Crippled Sunrise

It was Paco’s twenty-first birthday, and Mama Green had invited him to lunch and to try his first martinis. He thought this might be a very good day to celebrate his birthday by avenging his wife, Carol’s death. Godfather D’Amico’s training was going to come in useful. What irony. He had tracked Carlo’s movements on a daily basis for weeks. Predictable and boring just like him.

Paco remembered Carlo from their early teenage years. He was a coward and a bully. It was movie night on Friday, and Carlo had picked a fight with a good friend of Paco’s, Johnny. Carlo sucker-punched Johnny, and it was over before it started, or should have been. Carlo was beating Johnny to a pulp when Paco realized Carlo was not going to stop. He and his friend, Bobby, jumped on Carlo and pulled him off Johnny. Paco never forgot the hateful look in Carlo’s eyes focused on him. He would remember never to turn his back on Carlo.

Little did Paco know there would come another time when he would have to confront Carlo. It was to happen now. Carlo had killed his wife, the love of his life, and taken away the only thing in his life that mattered to him.

Paco had a little .22 Beretta semi-automatic with a silencer which he knew would be perfect for the job. It was tucked neatly in his waistband, and away he went.

He thought it wise to get there before 11:00 p.m., Carlo’s closing time, just in case he decides to close early. Otherwise, Carlo should be counting his receipts when he entered the door.

Paco parked in the parking lot by the store and took his gun out and checked to see how many bullets he had in it. He checked to see if there was a bullet in the chamber, and there was.

He, then, got out of his car, walked over to the store and opened the front door to the bookie joint.

Just as he thought, he is counting his daily receipts. Carlo looked up.

“What do you want?”

“Do you know who I am?” Paco asked.

“Yes, you are Don D’Amico’s quasi-adopted son, the crippled kid.” There was the look of fear and terror in his eyes.

Paco saw the look and thought, I don’t care.

“Carlo, don’t run. It won’t do you any good. It is time to pay the piper.”

Paco had said this with a steel voice, which surprised even himself.

“Please, it was an accident. I did not mean to kill her.”

Carlo began to cry like a baby, begging and pleading for his life.

“Please, don’t kill me! I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not mean to do it. You have to believe me. For God’s sake, don’t do this to me. I’m sorry!”

I actually feel sorry for him. Not sorry enough to let him live, but truly sorry, thought Paco.

Paco escorted Carlo into the back room of the shop and closed the door.

“Kneel down, Carlo, and do not try anything, or it will just be harder for you.”

Paco shot one, two, three times in the back of Carlo’s head, execution style.

Paco wondered why he didn’t feel anything. He actually felt relief. It was just another one of Cleveland’s ‘Little Italy’ unsolved murders. It was over. Carol could rest in peace. No. Carol would never have condoned what he had done. He would have to live with that.

His heart was pounding and sounded as if a kettledrum pounding in his ears. He should be careful to walk out slowly to his car. He did not want to attract any attention to himself, as his scissor gait was unmistakable, nor did he want to attract any attention to his automobile speeding away at that hour of the night. One never knew if a do-gooder might just happen upon the scene and get his license plate number.

Paco drove to a safe spot to clear his head and made a plan as to where and how to dispose of his weapon. Cleveland has a myriad of sewers all over. He disassembled the gun into as many parts as possible. Then, he drove to various parts of the city, depositing parts of the gun in various sewer openings. The biggest part he threw into good old Lake Erie. He saved the silencer for future use.

As far as Paco knew, no one ever found the pieces of that gun.

For the next few days, Paco went to work at his dad’s hardware store and then home.

Don D’Amico, who Paco called Mr. G for Mr. Godfather, phoned.

“Where have you been? We all miss you. Did you hear about Carlo?”

“Paco replied, “No. What happened to Carlo?”

“He was whacked execution style. Do you know anything about that?”

“Why would I know anything about that?”

Since he was very young and had to wear full-length steel braces on his legs every night, he had taught himself to tune everything and everyone out. Mr. G knew this about him, so he could not tell whether or not Paco was lying.

Paco was not stupid. He knew why his wife, Carol, was killed? It would take away the only person he really ever loved so deeply. Mr. G knew it would probably kill the last bit of humanity left inside of him. Mr. G had been right. Now Paco was nothing more than a stone cold killer. Paco was sure Mr. G was happy now.

Don D’Amico inquired, “You did it; didn’t you, Paco?”

“No. What difference does it make?”

Mr. G did not reply.

“I know when you are lying, so answer my question, please,” demanded Paco.

“How do you know when I am lying?”

“Remember teaching me about tells on people’s faces?”

“Yes, indeed, I do.”

“Well, oh, great one, you have a tell when you lie. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone what it is, not even you.”

“You, on the other hand, my dear Paco, have no tells. I cannot even hear one in your voice.”

“Look, your plan to make me not care about anything or anyone worked. Are you satisfied now? We all know you had a master plan, and mine was just one of many parts of it.”

“I have a little job for you, Paco.”

“See, I knew it. What? You want me to whack someone?”

“Precisely, yes.”

“I do not want anything to do with you, so leave me alone.”