsters, hard firepower.

 

The Idealist. Kick back to Buck, on the other hand, and the same applies to the ARC - you’ll be their little poster boy and they’ll make sure you know it, you revolutionary-inclined little thief, you. Bucky’s gameplay perks come in the form of the automobile: fella chops cars with some Pavano-affiliated outsiders in Dukes. His buddies can fit you with mods for your own personal vehicle and getaway cars for future jobs alike; flipping the plates and lifting the suspension for an easier escape on your next escapade. 

 

The Keeper. Hoarding your cut doesn’t mean nothing happens, it means Derrick gets the perks in his own right - manifests for you in the form of higher grade scag, means longer periods between shooting up and potentially even for a cheaper price - reach a certain echelon and the Keir Brothers’ll hook you up with smack that’ll have your nose running on sight. 

 

Not exactly stoking the insurgent streak in you, that route - but when Derrick gets a load of that horse see if he gives a sh*t.

 

 

Gats for days.

 

The rules of gunplay are mostly similar to Red Line before it: a couple small arms can be carried on your person, one or two heavy arms in the trunk of your car or under the seats. With Aiden, Bucky, Jimmy the Peg, or more in your company - the number multiplies to match. Be careful placing shots and look after your weapon; use it as a last resort lest it impact the take or put you in hot water with the underworld. And be ready to drop it when the thing is hot. Getting busted with a used gun is not a pretty picture; especially if they can tie it to a prior murder - and you know they probably can.

 

The wild sounds of 70s-cum-80s Liberty City, nothing more and nothing less - the grit and the f*cking grind, sounds not another goddamn city in the world could hope to replicate. Place come into its own, history through melody. Best city in the f*ckin’ world, baby.

 

Harry Nilsson - Jump into the Fire

The Clash - Rock the Casbah

Mick Jagger - Memo from Turner

Stray Dog - Chevrolet

The Who - Magic Bus

R. Dean Taylor - Indiana Wants Me

Faces - Bad ‘n’ Ruin

Three Dog Night - One

ELO - Don’t Bring Me Down

Rare Earth - Get Ready

Little Feat - Skin it Back

The Rolling Stones - Let It Loose

The Misunderstood - Children of the Sun

Vanilla Fudge - Bang Bang 

Canned Heat - My Crime

Sandrose - To Take Him Away

The Pogues - Boys from County Hell

David Bowie - Rebel Rebel

Steely Dan - Dirty Work

 

James Chance and the Contortions - I Can’t Stand Myself

DNA - Blonde Red Head

Beirut Slump - Staircase

Teenage Jesus and the Jerks - The Closet

Pill Factory - That’s When Your Heartaches Begin

Arto / Neto - Pini Pini

Devo - (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

Theoretical Girls - US Millie

Mars - Puerto Rican Ghost

Rosa Yemen - Rosa Vertov

Lizzy Mercier Descloux - Hard-Boiled Babe

 

The Righteous Flames - There Must Be A Revolution

Clancy Eccles - Power For The People

Johnny Clarke - We Want to Be Free

Ta-Teasha Love & The Wailers - Oh Jah Come

Jacob Miller - City Of The Weak Heart

Barrington Levy - Rock And Come In

Errol Dunkley - Girl You Lied

Yabby You - Conquering Lion

Mikey Dread - Saturday Night Style

King Burnett - I Man Free

Scotty - Draw Your Brakes

King Tubby & Prince Jammy - Drums of Africa

 

Louis Prima - Angelina & Zooma, Zooma

Bobby Darin - Multiplication

The Jaynetts - Sally Go Round the Roses

Nat King Cole - That Sunday, That Summer

Moe Consoli - Liberty City (Heckuva’ Town)

The Golddiggers - The Time is Now

Tony Bennett - Don’t Get Around Much Anymore

Mel Torme - That’s All

The Cadillacs - Speedoo

Jerry Vale - I Want To Go With You

Perry Como - Round and Round

Nate Valentine - The Water’s On Fire

 

Allen Toussaint - Last Train

Muddy Waters - Mannish Boy

Howlin’ Wolf - Evil Is Going On

Albert King - Killing Floor

Max Roach & His Glorious Orchestra - It's Time

Sam & Dave - Hold On, I’m Comin’

Little Walter - Sad Hours

Taj Mahal - Leaving Trunk

Lightnin’ Hopkins - It’s A Sin To Be Rich, It’s A Low-Down Shame To Be Poor

The Coasters - Down in Mexico

Sonny Boy Williamson - Help Me

Labi Siffre - The Vulture

Nina Simone - Nobody Knows You When You’re Down And Out

B.B. King - How Blue Can You Get?

Miles Davis - The Man With the Horn

 

Klein & MBO - Dirty Talk

Machine - There But for the Grace of God Go I

ESG - Moody

D Train - Keep On

Logg - Something Else

Chic - Everybody Dance

Imagination - Burnin’ Up

ABBA - Dancing Queen

Unlimited Touch - Searching To Find The One

Heatwave - Boogie Nights

BT Express - You Need A Change Of Mind

Adriano Celentano - Prisencolinensinainciusol

Evelyn King - Love Come Down

Peach Boys - Don’t Make Me Wait

Umberto Tozzi - Gloria

The Joubert Singers - Stand on the Word

 

Bernard Parmegiani - Abel Abeth

Tangerine Dream - Phaedra

Constance Demby - Darkness of Space

Vangelis - Creation Du Monde

Edgar Froese - Maroubra Bay

Klaus Schulze - Some Velvet Phasing

Popol Vuh - Hosianna Mantra

Iasos - Cloud Prayer

David Behrman - Figure in a Clearing

Cluster - 7:42

Jon Hassel - Viva Shona

Brian Eno - The Lost Day

George Duke - North Beach

Ángel Rada - Panico a Las 5 AM

 

Grauzone - Eisbär

Throbbing Gristle - United

Ike Yard - Half A God

Suicide - Che

Girls At Our Best - Politics

Nervus Rex - Don’t Look

Mumps - Scream & Scream Again

Time Zone - World Destruction

Patti Smith - Piss Factory

Richard Hell - Blank Generation

The Damned - Jet Boy Jet Girl

Model Citizens - Animal Instincts

New Order - Truth

 

Material - Memory Serves

Lounge Lizards - Do The Wrong Thing

Weather Report - Herandu

Laughing Clowns - I Want To Scream

Don Cherry - Brown Rice

Talking Heads - Houses in Motion

Nucleus - Song For The Bearded Lady

Fred Frith - Come Across

Arthur Doyle Plus 4 - Ancestor

Albert Ayler - Ghosts

Joe Henderson - Fire

Return To Forever - Vulcan Worlds

Picchio Dal Pozzo - Seppia

 

City might not span all the boroughs and air traffic might be limited, but you’ve still gotta get from Point A to Point B. 

 

It’s not fun to write car lists. It just isn’t. It limits space and time better spent elsewhere and compiling them is a really tedious exercise of linking images. We are not going to waste our time with this. If you want to see some f*cking cars, read the missions. There’ll be a lot of cars in those. Or imagine Red Line’s car list (when we get to finishing that within the next decade) and picture those same cars around a decade earlier. Easy!

 

Rest assured, vehicle fans - cars are in the concept. You can drive them. They do car things. They are big, beautiful, and boatlike. Just put in the work to see ‘em, bitch!

 

The Liberty subway system is the most complicated in the United States. It’s also filthy and falling apart at the goddamn seams. As convenient fast travel, especially in Algonquin, just waltz down into the station and take the trains down whatever borough you feel. All you gotta do is scrounge around for subway tokens like loose pennies in the gutter.

 

Too much work? Just watch ‘em. Or fare-skip with the hope the cops don’t care.

 

Or take initiative. City trains get patronage by tough nuts, nut cases, and the tourists nutty enough to take them at all. Pull a gun or bring your friends and pull three: make away with some good dough, or some heroin, or a good story. You time it right, you might even avoid the LCPD subway pigs or the Avenging Angels who think they’re Impotent Rage.

 

Have a ball.

 

 

1. Testa Dura
2. Under the Wagon
3. I Held You Once

 

1. Ruthless Gangland Warlord Poised to Take Mafia Throne, Liberty Tree
2. Le Famiglie Cangelosi & Ancelotti
3. Character Recasts 1 / Bossman Delius, Warbly Ruford Forge, Harry & Ace Hall, Marielitos in Liberty

Edited November 19, 2024 by slimeball supreme
Free thinkers who get what they paid for.

[Curtis]

Looks quite promising so far. Solid and well researched.

[Jeansowaty]

Looks promising I guess, good luck. I just hope for a more electronic-loaded radio. You should include an industrial/EBM radio.

[Cebra]

2 hours ago, Jeansowaty said:

Looks promising I guess, good luck. I just hope for a more electronic-loaded radio. You should include an industrial/EBM radio.

the main idea with the radio was imagining the kind of tracks that would back you while you're dismembering bodies or skulking in your car shooting up H before killing three guys on behalf of some moron goombahs. a lot of local stuff, hard around the edges - it's abrasive. Down In The Dumps and to a lesser extent Only Ocean came from a similar place to what you're suggesting, though i guess as kind of an origin for the later EBM movement. the former is especially rife with the kind of dissonant, electronic sounds like those of Throbbing Gristle which eventually laid the foundation for those grating backbeats and the same for the latter as NYC-centric new wave. we may add some tracks to the already existing stations here and there because they do more or less occupy the same space; a lot of precursor bands are already present and some stuff from DAF and Liaisons Dangereuses was already considered so it'd likely still fit in. 

 

thanks for the feedback

[LowTierDude]

I like how the typography is modeled after the NY subway lines.

 

The music feels like a cross between Mafia 2 and Driver Parallel Lines.

Edited September 6, 2020 by DownInTheHole

[slimeball supreme]

7 hours ago, DownInTheHole said:

I like how the typography is modeled after the NY subway lines.

 

The music feels like a cross between Mafia 2 and Driver Parallel Lines.

trains and trainspotting are a pretty important motif and will be throughout what we wrote/write. when it comes to the tracks we definitely had a lot of influence in some other stuff but in really obscure sh*t you wouldnt hear in another game. no wave especially is such an interesting genre because of how fleeting it was and how endemic to the setting it is

Edited September 7, 2020 by slimeball supreme

[E Revere]

I like the topic formatting a lot. I thought Derrick would've been away to The Troubles in the old country during the time of this concept though, unless it's meant to happen much later in the storyline. Regardless, great concept.

[slimeball supreme]

4 hours ago, E Revere said:

I like the topic formatting a lot. I thought Derrick would've been away to The Troubles in the old country during the time of this concept though, unless it's meant to happen much later in the storyline. Regardless, great concept.

we actually put a lot of thought into charting this. as far as we think derrick went to ireland in 1986 after dodging a charge for possession of explosives, then came back to the united states in the mid 1990s, and then went back to ireland after testifying against aiden o'malley. thats what we'll run with

[Cebra]

  

 

Bottom right corner of the screen. Title card.

 

 

Jerry Vale - I Want To Go With You plays as smoke fills the inside of a Chariot Remington cruising through rain-stained, dark Hedgebury street. The car, occupied by three shrouded men through the shadow and the tobacco fog, do not converse.

 

The man in the back seat makes a show of blowing his nose.

 

“‘Ey.”

 

Snorts. Keeps blowing.

 

“You f*ckin’ quit that?”

 

“Sti cazzi, ho il fottuto naso chiuso.” Backseat guy goes. “f*cked.”

Hey, my nose is all messed up.

 

“Just f*ckin’ quit it ‘til we get there.”

 

“Come dici tu, eh, come vuoi, eh.”

Whatever you say, eh, whatever you want, eh.

 

Car rolls up to a club on the corner where the neons are dimmer from the greens and reds dotting the streets: door in the corner-proper and highly packed flagstone walls. Name’s simple. Eponymous. No surprises.

 

 

The Remington stops. Parks up, gets the suspension bouncing a moment while the three exit and two men at the door come to greet them. Three guys. Guy in the backseat with the handkerchief is a guy named Dodo Lank with pockface weighing in at 350 pounds. Guy in the driver’s is a man named Freddy Rigs with slicked back hair and a thin nose belying beady eyes.

 

And the passenger is Mart Dio. Fella with a cheek mole and a hairline a couple centimeters above the forehead. Takes one last, deep f*cking inhale of the smoke before dropping the cigarette onto the wet asphalt. Ahh.

 

 

“Marty, eh!”

 

“Oh, what the f*ck. How ya’ doin’.”

 

Two guys in the doorway: Ollie Lulu, the mustache, Sicillian zip with the aforementioned and a thick Crowex and a beige polo shirt. Mel ‘the Skiv’, fat-nose f*cker with bunny ears in an open sports coat.

 

“Come te butta, Oliviero, f*ckin’ sh*t, sei belle.” Dodo goes in for the hug with mustache.

How you doin’, Ollie, f*ckin’ sh*t, lookin’ beautiful.

 

Mustache reciprocates, “Sei bellisima, not belle. The grammars ain’t perfect. And the f*ckin’-a Roman sh*t.”

 

“Eh, f*ckin’ balls, cose sai di che cazzo di merda lo stesso? Scialla, magara.”

What the f*ck do you know about that sh*t anyway? Easy.

 

The Skiv, “Youse do okay gettin’ in from Dukes?”

 

“Yeah,” Rigs says. Guy talks fast and trails off, “Still got the f*ckin’ agita, but I ain’t f*ckin’ complainin’, it’s nothin’, you know, forget it, what-the-f*ck.”

 

“More about the rain, I meant.”

 

“Rain’s fine,” Mart says. “How the f*ck we don’t we get the f*ck outta it?”

 

“Right, right.” Skiv beckons, “C’mon. We unda’stand youse complaints and what youse been sayin’ about a certain somebody, a f*ck it, he knows too. And you know how he is. Testa dura. He’d be here but he sent the kid in his stead.”

 

Cuts to the inside of the empty nightclub. Lights are on. Vinyl flooring and a bar that ain’t stocked and the lights are only on for a certain part of the room - this garish combo of limes and oranges. Skiv leads and the four others follow.

 

Harvey Noto’s waiting by the entry.

 

 

Rigs is asking “His stead--” then interrupts himself, smiles: “Oh! That f*ckin’ kid. Hally Boy, the hell you doin’.”

 

Noto is forty years old with chin-length hair and a monochrome suit rubbing circles in his chest behind the tie. Stops, “Freddy. Fellas.”

 

Marty, “We’d-a respected if Smokes came down--”

 

Skivs, “Well you know how the guy is--”

 

“But,” Mart is brusque, puts a hand up: “Appreciated all the same. I mean, we all wanna work things out.”

 

“In realtà, tutta questa faccenda con i nostri disaccordi è comunque senza senso,” Dodo adds, speaks with his hands. “Bullsh*t.”

Honestly, this whole thing with our disagreements is bullsh*t, anyway.

 

Ollie, “He’s saying it’s bullsh*t--”

 

“Yeah, yeah, we got it-” Harv’ smiles. One hand on his chest and the other hand up, “We all want maturity. Memo too. And we all want things sorted. Sorted amicable. We sit down, we talk, right?”

 

“Exactly,” goes Mel.

 

And Mart Dio shrugs. “It’s what we wanna’ hear.”

 

“Hell I tell you about this kid? And, you know, after this, we’ll celebrate, we got this f*ckin’ vintage sh*t and manicott’--”

 

“I told you, Mel,” Rigs goes, “with the indigestions--”

 

“We’ll cure that sh*t.”

 

“A-you know the grapes can help you with that kind of thing?” Ollie says.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m serious--”

 

Cut to black.

 

Blinking.

 

First person view is shrouded in darkness as you hear the conversation between the five men go on upstairs, muffled by the walls and the floors. Shaky breathing. You can move the joysticks for a limited look around the room - you can see the outline of a round table in the middle of the basement with stairs leading down from a door in the center.

 

 

Pressing the button reintroduces you to the six men slowly proceeding through the nightclub to the same exact door. The basement door. You let go of that button, you’re back in the darkness. You press it, and you’re gifted with gab:

 

“Madonna mia, no, she rides my ass about this whole thing.”

 

“Freddy--”

 

“I tell ya,” he goes. “I mean it’s a whole thing. With the kids and the house and the mortgage--”

 

“And the f*ckin’ dog,” Mart adds.

 

“Cosa sai fare,” goes Dodo.

What can you do?

 

“Well nah,” Fred says. “It’s all the thing with the what and how you do with it and I mean--”

 

“Che cazzo stai dicendo?” Dodo coughs. “f*ck?”

What the f*ck are you saying?

 

“Speak f*ckin’ English.”

 

Dodo just murmurs, “Balls c*nt f*ck sh*t, eh.”

 

The basement door opens.

 

“Dark in here,” Marty says.

 

Mel Skiv, “The pull-switch is at the bottom. I know there ain’t no bugs--”

 

Freddy goes “Bugs?”

 

“You don’t wanna risk it.”

 

Dodo clears his throat as he’s stomping down the stairs in the lead. “Obtineo et teneo. Balls the c*nt, eh?”

 

Harvey laughs. “What the f*ck you even talkin’ about?”

 

“This-a goddamn mutt,” Lulu croaks.

 

Harvey finds the light. Pulls it.

 

Back in the closet; you’re swamped with the brightness. Eyes adjust, the guys keep talking. The three from the bar - Lulu, Skiv, Noto - they all stand at the end of the staircase. The three from the car spread around, look for the chairs. “Where’s the chairs?” Marty asks.

 

Lulu chuckles. “In-a the upstairs, yeah?”

 

Freddy, “You ain’t brought ‘em down?”

 

Ollie looks right at you. Right through the crack in the closet. Camera pulls out to see the naked eye staring through at the collective.

 

Ollie bites his pinky finger.

 

That’s the signal.

 

In an instant, you and three other men in balaclavas burst right out of the doors with guns drawn. All four in full body coveralls: two skinny fellas in the middle, one average and one large. Large guy’s got a double-barrel out. Other three have submachine guns.

 

A voice shouts “This is a f*ckin’ hold-up!”

 

“What the--”

 

“--holy--”

 

Pow - Harvey Noto immediately takes a swing at Freddy Rigs and brings him clean down to the floor. He collapses over onto Dodo Lank, the big fella stumbles before rushing at you three.

 

Fire.

 

The camera cuts back to first-person as soon as you pull the trigger and the SMG in your hands starts spraying. The bullets dart up the leg of Dodo as he shouts and wallop: the guy with the shotgun fires his rounds clear at the man’s big gut. They fly. Intestine rolls out and he fires another buckshot across the room at Mart Dio, shells smack into the legs, the guy falls over backwards into a shelf and knocks a bunch of knick-knacks onto the floor.

 

Fred Rigs scrambles up but gets his own taste when he tries making a run for the stairs - gets distracted by the fact Lulu and Noto are halfway up with the block - trips over Dodo lying dead on the floor. Screaming as he’s clawing at the concrete ground but it ain’t his screams, it’s Dio wailing. One of the guys with the submachine guns walks up and puts him out of his misery.

 

A jar of something broke when the shelf fell onto the floor. Mart Dio is sitting in a heap of shattered glass and splintered wood and his blood seeping out his pant leg. You’re in control now. You approach, submachine gun in both hands, breathing soft. Noto and Lulu are coming to survey the scene, the other three guys behind you. Skiv is gone. Must’a dipped.

 

You stand at the foot of a dying man. Snakeskin boots, red like his insides come outside.

 

Finish the job.

 

Derrick breathes heavy, points the SMG square at the man’s head, and holds the trigger down.

 

You don’t see his skull get torn apart by the bullets. Smoke flies. Lights flicker. The dust settles.

 

There are three dead men in the basement of Flagstone’s.

 

“Holy f*ck!” That’s Noto. “Goddaaamn! Fuuuck me.” Puts a raggedy hand through his hair and slumps against a wall, slides down onto the floor. Laughing - not fun, coping.

 

Lulu scratches at his upper lip, puckers, pops. Does the OK-hand with his left before spitting out “Smells like the f*ckin’-a dumpster in here, like asshole.”

 

Noto, “Che putz’.”

 

Gets a chuckle from Lulu and one of the balaclava fellas. Guy runs his hand through his hair, turns to him: “Calò, eh, you okay?”

 

Balaclava who laughed, guy furthest right looking from the stairs, he rips off the mask. Big nose guy with beady eyes and a high hairline, cuts at the air, “Madon’, could see the f*ckin’ pasta fly out that f*ckin’ Dodo Lank’s f*ckin’ gut, f*ckin’ wow.”

 

Masks get torn off. Hair stuck to foreheads and sweat glistening. Derrick takes his off last.

 

 

Fat guy with the shotgun, Marius, he places it flat on the table and lets out this guttural groan. Hard breath. Cal, he goes over to Lulu, starts conversing in broken-meets-unbroken Italian. Bucky, dark eyes scruffy f*cking Buchanan Sligo, comes to you.

 

Cal, “Hell they call him Lank for anyway--”

 

“Derrick, Dicky, man,” goes Bucky. Nasally Broker accent shining thick, “You good?”

 

Derrick, “Me f*ckin’ ears. Lotta’ noise, Buck.”

 

“Tends to happen. Wid’ the gunfire.”

 

“Cheeky prick.”

 

“We’re almost there, almost there. You with me?”

 

“I’m with ya’, yeah. I’m with ya’.”

 

“Couple more steps,” Buck goes. “We’re done. We get good.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Just gimme’ a second.”

 

Bucky salutes with a clenched fist. Derrick nods. Does it back.

 

Abrupt cut.

 

The bodies of the three capos lie on drop cloths. Lulu’s upstairs, Noto’s got his sleeves rolled. Boiler suits stay on as the camera slowly pans and you hear crunch, crunch, saw, saw. Snap. Stops on Marius - Marius with a hacksaw. Coveralls covered in blood.

 

He’s got Freddy Rigs. Snap. Pushes the dismembered leg away and starts working on the other one, this wicked smile the fella’s got as he cuts deep into the flesh. Dolly moves onto Noto overseeing Cal pulling off Mart Dio’s snakeskin boot with a big, big knife.

 

You and Bucky are working on fat Dodo Lank. Derrick wipes his brow. Blood is splattered on his hands - he uses the sleeve. Bucky says, “Goddamn it, he’s a big f*cker.”

 

It’s interactive. Button prompt instructs you to saw back, saw forth, saw back, saw forth. Slightly below his elbow as you dig through the skin and then the adipose and then the muscle and bone. Derrick spits. “Big bastard.”

 

“We need three, probably,” Bucky goes.

 

And Noto barks “Ca’mon. Ain’t that bad.”

 

“Had to f*ckin’ slot the f*ckin’ pasta and the f*ckin’ guts that was drippin’ out his fat f*ckin’ gut,” Buck says.

 

You’re still cutting until pap. Arm comes off. “There a way to restrict the blood flow?”

 

“Nah, Dicky.”

 

“He’s mostly dry. Think we got most the blood when the Polack shot him.”

 

“Y’here that, Polack?” Noto’s talking to Marius, and Marius isn’t replying. “Did us a favor.”

 

Marius doesn’t reply. He’s still smiling, though.

 

Awkward chuckle as people get back to what they’re doing. You’re cutting at the top of the arm near the shoulder now, through the fella’s bingo wings, “You got another hacksaw?” Derrick’s cutting with a kitchen knife. “Feels like I’d need that goddamn hacksaw with this guy.”

 

“You need some help?” Noto says.

 

“You wanna get your hands dirty, Hal?”

 

Guy stomps over, “Why not, why not, f*ck it, fat f*ckin’--” comes with his own knife and puts it parallel with yours and says “We do it synonymous, alright? At the same time.” 

 

Bucky laughs at the malaprop, but it ain’t worth wasting breath on. Derrick just nods.

 

Button prompts are timed. In, out. In, out. In, out, in, out. Until you’re starting to actually saw through the spindly bone and even Harvey’s breaking a sweat and--

 

Abrupt cut to black.

 

At the rear of the building is a Vapid Speedo with the rear doors wide open. Plastic tubs in the back. Grunting. Grunting. Cuts to the rear door with Derrick carrying this big tub with both hands clasped on the bottom; Bucky following behind with hands in his jacket pockets.

 

Bucky, “You sure you don’t need no help with that?”

 

“Nah, Buck,” Derrick heaves. “Nah. Goddamn peachy, I am.”

 

“‘Cause you’re driving.”

 

“I’m driving?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky’s grinning, “yuz’ driving. I ain’t got my license.”

 

“Bucky,” Derrick goes. Thrusts the box into the back of the truck and takes a minute to catch his breath; hand keeping balance flat on the truckbed. “That don’t matter. We get pulled over we’re f*cked.”

 

“You remember we’re we’s goin’?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Pete the Wop and that guy Tony.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alright, alright. Just gimme’ a moment.”

 

Derrick lingers. Wipes his brow. Waits on your input - he’ll be having his moment until you click the sticks or press the buttons and get the guy walking to the car. Get inside. Engine’s already on; Only Ocean is tuned on the radio with Lizzy Mercier Descloux playing through the tinny speakers.

 

Drive to The Bowels.

 

“My god, am I f*ckin’ glad to get the f*ck outta that tacky sh*thole.”

 

Gets Derrick chuckling a smidge. “What, our friends with the Smoke, you ain’t pleasantly edified by their conversation? You ain’t got your brain so filled with fun little f*ckin’ facts it’s rubbin’ up against your skull?”

 

“No,” Bucky says. “Unfortunately, that ain’t the case.”

 

“Goddamn imbeciles.”

 

“I was told that Noto was a brainiac. At least for these wiseguys, right? You expect a brainiac to have read a f*ckin’ book at least f*ckin’ once, eh? Or somethin’. What these guys talk about - sex, pussy, they shoot sh*t about TV. That whole f*ckin’ club’s got the collective smarts of a goddamn ashtray.”

 

“I hear ya’.”

 

“What - sub 80? I don’t think a single triple-digit motherf*ckin’ IQ was in there, man, I’m tellin’ you. I’m surprised we got any brains at all.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t disparage the dead, Buck, the bodies is still warm back there.”

 

“And you got respect for these guys. You know their names? I don’t remember their names.”

 

“One was named Lank.”

 

“Which?”

 

“The fat one.”

 

Ha. “He ain’t.”

 

“I know. It’s what that guy said, the- euh…” starts snapping his fingers, “-f*ckin’ Calogero. The Canadian guy, Lulu’s guy.”
 

“Who?”

 

And Derrick cackles. “Come on, man. Lulu’s the guy with the mustache. With that Italian accent.”

 

“Oh him, yeah, yeah, I get you, I get you. Ha, man, if Aiden tagged along--”

 

Groans, “Lucky boy.”

 

“Nah nah nah, your pa wanted us, he got us. Aiden- I mean, I won’t submit him to that. You think I have a problem with this sh*t with the names, you know Aiden. He goes in there he won’t know who the f*ck to shoot he gets so confused with these guineas. Tony over here, there’s Tony over there. I mean, you know with these f*ckin’ guys, Dicky.”

 

“I get it.”

 

“Morons. Whole lotta’ them, morons. And they’re getting guys over to that- uh… the cowboy boots--”

 

“Mart Dio.”

 

“With the automatics he was hiding.”

 

Derrick sniffs. “‘S’what Mundy said.”

 

“We shoulda’ done that. God, we shoulda’ done that. And we got on this detail.”

 

“If pa wanted us on that, pa would’a told us to go do that.”

 

“I know. I ain’t complaining.”

 

“Yes you are. You’re whinging.”

 

“Hey. Hey. We get more good on this, more dough. And f*ck if it ain’t worth it for that alone. Good money’s good money’s all you know how it is I mean-” and Bucky does what Bucky does. Bucky trails off into mumbling. Hear the lighter click-clicking and the passenger window rolling down.

 

You’re headed to the Dukes-Broker border: mostly a straight line through Schottler down the Main Drag into East Liberty. Over where you’re from it’s industrial and post-industrial ghetto. Over here it’s redlining ghetto. It’s the kind of ghetto you get when they truly do not give a f*ck about who goes there, who lives there, what happens there. Bucky’s got an arm out the window now and the smokes trailing behind the van, more smoke than there should be, hole in the exhaust smoke. Not that anyone’s out here to care. Moses, Milden, Van Benthen: whatever avenues you take, you’re headed to the wasteland.

 

The Bowels are Hell on Earth.

 

It’s been raining so the puddles are forming - the neighborhood’s on the downslope about 30 feet below the rest of the neighborhood. It’s lost. The few houses there are peeling and falling apart, collapsed sheds and fallen fences and the mud’s up past the shoe level. Up to your ankles in mud, in some places. It’s dirt roads and flooding and graffiti and literal cesspools as the van leaves trails in the muck and the water. A chicken cluck-clucks by. It’s like you’ve left Liberty City.

 

It’s Peter Rea’s dumping ground.

 

There’s a particular lot you’re headed to. Through an open chain-link gate and high reeds and dirt roads and the rusted remains of old construction equipment near an all-black Dundreary Virgo with the headlights on. Bucky goes “That’s them up there, I thinks” and Derrick goes “Most definite.”

 

As you ride in through a path made by tire-treads in the soil, you’re noticing holes. Holes about a couple feet deep, definitely not six. Shovel.

 

Two men are present. One, in leathers with finger-jewelry up the wazoo, is adjusting his jacket cuffs and scratch-scratching his face. The other - in a black turtleneck and white double-breasted trench coat with a gold crucifix shining off the headlights - he’s got two fingers around a cigarette stub; checking his watch then having eyes zip back to the Speedo.

 

Trench coat: Rea. Leather jacket: Tony.

 

 

You slow the van.

 

Brakes whine when you pull up beside. 

 

There’s a moment where it’s just stares in both directions - Rea with the smoke and the eyes checking out the van and Tony scanning f*ck-knows-what. You catch it, Buck’s just bemused.

 

Rea goes “You the Micks?”

 

“I’ve heard it said,” Derrick answers.

 

“Took your sweet f*ckin’ time, huh? Get caught up somewheres? You think a’ the fellas who got their wife and kids at home, middle of the night like this, waitin’ around?”

 

He’s breaking balls, probably. Derrick just goes “Nah.”

 

So he asks “The f*cking sh*t, the whole thing go good?”

 

“It f*ckin’ went, sure.”

 

Rea smokes, smiles. “I dunno what you know, y’know? But let’s hope it means interests can stay green for a while.”

 

Sure. You know.

 

Tony steps forward - the C*nt - checks Bucky out in the passenger. Headlights flicker onto dirt ahead as he paces in front of the van. “Heard youse was some f*cking commies or something though, that pinko Santa Claus sh*t. That's what you’re here for? Rob the scratch and spoils off our plate?”

 

Bucky pipes up. “A spectre is haunting East Liberty.”

 

Pair of blank stares. Beat of ‘em.

 

C*nt blinks, “Yeah,” feigns talking to Rea but you know where it’s directed, “But speakin’ of, why ain’t they sent that Kit Spoils or nothing 'stead a' you? Kit don’t say too much that don’t need saying.”

 

Gets Derrick a laugh but nothing escapes the lips.

 

Rea shrugs. Looks right at you. “You know Kit Spoils?”

 

Bucky’s turn to laugh.

 

“Yeah, I know Kit Spoils,” Derrick tells him.

 

Takes one more puff and then Rea tosses the smoke with a flick of the finger. 

 

“Irregardless, boys, the holes is over there.” Points across the dirt path into a clearing under these trees bereft of leaves, bark peeling. “They was dug in advance, y’know, but I dunno if it’s enough. Some big f*ckers in there, huh? So Tony left you some shovels should you so f*ckin’ need. Dig all the way to China, youse want. Maybe you’d like that.”

 

“Might just do that,” Buck says.

 

“Well best a’ luck to ya’, then.”

 

A heel turn and Rea goes around, gets into the passenger seat. 

 

“Where you goin’?” goes Buck.

 

Pete says “Home,” and shuts the door.

 

They start driving away. Stop quick, Pete rolls the window.

 

Pete calls out from the side “Make sure’n close the f*ckin’ gate on your way out.”

 

And with that, they’re gone. Brake lights curve, dye puddles red as they turn onto the road.

 

“Huh.”

 

Derrick says “What?”

 

“Thought they was- huh. Yeah. Okay.”

 

“What, help?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“With these guys, no. You think Pete’s staying around for that, oh no.”

 

“Lazy goddamn wops, man.”

 

“Careful, Buck,” Derrick says, starts slow rolling the truck to the right, “that’s a generalization right there.”

 

“Nah, Dicky, these wops. These goddamn sloth. Ain’t got a problem with the Italians, legit Italians, ones who broke their f*ckin’ backs for this city, under the plutocrats. You know what I means.”

 

“I do, just don’t go sayin’ it around them. Don’t think they’d appreciate that kinda craic.”

 

Van pulls up to the graves; Dicky puts the stick in park.

 

“Ready?”

 

Bucky’s already out. “Let’s get it over with.”

 

Get out, engine still running, dim headlights illuminating the ready-made graves, holes, whatever they are. It’s dead quiet, just the whistle of wind through dry branches and fence slats, howls whipping across the lot. This is barely Liberty City, barely anything. No traffic, no voices in the dead of night.

 

They stand at the graves.

 

“These are shallow as hell.” That’s Bucky.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Said he left us some shovels.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

They’re right nearby, perked up against a willow tree.

 

“Let’s get the f*ck to it, I guess.”

 

Cut. Derrick heaves the plastic tub out the back of the van while Bucky digs a little extra. Wet soil and shoe squelch and Buchanan muttering to himself, “Goddamn crap, man--”

 

“Too much for ya?”

 

“Shoulda’ brought some f*ckin’ boots a’ some f*ckin-” flings the muck with the shovel out behind him, “-woauf. Some f*ckin’ sh*t like that.”

 

Derrick stands at the edge of the grave.

 

Button prompt - he unclicks the lid to reveal the festering, bloody remains. A stew of mangled body parts. Bucky grabs at his nose and nearly spews. Derrick would if he had the hands to do it.

 

Bottom prompt - joystick or movement key down. The viscera is emptied into the hole. Fingers split at the joints, blood coagulating and drying at the bottom. No corpse smell. The meat hasn’t rotted and the parts aren’t green: it’s flesh smell, meat smell. Butcher smell. Abattoir.

 

When the parts are out, he drops the thing in with the rest. A shell.

 

Derrick grabs his knees and retches.

 

“Goddamn animals.”

 

“We’re the animals, Buck.”

 

“Whose idea was this? That Memo guy’s. He’s the animal. Your pa. Those f*cks at the f*ckin’ tacky f*ckin’ bar. Shoulda’ just popped these f*ckin’ goombas in the dome and let 'em lie.”

 

Gagging, gagging, doesn’t let anything out. Derrick wipes his mouth all the same. “You’re preaching to the choir. Preachin’ to the choir.”

 

“You alright?”

 

“No. Just want this f*ckin’ done.”

 

“I’ll get the second.”

 

Derrick pauses. Thinks a moment. Thumbs at the corner of his lips and lets out a croaky “I’m gonna take a breather.”

 

Bucky hesitates.

 

Goes on. “Have fun.”

 

He knows.

 

Get some privacy.

 

You’re given ample space to search the barren lot for a perfect cocktail of ‘rest’. Where it ain’t too muddy or it ain’t muddy at all, where you’ve got good cover and no chance of a stray eye on you. Derrick wanders, starts itching at his arm and checking to make sure what’s needed is on the inside of his jacket.

 

You find it, eventually. A flat board from a disassembled dresser next to a rusted out car.

 

Derrick gets down. The camera gets close.

 

He takes off his shoe, and then his sock, and tap-taps on the sole of his foot.

 

A matchbook, a little baby measuring spoon that’s all black from burning up. A syringe. It’s an intimate process. Delicate and meandering in the effort it takes, especially outside.

 

Hold down the contextual button. Push off.

 

Derrick is addicted to heroin. Very addicted. Gameplay is simple; fella’s always chasing a fix. Shooting up at least every other day ‘lest the side effects build - no focus, no mind, anxiety, heart going rapid. It’s harder to drive, harder to live. Dialogue gets slurred and story missions are either delayed until fix or get bungled up. You can’t go cold turkey. Your addiction stays. You need it.

 

Rush for a couple seconds. Derrick starts mumbling. Rush subsides.

 

Cuts. He’s half-nodding off. Contextual button means get up. And Derrick’ll use the car for support, and hop on shaky legs with manna in his veins, and going’s all you can do.

 

Bucky’s waiting by the car flicking his Dippo open and shut. Open and shut. Looks up at you, “You catch your breath?”

 

“Yeah. I’m good.”

 

“I’ll drive. Big galoot, c’mon, hop to it.” Pockets the thing and gets in the driver.

 

“Now we ain’t got no bodies in the car ya’s fine to drive.”

 

“Alright, alright. Peace and quiet. Alright.”

 

Get in.

 

Bucky drives. Like taking a taxi - the distorted, swimming city in it’s black and yellow and rain-skew hues as the wheels leave trails and Buchanan doesn’t even try small talk. Dicky might: “And the money- we get that--?”

 

“Tomorrow, yeah. I’ll send my cut to Qistina, maybe we talk to her. Tag along.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“She’s good peoples, Dicky.”

 

“Yeah... I know...”

 

Not much more.

 

You’re headed to Aiden’s apartment.

 

Guy lives westways. On the edge of Steinway off the elevated subway tracks - unit housing in some side streets near the boulevard, near a little cemetery up the road. Among a series of red-brick rowhouses is a pretty white facade. Distinguished.

 

Bucky pulls up.

 

“C’mon, Dick.”

 

Get out. Buck kicks the black chain-link gate out with a shoe-sole.

 

Follow. In through the unlocked screen door.

 

Aiden and Julia are on the couch.

 

 

Aiden’s the little bearded beatnik-type in the chunky brown sweater. Julia’s the gap-tooth gal got kinky hair that feels like it goes on and on past the shoulders. They’re both huddled on the couch, lit only by the blue glow of the TV cathodes. Aiden’s half asleep.

 

Julia isn’t. “Oh.”

 

Bucky says “Hey.”

 

“Hi. Buck. How--”

 

“I’m fine.” Derrick stumbles on in through the door, “Was with Dicky out doin’ stuff.”

 

Derrick waves.

 

Aiden mutters, half-asleep, “Huh?”

 

“It’s nothing,” Buck says. “Let him sleep. Just gonna crash. You mind I sleep here?”

 

Julia doesn’t say much more. Just “Oh. Okay. Sure. Uh… yeah. Sure. Just go on up.”

 

Go to bed.

 

The place has two bedrooms upstairs and a guest down. Derrick’s got a place to sleep here - and he’s got somewhere else. A little more ancestral. For now: you’re headed up the staircase, past the en-suite bathroom, to Derrick’s home away from home.

 

You don’t even have to press a button.

 

Derrick falls onto the mattress like a rock.

 

Save.

 

Edited June 23, 2021 by Cebra

[slimeball supreme]

 

Wake up.

 

Wake up.

 

Derrick wakes up.

 

Stretches. Sniffs.

 

Lost the jacket and pants at one point. He’s there, spread eagled, tank top and blue boxers over a mess of sheets and caseless pillows. Camera beams down on him from the position of the ceiling fan.

 

Sits up and cranes his neck.

 

The room’s doing double duty as storage: boxes this-side-upped in the corner up to the window, packing tape and bobbits on the dresser. Analog clock alongside an ashtray says it’s almost noon.

 

Oops.

 

Doesn’t garner him much of a reaction because it’s part and parcel of a late-night heavy duty/dragon-riding combo. Derrick heads to the window instead, checks past the balloon curtains into the courtyard below. 

 

Truck’s gone. So’s the canary yellow Estampido that either belonged to Aiden or Julia and it didn’t much matter which. When they’re staying together with one goes the other.

 

Get dressed and leave.

 

Your clothes are in a pile on the floor - either head straight for them and button up or take a quick detour to the bathroom one room over for a quick refresher: some cold water in the face, eyedrops from the medicine cabinet for good measure. The room’s tiny and tiled pink top-to-bottom and Derrick seems kind of fascinated by it.

 

Ain’t the first time he’s crashed here, though he usually made it out before its renters scattered. You explore, won’t do you any harm or foul - bedroom across the hallway’s the master, unmade bed and a cockatiel in a cage by the window: Derrick says “Hiya Noble”, he gets back a “Hello” and then a “Is it good?” over and over again while bobbing his head and raising his crest.

 

Is it?

 

Down a carpeted flight of stairs into the kitchen; Derrick knows where he’s going, that through the back courtyard is the quickest way there sans car. Grabs a piece of toast left on the counter and locks the door before hopping out and down a step.

 

And there’s Aiden.

 

There’s Aiden.

 

Aiden O’Malley sits on the back stoop in the same-old brown sweater with a pack of Redwoods face down on the concrete. He’s biting his nails, cocks his head to see you approach and then nods. Goes back to it.

 

Derrick goes “Hey.”

 

Aiden exhales and replies “Dia duit.”

 

“Not with Julia, are you?”

 

And Aiden laughs and says “Evidently not, am I? Yeah, she’s off. Uptown, she said.”

 

“And you ain’t gone off with her?”

 

“Bad dose a’ the... er, me head. Slept like a rock, can’t think, can’t drink, she had sh*t to do. So y’know. Just kinda’ f*ckin’ faffin’ about now. Knackered to f*ck. You off?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“Bucky’s kinda-” breathes, “f*cked off. So I was gonna head down to the Garden and see what’s what.”

 

“Aye?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You mind I tag along? Talk to Allie.”

 

And Derrick shrugs and says “I don’t mind.”

 

“You walkin’?”

 

“My car’s back at my place. No way on the subway. And, I mean, why not? So yeah, was gonna stretch my legs. Only a half hour or so anyways. She took your car?”

 

“It’s our car. Gettin’ the messages or that, I dunno. I’d like to.”

 

“Like to get the messages?”

 

Aiden laughs, puts out the cigarette, and says “No. C’mon, then. Let’s stretch the legs, eh.”

 

Walk to the Beer Garden.

 

It’s only a couple blocks away.

 

“Thinkin’ the air might do good for me head or what-have-ye. Bitin’ off heads and that for nothing- ‘sa f*ckin’ migraine or something is what it is, maybe.”

 

“The air’s good for it.”

 

“And seein’ everyone too, maybe. The old crowd. How’s was the thing with them Italians, were it?”

 

“Were it some f*ckin’ sh*t, Aiden. Weren’t it just.”

 

“You do sh*te for’em and it’s never even any fun. And you’d think the dopes’d be good conversationalists, make up for the f*ckin’ pin heads. No noggin’ f*ckin’ nothin’s.”

 

“We ain’t made you tag along.”

 

“Oh, but you will.”

 

“You didn’t wanna be there for this one, Aiden.”

 

“What? Guinea sh*t on the walls you had to clean up?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Howya’ mean?”

 

“Well, think of it this way. I’m in the car with Buck away from the bar and we’re sayin’ the exact same sh*t. The bar is in Hedgebury, and we gotta cross Broker. And meanwhile we got- it doesn’t even matter.”

 

“Cross town for what?”

 

“Again. Y’dunno the half. And all the while all me and Bucky can say is - these f*ckin’ wops aren’t good for nothin’. They ain’t good for talkin’, ain’t good for payin’, and they ain’t no good for a f*cking shooting neither. So what are they good for?”

 

“What - some f*ckin’ imbeciles ruling the roost,” Aiden goes, “never put no work into it, inherited it all from their fathers and their grandfathers, and… y’want independence? Is that it?”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Ha. Thought I weren’t goin’ there, did ye?”

 

“And here I was thinkin’ it was big men in high towers sh*tting on the poor and f*cking needy.”

 

“And here you thought a lot of things. Here you thought part of it. Julia’s good,” subject change is like a f*cking whip crack, “Real good.”

 

“Saw your car gone out the front, thought you’d gone with.”

 

“Again.”

 

“Again what?”

 

“Our f*cking car, Derrick. Our car.”

 

You pause at a crosswalk, taxis to and fro. It’s spring, cool-breeze spring. Aiden pulls his jacket closer.

 

“Yeah, our lemon, more like.”

 

Gets a guffaw. “Yeh, there’s a reason they’re callin’ it the Malaise era, believe it or not. These gas guzzlers. Domestic policy. Grand load a’ bollocks, that is. Reckon the thing would catch fire if you let it idle in the sun to boot.”

 

“Sign of the times, Aiden.”

 

He just scoffs.

 

Where are you in little old Steinway? You’re on Ticonderoga now, skip the half-hour it is to them and is in real life and cut it up into a gameplay sized jaunt: it’s townhouses, it’s half-urban suburb, it’s Dukes. Mighty fine. Ghetto-yellow license plates on boxcar American models putting between narrow residential streets. Little nooks and crannies, little alleyways, little chain-links at about knee height tangled in between the grass. It’s housing intercut with little side-streets for parking looping around entire blocks. Spray-paint on the sidewalk and a broken window gone unfixed and newspapers out on the front patio and some old f*ck on a folding chair in his bathrobe smoking cigars.

 

“Is the J pleased, then?”

 

Derrick’ll hesitate, “Not too sure. Maybe he’ll be around.”

 

“With this whole thing of his I’m hoping-the-f*ck he’s pleased with himself, get that at least if the boys are doin’ nixers for f*cking gobsh*tef*ckingnothingdonteven--”

 

“Spare me.”

 

Sighs, “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t need you giving me sh*t and then going down and getting sh*t from him.”

 

“And you let him?”

 

“If I want a paycheck, Aiden, yeah. I let him grab me by the f*cking ear. And you got no right to talk about me and my f*cking da besides.”

 

Aiden shrugs. “Maybe so.”

 

Steinway Beer Garden looms.

 

 

Steinway Beer Garden was, for a very long time, German owned. That was around 1919 as a gathering hall for Bavarian immigrants, and then shut during prohibition, and then reopened by a family of Bohemian-Americans in the 1930’s. And then the owner of that place found himself indebted to a man named Lorcan ‘Lucky Luke’ McReary. In which it became a little less German, and enough of an impetus for some of the Purgatory guys to come out to Steinway. The Steinway Hall Picnic Grounds. Adjacent to the bar was a two-story office building originally a Freemasons Lodge, which was part of the property and sold off to Lucky Luke.

 

It became headquarters for the Van Huysen Paving Company.

 

Lorcan McReary was Derrick’s grandfather. And when Luke passed away the deed fell to John Jack: who inherited his father’s position at the paving company, but didn’t give much of a f*ck about running a bar. Alistair O’Keeffe did.

 

You know the Steinway Beer Garden. It’s brick walls with the trees poking out; walls covered in big splash-advertisements for beer brands. Big orange-and-green flag hanging above the wooden entryway with the castle doors shut. Open them and you find the garden itself empty, since the place ain’t officially open - umbrellas and plastic chairs left vacant by the pathway into the bar bar.

 

Those doors open and you hear ruckus.

 

Merrick Keir has Kenny in an armlock.

 

Derrick just stares.

 

“Oh, what the f*ck?!”

 

Barman chirps “Aiden, buddy!” 

 

Kenny punches Merrick in the face.

 

“This sh*t again, this f*ckin’ sh*t again--”

 

Derrick goes “Aiden, it’s nothing--”

 

“What is this?!”

 

And the barman, Allie, he just says “A bit of rough-housing and that.”

 

 

They’ve cooled it. Merrick’s rubbing at his cheek and lets out this ugly groan and says “How’re ya’ doing, Aidy boy?”

 

Aiden bites his lip and ignores them.

 

Merrick goes to Derrick - “What’s up his ass?”

 

“Something about a bad dose.”

 

“Like medicine?”

 

“Slang.”

 

“Slang? Slang where? Mickey mickey mickey slang, f*ck it, how’re you doing, Dicky?”

 

And Kenny’s up now and puts an arm around his brother’s shoulder, grins with this massive shiner on his eye, and says “You want anything, Derrick?”

 

Derrick spits “Are you nuts?”

 

“What?”

 

“Not in the bar. Are you nuts?”

 

“Everyone knows, Derrick, come on.”

 

“We do it in the alley, we don’t do it in the bar.”

 

“I got it in my trunk,” Merrick’s saying, but Derrick puts a hand up.

 

“No,” Derrick says. “Don’t, uh, we don’t dishonor the bar, you know?”

 

“What the f*ck are you talking about?” Kenny goes.

 

“It’s my pa’s place, it’s Allie’s place, it’s f*cky.”

 

“We don’t dishonor- what da’ f*ck that even mean? Everyone’s uh, what? What?”

 

Derrick sighs, mutters something akin to “Shut up.”

 

Which gets a hand up from Merrick, a settle down hand, “It’s alright, it’s alright. It’s like tracking dirt, Kenny, yeah? It’s like trackin’ mud in the house, he don’t want that.”

 

Kenny mutters “Then say that.”

 

“You want any, you know where to find us, huh?”

 

Derrick’s trying to shoo them off, “Yeah, yeah--”

 

“Good price, too, we got this off--”

 

Firmer, “Okay, Mickey.”

 

“That’s us, right? Mick and Dick, Dicky and Mickey, they always used to say- that’s what they used ta’- remember when, uh, down uh--”

 

Aiden’s abandoned you. He’s off with barman Allie chatting sh*t in argot somewhere between Dublin and Dukes too imperceptible to join. No lifesaver - you’ve got the Keirs chewing your ear off--

 

“Hey!”

 

Booth.

 

Who else?

 

Stern voice, strict voice, commanding voice beckons you over to the windowside. He’s got buddies, two men in the booth by the window behind a lone table and the bathrooms. Neon Blarney’s sign turned off sitting stupid.

 

Three men. Handsome-looking guy with hair well-coiffed enough to look both messy and made. Guy with slicked-back rat black hair and skullface cheekbones. Younger fella with his hair utterly receded. All with drinks, only one untouched being skullface’s. Was Skullface calling you.

 

Derrick nods, Keirs part to let you by. Skullface is Craig Tolmie. Chief lieutenant. And he’s with Puppy Paisley, and he’s with Kit Spoils.

 

 

Tolmie repeats: “Hey.”

 

Derrick says “Morning.”

 

Repeats “Morning. Ha. Sit the f*ck down.”

 

“Why?”

 

Repeats, “Sit the f*ck down.”

 

Derrick repeats “Why?”

 

“You’re just being disrespectful now, huh?” That’s Kit Spoils. “Just being f*cking disrespectful now.”

 

Second or so of Derrick standing there squint-eyed like he hardly believes what he said. Scoffs. “Okay, sure. I’ll sit.”

 

“You know why we want to talk.”

 

Derrick opts for a stool instead of a booth seat. Pulls out an odd colored blue one from the row of brown-blacks with this half-smirk on his face before taking his place: crossing his arms, foot up, still looking.

 

Whole process ends on another few seconds of silence.

 

Puppy laughs.

 

“You are such a prissy f*ck,” Kit goes. It’s meant like a joke but Kit ain’t a funny guy. Can’t help but bleed disdain whenever he’s looking, too much a thug for the polite-schtick to ever ring true.

 

Straight to business: “How’d it go?” That’s Tolmie.

 

“Fine,” Derrick says. “I don’t know how Kit’s end went--”

 

Puppy blurts out “Swimmingly, Dicky, like a--”

 

“We got what we needed,” Kit says strict. Looks at Puppy a hot minute real angry, turns back, “We woulda’ called if we knew they was takin’ sh*t gonna stick youse. Maybe they was, I don’t know, but there weren’t no guns taken from where they was keeping it.”

 

“They followed the rules,” Derrick says. “I know that much. Nothing on them, came unarmed.”

 

“They thought it was legit.”

 

“That they did.”

 

“Arming for a f*cking war,” Puppy says, “we found AKs and sh*t. Kicked that fat prick’s f*cking dog, took--”

 

“Dog?” Derrick goes.

 

“Yeah,” Puppy says.

 

“Thing was barking, had to get rid of it.” Kit sniffs, “Nothin’ could be done.”

 

“The dog is dead?”

 

Gets a shrug back. “Gats was found in the shed, had this whole thing covered up with tools- f*ckin’ whatsits, whole thing. Four Defenders, four AKs, couple Chitarras, all sh*t condition but the f*ck you gonna do? They weren’t cleaning them. Got ‘em to Mundy, all peachy.”

 

“Good on you,” Derrick goes. “A+, huh? I’ll go write a letter of commendation, we can get pa to put that on youse fridge for a good boy’s job well done.”

 

“I’ll break your f*ckin’ dick off, I oughta’--”

 

“Derrick,” Tolmie utters. “You took care of the wops.”

 

Derrick nods.

 

“And?”

 

“And you want the blow-by-blow, Craig?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They weren’t armed.” Derrick rubs at the corner of his mouth, “Everyone had their in. Was that Cazzini kid came down, me and Buck, and then this fourth guy I never met must’ve been with Reggie’s guys.”

 

Tolmie says “Boonstra?”

 

“No, no, not Jilly. He was Polack.”

 

Squints. “I don’t know no Polacks working with Reggie. What was his name?”

 

“Marius.”

 

“I don’t know who the f*ck that is. I’ll ask, uh, John Jack I guess.”

 

“We cut the three of them up in the basement. We told the guy Harvey the method but he just went straight to getting the hacksaws getting them bleeded all over the floor.”

 

“And Pete Rea?”

 

“We got the van over there to their spot in East Liberty, yeah. They got the holes dug but they did a sh*t f*cking job, was like three feet deep. If we kept the guys whole they woulda’ been too f*ckin’ fat to fit, probably.”

 

“All three?”

 

“They’re Italians, aren’t they?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

“Was Tony there?” Kit asks.

 

“Which Tony?”

 

“The c*nt, Dicky.”

 

“Oh, yeah. They was asking about you, actually.”

 

Like his eyes light up, “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Wanted some sick f*ck could neuter some dogs but I told ‘em you’d just talk to them, suck their cocks instead - the skitzo medication or something.”

 

“I swear--”

 

“Or would you just skip to the vivisection, huh?”

 

“You gotta settle the f*ck down, Dick,” Tolmie’s glaring at you with those hawk eyes of his. Killer’s eyes, stone cold nothing eyes.

 

Kit goes “What the f*ck is a vivisection?”

 

Door opens.

 

Kit cranes his head.

 

Kit goes “Oh, sh*t!”

 

Derrick looks.

 

It’s John Jack McReary.

 

Peak lapels, stressed out double-breasted sheepskin coat with the Redwood pack crinkled-out stuffed deep in the pocket. Blue-beige checkered newsboy cap he takes off, hands to his driver Griff the Berk - skinny goon with a big mustache holding an umbrella in the other hand - takes the coat off showing an ill fitting blue suit, argyle socks peeking, slip on brown loafers.

 

Ruddy red acne-scarred skin and blood vessels showing on the hands. Hair gelled back down past the neck, this gruff bark he gives telling Griff “Don’t get da’ f*ckin’ jacket f*cked or I’ll f*ckin’ cut youse some, okay? Okay?”

 

Griff squeaks “Okay, sir, okay.”

 

And Kit goes “John Jack! Haha, hey!”

 

 

John Jack points with two fingers - index and middle - says “Son my son,” walks on over and grabs Derrick by the shoulder while he’s got his back turned, while Derrick is staring off with this blank nothing in his eyes.

 

“How are ya’, huh?” Kit says.

 

“It’s a parking lot out on Dukes Boulevard.”

 

“I heard that on WSOS, actually--” Puppy is saying.

 

Kit goes “Nobody’s talking to you.” Turns back to John Jack, “Sounds like a f*cking sh*t.”

 

Nods. Grabs Derrick by the shoulder tighter, “I gotta talk to my boy.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“I already talked to you about the thing, huh? I got to talk.” Looks down to Derrick, “You up for it?”

 

Derrick’s just looking off. “Sure.”

 

Cut.

 

Booth seat - no stool. Father and son mirror each other while Kit does the occasional lean-over from the other one; no point to it since Derrick’s in the seat facing his way. Griff getting picked on by the Keir brothers and Aiden still conversing with Allie.

 

No words between father and son.

 

Derrick dusts off his jeans, goes to say something--

 

“You still hanging with them n*ggers in Holland?”

 

He glares. Derrick says “What do you care?”

 

“I care because they talk about it, I care. You wanna play this f*ckin’ game.”

 

Derrick blinks, but he doesn’t budge.

 

“They laugh at you. And you bring sing-song in,” referring to Aiden, “and he does what he does with that cooze. You brought the other guy along like I told you? The pinko, Sligo.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Kit told me with Mundy and Mundy told me with Memo. Was pleased. They had explosives, those f*cks.”

 

“Who? The capos?”

 

“They did. Explosives, this big f*ckin’ MG, million rounds for it. Was gonna hit Memo’s house and spray the front of the thing, bomb it, f*ckin’ wreck it like f*ckin’ Nazis or f*ckin’ English or some sh*t like that.”

 

“Thought it was a couple of automatics.”

 

“People tell you what you needs to know. And you needs to know what I told you. Others think that ain’t your forty.” Means forté.

 

“You send me out to be the dog, I oughta’ know what I’m getting.”

 

“Need to know.” John Jack grabs the Redwoods pack and pulls a cigarette by the middle, pinches it harder than hard - couldn’t hold something delicate if he tried. “They’re still looking for Mart Dio’s kid. You know him?”

 

“No.”

 

“Crazy Pans.”

 

“What?”

 

“That’s his name. Crazy Pans.”

 

 

Squints. “Okay.”

 

“The heir’s gone and lammed the sh*t. He was gonna be underboss, now he’s nothin’. Or maybe he is since Mart Dio got their peoples and some important friends, some sh*t like that. Directive from up high is bygones are bygones but we gotta keep lookin’ for the kid before he does some Victor-Charlie sh*t. Cut his f*cking head off.”

 

“Up high is who?”

 

“Up high is Jon, and up high is Memo. We need f*cking stability. That’s the end-all. Crazy Pans still alive means the coup’s still alive and that ain’t nothin’ stable. Think he’ll get his boys on a counter-attack even though we was Commission-sanctioned. So, you’re doin’ the next piece of the work.”

 

Derrick says “How much?”

 

“How much?”

 

“I do more errand boy sh*t you send me a paycheck.”

 

Blinks. “Excuse me?”

 

Takes that as a denial, “Okay, send Kit then.”

 

“Send Kit- send--” stutters on that, “No. You’re doin’ this. You f*ckin’ kidding me, you--”

 

“I’m not doing more f*cking wop laundry.”

 

“Kit goes and they’ll know. Kid don’t exactly--”

 

“Kid don’t what? Kid goes f*cking ape sh*t, he kills a dog? He tell you that? That he killed some f*cking dog?”

 

John Jack says “So?”

 

Derrick is staring.

 

“If you’re trying to say he’s a loose cannon, that ain’t it.”

 

“Then f*ck off.” Derrick goes to stand--

 

John Jack grabs him by the arm and smacks him across the face.

 

Derrick stares.

 

He pulls the cigarette out his mouth, half smoked, and pinches the thing so hard it nearly breaks in two. Flicks it to the table with the free hand and lets Derrick go, grabs another stick from the box, “What’s the matter with you?”

 

Derrick stares.

 

“Attitude. You got an attitude, you got no respect, you wonder why nobody takes you seriously.” Gets out his lighter, “You act a retard you’re gonna get- you f*ckin’... I swear to god, you run me up the f*ckin’ tree.”

 

Derrick stares.

 

“Sit down. C’mon, sit down.”

 

Derrick stares.

 

John Jack is trying to play it smoother now, “Sit down, c’mon with you. You know I do this- you know I do this ‘cause I know. Sit down.”

 

Derrick stares. Derrick sits.

 

“You don’t talk to your father like that.”

 

“Okay,” Derrick says.

 

“That’s not right. And you know that.”

 

Derrick stares.

 

“‘Cause in the real world, in the real world, when there’s an authority, you gotta respect it. You wanna do something in the world, you gotta respect the authority. That’s why you do this.”

 

“Just tell me what to do.”

 

“You’re not listening, Derrick.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“You’re not listening, Derrick. Listen to me. You gotta put your footprint on the f*ckin’ dirt. You treat your old man with respect. You don’t disrespect. You don’t do respect, you can’t make no footprints, there won’t be no feet to put them in. You listen to me?”

 

“I understand.”

 

“You stumble and you fall. I don’t want that. When Memo called, I told him I was picking you. Because you make that mark and it’s something. I coulda’ got Kit but that’s the difference, Kit knows that you gotta respect those you need to respect, and you ain’t. So you need to step the f*ck up. And that’s why I picked you.”

 

Derrick is staring. Ice cold blue eyes. Doesn’t break, says it slowly, “What’s with that capo’s kid? What do I gotta do?”

 

“You wanna know? You wanna know.” John Jack puts out his cigarette. “Okay, listen to me. They want to make sure they break the legs of whoever’s doing their mutiny before they mutiny. Capos was the head, now you go for the body. We took their guns, they know where they bought ‘em from.”

 

“So I’m taking out the gun guy?”

 

“I don’t want Pinko or Sing-Song on this. You take them to the big guys and they’ll laugh. Okay?”

 

“You wanted ‘em along on the job with the three.”

 

“Aside from you all the gunmen was bozos. Redhead got f*cking who, some Polack schmuck who prints skin flicks and only comes around every other month nobody knows his f*cking name. I thought Puppy, I went on the commie f*ck. Someone disposable. You made your mark though, huh, you met Pete Rea. Not bad.”

 

Derrick takes the implication on the chin - “Just tell me what I gotta do.”

 

“They buy wholesale from an ice cream truck.”

 

“You’re sh*tting me.”

 

“He’s from Alderney, and no I f*ckin’ wish. Former GI motherf*cker knows explosives, he cooked up some bombs and he got them some surplus. Mr. Tasty - Kraut Middelkorp. Was in the papers last year ‘cause he put a bomb on his ex wife’s doorstep in Zabriskie. You knock him down a peg.”

 

Derrick says “So I’m going to ‘Derney?”

 

“You don’t gotta worry about that.”

 

“Good. Wouldn’t be caught f*cking dead in ‘Derney.”

 

“Usually takes the truck of his on the route up and down Hardtack Avenue but got this restraining order or some sh*t or something- been doing routes around Shalimar Park. Stops at this rec center on Dukes Boulevard, Deadline Wall Hall, corner of there and 62nd. Some bookie-cum-stool pigeon. Goes to some of the same people Crazy Pans does for details on what his wife’s done changed the phone number to.”

 

“Corner of Dukes and 62nd.”

 

“Corner of there and then. You take whatever you get from the f*ck to The Embers.”

 

Like the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

 

Like the breeze came right through the window, draft colder than cold.

 

The Embers.

 

Derrick gets up. And Derrick gets going.

 

The Keirs start grabbing. Kit cranes his neck. John Jack lights another Redwood.

 

Head to the recreation center.

 

When the cold air hits on the outside past the chairs you get a notice.

 

On missions without Bucky or Aiden accompanying you, always check to see if any contacts open up for assistance. Associates are never far: in this case, you can reach Jimmy Pegorino at a payphone. 

 

You can do that, or you can go lonesome. There’s always the chance to phone a friend and seek assistance - perhaps guidance - on a paying contract or a narrative mission. After all, you want to assure your employer you get that f*cking job done, right? What’s the harm if you get a little help?

 

Of course, you won’t always get a yes from whoever you call. But you have your notepad at the ready with a list of contacts, and you have a payphone on every other corner. You don’t have to, but it almost always affects the outcome of a job and throws an alternate route your way.

 

Dial Jimmy Pegorino.

 

Derrick rubbing his face as the phone bleets, pulls the black handset up to his ear.

 

Ring ring.

 

Ring ring.

 

“Yo?” That same old squawk through the receiver.

 

“Jimmy. Jimmy, my man.”

 

“Yo! What’s up, goombata, how ya’ doin’?”

 

“You in the city?”

 

“Yeah, bro, yeah. I’m in Lancaster, I got this thing--”

 

“How quick can you get over to Shalimar Park? I’ll pay.”

 

“Yeah? What for?”

 

“My pa, on behalf of the guy with the Smoke? You know?”

 

“...Sure.”

 

“Well, he wants me to take care a’ somethin’. Think I might need a capable set a’ hands.”

 

“You gettin’ Buck and the guy fa’ this?”

 

“No, no. Two-man gig. You in?”

 

Short pause. “Where I gotta head?”

 

“Take off the Eastborough and head down Dukes Boulevard and 62nd. Deadline War Hall. You got that?”

 

“Dukes and 62nd, yeah. I’ll be there within the hour, okay bro?”

 

“Cheers, then.”

 

“I gotcha’, bro.”

 

He hangs up.

 

Jimmy always loved a good clipping.

 

Drive.

 

Head to the recreation center.

 

There’s no cutscene at the rec center if you didn’t call Jimmy. You coulda’ called Bucky as a f*ck you to pops, but he’ll just tell you he’s working at the auto body. Derrick makes a mental note regardless.

 

Jimmy’s parked his ‘78 Schyster Libertonian gas guzzler whip out on 62nd near the lot and this boarded up building you can’t discern the prior use of. It’s nothing now. Jimmy’s on the hood: white mesh shirt, mint-and-white cardigan, cream slacks. One hand pressed over his pocket and the other with a cigarette, the kid singing: “My funny valentine… sweet, comic valentine…”

 

 

Derrick goes “Jimbo.”

 

This hokey “Gha?” noise from Jimmy taken out the moment. Eyes light up, “Dicky! Yo.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Chet Baker.” Like he’s justifying himself.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s Chet Baker, I was singing. Chet Baker, bro.”

 

Derrick doesn’t care that much. “Cool.”

 

“What you like, Dicky? You like jazz?”

 

“You can listen to what you want, Jimmy, it’s cool.”

 

“Yeah. But whaddya’ listen to?”

 

“I don’t know. I like, uh… I don’t know. Jean-Michel Jarre. Philip Glass. You know them?”

 

Jim doesn’t reply but the blank expression says no.

 

“I mean, I don’t know, I like Bob Marley. I like the Stones. I can do a good Mick Jagger impression, you wanna hear that?”

 

“Bob Marley, bro, that’s uh… hippy sh*t, right? Rolling Stones is too faggy for me. Is Bob Marley black?”

 

“Bo- uh- yeah. Yeah, the Wailers, yeah. They’re from Jamaica.”

 

“I’m okay with Nat King Cole.”

 

Derrick squints. “Sure. He’s good. Not really the same--”

 

“So what’s is this, bro, who’s gettin’ whacked?”

 

Derrick steps over. “Keep a cool head on, yeah? Don’t say that sh*t.”

 

“I ain’t a retard. We ain’t playin’ f*ckin’ bocce or whatever over here, it’s simple sh*t. You call me, bro, you say yo yo yo, come here bro come here fast, I go ‘okay’. Them kinda urgencies means what it means. Who’s gettin’ whacked? And it was Memo Smokes you said was payin’ on the horn.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Guy’s always good for a skull bust. Who’s the dunsky, who’s the chump?”

 

Puts hands in his jacket pockets. “He drives an ice cream truck, right?”

 

Snort-laugh. “He give some kid the wrong flavor?”

 

“No. He sells guns, some sh*t. And he might have something to do with something else.”

 

“They good gats?”

 

“You’d know?”

 

“I’m a collector.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah, Dicky. I got three f*ckin’ AKs at home. Or I got two AKs, I got one in da’ trunk. I got a piece on me,” pats the bulge in his pocket, “I mean a lotta’ fellas go tossin’ gats they don’t need no more. Or it’s thirty eights and twelve gauges. Never got that.”

 

Pause. “You got an AK in the car?”

 

“You wanna see?”

 

“Are you f*cking joking?”

 

“Wha’?”

 

“Jim, you keep a f*ckin’ automatic on you, some pig sees that sh*t and you get sent to the bacon factory the rest of your life. Don’t be stupid.”

 

“So you’re mister ‘thirty eights and twelve gauges’, huh?”

 

“Anyone f*ckin’ smart is. All you can do with a machine gun is fight a f*ckin’ war maybe. All’s you need is a four-inch tops, enough to point that sh*t and kill whatever you want dead. Four inch is too much, even, since youse might need a holster. You bring a machine gun you gotta prep for like a solid minute to get that thing goin’. That ain’t an everyday self defense kinda’ thing.”

 

“So we ain’t fightin’ a war?”

 

“This shouldn’t be. We get OK Corral out on the street and everything goes to sh*t. We’re lookin’ for stability.”

 

“Messinas is goin’ to the mattresses. You hear about what’s been said, ‘bout these three captains? Gone in a f*ckin’ night. Yeah. That’s our paymaster.”

 

“Yeah,” Derrick says. “I heard.”

 

“Some sick sh*t, but hey,” taps his chest two times and does this face supposed to be smart. “Sick world.”

 

“Sick game.”

 

“What’s the f*cking difference? I need the AK?”

 

“Why don’t ya’ just come the f*ck on, why don’t you. Just follow my movement.”

 

They walk.

 

Door.

 

 

Door opens past a little secretary with a notebook - stairs to the left, doorway to the right, boxing gym up ahead. Smoke filled archway gives into boxing gym proper with the beat-bags hanging and the patchy laminate floor. Sweat and smoke. The ring is up ahead, two black boys in red-blue trunks slinging fists.

 

Find Mr. Tasty.

 

Jimmy goes “These boxers love ice creams?”

 

“I don’t really know.”

 

“So why’s the ice cream man at the boxing place, bro? He like boxing?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You see him, bro?”

 

“I don’t know, Jimmy.”

 

There’s a lot of smoke. Coach at the ringside is this big fella with a mustache and a denim jacket, thick cigar, barking out whats-its and hows-its all foreign to Derrick’s ears.

 

Occasionally - man in a suit, with bad hair and big spectacles - walks to the coach, talks, pulls out his notepad, writes down, heads back to some plastic stools by the window to keep writing. Repeats. Repeats. Maybe the only fella in there who seems unoccupied, but he’s a hard fish to catch.

 

If you miss your moment, you wait long enough? He’ll get up, and he’ll leave. Head out the door, cross the street, head to his ice cream truck and drive off.

 

That’s one way of finding Mr. Tasty.

 

But you’ve noticed him, now.

 

 

Jimmy’s not gonna spot the guy, he’s got spatial perception like a f*cking shrew, but you can point him out. “You see the mope over there?”

 

And Jimmy’s eye’ll move to the mope, and then watch the routine. “Yo.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“That’s the f*ckin’ bookie, right?”

 

“The coach or Mister Hairpiece?”

 

“Mister Hairpiece, that’s a good one.” Gives this dumb f*cking chuckle. “But no, yeah. My uncle makes books, huh, I know the point spreaders when I see’s ‘em. Ice creams ain’t taking books but he’s making bets, huh?”

 

Jimmy ain’t clever, but he’s street smart. Without him, any chance of talking to the man with the notepad would fall flat on its face. Approach loud, or approach with words.

 

Loud means pulling a gat, telling Jimmy “We lock and we f*cking load, okay?” Jimmy says he wishes he brought the rifle. Derrick says “Zip it. I’ll take point.”

 

Jimmy rounds the ring. Hand on the piece in his waistband watching the sides coming right on the coach. Starts talking to him - you can’t hear him over the punch-punch-slap on the punching bags.

 

Boxer in the ring stops.

 

“Yo--”

 

“What the f*ck? That a f*ckin’ gun?”

 

“He got a f*cking gun!”

 

Unholster. Jimmy pulls the piece and smacks the coach across the face, pushes him to the ground and takes aim at Mr. Tasty. Tasty flips, throws the pad, runs right past while Jimmy can barely fire a shot on him. Kid has sh*t f*cking aim, bullets fly. Unlucky bullet rams right in the coach’s f*cking head.

 

 

Whoops. One less bookie in Liberty City.

 

“God f*cking damn it, Jimbo!”

 

“Oh, minchia!”

 

Chase Mr. Tasty.

 

Guy bolts through one of the doors into the rec-center rec-center with colored flooring and kids drawing with crayons behind one of the windows. Daycare and the gunshots ring out, bullets might hit glass and there’s screaming. Mr. Tasty pulls out a revolver of his own and takes cover behind a wall, fires six shots in succession unless you’re quick enough to take cover.

 

Into a stairwell. They go down.

 

“Jimmy! Follow me!”

 

Guts of this place are cold brick walls painted over and concrete flooring. Sprinting down the stairs past the boiler, past metal grating, guy popping off more shots and screaming “My f*ckin’ wife, she sent you! She sent you, huh?”

 

He’s breaking a sweat.

 

He trips. Wet floor sign standing up on dry floor and the gun rattles spinning under some sh*t he can’t reach, Tasty goes “Oh rats! Oh rats!” Slips on his own sweat and he’s on his back now like a turtle with his arms up.

 

Jimmy’s behind you. “Pop goes the f*cking weasel, get the f*ckin’ dunsky! Get the f*ckin’ bastard!”

 

Derrick spits. No words. Aims.

 

“I’ll leave the bitch alone, man, I will! I will!”

 

Derrick fires the round in his f*cking head.

 

Gun lowers.

 

Jimmy goes “Ace. Aces.”

 

“We ain’t got the iron he had. What he drop, some f*cking Stud .30 piece of sh*t.”

 

“What? We got him.”

 

“You got his notepad?”

 

“Notepad?” A moment, “Oh. No, bro, nah, bro. No.”

 

You go loud, you miss the opportunity to get the guns. Unless you want to scour the parking lot for a f*cking ice cream truck.

 

Derrick’s doesn’t know sh*t about Mr. Tasty and was never much a betting guy. Always terrible with numbers. But with Jimmy, you got a loan shark and a bookie from across the West River. Or, rather, someone who’s done a lot of head-breaking for loan sharks and bookies.

 

“Jimmy.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Nods, “He’s the guy.”

 

Grins, “We whackin’ or what?”

 

“No. No. Just smooth talk. Follow my lead. You know sports?”

 

Jimmy squints. “Sure.”

 

“I don’t know sh*t about no sports. How’s the football?”

 

“Oh, they don’t start until September, Dicky.”

 

“College ball or f*ckin’ basketball or some sh*t, what’s happening?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“The Penetrators make it in?”

 

“Nah, bro. They got raped.”

 

“Yeah, when don’t they. Come on, you know these f*ckin’ guys.”

 

“Know who?”

 

Groans. “Just follow my lead, okay?”

 

Jimmy nods.

 

Derrick leads.

 

Mr. Tasty has his head buried in the notepad.

 

“You come here, too?” Derrick plays it smooth, “That’s nuts.”

 

Mr. Tasty looks up. “Huh?”

 

Jimmy goes “These playoffs, bro. I put eight on Alderney and got f*ckin’ pounded. Eight on both games and then DC f*cks me. Hometown pride.”

 

“I’m from Alderney,” Tasty goes. “Serves me right.”

 

“No sh*t?”

 

Derrick says “I heard that. Kraut, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Smiles, extends a hand, “Hey. I know you?”

 

“No,” Derrick says. “Heard good things, though. Heard you’re a real welch.” Frowns, then breaks into a grin - “Nah, just kiddin’ ya, I heard good things. I’m Ricky Derrida, this my buddy Jimmy B.”

 

Shakes Jimmy’s hand, “B?”

 

Derrick says “Bordiga. Nah, he’s from AC. Just talking to this guy about the season though. Penetrators. I put it all on them. I mean, I bet where my heart goes, I bet with the city. But this town got no sports for sh*t.”

 

“Ha. I heard that. Got wiped out by DC so seeing this Seattle-Defiance game through. Could go either way.”

 

“I know somebody,” Jimmy goes, “he’s put a whole ten on Texas. Bro, I sh*t you not. I told him, bro, get the f*ck outta here, you ain’t gonna cover the nut, but he said f*ck it. Now me, I’d never place a bet like that without some sureties, you know. Sureties. Yeah.”

 

“Yeah- well, like I said, could go either way. Trust me, I had some kinda line on the swingmen one way or another, I’d be putting something solid down myself. Talk to my friend Wardy right here. But it’s gotta be a sure thing or, you know,” chuckles, “sure as you can get. You put something down on the f*ckin’ Panic this season, you learned that lesson.”

 

“Nah, nothin’ like that, bro, I saw that upset comin’ a mile away, you don’t f*ck with coaches mid-season.”

 

Looks at his notebook, the boys trading punches and back. “You’re right about that.”

 

A pause. “So you got money troubles or some sh*t, bro?”

 

Dicky glares. Tasty shrugs, eyes back to the ring. “Who don’t.”

 

Derrick tries to redirect, folds arms and asks “What’s the spread? For Seattle-Defiance, I mean.”

 

“This far out we’re still talkin’ PK. And no offense, fellas, but I don’t exactly go yappin’ ringside about the inside track, you know what I mean? Not usually.”

 

“I feel you.” Derrick pauses. Looks to Jimmy for assurance - ice broken. “Say, pal, I said I heard things,” he leans in closer, “I wasn’t talking numbers, you get my drift.”

 

Eyes widen. “Oh yeah?”

 

“Me and Jimmy here, we was looking to score a couple heaters. Nothing heavy, just a score to settle down the shore. Heard from a friend of a friend you were the man for the task.”

 

Tasty closes his book now. “You know what they say ‘bout loose lips,” he goes, then breaks into this obnoxious f*cking laughter. “Sometimes they’re good for f*ckin’ business.”

 

Derrick fake-laughs. Jimmy gets the cue three seconds too late, f*cking prick.

 

“Alright, alright, alright.” He quiets. “I might got something out in my van. Depends what you’re in the market for, exactly. You said nothing heavy?”

 

“Nah. Deterrent factor type-’a deal, y’know?”

 

“Sure. Sure.” Looks up at Jimmy, “you too?”

 

Doesn’t seem quite sure what it means. “Yeah, bro.”

 

Okay.

 

Tasty does this 180-degree crane of the neck, pockets his little book and looks over to the coach - does a T with his sweaty little hands.

 

“Weeelll,” stands straight. “The real action’s a ways off, anyways. This f*ckin’ place. C’mon.”

 

C’mon’s your cue - back in control as he heads up and out the room, under the arch and into the fluorescence and vinyl hallway. You’re not required to wait, important note: you can pop him here, or before the doors, or on the f*cking pavers right out beyond. But you’re doing this smart, right? So let the ruse pay its way - Jimmy’s building confidence, anyway.

 

“War of the Deadline Hall,” Tasty parrots off the signage when you hit daylight. “Lotsa sawbuck-on-a-cock-crossin’-the-road types all up in my business here, you know what I mean?”

 

Not really. “Sure.”

 

“The f*ckin’ smell ‘a the place, the sh*t that gets in your, eh, your pores. Whatever. You fellas said you’re from AC?”

 

Jimmy starts mumbling but Derrick catches it. “No, just him. Me, I’m a Dukes boy born and bred.”

 

“A name like- what, you said, Derrida? Don’t mean nothin’ by it, but I didn’t take you for the olive oil type. You’re paler than me, y’know.”

 

Dicky turns his head for Jimmy - bulldog-mad. The olive oil type.

 

“Actually, it’s Moroccan. But I’m just some mutt. I don’t think about it.”

 

He pauses a moment before saying “Good for you” and for a second that stops the conversation dead.

 

Kraut’s looping around the side of the building past iron-bound windows and graffiti over graffiti - not headed to the same lot Jimmy left his car in on 62nd but, you realize, a parking garage across on 93rd. 

 

“Not too much farther,” he goes. “Not too much farther. He tell you I got ice cream, your friend?”

 

Derrick says “Sure did. Get a free cone if we put down three digits on firepower?”

 

Gets a guffaw from Jimmy lagging behind. “You do one scoop or two?”

 

Almost seems insulted by the question. “Two. C’mon. Ain’t gonna make some poor schmoe wait on line ten-- sometimes fifteen minutes for one f*ckin’ scoop, not here or Broker or nowhere. And I got good ice creams too. Not just the franchise stuff - my own syrups. Quantity and quality.”

 

Jimmy approves. “That’s good sh*t, bro.”

 

There’s no parking attendant - van’s parked nose-out up by a middle column, a Zirconium to one side and nothing on the other. The Mr Tasty van. You’ve probably seen a dozen of them around town by now: identical, blue-bordered, the Pavlovian response to the jingle - this one needs a wash.

 

He tells you to watch your step as he unlocks the back doors. Jimmy waits for the nod, some last second reassurance. 

 

Dicky gives it.

 

They step inside; there’s just barely head clearance for one man, let alone three packed like sardines between soft serve machines and storage drawers - utensils, spoons, cone stacks. He’s legit.

 

“Alrighty-roo,” Tasty rubs hands together, “you said something light, light, light. I got light- I got whatever tickles your fancy." He starts popping open drawers, overhead compartments - hot metal glints off the overhead bulb: barrels, grips, f*cking muzzles. “.38, .22, I got- I got pistols’ll pop ya’ mark’s head like a melon, I got others that’ll keep that lead whizzin’ around in his brain. Or maybe you wanna get up in his face: that case, I got Ka-Bars by the f*ckin’ dozen. Slice ‘em up real good.”

 

Jimmy goes “Ho-lee f*ck.”

 

Tasty keeps on with the pitch, Derrick watching: “It’s contraband, see? Mostly ‘Nam, some from Korea. I got these real punchy motherf*ckers for a .22, this Kreuger the IAA was handin’ out like suckers during Masher and ‘fore Saigon.”

 

Derrick can’t lie. “I ain’t seen this kinda firepower in f*ckin’ yonks.”

 

“Firepower?” Tasty goes, makes this sound like he’s about to hock a loogie. He pushes Jimmy aside, unlatches a freezer running under the right side. “How ‘bout this?”

 

It’s a f*cking mortar.

 

It’s like ten f*cking mortars stacked flat in the freezer.

 

Tasty’s got it in his hands. “Five-thousand yard range, thirty rounds a minute, twenty pounds apiece.” He lugs it into Derrick’s arms. “You got this glint in your eye.”

 

Derrick puts it right back, chuckles. “You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”

 

Doesn’t phase him. “I got a court date tomorrow,” he says. “Bring one of these f*ckers to the courthouse, show that cold c*nt gospel truth, y’know what I mean?”

 

You’ve had your fun - but it’s time. 

 

Eliminate Mr. Tasty.

 

Derrick says “Not really.” 

 

You’ve got a snubnose tucked into the waistband. 

 

There’s no advantage to dawdling: Jimmy catches Tasty’s attention by the .22s tucked in the cabinets over the soft serve and for a moment he turns his back. You’re in gameplay - have been this entire time - and it’s your chance to sneak, unholster, get a grip on the .38.

 

Tasty’s yapping: “Y’know, a few weeks back I had these I-talians come by, these crazy cowboy sons of bitches wanted heavy f*cking ordnance, lemme tell ya’--”

 

As if you needed any more reason.

 

Jimmy sees you make your move and sticks fingers in his ears as you fire hot lead point-blank into the back of Kraut Middlekorp’s neck - he topples forward, slams face-first onto the narrow slab of countertop by the window and paints it red on his way down.

 

Derrick goes “f*ck!”

 

Had you waited, Jimmy would’ve taken initiative himself and f*cking bungled it - a struggle for the gun taking half the truck’s equipment down with them in a tumble on the floor, Derrick forced to find a clear line of fire between the two big motherf*ckers and pop him clean-like.

 

As it stands, though, he’s done. But you know how to finish it properly.

 

Aim down the sights - two more pow-pows as you send a couple more slugs into the back of his head, hear them sink into the skull and spatter.

 

Jimmy pulls out a Chitarra, makes it an even count - camera distances cinematic-like so you just see the shots lighting up the dim parking garage through the truck window.

 

“Minchia.”

 

He’s got a proper holster, tucks the gun away. 

 

“What now, Dicky?”

 

Bring the weapons to Bucky or The Embers.

 

“Now we take this goddamn stockpile where it goes. sh*t. Go get your car, will ya’?”

 

Immediately does as he’s told, the obedient f*cking goon.

 

 

“And you was giving me sh*t about having an AK in here?” 

 

Dicky’s not in the mood. “Yeah, I was.”

 

Bucky’s garage is the shorter drive. West in East Island City - Concord and 46th, this double-width red brick joint with a line of Chariot fleet vehicles parked on the sidewalk. Pull up backward into the adjacent alley. Jimmy’s staring at you.

 

Derrick tells him to stay put - he won’t be long.

 

“Fine by me, bro.” 

 

Puts his feet up on his own dash.

 

Sure.

 

Round the corner and through the pair of open garage doors: inside, it’s just about what you’d expect. A couple cars on lifts, guy with a welding mask kneeled and flaming up the bumper of a late-model Remington. Smoke: eyes dart and scan faces throughout - all unfamiliar. Another guy by a workbench with the greasy guinea hair strewn over his forehead and sucking on the last centimeter of an unfiltered cigarette: that’s Cigs Sciglimpaglia. He’s knelt looking up at a sour-faced fella by the name of Grover Brown; same name on the LC licensing deed by the entrance. There besides, Bucky’s chatting with a third in the doorway to the office. Great hair.

 

One of those olive oil types. Derney Donnie.

 

 

Derrick waits, nobody asks him his business. Eventually catches Bucky’s attention with the side-eye - he has a laugh with Diotalevi who then turns tail back into the office.

 

Buck’s in grey coveralls, grease-spackled. Working proper, still meets you with a handshake and pat on the shoulder, grinning. “Dicky, man, you lost?”

 

“Visiting,” he goes. “Came for an eyeful of the company you been keeping when you ain’t bunking off. You like it, Buck?”

 

“What?”

 

“Working on them cars. Getting your hands dirty. Motors was never my bag. Some kinda’ break from the violence and the politics, I reckon.”

 

“Not in the f*ckin’ least.” Buck takes him aside so they face out the open garage. “Yuz’ know better than to get naive on me now. It’s all politics, everything politics. I don’t even got my f*ckin’ license, Dicky. This look legit to you?”

 

“I been here all of five minutes, me.”

 

“It's got a genealogy, always.” Quieter now, “always. This here’s a West Side operation. You saw Donnie?”

 

“Greaseball?”

 

“Yeah. He’s the Pavano point man - he kicks up, tastes get tasted from the chops we take in mostly from Bohan, cars they work off the Puerto Rican kids without so much as a kickback. Real scumbag sh*t. And I'm detailing f*ckin’ what- private luxury car f*ckin’ fleets for bougie chumps’ll scratch their paint through the East Borough toll booth just the same. Somewhere along the way, Valvona gets his balls tickled, an envelope. City's symbiotic A to Z.”

 

“Yeah, real pedigree of it with these types,” Derrick goes. “That’s the score, I guess.”

 

He gives you a look-down. “Score and a half. We had this same talk last night and yuz’ lookin' spooked all over again.”

 

“Yeah,” he yawns, “maybe. Pa already had me tie up some loose ends for you-know-who. Fine and f*cking dandy, I am.”

 

He's not fazed. “Who?”

 

“This slob drove an ice cream truck. Gun dealer. Sold to the wrong Italians, I guess - had to track him down on Dukes Boulevard.”

 

Laughs, “What, for the gang that couldn’t shoot straight?”

 

“I gotta go down to Broker later. Stoothoff Avenue. And Memo Smokes is fronting the bill again.”

 

Bucky lets that sink in. Nods, nods faster, eyes don’t blink. “Was he a dago?”

 

“No. I don’t know. Gambler guy. But we gave some fake names, he walked us down to his truck, Jimmy--”

 

“Jimmy who? Pegorino?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What the f*ck he worth?”

 

“He’s outside, Bucky. You was busy, Aiden was bu--”

 

“What do you mean fake names?” Bucky is smirking now. That tension gone, “Don’t f*ckin’ tell me.”

 

“Bordiga and Derrida, yeah. C’mon, let me have it.”

 

Face in his palms. “You are the corniest motherf*cker alive.”

 

“This isn’t funny, Buck.”

 

“I mean,” chuckles, “No. You sure ain’t. But--”

 

“No, I mean, f*ck. I’m kinda freakin’ the f*ck out here, Bucky, I’m kinda’ losing it.”

 

Bucky finds a seat. Steel chair, wipes off his hands, “The way I see it, Dicky. More made f*ckin’ guys on the street than congressmen. Some buttons get sewn, it happens. It weren’t you, it’d be Jimmy, or some other stupid f*ck.”

 

“I don’t want it to be f*cking me. Yeah? I don’t want to take a f*ckin’ buck and a half off Memo f*ckin’ Smokes, Bucky.”

 

Agrees, “He ain’t nice.”

 

“Nice? Man, f*ck nice. He’s bad juju. You heard what he does.” Points at his chest, “And there’s only so much I can do with that man before it rubs off on me, I’m f*ckin’ rotten as him.”

 

“It’s just Italian sh*t.”

 

“Back in the forties, Bucky, I know this sh*t. He did a hit for Mussolini personally. And that sh*t got passed down from Don Pavano and f*ckin’ ‘Joe the Mess’ Messina because all these Italians is fascists. Fascist sympathizers, I don’t know. Socialist labor organizer gets hit. I’m getting paid by the hitter. He f*ckin’ killed him himself.”

 

Bucky nods, “I know.”

 

“Kit Spoils killed some poor f*ckin’ dog. Poor dog, didn’t do nothin’. And my dad, he’s already f*ckin’ evil. I don’t want no more evil f*ckin’ racist pieces of sh*t gettin’ no more bucks than they need. I got guns in my car.”

 

Blinks.

 

Blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“I got a bunch of Orsons, I got some Swedish Ks, a f*cking mortar. I robbed them off the gun guy. I’m giving them to you. Okay?”

 

“You brought them here?”

 

“Please. Listen to me. What was the name of that woman you said you knew? The communist, she’s doing time.”

 

“Qistina.”

 

“She’s got people outside in Holland, you said. You give these to them. And they do whatever, they sell them, they do whatever, but you give them to them.”

 

Stands, “And Memo’ll be fine with that?”

 

“Memo don’t know about the firepower. He just wanted the guy deaded and any goodies. I just say there ain’t no goodies. You just gotta get these to her people. Please.”

 

Bucky looks deep into your eyes.

 

And a smile cracks.

 

“It’d be a f*ckin’ honor, Derrick.”

 

He comes in for a hug.

 

“Already sold enough of my soul,” Derrick says. “Already done it.”

 

 

Corner of Stoothoff Avenue and Sinon. This junction of a bunch of streets mashing together: East 41st, Avenue L. The Libertonian idles on the other side of the road. Driver looks on at the painted white brickwork and the angled roof. Black beauty Colonial Conquest luxury outside, and you know the driver of that thing.

 

Two guys playing morra outside.

 

 

Jimmy’s staring away from it.

 

“You sure you don’t want to come along?”

 

“Nah, bro. Nah, it’s fine, I wanna have a smoke. Heh heh.”

 

“You sure?”

 

He hardens, “No, I wanna have a smoke in the car. It’s fine.”

 

No need to f*ck with him any more.

 

“I’ll be a few,” Derrick says.

 

Leave.

 

Cross the street.

 

The Embers Club is hell on Earth. It is the burial ground for a hundred men, at least. Blood flows in the basement drain and bones bake in the walls.

 

“Cinque!”

 

“Quattro!”

 

“Sette!”

 

“Otto!”

 

You know one of the two men, recognize both. Both’re in sleeveless undershirts, guy you know is younger and way better built. Tan skin and fat rings on three of five fingers, shellacked black hair. Other guy is way older, underbite and lemon lips, thin septuagenarian type.

 

The guy you know is named Neil - Nelly. The other one is Carmen the Gardener.

 

 

Nelly looks over from his game. “Oh! Piccolo principe’, whaddaya’ know?”

 

Derrick rubs hands, “How’s it?”

 

“How’s the old man? The mick f*ck?” Extends a hand, “You know I don’t mean no insult.”

 

Shakes it. “Was backed up on Dukes Boulevard all pissed off, but when ain’t he?”

 

“When ain’t he, haha. When-ain’t-he-when-ain’t-he-- send him my love. You come in a quartet?” Points with his index and his pinky at the Libertonian.

 

Derrick says “Jimmy Pegorino. He’s keeping the car warm.”

 

“Hoho. Ha, he ain’t c*nt lickin’ in Alderney, okay. Good to see you, kid, but hey, me and jubs over here ain’t gotta let nobody in for--”

 

“Well, yeah,” Derrick says. “I know why you can’t. And I know I gotta go in. Pops sent me.”

 

“Oh. I see. C’mon, then.”

 

Door opens.

 

The Embers is lit real bad.

 

“People used to tell me I looked like Cheese,” Nelly’s going. “John Cheese, Jimmy’s pa, but I never saw it none. Cheese is all squirrely. And I gotta whole different- I mean the hair, too. But whatever.”

 

Four guys in the main room. You’re familiar with all of them. You know Nelly because he was the liaison: the guy who met your father originally and introduced the Embers Crew to him. These guys are the crew. Mort, Jilly, Timo and Muffy. Three-man card game by the table. One guy polishing glasses at the bar.

 

Guy at the bar looks at you. He grins.

 

 

Muffy sniffles something like “Who’s this?” before realizing and turning his head back to the game.

 

Nobody says nothing.

 

Nelly leads you past them. Past the bathroom, down to the stairs. And he’s still going: “--kicked the sh*t out this one wop named Challah, that’s his nickname, and he’s with the guy Cleet the Neck. You know Cleet, Hairy Al’s brother? So Cleet and Benny Jiff is all pissed, want his balls. Wanna put out a motion on this spaccone. I’d agree- ah f*ck it, hold on.”

 

He stops at the basement door.

 

Derrick says “What?”

 

“So you know who this is, right?” Asks it dead seriously.

 

“I’m figuring I know ‘em both.”

 

Nelly nods. Nelly opens the door.

 

You enter. He doesn’t follow.

 

In the corner there are a dozen Redwood cartons piled up. Floor’s half wet.

 

Nothing exciting. No chained up guys, no torture. Just three men, folding chairs, a radiator.

 

Reggie ‘the Redhead’ Dello Russo, Gambetti executioner. Simone ‘Memo Smokes’ Trungale, boss of the Messina family. Third man is standing, lanky guy with dark eyes.

 

 

You stare.

 

Reggie’s smiling. Looks over to Memo, the old man stone-faced, pipe in his mouth. Staring at you. Maybe glaring, like that’s all those eyes are capable of doing. Reggie’s looking at him giddy, and Memo ain’t looking back.

 

Memo goes “Well?”

 

Derrick blinks.

 

“Dis dull eyed mudda’f*cker. Well? You f*ckin’ okay?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Derrick says.

 

“What you f*ckin’ want? They ain’t got no f*ckin’ cigarettes in da f*ckin’ machine?”

 

Reggie goes “It’s Derrick.”

 

“Derrick who? Derrick-what-da-f*ck-is-a-f*ckin’-Derrick? We’re f*ckin’ tawkin’ here, this ain’t f*ckin’ no sh*t for youse to f*ckin’- who da f*ck is Derrick?”

 

“He’s Jack McReary’s son, from Purgatory, the Irish.”

 

Water off a duck’s back, “Good? You f*ckin’ want something?”

 

“Memooo.” All cute, “He got sent for. What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Nothing’s f*ckin’ wrong with me.”

 

Memo Smokes is wearing a hooded sweatshirt over pinstripes. Short-brim fedora on the table that he grabs with his left hand before standing up. Derrick goes “I apologize for however I’m gonna be perceived--”

 

“If you keep silent, you dumb little mudda’f*cka, you keep silent with love. You speak, you speak with love.” He blinks. “You’re with the micks in Dukes?”

 

Derrick says “Yes.” Looks over at Reggie trying to hold back a smile.

 

“And you got sent for?”

 

“Was told I’m doing work for you.”

 

“So you’re my dog. Right?” Doesn’t blink. “You bark for me. You bay for me. You do whatever the f*ck I say or else I hit youse with a big f*cking stick. Is what we’re working with, ain’t it?”

 

“Sure,” Derrick says. “I did that thing for you yesterday, sir.”

 

“Sir. Haha! Sir. Okay, sir, okay. What, them three?”

 

“Them three.”

 

Does this little put-put-put out his pipe. “You must’ve known Freddy Rigs. The little wormy mudda’f*ck, right? I know his deli was down in Steinway on Yorktown. Cuts like drywall.”

 

“We mingling?”

 

“You getting cute with me, Derrick?”

 

Keeps eye contact. “Sure, I knew Freddy. He didn’t know nothin’ was me, it was all masks.”

 

“My pup. Noto, he told me it all went swimming. Beach f*ckin’ swimming.”

 

“We took care of it,” Derrick says.

 

Nodding. “You cut that Freddy and them up like roasts, right? Taste his own f*ckin’ medicine, butcher mudda’f*ck. Heard you micks cut cunts up like roasts. Only as good as Reggie.”

 

Derrick says nothing.

 

“You got a gift for me?” Memo gets closer. “Told your pa to do a favor for me.”

 

“I took care of it,” Derrick says. “I took care of him.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

If you didn’t bring the guns to Bucky, Derrick’s got nothing else. Just says “He ain’t gonna be selling no more ice creams, that’s for sure.” Chuckles to himself like he can, but it ain’t real. Memo’s showing true colors: the ‘who are you’ bullsh*t, all fugazi. He knew.

 

You brought the guns to the Embers? “I got heaters,” Derrick says. “Friend of ours upstairs got ‘em from his freezer.”

 

Memo gets a little closer. His front doesn’t break.

 

He kisses you on the cheek. “Good little c*nt you are, puppy.”

 

And he leaves. His mutt, Bip the Zip, follows with him.

 

You’re standing there.

 

Edited November 26, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Cebra]

with this recent influx of activity in the concept realm i think it's as good a time as any to share a taste of our soundtrack in official form. we've seen some whispers here and there (along with firsthand knowledge) of how putting together playlists on YouTube often gets f*cked with over time through copyright strikes, channels going down, deletions and so on - so without further ado here's some selections from our soundtrack via Spotify. enjoy!

 

Spoiler

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

Spoiler

 

Edited October 17, 2021 by Cebra

[LowTierDude]

Retrospectively, I forgot how interesting the graphics and presentation were in this concept. Props to that. I also liked how unconventional the soundtrack for this concept is, you're including weird jazz and no wave in there along with the typical stuff of the time, it doesn't feel like what you'd expect in a mob or gangster story.

 

Hopefully more of the story gets unveiled soon. Stories that begin with a violent hit are always fun to read. Want to see how Derrick's story develops as time goes on.

Edited October 18, 2021 by sabitsuki

[The Coconut Kid]

I can't tell you how many times I looked to your No-Wave/Noise Rock station as a reference when I tried to put together a similar station. You've done a terrific job. Great stuff.

I'm going to take this rare opportunity to talk the music with you to ask... would you ever look into a spoken word station?

The pirate broadcasts in MAFIA III are what I'm looking towards here. They'd cut into gameplay after certain missions -- yours could follow the same pattern and appear following specific chapters. You might've experimented with something similar in B&B. It's been too long... but think passionate commentary between fiery Gil Scott-Heron poems and Bama The Village Poet cuts.

 

Blows me away every time I read through this topic. Keep going!

[Akaviri]

I've only recently delved into your writing projects as I've been away for years, and this one really hit home. I thought I had done the McRearys a little justice back in 2011. This is on another level entirely. Utterly magnificent and beautifully formatted with the pictures and icons. A lot of guys on here are obsessive with mafia history, I am a fanatic for weapons history and your selection very much has my approval. Very similar to what I gathered up for LC78. The AR-18 is the poster child of the IRA and I can see Derrick getting real comfy using one.

 

It's also cool to see a few character casting choices have carried over from other concepts- Harvey Keitel as Harvey Noto, Jon Voight as Jack McReary. It really feels like a canon universe being laid down. I'm ashamed to say, between some of the talented writers on here I'm struck with an inferiority complex. I wanted to mention that before reading this I had written similar robbery functions for Blood on a Four Leaf Clover. Armed robberies were the main side missions originally but I hadn't expanded on them too much- I was going to include some background for these capers that involved the bookies. I saw you had nearly identical ideas here and hate to feel like I'm plagiarizing your content although it wasn't my intention. These days we are inevitably reaching into redundancies, so I guess there are exceptions. Especially considering GTA V already took the heists idea and ran wild with it.

 

Anyways, I'm a huge fan of this now and excited to see it continue! Bravo!.

[slimeball supreme]

8 hours ago, The Coconut Kid said:

I'm going to take this rare opportunity to talk the music with you to ask... would you ever look into a spoken word station?

Legitimately great idea we hadn't considered. Would angle especially well into what we have in the ARC, 70's militant dropouts they are in a world where change feels more and more desperate and unlikely. Rapping about how the big apple is outta sight when you aint never really had a bite kind of sh*t. Love this and will put it on the docket lol

 

2 hours ago, Akaviri said:

A lot of guys on here are obsessive with mafia history, I am a fanatic for weapons history and your selection very much has my approval. Very similar to what I gathered up for LC78. The AR-18 is the poster child of the IRA and I can see Derrick getting real comfy using one.

its real high praises and exactly what we were going for. reading up on gangsters you understand exactly how weaponry is approached in these circles and it's something derrick lays out in the second mission: the guns arent built to last, you dump 'em and toss 'em. The guys who don't get prison time. Most of the emphasis is on pea-shooters and revolvers - we wanted a wide selection of those, but the heavy artillery is important. Derrick knows his way around a bomb after all. The AR18 is such an important gun from the Troubles. Had to be included, and it'll have huge symbolic value as you can probably already guess

 

2 hours ago, Akaviri said:

I wanted to mention that before reading this I had written similar robbery functions for Blood on a Four Leaf Clover. Armed robberies were the main side missions originally but I hadn't expanded on them too much- I was going to include some background for these capers that involved the bookies. I saw you had nearly identical ideas here and hate to feel like I'm plagiarizing your content although it wasn't my intention.

and don't worry about that lol. it's all hypothetical, and the real meat and potatoes of this are the missions. Huge breadth for scoping out a score and planning a take - with the McReary crew circa IV especially, seeing as they're nothing more than a stick-up crew who boost swag. you go on a couple runs in IV and you wrote a bunch for BFLC, only makes sense to expand it similarly to Family Ties and truck hijacking/extortion. Derrick's posse are similarly small fish, guys with a lot of eyes on every mob haunt and kahuna on the street. Of course what i think goes without saying is how important status is in a robbery. i dont think we outlined it totally in the OP so i'll take a moment to mention it here

important thing to third rail is the network of organized crime that sustains the city. everybody is paying tax, every bookie and club and drug den is on somebody's dime. the five families have a finger in every pie, every soldier has a dozen associates to their name and every capo has at least ten men. in surmising the status of a place you're robbing, you gotta know who and how valuable.

 

who - are they guys that you're friends with? in the story, derrick's gonna be robbing people he's ostensibly allied with under anonymity. same works in this, you gotta make sure nobody knows you f*cking did it if there's familiarity. that's hard enough, seeing as everyone in the neighborhood ecosystem knows everybody. bigger question: are the guys running it made? you kill a made guy, the job is done. we're weighing if it's an instant fail or the job is completely done for. if you kill a made guy and stay unknown, maybe you can get away with it. otherwise, you're f*cking with people who are not afraid to kill for the slightest provocation. everything is on the line - so non-lethal options, or sneaking your way through, or any number of crafty ways of robbing the f*ckers blind would be prerogative in that situation. and obviously the value - depending on what kind of spot, what kind of value, there could be made guys all over the joint. you could hit a mafia club and get surrounded by these guys: you pull the trigger and you're done for.

 

this would all, relatively, be sort of dynamic and jobs would be picked out not by people offering them to you but how you find them. Idk if that's a differentiation from how you wanted to do it, and the 'made guy' mechanic most likely is, but either way its territory ripe for expansion

 

2 hours ago, Akaviri said:

It's also cool to see a few character casting choices have carried over from other concepts- Harvey Keitel as Harvey Noto, Jon Voight as Jack McReary. It really feels like a canon universe being laid down.

we have our own little universe, the angleverse has every story told in our own take on this world at the top, but from all the years i think its cool to have the casting choices continue. also a little footprint of everyone else's work in this community. we try to get the best pictures we can and vary it up and use the most fitting ones for the time period, try write the characters in their voices. our interpretation of mr mcreary - john jack, the man with two names and no nickname - is significantly different to MOB's or tyla's. trying to write these guys real close to the letter, and faithful to the intention, and full of f*cking pathos. but voight stays, and so does keitel, and so do a couple others passed on. truth be told, i often cant see them being played by many other people lol

 

glad to have you following along. the next mission's a real f*ckin doozy, we just gotta get it out (and will after the finale of the red line underworld series)

Edited October 21, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[The Coconut Kid]

On 10/22/2021 at 7:48 AM, slimeball supreme said:

the next mission's a real f*ckin doozy, we just gotta get it out (and will after the finale of the red line underworld series)

I'm just sliding in here to hype this one up. It's going to be a cracker.

 

I won't spoil anything (that's half the fun!) but I cannot wait to see the reception to your next mission.

[Akaviri]

Bucky Sligo is very particular about his getaway vehicles!

 

 

Edited October 27, 2021 by Akaviri

[slimeball supreme]

i love vincent gallo so much its insane. the man is a complete f*cking micromanager auteurist freak and a right wing sex offender nutjob. in buffalo 66 he plays someone mentally unstable, emotionally stunted, and deathly insecure - sort of like him in real life. the characterization of bucky here flies in the face of most of the roles hes played and the man's views/personality. i also think its a perfect casting.

 

blue collar new yorker, self educated and dedicated communist. charming little idealist motherf*cker who's using this racket pragmatically for his own ends, soon to blow up in his face. most confident of the three. one of my favorite characters to write and im so happy hes gonna get part of the spotlight

 

anyway do you know where the bathroom is

Edited October 27, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Akaviri]

He is a great choice for Bucky, who I'd imagine to be as abusive and psychotic. I have heard terrible stuff about Gallo. Anyways I was reminded of that scene... would have been a funny reference in a mission. "What is this, f*cking manual? Derrick, get in and drive this piece of sh*t."

 

You know how some movie scenes have underwater scenes, and you have that inclination to hold your breath? The beginning of Buffalo '66 made me have to pee. The anxiety was real.

[Phil McCrevis]

Been hanging here again since the remasters were announced and its good to see these topics getting updated now too. Somebody told me before about the Writings Dicussion section which has more of this kind of stuff and I notice that this story is posted there too but has more views there even though it was posted after this. Excuse me for asking but why dont you talented guys just post over there instead? Just something I wondered men. Sorry if its being asked before. Still trying to catch up. Thanks.

[Cebra]

59 minutes ago, Phil McCrevis said:

Been hanging here again since the remasters were announced and its good to see these topics getting updated now too. Somebody told me before about the Writings Dicussion section which has more of this kind of stuff and I notice that this story is posted there too but has more views there even though it was posted after this. Excuse me for asking but why dont you talented guys just post over there instead? Just something I wondered men. Sorry if its being asked before. Still trying to catch up. Thanks.

you're right that we tend to get more views in WD because it's more geared toward the actual writing whereas here the tradition has always been to present the concept as a whole. by posting in both sections we get the best of both worlds - either way you're dealing with a mostly silent readership but here in Series (and especially lately) there's a lot more interaction than in WD: since there are also a lot more components in the version we posted here (radio, gameplay features, geography, whatever) compared to just the writing over there it becomes sort of a communal project where things are always in progress, feedback welcome, etc. the view disparity is probably explained by the fact that in Writers' Discussion we can stay on top without getting knocked down by topics like ¿ Objetivamente, cual es el mejor personaje de la serie GTA ? as here. though this little concept renaissance that's been happening lately is helping us all make up for it i think

[Phil McCrevis]

2 hours ago, Cebra said:

you're right that we tend to get more views in WD because it's more geared toward the actual writing whereas here the tradition has always been to present the concept as a whole. by posting in both sections we get the best of both worlds - either way you're dealing with a mostly silent readership but here in Series (and especially lately) there's a lot more interaction than in WD: since there are also a lot more components in the version we posted here (radio, gameplay features, geography, whatever) compared to just the writing over there it becomes sort of a communal project where things are always in progress, feedback welcome, etc. the view disparity is probably explained by the fact that in Writers' Discussion we can stay on top without getting knocked down by topics like ¿ Objetivamente, cual es el mejor personaje de la serie GTA ? as here. though this little concept renaissance that's been happening lately is helping us all make up for it i think

Thanks for the answer. That makes alot of sense. Probably wrong to say this but I wouldve taught that they would be more suitable to the WD section because most people probably come here for the other topics that you say there but then others like to come and look at everything and enjoy these fake stories of the world of GTA. When reading I also wonder was trainspotting an influence here? Derrick is a junkie and there is a connection to trains. But Derek is Irish and Trainspotting is Scottish so Im not sure.

[The Coconut Kid]

Question

There's something I've only just noticed.

There's no Alderney.

Have you two cut it from the map completely?

Reason I ask is, looking back over GTA IV, absolutely everything to do with Bucky, Aiden and Derrick took place in Alderney.

We chase Bucky to Leftwood.

We meet Derrick in the park in Acter. We board the boat with him in Alderney City.

We also kill Aiden in Leftwood.

I'd like to discover why Alderney seems so significant to them. Are you going to cross the river or will it be from afar?

[slimeball supreme]

6 hours ago, The Coconut Kid said:

I'd like to discover why Alderney seems so significant to them. Are you going to cross the river or will it be from afar?

 

On 7/28/2021 at 8:14 AM, slimeball supreme said:

Derrick says “So I’m going to ‘Derney?”

 

“You don’t gotta worry about that.”

 

“Good. Wouldn’t be caught f*cking dead in ‘Derney.”

your only business will be in LC. this is a little symbolic

 

there's a million references to their connections to jersey: bucky's friendship in donnie diotalevi will lead to a working relationship by '08. his crew of irish and white thugs will be footsoldiers for alderney wing of the pavano family, working on their behalf as shylock muscle, bookkeepers, burglars and car thieves. ever wonder why a bunch of irish appear in autoeroticar during payback? there's your answer. they're bucky's crew. alderney is everything they don't want to be: it's selling out and making money as crooks before anything else

 

alderney is their fate, however. right now they are spiritually alive. by the time they cross the west river, they'll leave purgatory behind and die as people. they will lose their integrity, their ideology, and their souls. the only remains of those three wannabe revolutionaries who return to liberty city will be broken husks who have betrayed everything they once believed in. aiden and derrick vindictive snitches, bucky a petty thief.

 

when they cross the river, they will finally be dead

Edited November 5, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Akaviri]

I figured I would point out that the Theme Song link is considered unavailable on Youtube.

 

Also I will take this as an opportunity to show this badass track, the theme song from Vice Squad (1982) !!

 

 

[Cebra]

3 hours ago, Akaviri said:

I figured I would point out that the Theme Song link is considered unavailable on Youtube.

 

Also I will take this as an opportunity to show this badass track, the theme song from Vice Squad (1982) !!

 

 

thanks for the heads-up, we didn't see that! it's been reuploaded here:

 

 

this song (and the movie Good Time as a whole) were really influential for the whole vibe we've gone for here with TR: that really low-to-the-ground gritty Queens vibe. musically electronic, grating, dissonant. when we were brainstorming for a logo here and trying to figure out where to go with a general motif we were also majorly inspired by the film's poster as well.

 

thanks again for the heads-up here and enjoy!

[Akaviri]

Good Time was such a great flick. I have a love for movies with no distinguishable plot where it follows a character narrowly surviving one situation after another. Pattinson was just perfectly detached and charming in his role. I was also really fond of the actor he kidnapped on accident.

[slimeball supreme]

 

 

Wake up. Get high. Come down. May God give you strength.

 

The McReary Residence is not the nerve center of the McReary organization, of the Union Boys; that’s somewhere between Lucky Winkles and the Beer Garden. The townhouse is ancestry, it’s the heart. Or maybe it’s the stomach - bile and acid instead of blood. It’s the family home.

 

Marker on the map. You haven’t been summoned.

 

Why the f*ck would you? You live here. 

 

Derrick hasn’t got a car, maybe borrows one, maybe takes the route to Savannah Avenue by piling into a subway car. Closest station’s on Huntington Street cutting through Cerveza. 

 

You already know the brownstone. You know the red door.

 

 

Cars are parked in the driveway. Cars.

 

The car.

 

John Jack’s Schyster Bravura - tinted windows, white walls, painted arsenic green. What the Berk goes and ferries him in. Saddled up next to ma’s car, the family car, late-70’s Vapid Coffee Boy. Right in front of the trash cans.

 

Derrick stops. Cranes his head, sees through the window. Heads, men.

 

Up the stoop.

 

Door’s open. Men’s voices.

 

You hear crying.

 

Derrick’s hand is on the doorknob quick, opens it, gets stopped just as fast.

 

Dermott f*cking McEniry on the stairs. Pa’s confidante.

 

 

“The prodigal son.”

 

Eyes on the motherf*cker, “Stick it up your ass, Darby, where the f*ck is she?”

 

Side-steps out from the common room, “Who?” Dad.

 

 

“What the f*ck did you do?”

 

Darby, “You don’t got the f*cking right to talk to your pa like that.”

 

Looking at his father still, “The f*ck I do, what the f*ck did you do to her?”

 

John Jack blinks. “She’s in there,” thumbs back. “She don’t want to talk to you.”

 

Derrick takes a step forward.

 

John Jack steps in front.

 

“She’s got too many f*ckups in her life,” Darby says.

 

“I want to see her,” Derrick says.

 

John Jack, “You don’t get to.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Aw, like you give a f*ck about her.” Darby nips, “Where you been? You act a f*ckin’ Lancelot you come up here, you f*ckin’ nothing f*ggot.”

 

Not giving eye contact, “I’m not wasting nothin’ on you, what happened to her?”

 

Pa, “You respect him and you respect me.”

 

Derrick glares.

 

Pa doesn’t.

 

Darby, “Kid’s evanesced.”

 

“What?” First eye contact with Darby, “What are you playin’ at?”

 

“Your brother,” Pa says.

 

“What?”

 

“The one who’s found God, the f*ckin’ seminarian,” Darby goes. “Clerical collars and communion bread. He’s flown the coop.”

 

“What, Frankie?”

 

“Yeah, Francis,” John Jack says. “We got a call. And he hasn’t been to school in weeks. And he hasn’t been anywhere in weeks. Nobody’s seen him, nobody knows.”

 

“Kid’s off the f*ckin’ handle, he’s outta control.” Old man Darby stands. “Your ma’s scared sh*tless. Little f*ckup’s nowhere, nobody knows nothin’. My kid did that, I’d f*cking kill him.”

 

“I worked so hard.”

 

Derrick breathes.

 

“He’s gonna blow it,” Darby says. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I remember you and the poets out in the city with the pigs and the f*ckin’ pickets. Dress-up f*cking children.”

 

Pa repeats, “I worked so hard to make you men. You’re all still boys.”

 

“I never did anything,” Derrick spits.

 

“That’s right.”

 

“No respect for anybody and no respect for nothing. No respect for God.” Darby’s got his hand on the banister, “You and the shines and him with the dust. Make a mockery outta’ f*ckin’ everything. Got raised right but the world spoiled you.”

 

Derrick ignores, “Where is he?”

 

“Where is he? Where is he, you f*cking retard.”

 

John Jack, “If I knew where he was your mother wouldn’t be sick to death right now. She wouldn’t be crying because Frankie f*cked up. No responsibility. He came here now, kid’d get f*cking trounced, he would.”

 

“No he wouldn’t.”

 

Darby, “I’d clap his ears.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t.”

 

“He would have the right to,” John Jack says.

 

Ma’s still crying.

 

Ma’s still crying.

 

“Let me see her,” Derrick says.

 

“Griff’s got her. She’ll live.”

 

“I’ll find him.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“The kid’s got a f*ckin’ problem and he aren’t not the first,” Darby grunts. “Whole generation, you and him, all f*cking idiots. Ears out on the street, kid’s embarrassing himself. You, scag and coons. And poetry. You speak, nobody listens, you serene little c*nt you.”

 

“Ears on the street?” Derrick says “Who?”

 

Darby shrugs. “He’s killing himself. Everyone knows it.”

 

John Jack, “He’s deluded himself.” Grabs you by the shoulder, grabs you hard. “Like you’ve helped any.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“This f*cking retard. Any more lip,” Darby goes, “you get out his f*cking house.”

 

Pa, “Know the boy’s coked out his f*cking mind. Everyone knows it. Asked the Hat and Skivs for some names the breadboy Sicilians sell chop to. I’ve got Kit and Darby’s boy out in Willis lookin’ for jigaboos ‘case he’s bought from any. Maybe you’ll know a couple.”

 

Derrick rips his hand off his shoulder. “I’ll find him.”

 

“You’ve got nothing to prove to me.”

 

Just scoffs.

 

Tries once more to step into the sitting room.

 

John Jack grabs him hard. Doesn’t glare. Just looks into you.

 

Derrick turns around, and Derrick leaves.

 

Darby laughs when the door slams shut.

 

Call a friend.

 

Gonna need help on this run. There’re payphones across the street by the park entry.

 

Dial either.

 

Bucky won’t answer.

 

Dial again.

 

“Dia duit. This is O’Malley.” Woman’s voice. Aiden’s ma.

 

“Hey! It’s Derrick. Nice to talk to you.”

 

“Oh, howya’, sham?”

 

“I’m pleasant, real swell. Was wondering if I could talk to Aiden, ma’am?”

 

“Aiden?”

 

“Yeah, Aiden.”

 

“Oh, he’s with Carthach. His lungs--”

 

“Where?”

 

“He’s at the doctor. Because his lungs--”

 

“Can- can you get me an address? Or the number? It’s urgent.”

 

“Oh… ha, hold on…”

 

She’s got both. Number, phone. Can head over now, or give the man a head’s up.

 

Say thank you.

 

Hang up.

 

Redial.

 

Long ring.

 

“Crabtree Dental and Family Health. This is Magdalena, how can I help you?”

 

“Uh, hello there. This is- uh, I’m sorry, wonderful name by the way--”

 

“Well… thank you.”

 

“No, I was, uh- this is strange, I know, but I think you have a patient named, uh, O’Malley? Either Carthach or Aiden. I’m looking for Aiden. I need to talk to him. Urgently. And he’s not at home, and his mother told me he’d be here. Can you get him on the phone, please?”

 

“That’s not- uh, okay, uh…” Real young woman on the other end. Doesn’t know what.

 

“This is just really, really important. Tell him it’s Derrick. Please.”

 

Pause. “Okay. Hold on, I can do that.”

 

Wait.

 

Wait.

 

Voice picks up. “Derrick, what the hell?”

 

“I need you.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I need help. Are you busy? It’s serious.”

 

“Ah, what the f*ck, I don’t know--”

 

“Are you doing anything?”

 

“Well I’m at the f*cking doctor, Derrick. Da for his chest--”

 

“Can he drive by himself?”

 

“Ha?”

 

“Is he gonna get home okay?”

 

“I guess. He can drive.”

 

“My brother is missing. Bucky won’t f*cking pick up--”

 

“Buck’s upstate, I know that.”

 

“Yeah? That so?”

 

“Visiting someone or something or some other f*ck-knows-what-kind-of-nonsense. Julia’s people.”

 

“Then you’re all I’ve got. I’m not calling f*cking Jimmy again.”

 

“Okay. The boy Frankie, eh? Dry f*ckin’ cratúr that gomey f*ckin’ is.”

 

“Kid’s strung the f*ck out, nobody knows where he is. At least tell me where you are so I can tell him you was too f*ckin’ busy to get him. Maybe he’ll still be alive, I hope.”

 

“I’ll be with you. Asshole brother of yours’ll live another day, maybe two. Our health place is on Settlecot between Zurhellen and 120th.”

 

“I know. I’m ten away. Just wait there.”

 

“We’re not goin’ anywhere. Doc’s a real dopey f*ck.”

 

Derrick leaves the phone dangling.

 

Pick up Aiden.

 

Take the family car.

 

 

Aiden’s got his dad’s Schyster Debonaire parked up on the corner outside Crabtree Dental & Health, bucket’s in real sh*t shape.

 

Carthach O’Malley in the driver's seat. Aiden leaning through the window.

 

 

Bickering to f*ck.

 

“I know how to drive me fecking car, fecking eejit.”

 

“Shtall the digger, da, I’m just--”

 

“Ah, I’ve a pain in me bollox listen- ha, like you’ve any use--”

 

“C’mon, da, chill the beans--”

 

“Aiden!”

 

Aiden looks up. Carthach just glaring straight ahead.

 

Derrick’s impatient, crosses the street. Carthach’s avoiding eye contact when he goes “Thank you.”

 

Just puts his hands up in response.

 

“Look, Aiden, I got my car over there,” thumbs back to the strip mall parking lot behind him, “we gotta move it, this is time sensitive, I’m thinkin--”

 

Carthach: “Can ye move out the feckin’ way me car, feen, just move! Move!”
 

“Aragh’, sure,” Aiden’s already pushing you along, “Lookit, just f*ckin’ go, just f*ckin’ go.”

 

Already halfway across the street when Carthach floors it.

 

Like a weight’s lifted from Aiden’s shoulders. “He gets real f*ckin’ irritable because he’s a little hothead driving, the prat, gets all pissed like it’s doin’ a great f*ckin’ disservice to his autonomy--”
 

“I see the aul stock’s chipper as ever.”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

 

“Just we gotta go, we gotta go. I’m goin’ off me f*cking head lookin’ for this brat, but I got ideas.”

 

Car doors open. Car doors shut.

 

Head to Nisticò Family Bakery.

 

“How’s the lad been acting the maggot this time?”

 

Derrick, “Hasn’t been seen in days. At the seminary or nowheres. Dad sent Kit and Kevo out to Willis, thinks he can beat some f*ckin’ drug dealers up to get information.”

 

“Is Frankie still smoking dust, then?”

 

“It’s dust,” sighs. “And coke. And gin and f*ckin’ whiskey, often. Kid puts more up his nose and down his t’roat than… a- uh, a thing that puts sh*t down their f*ckin’ t’roat.”

 

“Ha.” Aiden rolls his eyes, “Witty as ever.”

 

“Bite me.”

 

“So it’s Willis?”

 

“No. Frankie don’t buy from black guys. I mean, you heard the sh*t that comes outta his mouth.”

 

“Then what’re we doin’?”

 

“I know Frankie’s dealer. Piece of sh*t. It’s this Greek kid. Dopey or Danny or some sh*t. Kenny Keir used to know him. Knows that guy the Cosmonaut and Huge Henry and a couple--”

 

“What?!”

 

“What?”

 

“What the bloody f*ck are you talking about? Cosmonaut?”

 

“It’s mafia sh*t.”

 

Aiden just groans. “So he knows Italians?”

 

“Yes. He buys coke from these greaseballs dad knows. Sicilians. This bakery on Cosmopolitan. Through this kid Hank Italy--”

 

“Is his name Hank Italy?”

 

“That’s his nickname. Dad’s been working with these Sicilian guys a lot. I think I’ll get an in with him, I know about everything.”

 

“Everything what?”

 

Derrick doesn’t reply.

 

Gets a scoff. “Secretive guinea bullsh*t.”

 

“All this is political,” Derrick says. “And a lotta people ain’t happy with the current state of affairs.”

 

“Haha! Gangsters and f*cking politics!”

 

“Turf lines and all these money decisions. Half the city’s got their f*cking hairs up on the back of their neck, man, everyone’s taking sides.”

 

“Gangsters can’t talk politics five minutes. Every idiot at the Beer Garden or in Purgatory, them cunce all racist and thisandthatandbastardf*ckin’--”

 

“They’re all scumbags, yeah.”

 

“What’s the politics, then?”

 

“Like you give a f*ck.”

 

“I don’t. Tell me, though. What the f*ck could be political about this? Drug dealers and dopey goon f*cks.”

 

Derrick takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

 

Aiden’s already laughing. “Like this is complex!”

 

“Messina Family. Guys who run our side of Dukes. The family is run by a real old guy. I don’t know nothin’ about him, his name is Tommy Waters.”

 

 

“Is he Italian?”

 

“Every single one of them is Italian. It’s a sobriquet. Tommy went to prison… I think three years ago. Messinas before him, they didn’t have a boss. Leader before him, Joe the Mess, he was crazy, he tried killing everyone. They have a bunch of interim guys running it, substitute teachers or whatever, and then they get added back to the Commission with Tommy.”

 

“So he’s running things from the can?”

 

“No. He’s in for thirty years and nobody can talk to him. Have you heard of Memo Smokes?”

 

 

“‘Course. Guy’s in all the newspapers. He’s the, uh… boss of all the bosses.”

 

“No. That’s bullsh*t. He’s a psycho f*ck, can’t even run his own organization. The Italians all agreed he’d run the Messinas while Tommy’s inside. But Tommy’s probably gonna die in there.”

 

“Is that good?”

 

“Who the f*ck knows? But Memo’s greedy, and he’s a scumbag, and he’s a loony f*cking murderer. He’s partisan and stubborn and never compromises for nobody. He’s making money like a prince right now selling dope out the ass and these Sicilian guys, they’re his crew.”

 

“Papers say he’s the bossman. Say he’s king sh*t.”

 

“He’s the flashiest one. Making his own men mad. There’re guys in the Messinas who wanted a coup. Three captains with thirty made guys behind them, minimum. Lank, Rigs and Dio.

 

 

“So the Memo c*nt’s crazy,” Aiden reasons, “he’s a drug dealer. The Italians want him dead.”

 

“No.”

 

“Ha?”

 

“Memo’s a psycho, but he’s stability. He’s a steady flow of money. These three guys, they wanted to put themselves at the top, reorient the whole family, kick the Sicilians back to Italy. They were gonna kill the guy we’re gonna see next, put Dio’s son Crazy Pans in--”

 

“Oh my f*cking god.”

 

“What?”

 

Aiden’s lost for words. “Crazy Pans?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Wiseguys got names like racehorses. ‘Crazy Pans’, that's a racehorse name.”

 

“It’s so you can tell them apart.”

 

“I can’t tell them apart with the f*cking nicknames! So we’re with who? Who’s the good guys?”

 

“No good guys. But we’re on team Memo. Okay guys over there. This guy Harvey, he’s okay. Harvey’s friends with Jon Gravelli. Jon and Memo hate each other, but they’re breaking bread for stability. Then there’s these Irish guys--”

 

“Yeah? Who?”

 

“Losers. Gilroy Donovan. Harry Hall. He’s full of sh*t, you’d hate him.”

 

“I figure, man hangs with Italians. They’re gonna get us to kill these three lieutenants, right? Knock their blocks off, throw them in the harbor. That prick Crazy Craig Tolmie, he cuts bodies up for Don Jon in that van of his?”

 

“We already did.”

 

“...Ah.”

 

“That’s what I know. I helped.”

 

“You did ‘em in?”

 

Derrick nods.

 

Slowly, “What happened?”

 

“We took them in a basement. At some club this guy Joe Ootz runs, in Hedgebury. And we lit ‘em up with machine guns. These two other wops, they did us a hole, we cut ‘em up and threw ‘em in.”

 

Long beat. Aiden doesn’t reply.

 

Somber, “Yeah.” No pleasure in it.

 

“Was it fun?” Hint of disgust in that.

 

“What do you think, Aiden?”

 

Aiden doesn’t reply.

 

“Crazy Pans,” Derrick says. “Is on the lam. Nobody knows where he is. Coup is officially dead, but we killed his father. That kid’s f*cking crazy. Murdered a dozen people before, more. He and his buddies are all tooled up. We gotta find this kid or there’re gonna be bodies.”

 

“War’s on but it’s not?”

 

“War is goin’ on everywhere. Down in Lenapia, where they run the Alderney casinos, they blew the old boss Friendly Raff’s head off. Then their replacement, Lenny Madonna? They call him Madonna ‘cause he’s an ugly bastard; they blew his face off with a nail bomb. Now everyone’s shooting everyone down there. Pavanos want this crazy f*ck, Fritzie Zing. Jon wants this midget, Gobs Yoppolo. Proxy war.”

 

 

“Who gives a damn about Lenapia or midgets or whoever? About greaseballs blowing themselves up down the river.”

 

“Because Jon does. And Jon pays our bills.”

 

“Easy enough to follow,” gives a real confident snort. “Memo’s the boss. Some fellas don’t like Memo. Not ideal, but everyone else does. You get all the snakes, but not the insane psycho f*ckin’ killer one of the lot. And when you lot do, things’ll be fierce.”

 

“Things’ll be calm. Not fierce, calm. We need calm, or they’re gonna break everyone’s backs. Especially in Liberty. So to keep the peace? Jon and Memo, they’re gonna make us find Crazy Pans.”

 

“And we gotta find Frankie.”

 

“Yeah. That’s what matters right now, above all else,” Derrick mutters. “Finding f*cking Frankie.”

 

Location’s in sight.

 

Juniper Pike is Messina turf, largely. Most of the big Dukes gangsters regardless of family get buried at St. Christina Cemetery, which takes up most of the eastern border. Roman Catholic, fancy. But everywhere along Cosmopolitan Avenue? Messina country.

 

Guys of all colors - Gambetti and Messina - hang out at Club Vinewood. Non-denominational hangout. A lot of bookkeepers and shylocks.

 

 

Not your destination. But keep it in mind, probably a good haul in it if you want to rob the joint blind. Even if you gotta be anonymous doing it, seeing as you’re working for their borgatas.

 

No.

 

7550 Cosmopolitan Avenue. Nisticò Family Bakery.

 

 

The Calzone Connection.

 

The Zips on Doordringen Avenue don’t hang out here. They hang out on Doordringen Avenue, no sh*t, at Il Caffè Doordringen in Schottler. But the Nisticò Bakery is infamous. Major artery in the Sicilian coke-heroin importing racket.

 

It’s run by the Messina underboss. You’ve never met him.

 

Car pulls up.

 

Derrick, “So, is it political enough?”

 

“Hardly. All money sh*t. Gangland tribe bullsh*t. Don’t believe in anything.”

 

“They believe in something. Omertà, cosa nostra, all that.”

 

“And that’s an ideology to you?”

 

Derrick frowns. Thinking. “No,” he says. “But they believe it is.”

 

Jingle-jangle on the door opening. Place is thick with smoke: cigarettes and hot bread. In the corner, handsome young Italian in a fully-buttoned button-up stands straight and puts a hand forward.

 

Babbles in language you don’t understand. Only word you can make out is ‘Quaquaraquà’.

 

“Is Hugh Nisticò in?”

 

Guy gets closer, guy gets louder, “Lassàtimi jiri! Assa si nni va!”

 

Familiar voice says “Dusty.” Shushes.

 

Two guys by the unmanned counter. You know one, mustachioed fella. Other is real dark-skinned, has sunken eyes with deep shadows. Flour all over his hands, cigarette in his mouth lazy-like. Mustache is Ollie Lulu, baker-boy is Hughie Nisticò.

 

 

Dusty sits back down.

 

“You fellas serve, uh, pastries here? Or is it just the, um, the f*ckin’ meatheads.” Aiden’s attempt at a joke. Nobody laughs.

 

Hughie takes the cigarette out his lips, dusts his hands off on his apron. “Okay.” Beckons with two fingers, means follow.

 

Follow.

 

Kitchen guts and ovens blasting. Ollie says “Two-a the you want to leave with anything? Can have the, uh, the paper bags.”

 

“No thanks, lad,” Aiden mutters. “I hate food.”

 

“The-a, the- the the two of you, uh, you sent-a by the Big Man, Mr. Jackie?”

 

Derrick says “No. Two of you, you know Frankie McReary?”

 

“Hm,” Hughie goes.

 

“You do?”

 

“Hm, okay.”

 

Ollie stops. “Want to, uh, to thank you. For-a the help and a this and a that the other week. The few boys.” He doesn’t mumble out of introversion, just isn’t good with the language. You can tell, Lulu always keeps eye contact.

 

Derrick pushes his tongue under his lip. “You ran.”

 

“No,” Hughie says.

 

Aiden, “If Derrick says you ran, you probably f*ckin’ ran.”

 

“Our part of the, uh, this-a the transaction, it was complete. Calò too.” Ollie bites his nail, “No reason to stay, this-a not a discussion.”

 

“Yes,” Hughie says.

 

Sniff. Aiden looks to you. Derrick says “I woulda’ done the same in your shoes. Wish I did. But we had a job to do.”

 

“Our job was done,” Ollie says. “This simple. You’re good boys, I like you troupe. Frankie?”

 

“Frankie.”

 

“I don’t-a know a no Frankie McReary, no.”

 

Derrick sighs. “Okay, uh. He buys coke. From you guys. I know that. My father, did he send anyone to talk to you about that?”

 

Hughie, “No.”

 

Of course. “Any Greek kids from Steinway come around here?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Lulu, “Yes, yes. This, the-uh… come si dice- know-a the Badalamenti boy?”

 

Squints. “Maybe,” Derrick says.

 

“Not uh… non lavora con noi. Marco and Fredo. The Volpe Brothers. You killed their father the other day,” completely nonchalant. “Good boys, good boys. Do favors for me often.”

 

Familiar name. “Freddy Rigs?”

 

“Yes! You shot him and-a, the- the- the graves, and-a seghetto.” Snap snap snaps his fingers to remember, “Hacksaw!”

 

Aiden is looking at you. There is nothing in his eyes.

 

Derrick blinks. “Do you know the Greek kid’s name?”

 

“No, no. I know-a the Badalamenti, uh… his-a head-a-quarter. The pool hall. Him anna-uh… Volpe, they know him. Huntington Street.”

 

“Where on Huntington?” Aiden asks.

 

“Huntington… Eighty One, I think… uh the- the Load and Proud. Cerveza Heights. The Volpe and-a Badalamenti play pool there. Good boys. Sweet boys, real-a nice boys.”

 

Derrick, “So they’ll be there?”

 

“I duh-duh- I duh-duh- I dunno’, I dunno’. I hope, I hope.”

 

Sniff. “Righty-o.”

 

Aiden’s already turning to leave. “It’s been a gas” real insincere headed to the cashiers.

 

“Your father,” Ollie goes. “Says-a you a good boy. N-n-na-na-not-a prune to nothing, uh, how you say… lazy, but not. Uh… you don’t a put a…”

 

Derrick is staring.

 

“Svogliato,” Hughie mutters.

Listless.

 

“Quello, ma in inglese.”

That, but in English.

 

Derrick is staring. “Does he say that?”

 

“Mhm! But you, I don’t see that. You put the iron-a to the-a Dio face, you put him. Like a dog. A sick dog. And a sick dog he was. But you, he-a say you not-a put you mind to nothing. Maybe so. A ca- ca- comunista, he say you are.” Fakes spitting on the floor.

 

Derrick is still staring. “You talk often?”

 

“The Union Boys.” He taps his temple. Grins at the nickname, bullsh*t McReary nickname. “Good killers. Mr. Jackie firm hand, potente.”

 

Derrick steps forward.

 

Ollie blinks.

 

“No offense,” Derrick says. “But my father is a rapist. He’s dirt. His word means nothing. I wouldn’t trust a thing he’s ever said.”

 

Ollie blinks.

 

“Have a good day.”

 

Leave.

 

Head to Huntington and 81st.

 

There’s silence in the car.

 

You’re driving or you’re not. But you aren’t looking nowhere.

 

Aiden’s frowning.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

 

“I don’t need your pity,” Derrick says back.

 

“It’s not pity. I didn’t know.”

 

“My father is a sick pervert.”

 

“And you work with him?”

 

“I wouldn’t. If I wasn’t a f*cking idiot, I wouldn’t. I’m a f*cking leech, and I don’t care, because he is a black blood cockroach and every dime taken away from his cold f*cking hands is a blessing.”

 

“Lay off yourself, you’re not a leech.”

 

“I am, and that’s fine.” Sniffs, “I’m a class A felon, Aiden. I can’t do nothin’. And if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be doin’ this, but since I am, I ain’t got the choice. I ain’t perseverating on it.”

 

Pauses. “Who’d he do it to?”

 

Beat.

 

Aiden says “Sorry.”

 

“I despise that f*cking miserable c*nt. If he died-” grits his teeth. “Whatever. All of the perfumes of Arabia won’t wash the hands of John Jack McReary.”

 

“I thought a lot about the J. Some things, not so. I didn’t think this. Scary bastard, maybe.”

 

“Can I tell you a story?”

 

Aiden nods.

 

“The first and only time I’ve ever beaten my father in a fight,” Derrick says. “He was trying to molest my brother. I stabbed him in the stomach with a fireplace poker and beat his face in until his skin was purple and he weren’t breathing no more. I nearly blinded him. We didn’t speak for a very long time. And since I have, we haven’t spoken about it since.”

 

Air’s tight.

 

Derrick exhales.

 

“I… that’s something.”

 

“It’s something, Aiden.”

 

“You should’ve killed him.”

 

“I should’ve.” White knuckles. “I’m not afraid of him anymore. I was, once. I’m just afraid of what he’ll do. I gotta make sure he don’t.”

 

Drive.

 

You’re onto Cerveza Heights.

 

Under the elevated train tracks on Huntington is one of the most diverse thoroughfares in the city. But you already took the train to the house, didn’t you? This is the melting pot incarnate. There’s Colombians here, en masse. Indian joints and paan stains on the sidewalks. Chinese and Jews, Bangladeshi and Filipinos, Ecuadorians and Yugoslavians.

 

Eclectic mix of colorful storefronts and blazing signs under the subway. A million lights. Just the same, white parents tell their kids not to come here. This is Dukes’ cocaine capital. They’re talking about this thing called Bazooka, freebase cocaine. Those Colombians and those Ecuadorians, they’re popping off shots at each other on occasion. 

 

Have you ever heard of a man named León Izquierdo? He is the biggest cocaine smuggler in the world. The mob don’t do business with him - you just met some of their top suppliers.

 

Why the hell a bunch of greaseball kids hang out on Huntington, who can say.

 

Aiden points, “‘Ey.”

 

 

“Ah, so not Load and Proud.”

 

“Pro’lly his accent,” Aiden guesses.

 

Stop the car. “Little bastard better be here.”

 

Door opens, bell jingles. Place is a couple seconds into a song oozing out a record player by the corner, Dancing Queen. Nicotine fog in the air, can feel it chiseling your teeth.

 

The Loud & Proud is small. Corner joint, more a social club than a pool hall. eCola freezer, liquor, two pool tables with only one being used. Open pizza boxes on the second table and on the bar. Lounge chairs and stools. Place is stocked with pipsqueaks.

 

They look at you.

 

You look at them.

 

They’re kids. How the f*ck they got a bar?

 

Handsome kid has the cue. Holds it two-handed, eases off the balls. Sleeveless shirt and hairless arms. To his left, another pretty boy. To their right, two gawky skinny-looking kids with big hair, Italian afro curls. One’s skulking in the shadows, other’s got a slice in his hand.

 

 

Kid with the cue, he goes “This is a member’s only club, boys.” Puts on a mean front.

 

Aiden scoffs, “Boys.”

 

“What the f*ck did you say, jamoke?”

 

Derrick, “We wanna keep this short and sweet, look’ere--”

 

Kid on the far end, big afro, drops the pizza and goes “He told yuz’ this is a member’s only f*ckin’ club, this is for the members only, yuz’ ain’t members a’ nothin’ or nobody, hey--”

 

“Which one of you is Badalamenti?”

 

Kid on the left, far end without the cue, he’s rounding the table. Afro goes “Are you a cop?”

 

Kid with the cue, “Are you f*cking cops?”

 

Boy in the shadows mutters “You gotta say if you are.”

 

Left kid repeats, “You gotta say if you f*ckin’ are!”

 

Aiden, “You boys gotta chill--”

 

“We aren’t boys.”

 

“We are not cops!” Derrick yells, “We just want to talk to Badalamenti or the Volpes.”

 

Afro, “What’s the other guy, who’s the English guy?”

 

“Calm down--”

 

Kid with the cue is rounding the corner, “Why the f*ck you only know my last name?”

 

Left kid, “Are you a cop?”

 

“I told you,” Derrick says. “I’m looking for my brother. Settle down.”

 

“Are you telling me what to do, punk? Are you telling me what to do?”

 

Cue-man’s right on you. “I’m Bad Barry.”

 

Beat. Air is thick.

 

Aiden laughs.

 

Bad Barry yells “Oh, f*ck off!”

 

“You’re Bad Barry?!”

 

Barry tosses the pool cue to the kid on the left.

 

Kid catches it.

 

“Marky,” Barry goes. “Don’t let him get any f*ckin’ closer.”

 

Marky. Marco. Mark Anthony.

 

Plans formulating. Derrick goes “Easy, please please. Please.” Turns to Aiden and gives a wink and says “Shut the f*ck up, you f*cking idiot.”

 

You can see the front break a second, but he gets it. Puts his palms up. Just says “Right.”

 

Eyes darting.

 

They’re staring.

 

Pizza box.

 

 

“You go to Eel Common to get youse pizza?”

 

Mark goes “What?”

 

Barry goes “Who gives a sh*t?”

 

“I’m just saying,” Derrick says. “It’s a decent drive. That’s a half hour. There’re slices on Huntington.”

 

“One of the guys gets it, he’s a regular.” Snaps out of the explanation when he realizes he’s saying it, “Woah, what the f*ck do you care? What the f*ck do you care?”

 

Afro, “You and English, what the f*ck do you care?”

 

Aiden breathes out his nose. “If that midget munchkin motherf*cker calls me that again I’m gonna kill him.”

 

Afro throws a slice of pizza right at Aiden, slice hits him on the chest.

 

So much for the plan. Because Mark Anthony smacks you in the f*cking face with the stick.

 

Handle these kids.

 

“Beat his ass! Beat his ass! Beat his ass!” That’s Barry. Kid smashes an eCola bottle on the pool table for slicing, runs up on Aiden with Afro on his side.

 

Afro’s named Ali Mac. Barry keeps shouting it. That and “Dougie, Dougie, Dougie!”

 

Kids don’t play fair.

 

Mark Anthony Volpe whales on you with the pool cue. Smashes against the back, keeps hitting, keeps hitting. Two-handed, seething like a bull, spittle flying.

 

 

Whaling. Smash, smash, smash.

 

Kick him in the shin and topple the top-heavy punk.

 

Falls. Grunts. Another kick to the face.

 

“Mark!” About-face and the kid in the shadows, gangly prick, he’s on the pool table.

 

He leaps.

 

On your f*cking shoulders.

 

Can’t handle the weight, you fall to the ground again. Little gremlin on you digging into your back with claws, “Ya’ bitch! Ya’ bitch!”

 

“f*ckin’ chidrool--” Mark kicks you in the goddamn face. “Get this strunz’, Fredo!”

 

Down.

 

Kid tries to stomp your face in.

 

Derrick rolls. Up by the barstools, stabilizes and knocks a bottle off the bartop. Feels his nose - hurts like hell. Eyes on Aiden at the other end: grabs Ali Mac by the hair and smashes the kid’s face into the exposed brickwork. 19-year old’s blood on the wall.

 

Bad Barry grabs him by the shoulders and throws him to the floor, tosses the bottle at his head.

 

Two Volpe punks on you. Big fox has his fists up, edging closer.

 

Little fox lunges again.

 

Move.

 

Kid hits the bar, winds himself. Derrick swings, connects.

 

Sixteen year old gets floored.

 

Mark Volpe screams like a f*cking animal and just starts hitting the air manic, screaming the kid’s name, screaming in Italian.

 

Door near the rear kicks open.

 

Big goon in his twenties out the door. Six-foot-four, shoulders wider than the doorframe.

 

You know him.

 

 

Frankie’s punk dealer. The Greek.

 

Visibly double-takes when he sees you, doesn’t get long to think. Aiden swings at him. Aiden misses.

 

Doug the Greek elbows Aiden in the neck, grabs him by the torso like a barrel, tosses him across the room. Aiden doesn’t hit anything but rolls around the floor and slippery Fredo’s already on him.

 

The Greek’s on you.

 

Heavy fists. Toothpick out his lip, doesn’t even need dusters. Dancing Queen is repeating. Slow fists, a few miss.

 

And then he grabs you by the scruff, by the f*cking throat.

 

And he pummels.

 

 

Pummels.

 

Pummels.

 

Keeps f*cking pummeling.

 

Lights going black, Bad Barry jumping into the fray throwing loose punches while Doug the Greek has you reeling against the eCola cooler.

 

Eyes to the right. Aiden’s standing on the felt of the pool table, kicks the pizza box to the floor. Kicking at Mark Volpe and Ali Mac, Ali Mac kicks back and his sneaker goes flying. Two grab him by the legs, hold him above, Aiden’s throwing his arms--

 

You break free.

 

Derrick yells “Oh, screw this!”

 

Reaches into his jacket. Pulls a Stud Federal out his pocket.

 

Ruckus stops.

 

Bad Barry’s glaring. Aiden breaks free, pushes out the two staring at Derrick, pulls his own .38 Snubbie out of his jacket.

 

“Back up!” Derrick yells. “Against the f*cking wall!”

 

Doug the Greek’s got his hands up.

 

Mark Volpe spits on the ground, “Sfacchim’! Vai a farti fottere anzi chiavare, f*ckin’ motherf*cker! Va’ al diavolo!”

 

Now Aiden’s up on him, a few inches shorter, “Shut the f*ck up, shnakey little bastard.” And Mark puts his hands up, and they head back to the wall.

 

Hands up. Backs to exposed brick.

 

Aiden kicks the record player and the thing stops sharp. “Buncha’ bloody punks you are.”

 

Bad Barry’s scoffing, “Punks? You lost a fight to a bunch of punks, you had to play unfair!”

 

Derrick, “Play unfair?!”

 

“Bollox unfair! Me feckin’ teet’, f*ck yuz’,” Aiden howls.

 

Interrogate the punks.

 

Aim, ask. Do not shoot. Hands up, you want the blood of a f*cking kid on your hands?

 

Kids look scared. Mark Volpe and the Barry boy, they’re putting on a face - but anyone would be scared if they had a gun at their head.

 

Aim. Doug the Greek. “You sell Frankie McReary any coke?”

 

Doug squints. “Oh, yeah.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I knew you somewheres.” Real deep voice, like it rides on the roof of his mouth when he’s talking. “Union Boys he’s with, from Lucky Winkles.”

 

“I’m his f*cking brother.”

 

Guy squints harder. “I see it.”

 

Bad Barry, “Will you shut your sh*t, Douglas? Don’t tell him nothin’, barges the f*ck in--”

 

Aim. Bad Barry. “Do you know Frankie?”

 

“Va fa Nabla, dopey.” Kid’s givin’ you the maloik.

 

“He comes here, right?”

 

“Sure. Whatever.”

 

Aim. Fredo. “He comes here, right?!”

 

“Yes! Yeah, yeah! He does! He does!” Kid’s pissing himself. “He does!”

 

Mark Volpe yells “You take it off him! Take it off him right now! I will kill you!”

 

He means it.

 

Aim. Mark Anthony Volpe. “I knew your father.”

 

Mark Volpe stares.

 

Mark Volpe glares.

 

He puts his hands down.

 

Derrick cocks the gun. They’re back up, slowly. Kid just says “Go to hell.” As much venom as he can muster. It’s a lot of venom.

 

Fredo’s biting his lip. Looks like he’s gonna cry. Sore spot. Derrick says “I’m sorry.”

 

“Like f*ck,” Mark Anthony spits.

 

“I am. He was--”

 

“Put a gun in his face. Sick f*ck.”

 

The gun is shaking a little. Derrick stiffens. Aiden goes “Serious gombeen clowns you are, ya’ don’t know nothin’.”

 

Aim. Ali Mac. “Did Frankie get the pizza?”

 

“Yea’, yea’, yea’, my bawls got da’ pizza, my bawls. Yea’, you suck me. Pussy.”

 

The kid’s got an empty head and nothing to say. Aiden mutters “Zat the best ye’ got?”

 

“You’re a pussy, bro.” Pushes his chin out, “Ya’ nothin’.”

 

The Ali Mac kid isn’t a threat to anyone, and couldn’t be if he wanted to. He’s missing a goddamn sneaker. 

 

Derrick looks at Fredo. Doesn’t aim. “Did Frankie buy the pizza?”

 

Fredo looks. Fredo nods. “He’s a regular.”

 

Aim. Bad Barry. “Where’s Frankie now?”

 

“Up your ass, I heard.” Shrugs, laughs at his own joke.

 

Aim. Doug. “Is he up my ass or what?”

 

Aiden laughs. Doug shakes his head like what the hell and goes “Ha- how would I know?”

 

“Anyone know where Frankie McReary is?!” Aiden yells.

 

Nobody replies.

 

“He comes here again,” Bad Barry mutters, “I’ll smack him upside his smackhead head, tell him what.”

 

“Nah,” Aiden laughs. “Dick’s the smackhead, ha.”

 

Derrick doesn’t laugh.

 

“Hand over ye’ wallets.”

 

Derrick’s not laughing at all. “Are you outta your mind?”

 

“These kids are thieves, man,” Aiden goes, “Dodgy as all feck. Won’t miss nothin’.”

 

“They’re kids.”

 

Bad Barry, “We ain’t kids, you’re a kid. You’re a homo!”

 

“Kids ready to kill, man.” Aiden points with the other hand, “They got a bar. You lot even drinking age?”

 

“You like to screw kids, you mick bastard? PS 19’s a 5 minute drive!”

 

“You’re sick in the head.”

 

“We’re leaving!” Derrick announces. “We’re goin’, we’re not robbin’ you, we just wanted to know. We’re goin’! We’re sorry!”

 

Mark Volpe, “Va fungool!”

 

Barry, “Yeah, you run!”

 

Back out.

 

Back out.

 

For posterity Aiden’s squawking “Back against the f*ckin’ wall, ya’ eejits! Back up! Back up!”

 

Back out.

 

Door shuts.

 

Run. In the car. Hit the gas like your lives depend on it.

 

Kids flow out the door and the rough ones are throwing bottles. Glass shatters on the pavement, maybe the car.

 

Not even excitement. Relief.

 

Aiden, “So we got nothin’. He’s not there, he’s not here. Feck all, waste a time. Could be anywhere.”

 

Grunts. “Regent Slice. 81-28 on Zurhellen.”

 

“I was on Zurhellen for me da’s feckin’ chest!”

 

“That’s our lead. We’re heading there.”

 

Head there.

 

Head to Regent Slice.

 

“Hail Mary, Mother a’ God.” Derrick, “That was f*cking embarassing.”

 

“Why your brother’s hanging out wit’ a bunch a gobsh*te little runt f*cks, I haven’t the slightest.”

 

“They sell him coke. They probably give him booze.”

 

“You can do that a lotta’ places.”

 

“I’m sure he goes a lotta’ places. I was hoping he wasn’t. Hoped he’d be on the God thing, like that’d straighten him out. He moved outta’ the house. Could’ve slept on the couch, but he’s a prideful little dope.”

 

“They got bunks at the seminary?”

 

Derrick shrugs.

 

Eel Common.

 

Eel Common is a thousand Tudor-style homes, half-timber and pitched roofs for blocks on blocks on blocks. Pilgrim building on the corner of Zurhellen and 83rd, decades old bakery selling black and white cookies. Storybook town.

 

 

Regent Slice has a pretty sign and signage in surplus. Decent location, at the terminus of an EIRR station among the markets. Theater up the street is mob run, they run a peep show there.

 

Aiden wipes his eyes. Feels his jaw. “Clowns.”

 

“Real craic.”

 

“Oh, a gas that sh*te was. Joke of it. Bunch of kids.”

 

Door jingles.

 

Place is quaint. Not a mob joint. Local joint. Flax colored walls aged a couple decades, browns and yellows through a three-angle dining area with a doorway up to the registers. At the front, big guy with a cracked up face, heavy paws and an apron. Nobody else.

 

 

Nametag says Marv.

 

Marv says “Yeah?” Recoils a moment when he sees bruises, doesn’t comment.

 

Derrick puts his hands on the counter. “Yeah.”

 

Slow, “You want anything?”

 

Closes his eyes a second. “Yeah,” Derrick says. Sighs. “I been through hell today.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Look, I just… do you know a guy named Frankie McReary? He’s yay high,” Derrick puts his hand a tad above his head, half an inch, “got real sunken-in cheeks, real pale kid. He’s nineteen.”

 

Narrowed eyes, “What is this about?”

 

Aiden, “We don’t want to hurt him or nothin’.”

 

Marv does not break eye contact. Clear he doesn’t believe that. “Buddy,” very slow, “I got nothin’ to say to that effect.”

 

One hand on the counter, one hand on his shoulder. Derrick coughs a sec, “I’m losin’ my mind.”

 

“I’m sorry ‘bout that, but I got nothin’.”

 

“I’m worried f*cking sick.”

 

There’s a front, and it breaks. Eyes stop narrowing. “Yeah?”

 

“I’ve been up, I’ve been down, I’ve been lookin’ for this kid. I been lookin’ everywhere. He’s my brother.”

 

“I know him.” Doesn’t even hesitate.

 

“Finally,” like a load off Aiden’s chest. “Thank you so, very f*ckin’ much.”

 

“I don’t like the cursing.”

 

Smirk deflates instantly.

 

Derrick, “He’s my brother, I went to these f*ckin’ kids. On Huntington Street. They had, like, ten a ya’ boxes, one of them said Frankie got ‘em. We don’t know where he is, where he could be. But he’s been missing for weeks.”

 

Guy stops. “What?”

 

“I’m not lying.”

 

“What- what, how missing? Missing how?”

 

“He’s in seminary. Hasn’t been there, hasn’t been anywhere, hasn’t called, hasn’t done nothing.”

 

“For weeks?”

 

“Yeah. But he’s still on the street, we know that. We don’t know- he ain’t been kidnapped or nothin’, he’s been real slipshod all over the place but he ain’t called. And we’re sick to f*cking death.”

 

“I had no idea.”

 

“So he comes here?”

 

“He comes here all the time. He gets a special order, he gets like ten pizzas, he comes back and gets ten more. Every other day. He’s goin’ all over the place, gets a special order and then a bunch of regular ones.”

 

Aiden, “Special order?”

 

“Black olives, tuna and proshoot’, extra mootzadell’, nothin’ spicy. That specifically.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“He’s got a palette,” Derrick goes. “He eats sardines out the can. Doesn’t surprise me.”

 

“I’m sure it’s not popular.”

 

“Are we gonna-” Marv clasps hands together, “it really don’t matter. Kid’s actin’ mushad’, he’s all over the place. Call it a housewarmer, I don’t know, but I- I--”

 

Derrick, “Root beer, anything?”

 

“Just the pizzas.”

 

“You know where he goes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Is he there now?”

 

“Absolutely. And it ain’t a good crowd. I mean, f*ck, it ain’t my bag, but everybody rubs shoulders. Y’know? He goes to dives all over the place. Club Vinewood on Metropolitan--”

 

“We were just over there. He’s there?”

 

“No.” Pauses, frowns. “There’s this gambling joint on Sound Span Boulevard. It’s a couple blocks away from the Gentle Disposition, so I don’t need to spell out who owns it.”

 

He doesn’t. Not to you, anyways. Aiden cocks a brow and looks to Derrick for a lifebuoy; Derrick doesn’t look back. “He’s there now?”

 

“He was just here, he went there, got another special topping thing for this guy Joe Neighborhood. Ninety-Six somethin’ on 96th Street and Happiness, near Settlecot Boulevard. It’s a video store. Pioneer something-or-other. Low stakes joint where they bet high.”

 

Aiden rolls his eyes when he’s groaning “Settlecot, huh?”

 

“Yessir.” Doesn’t register it’s rhetorical. 

 

Derrick’s clocking it, keeping it in his head, nodding. “I appreciate it. Really.”

 

“You don’t gotta thank me.” Looks deep in the eyes, “I like the kid. He didn’t know he was in seminary. I- if I knew, or I knew youse were out there lookin’ for him, I mean, I woulda’ said somethin’ or told youse or whatever. He’s tryin’ to impress everybody, I know it, and he’s not impressin’ nobody doin’ it.”

 

Nods. “We’re gonna head over there.”

 

“Don’t do anything shtupid.” Means it.

 

“Nothin’ stupider than what he’s doin’. Don’t worry.” Gives a smile. 

 

Clearly doesn’t assuage Marv.

 

Door jangles.

 

Head to the video store.

 

While rubber hits the blacktop Aiden doesn’t even wait. “You don’t need to bloody spell out who owns it?”

 

“What?”

 

“What the f*ck is a Gentle Disposition?”

 

Derrick laughs. “It’s Italian sh*t, you wouldn’t care.”

 

“Italian sh*t. No, I care when I’m left out the f*ckin’ loop on purpose by you and Marv the Pizza F*ck. All eat me head off. You, you’re a f*ckin’ Lenapia Lawyer it comes to f*ckin’ Italians.”

 

“He don’t like the cursing,” Derrick echoes, cracks a smile.

 

“Shut up. Who the f*ck is Gentle Disposition?”

 

“It’s not a person.”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“It’s a big deal. The Gentle Disposition Coffee Club. It’s off Grosjean Boulevard. Peter Rea’s place.”

 

It clicks. “Oh.” Aiden knows him. “Yeah? You know the c*nt?”

 

“I know ‘the C*nt’.”

 

“What?”

 

“They call him a lotta stuff, actually. But everyone calls him the C*nt.”

 

“Who, Pete Rea?”

 

“No, his goombah. Tony the C*nt. I didn’t know either them wops personal until the other week, and you know the story, but he was the guy who dug the graves. Or I’m sure he watched, didn’t get his hands dirty, got some goons to half-ass it and then stayed to make remarks.”

 

“Is Tony the C*nt a c*nt?”

 

“I mean, sh*t Aiden, I imagine. I know the guy two seconds, but yeah, he came off like an asshole. But in the newspapers, they’d never call him ‘the C*nt’. You can’t. So they call him Tony the Box, Tony the Cat, Tony the Creep, Tony Bits, Tony Four-Star.”

 

“Hahaha! God f*cking damn it.”

 

“It’s a hoot, man, it’s a real holler.”

 

“They call him C*nt because he’s a c*nt, right?”

 

“I mean, I heard this story.”

 

“Okay?” Expectant.

 

“He’d steal purses and sh*t. Or he’d go in-and-out real good, or whatever, or he was a cat burglar or some sh*t. You know that type. But he said it-” stops to chuckle. “Nevermind.”

 

“Say it!”

 

“No.”

 

“You don’t get to pull that card, man, you don’t get to pull it.”

 

“Okay. He had this catchphrase.”

 

“Mother of God.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Come on.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Just rip off the bandage, feen, just say it.”

 

“He’d say he did it so good, it was like sticking a mint up a whore’s c*nt. That’s his words.”

 

Doesn’t even laugh. “Wow.”

 

“Hey, but yeah, apparently everyone hates the f*cking guy too. He’s an idiot, and a real flashy, materialistic motherf*cker.”

 

“And a real class sort, apparently.”

 

“They all are.”

 

“Look,” Aiden goes. “The couple of guineas I met, they all been through ya’ father, all real idiots, man. If there ever were a buncha’ f*ckin’ gobdaws, it’s these connected guys. One brain between alla’ them, all- I mean, you know this, man.”

 

“I do. Who’d you meet?”

 

“Oh, f*ck if I remember. Ain’t got the photographical-f*ckin’-scatalogical f*ckin’ memory you need to categorize all that nonsense, man. Yer aul stock with his friends. Friends they are! He still owe them?”

 

“He owes them the world.”

 

“And he’s always gonna owe ‘em, Derrick, always will. ‘Cause they are little f*ckin’ chokey f*ckin’ bastards, they are, rope around the neck bugger f*cking cunts them.”

 

Derrick doesn’t reply. It’s all true.

 

Zephyr Hill. Dukes Italians. Here and Rambler Beach and all over eastern Dukes - maybe you don’t need the explainer, given you were in Zephyr Hill around an hour or so ago picking up Aiden from his da’s doctor appointment. Screw it, though.

 

The Gentle Disposition Coffee Club is one of the most infamous mob haunts in the city. Pete Rea - his name is in the annals. Used to call him Petey Espresso when he still had the mustache before he put a glass in a guy’s head for calling him that. That was ‘76, when he was Jon Gravelli’s protege and making the biggest earn in the borough. Former middleweight boxer, tough nut.

 

Pete Rea runs all the truck hijacking, bookkeeping, loan sharking, storefront protection and just about every other motherf*cking racket on the books. This is his neighborhood. This will be his game. He is the family’s blue collar moneymaker, and he organizes every major hit.

 

Don’t screw this up, buddy boy.

 

The video store is under the elevated train tracks.

 

 

Aiden whistles at the name. “Creative.”

 

Fruity 70’s-style joint. Dundreary Admiral and a BBC Rhapsody outside - grit and glamor. Park across the street.

 

“You see Franco’s car?”

 

Derrick mutters, “He could be drivin’ a T-34, all I know. I dunno’ what he drives.”

 

Door jingles. Place is dark. Orange swirling carpet, fruity Seventies joint. Fruity inside, fruity outside.

 

Fat guy with a f*ck-off cigar is reading Public Canard by the front desk. His feet are up by the register; he does not look up at you.

 

 

“You in?” Muffled out his mouth.

 

Do not waste time. “Is Frankie McReary here?”

 

“Huah?”

 

“Is Francis McReary here? Frankie McReary?”

 

“Whaddau’ give a sh*t?” Looks up. “You in?”

 

Aiden, “In what?”

 

Lazily, “Are you cops?” Does not seem to care. “Or are you euh-ah what-the-f*ck, reta’ded?”

 

Derrick, “Am I retarded?”

 

“I dunno’, are ya’?”

 

“Some little Irish kid, he come in with- like, ten pizzas?”

 

“Yeh’. Aryu’ cops?”

 

“I’m honestly f*ckin’ offended you’d ask.”

 

Squints. “What?”

 

Ignore him.

 

He does not like you ignoring him. Goes “Hey, the buy in--” who gives a sh*t. “This is Baby Goon’s game!”

 

Baby Goon. Rea lieutenant. You met the guy off-hand organizing what happened to the three guys. Real gun.

 

 

Back door beckons. Big guy babbles.

 

Door opens.

 

Four guys around a poker table. Baby Goon up in the corner, immediately darts up, goes “Derrick?!”

 

Regent Slice boxes.

 

“Onofrio, hey.” Guys at the table look up.
 

Two of them are gangsters. Real wobbly f*ck and this guy on the right, Mikey Test, another guy under Rea. Wobbly’s with the Messinas - Gunner Golfo, one of Joe Mundy’s guys.

 

Other two - low stakes where they bet high. Degenerate gamblers. Sad looking bald guy and an Elvis impersonator.

 

 

Rooms darker than dark: lamp by Baby Goon and lamp by the poker table. Regent Pizza boxes. Pepperoni half-eaten. Aiden through the doorway and fat guinea right behind you.

 

Baby Goon, “Jelly tell you the buy-in?”

 

“We ain’t here to gamble--”

 

BANG. Back door bursts open. Light floods into the room. Sneakers hitting pavement.

 

“Mother a’ Christ!”

 

You know who’s feet those are.

 

Chase down Frankie.

 

Elvis impersonator babbling, “Wherethehelldakidthinghegoinmadon’ OH! Dafugya’--” going right by out into the open air. Open air alleyway - kid in a loose leather jacket headed west.

 

Aiden yells “Oh, come on!”

 

Kid jumps a box, slides over a parked Karin Puchi and trips over doing it. Scrambles up and darts left. Heading west.

 

Zippy bastard.

 

Chain-link fence, crawls through a hole, clambers in the dirt and bee-lines into a door. Elbows, elbows, elbows, door gives way.

 

You can hear him scream “Crap!”

 

Over the fence. Through the door.

 

Garage. Pearl-white Dundreary Virgo, dusty. Aiden follows, peeks through, murmurs “Blimey.”

 

Find Frankie.

 

Not a lot of room for him to hide.

 

Peek around the front.

 

Not there.

 

At the back.

 

Not there.

 

Blinks.

 

Gets down on his knees. Checks under the car.

 

 

His face is in a puddle of coolant.

 

Derrick reaches.

 

Frankie f*cking kicks at him. Hits his head on the underside, yelps, struggling under the thing. Just making monkey noises.

 

“Frankie, f*cking quit it!”

 

“F*CK OFF F*CK OFF F*CK OFF F*CK OFF F*CK OFF--”

 

“Frankie!”

 

Kicking at you. Wild animal.

 

Derrick grabs him by the legs. Kid’s clawing at concrete, flailing his legs, Aiden grabs the other for support. “Like a cornered goddamn cat!”

 

“Leave me alone!!”

 

“Quit bein’ a f*ckin’ child!”

 

Screaming, screaming, “F*CK OFF F*CK OFF--”

 

Aiden, “You high, man?!”

 

“Aiden O’Malley, you mick little rat-face bASTARD get your paws f*ckIN’ OFFA’ MEE--”

 

Got his arms pinned down. Aiden’s shoe pressed down on his forearm, squirming.

 

Derrick slaps him in the face.

 

Stops squirming.

 

“Hough!” Blinks fast, blinks fast, red mark on the cheek. “Ho-aaugh, ow! Ow!”

 

Pointing at him, “Snap the f*ck out of it.”

 

Aiden lets go. “Christ on a cracker.”

 

“How off your f*ckin’ head are you? Frankie, you moron.”

 

Kid still lying on the concrete. Kid still feeling his face. “You treat me like your dog.”

 

“You’re f*ckin’ rabid, man!” Aiden shaking himself off, “You gotta chill your beans, man, you gotta chill.”

 

“You gotta stop talking like that.” Sitting up now. “You’re gonna go to hell.”

 

Just gets a scoff back from Aiden.

 

“Your ma’s worried sick,” Derrick goes. “She’s been crying. You been outta seminary? You’re gonna go to hell.”

 

“I’m playin’ cards.”

 

“You’re on your ass.” Gestures around. “No cards!”

 

“Cards down the block, screw off.”

 

“You’re comin’ home.”

 

“I ain’t finished my hand.”

 

“You weren't playing!”

 

“My hand’s like the train; always gonna come, don’t matter how late. You can watch some. But you’re gonna leave. You should leave, you always do.”

 

“Not with this, man.”

 

Just sighs. “Help me up.”

 

Aiden extends a hand.

 

Frankie gets up by himself. Grins. Grin falters. “I don’t like you saying I’m gonna go to hell.”

 

“If I’m goin’, feen, you’re goin’.” Aiden shrugs. “Don’t- ya’ don’t want to shoot yer’ gun, don’t pull it out.”

 

Kid just bares his teeth. Only bravado behind it.

 

Fellas leave.

 

Leave out the side, head down 96th instead of going back through the card game. More garages, onto Happiness is the video store among bail bonds and pizza places. Car across the street.

 

Aiden puts an arm around Frankie’s shoulder. Kid recoils. “You got some sh*te taste in pizza.”

 

“What?”

 

“That’s how we came,” Derrick says. “You and your housewarmers.”

 

“What, he snitched? De Luca?”

 

“He didn’t snitch.” Stops on the corner. “Did what he shoulda’. You gotta go back to school, and you’re gonna. First you’re gonna head home, you’re gonna look ma in the eyes, she’s gonna know you still got yours.”

 

Pfft. “Whatever.”

 

“We’re gonna thank the Lord you’re gonna head back, eh.” Aiden chuckles. “And you’re gonna head back, you’re gonna thank him one of these eye-tals ain’t put you in a hole.”

 

“They weren’t gonna.” Points, “They weren’t gonna. But yeah, you know. You know everything. You and him and everyone. Ma, f*ckin’ ma.” 

 

Derrick’s sharp, “Hey!”

 

Immediately, “I didn’t mean that.” Sighs. “Can we just go home?”

 

Wind whips on the road. Derrick closes his coat. “That’s what we’re doing. Aiden, you gonna come along?”

 

Shakes his head. “I had enough fun for a week. That’s me quota. On nonsense familial--” and he trails off to do a little jerkoff motion with his hand.

 

Classy.
 

He’s taking the train.

 

Car door slams.

 

Take Frankie home.

 

“That was all baloney anyway.”

 

Derrick doesn’t know what the f*ck he means. “It was tuna and black olives.”

 

Frankie doesn’t laugh, just rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant.”

 

“What did you mean?”

 

And he grunts, “Oh, yeah.”

 

“Yeah, what?”

 

“Mikey Test cheats.”

 

“Wow.” No sincerity.

 

Doesn’t pick up on it, “Oh, yeah. Every game. Every game. Baby Goon signals to him. I’m sure the other guy, fat bozo, I’m sure he’s in on it too.”

 

“Gunner?”

 

“No, Gigi Jelly. Gunner too, maybe. They think I’m a f*cking idiot. But nobody says anything, oho, nobody. Nobody nothing. Because they’re losers, man, they’re losers. ‘Oh, you want a sip, buddy?’ Like I freaking care.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Tony Applehead. He’s into these guys so deep, so deep he’s got a- he’s got coral reef real estate.” Breaks for a laugh he doesn’t get. “And he keeps playing. And- and this whole thing, it’s for idiots like him.”

 

“And you.”

 

“Oh, screw off. I am not. I am not.”

 

“Which one is Tony Applehead? I can’t keep up with these dopes you hang out with. You been hanging out with for, what, how long? Instead of going nowhere.”

 

“Who cares.”

 

“Ma was crying.”

 

“And what was dad doing?”

 

Derrick stops. “Sent some goons of his out searching for you in Willis.”

 

“Why- what? I’d be where?”

 

“I said.”

 

“Tony Applehead’s the bald one, by the way. He’s a vacuum salesman and he’s a stooge. Got no spine. Warbles and warbles and buh-buh-buh, pussy. And the other guy. Joey the Neighbor. Joe Neighborhood. You know what he does, when he isn’t doing cover songs and taking photos - he’s a f*cking burglar. He steals TVs. He steals wedding rings. He bragged about that! These are the kinds of people. These people.”

 

“These people what?!”

 

Groans. “Lord. You wouldn’t get it. You don’t get anything.”

 

“What, they’re losers?”

 

“Dehhh. No sh*t, moron.” Sighs. “Willis. God, no.”

 

“You know, I really don’t care about… Joe Neighborhood. And Tony Apple.”

 

“Applehead. His real name’s Buckleman.”

 

“You’ve been missing--”

 

“What, three days? Gimme a break.”

 

“More than a week! I don’t know the exact number! Your ma, she probably does. Dad maybe. I didn’t know you was missing until an hour ago, I came soon as I could.”

 

“And you’re taking their word for it? They could be exaggerating. They could- they could- they could think,” he’s breathless ‘cause he’s jumpy, “you’re the kind of moron who goes to a pizza joint first thing to check up on--”

 

“I went to see your friends.”

 

Beat. “Which?”

 

“Put a gun in their face. Loud and Proud, that stoat Barry Badalamenti.”

 

“Oh no.”

 

“Oh yeah.”

 

“You’re gonna ruin my f*cking life.”

 

“You’re ruining it now. You gotta go back to seminary.”

 

“That’s not my life.” Looks away. “They don’t understand nothing. Scripture’s sh*t to them. They eat sh*t. They puke out sh*t and then they eat the f*cking puke, and then they whack off on the--”

 

“Calm down.”

 

“You calm down. They think sh*t is one way when it ain’t. They- they have these contradictions, these--”

 

“You tell Aiden not to use the Lord’s name, you say God and f*ckin’ and this and that. You’re contradictions, buddy, don’t act high and mighty.”

 

“Not like that! You jump the gun, all the time. And you think you’re clever for it. No, it’s about mistakes. It’s about that with them. And ab- and and and they think you can f*ck up and it’s just fine. That there aren’t consequences. That ain’t the real world. That ain’t how God would ever let it be. He’d strike down- oh God, like you give a f*ck.”

 

“I care.”

 

“I know some of the sh*t you read. And you’re gonna burn for it.”

 

Cuts to the chase, “You still on dust?”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

“You still smokin’ PCP? Still hanging out with, what, that idiot, Heyo. Hayward. And now these wop goons. Are you?”

 

Quieter, “I ain’t seen Hayward since I went to seminary.”

 

“But you’re still on coke?”

 

“I bet you’d fail a piss test, Derrick. I bet we pulled over, I smelled your breath, it’d be like I was in Turkey.”

 

“I care about you.”

 

“You care about bullsh*t and lies. I care about the truth, I care about the right way. You go the other way.”

 

“Oh, ain't you real abnegatory. Why don’t you come out and say it?”

 

Crosses his arms.

 

Doesn’t reply.

 

Just huffs.

 

You already know the brownstone. You know the red door.

 

 

Car heads up Savannah, stops across the street. Only red door on the block.

 

Frankie is looking away.

 

Backs the Coffee Boy toward the trash cans. John Jack’s Bravura is missing. Frankie is still looking away.

 

Car stops. Key turns. Engine cuts.

 

Derrick looks. “C’mon.”

 

Frankie’s arms are still crossed.

 

Air is tight.

 

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

 

Frankie is seething. Eyes are hot. “No.”

 

“Frankie--”

 

“Stop.”

 

Derrick blinks. Sighs. “I know I.. euh… I- I- I care about ya’.”

 

“Who do you think I am?”

 

“You are me,” points at his chest. “I am you. And I made all the same mistakes you did. And you- you are on a path, Frankie, a real bad one. I gotta protect you from that.”

 

Francis looks into your eyes. “You’ve embarrassed me. And all those guys, they mean a whole lot more than the f*cking idiots I deal with. You. You’re one of them.”

 

“Those guys are goons.”

 

“You’re a goon and Aiden’s a goon and fuUCK OFF--” and bang.

 

Frankie punches you in the forehead.

 

Derrick reels. Grabs his face.

 

Frankie punches again.

 

He’s throwing fists crazy. Enraged.

 

Derrick backs up. Elbows the door, topples out onto the pavement.

 

Backs away and stumbles to his feet.

 

Frankie slams the passenger door.

 

Handle Frankie.

 

Frankie rounds the back. Grabs a trashcan lid.

 

Derrick puts up his dukes.

 

Your brother’s got loose footing. He stumbles, lanky fool, dips over the weeds. He’s sweating fierce now. Trash lid is a shield-cum-battering ram.

 

He goes for the gut.

 

Brings you to the floor.

 

Cardboard boxes by the trash. Throws them at you. Throws rocks, dances like a boxer who don’t know how to box.

 

But the kid can’t fight.

 

He always lost. Always started them.

 

Swings. Does not connect. Loose fists after, those connect, but they don’t hurt.

 

Derrick hesitates to punch. He does, he goes low, kid yelps. Grits his teeth and his eyes water but he wipes matted hair off his brow and spits fire.

 

He’s not gonna stop.

 

He’s got too much pride.

 

Let Frankie win.

 

Francis spits onto the floor. Mucus. Blinks off tears.

 

Put your dukes up.

 

Frankie swings.

 

It connects. Take it.

 

Frankie keeps swinging, and boy does it hurt.

 

Take it.

 

Pushes you. Derrick drops. Puts his hands up, closes his eyes.

 

Frankie kicks. Throws punches down, they bruise the stomach. The chest.

 

But he never goes for the face.

 

You play dead. Play dead for long enough. Frankie kneels down, grabs you by the chin. Boy’s hot-faced, he’s crying, don’t know why.

 

Derrick hacks up something.

 

“You don’t-” points in your face, “and you don’t- you leave- you leave, and you go, and you don’t- you are--” he cannot string a sentence together.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Commie f*ckin’ loser f*ckin’ junkie f*ckin’ idiot!” And he slaps the pavement, outta frustration. Wipes the tears out his eyes.

 

Stands.

 

“Just tell ma you’re okay,” Derrick bleats.

 

Francis stands.

 

Francis nods.

 

Lie there.

 

Gasp.

 

Follow Francis.

 

Derrick catches his breath. Crawls onto his hands, gets up on his boots.

 

Your brother’s already at the door.

 

By the time you catch up, he’s rung it a dozen times.

 

Griff the Berk answers.

 

 

Griff sighs. Doesn’t reply. Just stands aside for you to walk in.

 

Derrick’s beat up. Cut up face, red eyes.

 

Mustache looks at you. “Yeah.”

 

“That it?”

 

“Where was he?”

 

Snorts. “Up your ass, Billy Budd.”

 

Griff looks hurt. Looks concerned. Just nods.

 

“Frankie!”

 

Scoot past.

 

Gerald is hugging his brother. Ma in the corner, hands clasped at her waist, emotionless.

 

 

The boy is nine. He likes stickball and plastic soldiers. He plays french horn in the school orchestra. Frankie is his hero.

 

“Pa was with Darby and they were talking about you.”

 

“Yeah?” Frankie puts on this swagger, “I screw up again, huh?”

 

“They were shouting.” Kid’s got scared written all over him. Relief. “And yelling and stuff.”

 

“Yelling at you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why were they yelling at you?”

 

Confused, “They weren’t!”

 

“What did you do?” Grinning, “What did you do?!”

 

“I didn’t--” Boom. Grabs the kid, lifts him off his feet, spins on his heel backward.

 

Ma, “Francis!”

 

Gerald’s laughing. Frankie lets go, the kid totters onto the floor, dizzy. Griff smiles at it.

 

Francis kisses his ma on the cheek.

 

She doesn’t even react.

 

She leaves.

 

That big nonsense grin on Frankie’s face dies.

 

Derrick follows his ma.

 

Through the dining room with the paint buckets in the corner right to the kitchen. Ma’s mincing beef with a knife. Expressionless face.

 

Maureen McReary always knew how to shut off.

 

Derrick stops in the archway. Hands in his pockets.

 

Chopping.

 

“He’s safe,” Derrick says.

 

Maureen shakes her head. “No, he isn’t.”

 

“I’m gonna try keep an eye on him,” Derrick means it. “I met a couple guys who- who- who- I mean, who he hung out with. Guys like Heyo.” Points at his face. “Had a pleasant trip.”

 

She does not look up. “Don’t,” she says.

 

“Don’t what?”

 

“Don’t trouble yourself. Francis is a man now. And he’s doing what men do, and that’s ignore everything except themselves.” She stops cutting. “Who hit him?”

 

“He hit me.”

 

She sighs. “All I can hope,” she says, “is that the path he’s walking, it goes the right way. Francis was always stubborn. You’re stubborn too, Derrick, just in a different way.”

 

“He’s a good boy.”

 

“He is. You are.” She gets back to cutting. “I just want the best for you.”

 

“I’m gonna make sure, ma, his calling, he finds it. Because he believes everything he’s saying. Most of it, you know, it’s bullsh*t. But he believes it. And he’s saying at school, what they’re teaching him, he don’t agree with it. He sees it different.”

 

“Francis is like your father,” Maureen says. “Disdain for charity. I fail to understand why.”

 

“I ain’t like that.”

 

“I know.” She smiles a moment, but doesn’t look at you. “You’re hardly his son.”

 

Derrick doesn’t reply.

 

“Even if you’ve… even if you’ve made your decisions. And you’ve found your beliefs.”

 

“I have.” Derrick is an atheist. “I know you don’t agree.”

 

“You’re a man. And he is too. I’ve got three more that have to agree.” She laughs to herself. “In the end, I know you’ll do right by yourself. And I know He will have…” she trails off.

 

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen there, ma.”

 

“I, I, I. You and yourself.” She looks at Derrick. “I wish you went to college.”

 

Out of nowhere.

 

Like a freight train. “I know.”

 

“His will is His will. He wills it for Frankie. But I know you two, I know you two will make the most of it. My father, he did. And your father did, too. Strong men. Good men. You have a-... it’s, it is what it is. I wish you finished school.”

 

Derrick blinks. He’s tearing up. “Me too.”

 

“You have more than I ever did. Be grateful for that, Derrick.”

 

There is a pause.

 

A millennia in a second.

 

Derrick chokes back something. “I’m gonna have a smoke.”

 

Ma nods.

 

Derrick passes her.

 

Opens the back door. Into the yard, onto the back porch. Brick wall and townhouses, plastic chairs on the lawn.

 

Face in his hands. It takes a moment, a moment of thought.

 

Your breath is tight.

 

Your throat is pink.

 

Derrick weeps.

 

May God give you strength.

 

Edited November 18, 2021 by slimeball supreme

[Claude4Catalina]

Jesus f*cking Murphy that was an outstanding read.  gotta say I appreciate the use of Ken Medlock and Tony Ganios, they have the look of a Noo Yawker nailed down pat.  there's enough bit part fat f*cks in see-through socks, slick haired well dressed Italians and broad shouldered Irishmen actors to fill out a cast and not seem out of place whatsoever (not for nothing, I always smile to myself when I see the usual faces used in concepts, reminds of the time when the likes of Frank Vincent, Tony Darrow, Vinny Pastore, Danny Aiello and the like would take roles ranging from pizza parlor owners to crooks to cops, the sense of familiarity is nice) but I do enjoy the visual aid of small mugshots inserted in at the start of a scene to help us envision the environment you're putting us in.  speaking of visual aids, the brand names and storefront signage is a beautiful touch!  got a good chuckle out of the Lenapia lawyer line too, this is peak IV-Era Rockstar level of dialogue and world building.  one thing I did find brilliant going through the motions was how the shakedowns and beatdowns felt very cinematic, not so much like "Press X to not die" quick time events but more stylized fight scenes that seamlessly blur the line between cutscene and gameplay, fast paced cuts to a character reeling from taking a thump to the jaw, blows connecting and the perpetrator reeling as the feel their knuckles crack.  weird as this sounds but I don't like to comment on how an actual story pans out until it is over because I want to see the writer's vision come together, the aha moments when the reader thinks "well f*ck me dead, that one throwaway line back in an early mission was more important than I ever figured!" is rewarding enough, so all I can say on that front is I look forward to seeing how this plays out.

Edited December 13, 2021 by Claude4Catalina

[Cebra]

 

Following years of purported decline and federal incursion, Liberty City’s Italian mafia may be on the cusp of an internal reformation that could bring them to unprecedented heights of both power and bloodshed. Spearheading this shift, according to both federal and local law enforcement officials, is Simone Trungale: a gangster deemed by both his cohorts and enemies as especially ruthless and bloodthirsty, even by the high standards set by his notoriously violent counterparts abroad.

 

According to internal DOA reports leaked in April, the 71-year-old is now almost universally considered to be Liberty City’s capo di tutti capi (‘boss of all bosses’) among his peers on the Commission, the national panel that dictates the affairs and politics of the underworld. It has been widely speculated that Mr. Trungale, wielding more power and influence than any of his rivals both in America and abroad, could merge all five of Liberty City’s warring mafia tribes into one organization, making him the national chieftain of all organized crime in the United States. This consolidation of power has been marked by a sudden resurgence in gangland slayings, which police suspect leads directly to the man himself.

 

“Simone Trungale has always been considered a very acrimonious figure,” says Lieutenant Fede Aloe of the Liberty City Police Department’s organized crime intelligence division. It is said that Mr. Trungale, who holds a reputation for reprisal killings in response to minor slights, has asserted his power through murders of competitors and apparent allies alike. He wields immense sway among imported Sicilian gangsters, known in mafia parlance as ‘zips’, widely feared in America for their brutality and reticence in the face of authorities and fellow gangsters. “Since Santino Cangelosi’s incarceration and death four years ago, Trungale has seized many of the rackets he controls with a combination of wanton slaughter and pure commanding force,” says Lt. Aloe. “The rest of them are copper; he is pure steel.”

 

According to police, the killing has begun. Associates of Mr. Trungale are suspected of numerous assassinations throughout Liberty in a pattern of savagery exceeding what is typical for modern organized crime outfits. Rosario Rubulotta, a former associate of both Trungale and Cangelosi nicknamed ‘Rosie’ and ‘Rub-a-Lot’, was defenestrated from a fifth-floor apartment in Lower Easton with his ears and nose cut off, stripped naked, his hands tied. It is said he was associated with a trio of captains, or caporegimes, intent on replacing Trungale as head of Italian organized crime; all three of whom have since disappeared without a trace. Diodato Martignoni, Edward Salvodelli and Alfredo Volpe are unaccounted for to this day.

 

These brazen acts of slaughter are not new by any means, according to law enforcement officials. Thanks to their efforts and a months-long investigation into Mr. Trungale by the Liberty Tree, a web of secrecy surrounding this figure has been untangled—revealing a portrait of a man who may go down in history as the godfather of an international criminal empire.

 

---

 

It was an unseasonably warm winter evening in January 1943 when 32-year-old Simone Santolo Trungale stepped out of the Liberty State Board of Parole building at 221 Calcium Street in Lower Algonquin—a stone’s throw from the Civic Citadel—rushed into the back seat of a late model Vapid sedan idling streetside, and was whisked away into the night. Mr. Trungale’s parole officer found the man jittery throughout the check-in for which he had presented himself; he jotted down the vehicle’s license plate number and assigned two board investigators to tail them. Amidst a time of wartime rationing, the investigators were relegated to shadowing Mr. Trungale’s car on foot. They quickly lost him.

 

About the same time on the corner of Frankfort Avenue and Lorimar Street, aging Italian socialist and journalist agitator Ivo Vuto, himself also on parole at the time for charges of criminal syndicalism, waited on his fellow members of a so-called anti-fascist organization for a scheduled meeting. Most never showed; unbeknownst to him, there was a multiple car pile-up blocking traffic on the Union Drive West Elevated Highway. In the company of one other committee member, Mr. Vuto later opted instead to head for a late dinner at a now-defunct delicatessen in Purgatory.

 

He, too, would never show.

 

At the corner of Galveston Avenue and Hell Gate, Ivo Vuto was shot twice in the back by an unknown assailant. His committee associate fled, only hearing the third shot fired into Vuto’s skull. LCPD detectives would find the same Vapid sedan abandoned three blocks north the following morning.

 

Simone Trungale was immediately sought out as the culprit after his parole officer reported the license plate to the police department. He was arrested the following day; he told detectives that he’d caught a movie with his girlfriend following his parole check-in, specifics on which—both the movie and the girlfriend—he was unable to provide. When the LCPD soon provided a witness who saw Trungale enter the same Vapid sedan, he was charged with violating his parole by lying to his officer; he returned to prison to serve out a two-year term at Ninni Missi Correctional Facility. What might seem at first a tenuous connection to the crime is informed by a long and storied history of Mr. Trungale as a felon: at the time of the Vuto murder, he was being paroled on charges of attempted robbery, battery, and manslaughter: a 1930 heist gone awry in Hedgebury resulted in the shooting of an LCPD officer and the death of a 6-year-old child caught in the crossfire. Released seven years into a 16-year sentence, Mr. Trungale is said to have gone on to become a top hitman and brow-beater under the helm of Eufrasio Pavano—underboss of what was then the Paradiso crime family below alleged capo di tutti capi of the five families Ferdinand Paradise—shortly before Pavano fled to Italy to dodge murder and conspiracy charges in 1937. LCPD records indicate that at the time of the Vuto assassination, Mr. Trungale was suspected in over sixty murders throughout the boroughs. Interdepartmental theories have long been abound as to his potential motives for the hit; the most prominent of which being that he was executing a personal favor for Mr. Pavano on behalf of Italian fascist leader Benito Mussolini, who he had ingratiated himself to while a fugitive in Italy—and who, naturally, had a longstanding grudge against his anti-fascist countryman Vuto. Mr. Trungale is believed to have ‘made his bones’ with the killing—in the mob world, a term indicating he gained mainstream credibility on the street, and respect in the eyes of his superiors.

 

In the four decades since the assassination of Ivo Vuto, Mr. Trungale has never definitively or officially been connected to the crime, nor any other gangland hits.

 

 

Simone Trungale today is an infamously private underworld figure, known variously to criminal associates and the media as ‘Memo Smokes’ due to his penchant for Cuban cigars and corn cob pipes. Cuba, too, a vital factor in the establishing of his criminality: following his release from prison in 1945 and the subsequent expiration of his parole term in 1950, Trungale was multifariously spotted throughout the decade in Havana, Vice Beach, and Montreal, Canada in the presence of known organized crime figures. In Vice Beach: none other than Vigder Bavro, notoriously known as ‘The Mob’s Accountant’ and close associate of the Pavano crime family; then-Havana based casino manager Achille Bentivegna, who today is alleged to head one of the most powerful mafia syndicates in the United States outside the five families of Liberty City; and several small-time affiliates of the Messina crime family tied to heroin trafficking. In Montreal: Trungale purchased in 1954 a restaurant in the city’s eastern suburbs and was poised to apply for Canadian permanent residency until it became apparent that immigration authorities would audit his finances. Still, he is said to have permanently—and single handedly—seen his duty through in reminding Montreal-based mafiosi that they are beholden to the Messina family on behalf of alleged boss Joe ‘the Mess’ Messina. One of many such stories tells of Mr. Trungale forcing adult entertainers to dance on broken glass following the bust-up of a brothel attempting to claim independence.

 

Just how he would vacillate between allegiance to the Pavano and Messina families for so long before settling with the Messinas in an official capacity is unknown. What is known: during his many international journeys, Mr. Trungale fomented countless connections to facilitate the transnational flow of heroin into Canada and the United States. In Montreal, he worked closely in the confines of a pre-existing relationship between the Messina syndicate and the Geracioti crime family; a Calabrian outfit with a monopoly on most crime and smuggling routes into the city’s ports under the quiet leadership of Natale Gerard—the family’s namesake, who anglicized his own surname—and his brother Gualtiero (Paul ‘the Pickle’). The Geracioti family in turn maintained close connections to Sicilian heroin traffickers, who police sources tell are still today acting as middlemen in the transnational drug trade involving both the Messina and Gambetti crime families of Liberty City. A chronological account of facts, however, means overlooking a number of circumstances that have complicated matters over the past few decades: a civil war erupted within the Geracioti family in the mid-1970s between the old guard of its Calabrian origins and something of an uprising led by Sicilian associate Calogero Cazzini. What began in a dispute over territorial holdings and the chain of command soon devolved into a conflict of sects: the Gerards—the Calabrese—and increasingly disobedient Sicilian underlings warring under the pilotage of Mr. Cazzini. The Sicilian is the son of Amerigo Cazzini, now deceased, a one-time Prohibition-era smuggler along the St. Lawrence with connections to the Gambetti family and their investments in Las Venturas throughout the 1960s: the senior Mr. Cazzini, it is said, entered into a series of disagreements with Gambetti leadership on the direction of their West Coast business—it is this same spirit of mutiny that seems to have afflicted his son.

 

Mr. Trungale, regardless, was spared the squabble among neighbors: he had long been deported from Canada, having his visa revoked in 1960 following an investigation into his criminal affairs. In his wake, the Sicilian uprising succeeded: Natale Gerard, or ‘Nat La Mémère’, as he is often called—a French Canadian term invoking a blabbermouth, a sarcastic reference to Gerard’s notorious reticence—is said to have impressed leadership of his family to a diad comprised of his brother Paul ‘the Pickle’ (who was imprisoned at the time) and captain Melchiorre ‘Chiaro’ Squillace, following his arrest on extortion charges in 1977. Mr. Squillace’s ascension was a catalyst for turning the regional cold war into an actual war, and within three months of his rise he was shot dead in a Montreal bar at the age of 45. Other elements of the Calabrian defense, such as Mr. Squillace’s two brothers and several local associates, were killed over the subsequent weeks. On Paul Gerard’s release from prison in 1979, the Cazzinis offered him an ultimatum: resign to your new position and you will not be harmed. He acceded; Natale, twenty years his brother’s senior, was now bedridden from lung cancer—where he remains—and unable to participate in any further rebuffs to the Sicilian aegis. What remains of the Geracioti’s Calabrian faction and its supporters is today subservient to the Sicilians under Calogero Cazzini, who law enforcement says has taken advantage of his roots to homogenize the family’s participation in the heroin trade alongside the Gambetti and Messina syndicates. Where the Cazzini syndicate fits into the bigger picture of Messina and Gambetti cooperation, however, remains a mystery.

 

Simone Trungale’s two most recent bids in a federal penitentiary have come on charges of narcotics trafficking: the second, a 17-year sentence in Lewisburg on drug conspiracy charges coming shortly after the revocation of his Canadian visa in 1960. “[Trungale] has been desperate to initiate a hostile takeover of the narcotics market ever since Tommy Waters [Bisacquino] went away and he took the reins,” Lt. Aloe says. “He yearns for the days where Canada was free reign under his watch, only now he has the power to make it stateside.” Ironically, it may just be Canada that dictates the future of a criminal underworld under the helm of Simone Trungale: where the Cazzini faction emerged victorious, the Geracioti family continues to subsist in acquiescence. This once-isolated split between Calabrians and Sicilians, according to police sources, may have reverberations yet: with competition over international drug connections being one of many historical grievances between Mr. Trungale and the Gambetti organization, the dominoes yet to fall in Montreal’s vital part of the narcotics trade that drew the godfather to his success may prove to dictate the path of La Cosa Nostra throughout the remainder of the 1980s.

 

The heroin trafficking network throughout North America and past international borders is multifaceted; made up of a complex web of roles and delegations that have allowed it to flourish all the more since the Vietnam War, where both the raw and manufactured poppy from the Far East was first smuggled back into North America in great numbers. Despite a longstanding relationship with the Cazzini syndicate, heroin smuggled in through Montreal ports is believed to arrive under the authority of the Messina family more so than their Gambetti competition, who are rumored to hunger for more pull when it comes to narcotics—but border authorities suggest a certain element of collaboration between the two crime outfits that could not be verified by Liberty City officials. Where it comes to the logistics of trafficking and smuggling both stateside and internationally, however, the vast majority of the responsibility falls to Sicilian nationals—Mr. Trungale’s infamous zips, which itself implies a certain falling of the pecking order. It is at the local distribution level that the picture becomes more muddled: authorities suggest a recent fractioning in the Liberty City market, divided seemingly arbitrarily between street distributors working on behalf of the two families. Both are believed to use black and Hispanic gangsters to conduct a significant portion of their operations—therefore offsetting their risk—and there are rumors of the Gambetti family’s attempts to diversify into the budding cocaine market as well. But as it stands, heroin is king—and it is, at root, Simone Trungale who determines all.

 

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Belying a serially bellicose personality and portrayals in the media, Simone Trungale in 1982 cuts anything but an imposing figure. Standing at five feet, four inches tall and bald since his twenties, no better are the man’s many dualities captured than by his physicality. Six days a week he can be found at his proverbial seat of government, the Brown Place Leisure Center in Little Italy, occasionally seated out front on plastic chairs sipping espresso with his underlings. Set back from the street compared to other dwellings on Brown, the Leisure Center also has an iron gate out front: and in front of it, when Mr. Trungale is present, so is his 1964 Colonial Conquest—without fail parked in its own dedicated spot, easily identified by its yellow NO PARKING signage on the asphalt. Without a spot of rust and carefully detailed despite its age, the vehicle is Memo Smokes’ esteemed carriage from one stronghold to the next. From his residence in South Hedgebury to the Leisure Center—an approximately three-mile commute—Trungale rarely drives himself; he is instead chauffeured by noted Messina associate Giambattista Moio, a dark-circled and high-cheekboned 30-year-old Italian national who is purported to be one of the select few privy to the mobster’s ‘inner circle’ of confidantes. Liberty State property records list the owner of the Brown Place Leisure Center as Omero Stella, a 66-year-old Algonquinite with investments in a children’s toy company and several storage facilities throughout Liberty City’s boroughs long alleged to serve as a caporegime under Tomaso ‘Tommy Waters’ Bisacquino—earlier referred to by Lt. Aloe—who is for all intents and purposes still the official boss of the Messina family while serving an effective life sentence.

 

 

From his headquarters on Brown Place, Trungale does not flaunt the charisma and accessibility of so many of his contemporaries, who, if nothing else, maintain something of a local philanthropist sort of persona throughout their enclaves. He does not conduct fundraisers, shake hands with passers-by, or send complimentary bottles of Chianti to candlelit diners at Nuovo Mondo further up the street—the restaurant another favorite haunt of his, owned by purported top Messina captain Sigismondo ‘Joe Mutande’ Fontana. The man instead exudes a sort of asceticism, at least when it comes to appearances: outside the Leisure Center and in public he can often be found in wrinkled sweatsuits and rolled-brim fedoras and, at times, making more schizophrenic fashion statements: tweed blazers and sweatpants held up with rope, pinstripe suits and exercise sneakers, tailored jackets while completely shirtless. In terms of his disposition, common accounts paint no clearer a picture: while imprisoned at Ninni Missi in the 1930s, prison psychiatrists diagnosed Mr. Trungale with clinical psychopathy after finding him to be utterly unremorseful for his crimes, impulsive, manipulative, and a pathological liar. In contrast with the typical exhibitions of a psychopath, however, Mr. Trungale is also said to possess an intelligence quotient of 89—comparable to the mental age of a 14-year-old.

 

Where quantitative analysis of Mr. Trungale’s character might paint a picture of a rash buffoon, however, personal accounts often differ. He is a polyglot, fully fluent in English, French, Spanish, and various dialects of Italian that are said to make his international travels—and the facilitation of elaborate criminal schemes—all the easier. He is, despite all pretenses, well-read, often quoting Ancient Roman philosophers in casual conversation. And where it comes to an apparent value system, Mr. Trungale is not found lacking, though perhaps idiosyncratic—he is in spite of his lifestyle a self-proclaimed staunch Catholic, and yet a bigamist: first married shortly before his imprisonment in 1930, he married again on New Years’ Eve 1945 without ever divorcing his first wife, believing it contrary to the teachings of the Church—seemingly more so than polygamy. While the practice is still illegal in Liberty, Mr. Trungale has never been prosecuted on the charge; he and his second wife Anastasia Cogo have three children, and he often resides at her apartment on Hematite Street when he has business in the city. By all accounts—according to both insider sources and those in the police department—Mr. Trungale’s worldview is cogent, if perhaps impeachable: he believes it an evil place, susceptible to an endemic corruption where everything has its price. Liberty City, of course, is the nexus of such a perception: while the unassailable Memo Smokes “controls local and national government officials like his pawns”, according to Lt. Aloe, he exhausts everything in his power to make things go his way when exerting his influence goes awry. During the latest two of the eight criminal trials he has been party to in his lifetime, Mr. Trungale resorted to courtroom theatrics when graft did not get his way: he planted boisterous members in the gallery to disrupt proceedings, had fireworks set off in the courtroom hallway, and threw a chair at the lead prosecutor. 

 

“The man is a mess of contradictions, but I’m sure it makes sense to him,” asserts Lt. Aloe. While displaying a general aversion to authority, Mr. Trungale still considers himself a patriot: throughout the Watergate hearings and subsequent impeachment of President Biff Cochrane, he is said to have routinely thrown food and drinks at the television when testimony would paint the President in a negative light. You would deign not to question him despite this incongruity between countryman and criminal; Simone Trungale cannot tolerate losing an argument.

 

Much like his sense of style, Mr. Trungale is seen as a bipolar figure among those who would be considered his comrades. His aggression is not limited to his foes. Those who know him well call him a psychological gamesman: he finds joy in toying with those around him, starting arguments for no apparent reason, flying into uncontrollable and irrational rage in the blink of an eye. His reputation as a man truly ungovernable precedes him, and it is one investigators believe he has purposefully crafted. He picks fights for sport.

 

The unspoken rule in Lewisburg’s mafia row of incarcerated gangsters: always let Simone Trungale win. Henchmen under Mr. Trungale’s thumb would order other inmates to lose on purpose, else they would be subject to a barrage of abuse. He would scream insults and racial slurs, throw the ball at his opponent, chase them off the court. He would toss chess tables and fling pieces at those he played with, spit at them and stamp on their toes under the table. “He never had much good to say about nobody. If he was walking with one guy,” said a former inmate, “you couldn’t join him. He’d pick a fight with the third person, second guy would have to be his ally. He lost a game of handball, he’d call you insults that’d get you killed outside. Afterward, strong possibility he’d get his men to teach you a lesson. Make sure he never lost again.” Nothing has changed, it seems, as this rule still applies at YMCA games of pinochle and handball on the outside. After scaring you straight, he will tell you a joke and expect you to laugh. He will slip a fifty dollar note into your pocket and speak to you like a grandfather. Simone Trungale lives for the contradiction.

 

Prison was where Mr. Trungale trained himself for his eventual role as America’s godfather. He is gaunt and in good shape despite his age. He would tell stories, all disdainful, about those he had encountered abroad. He is a man who harbors many-a grudge. “He would quiver with rage if you brought up Sonny Cans [a known nickname of Santino Cangelosi],” said the source. Indeed, the names of Joe Scallone and Mr. Cangelosi are regarded with unquenchable fury. “He would say unspeakable things about them.” This dates back decades, to the deposing and exile of namesake boss Joe Messina—a man Mr. Trungale is fiercely loyal to. In prison, he cheered on the arrest and death of Santino Cangelosi with the same fervor he gave to President Cochrane.

 

The mafia—both in America and abroad—is seemingly at the lowest point of its long history. Following the disastrous Gangamattok summit of 1957 and a slate of high-profile heroin convictions, Santino Cangelosi spearheaded a Commission order to ‘close the books’, preventing the induction of new members into the mafia. It is believed this ban lasted until Mr. Cangelosi’s incarceration in 1974, with attrition having decimated the honored society’s ranks to aging holdouts. Young gangsters, having lost reverence for La Cosa Nostra, moved onto independent rackets and refused tax. In Sicily, mafia war rages, but not against fellow gangsters. The Corleonesi have gone to war with the Italian government. Embattled kingpin of the Corleone syndicate, Vespasianu Puxeddu (known as ‘Mulio’), has started a campaign of terror against judges and prosecutors who dare to write anti-mafia legislation. Outside the Palermo headquarters of the Italian Communist Party, leader Sarbaturi d’Oca was executed in a hail of gunfire by mafia assassins. His crime: drafting a law against criminal conspiracy that would cripple Italian organized crime.

 

While the family was removed from the Commission, Mr. Trungale reportedly inducted several dozen members into the Messina syndicate from prison through various intermediaries, against underworld protocol. Eschewing the law laid down by the Gambetti family, he openly deals in narcotics. Through the Montreal network of imported Turkish heroin, his organization has been bolstered by the muscle that drug money typically buys. His one blind spot in this conspiracy lies in the uptown market of black and Hispanic gangs. Mr. Trungale is personally prejudiced against minorities, like most organized crime figures, but this hatred is taken further than words. It is a Messina ordinance not to deal narcotics to blacks. In hushed tones on the street, rumors abound of an ill-defined ‘black man test’, which Lt. Aloe and other police sources were unfamiliar with.

 

He may flout the rules, but he is America’s authority. Until recently, the only figure law enforcement believed could rival Mr. Trungale’s power was Bartolomeo Chiarugi, commonly known as ‘Chinese Bart’. Initially slated as the top candidate to replace Mr. Cangelosi as leader of the Gambetti family, Mr. Chiarugi was instead passed over for the title by remote Dukes gangster Jon Gravelli. A racketeer from the Italian enclaves of Zephyr Hill to the casinos of Las Venturas, Mr. Gravelli is seen as effete and ineffectual by both law enforcement and underworld sources. He is said to widely lack the respect and prestige of a seasoned mafiosi like Mr. Chiarugi, let alone the heights of Simone Trungale.

 

But he will have nothing to fear. Reports indicate a certain harmony in the families through a historic relationship between Mr. Trungale’s influential protege Harvey Noto and Jon Gravelli, a mutual friend. Whether Mr. Trungale seeks to further promote the intermarried success of the two families under his new governance of the Liberty City underworld—despite a reported longstanding grudge against Mr. Gravelli—remains to be seen. “The Gambetti family is largely submissive to the Messinas, despite their larger pool of recruits,” says Lt. Aloe. “His money's too good to pass up, even if Jon [Gravelli] and his school are strictly against drug trafficking.” Mr. Noto has been seen with many Gambetti associates, reportedly acting as a messaggero for the Messina don. At a Labor Day gathering at the East Carraway home of Simone Trungale’s daughter Olympia, associates of Jon Gravelli were seen in subservient roles to the chief-in-waiting. Mr. Gravelli’s aide, Apollo ‘Spaceman Chick’ Pompa, was seen handling luggage on behalf of Mr. Trungale. Richard Cecchin and Eugenio Sbarra (nicknamed ‘Ricky with the Hair’ and ‘Genie Sesame’, respectively) figuratively kissed the don’s ring on behalf of an absent Gravelli: shaking hands, kneeling in his presence, engaging in discussion that could potentially be either frivolous or criminal in nature. With the Gambetti family second to the Messina organization, it is believed all three of the other families have fallen in line behind Mr. Trungale. It is only a matter of time before their merger is made official.

 

Law enforcement was proud of their infiltration of this secret ritual from afar. “Maybe they thought we didn’t work on Labor Day,” a federal official said with a daring smile. “Gangsters are largely stupid creatures. We know their every move before they make it, and nothing’s gonna get past us. We’ve never made a mistake. It’s only a matter of time before these thugs do.” They noted that Mr. Trungale frequently left his daughter’s summer home to make calls from a roadside payphone.

 

Simone Trungale is defined by unquestioned strength while war boils over across the world. In Lenapia, in Montreal, in Palermo, in Henderson. His power is unquestioned: he has told reporters following his parole he does not carry a gun, and is chauffeured by his daughter to Sunday mass instead of his legions of unwavering goons. His message to the world: he is afraid of no-one. He moves openly both in Liberty and the rest of the world: traveling to Florida and San Andreas, riding on the go-karts at Quincyland with a rumored criminal accomplice. Lieutenant Aloe ended on a somber note, seemingly accepting the grim fate that has befallen the world of organized crime. “Nobody really knows what’s going to happen next,” he opined. “The mafia is changing. After years, we’re finally seeing a resurgence. A forceful character, stronger than anyone among them. It is undeniable that Memo Smokes will impose his will, and he’ll be doing it for a long time. We just don’t know if it’ll be a reign of peace, or bloody war.”

Edited December 14, 2021 by Cebra