Twelve a.m. Saturday and the Friday night movie crowd escaped the theater filling the cold night air with teen spirit. The vibrant I’m-going-to-be-young-forever attitude made their way to their respected vehicles. Cars from the past to the present littered the theater parking lot. Sixteen to eighteen-year-old earning the trust of their parents to go out and have a good time came to an end. Well, at least some of the teen kings and queens, over the giggling and I’m-in-love eye contact came your typical teen business of going to a late-night party and hitting the drive-through for a bite to eat. A sparse crowd decided enough excitement for one night and agreed to head for home. Two teens, both seventeen, made their way to a bright red Nissan Juke. This couple shared a stare from their fellow adolescence. A bi-racial couple now the norm- like homosexuals out in the open. These two youths, black and white, both the elder children of two of the most prominent crime families in Metro City. Reginald Grant, Reggie, by his family and 18 friends, the oldest of G’s four children. Six-foot-four five star shooting guard headed out of state to attend college in the north on a basketball scholarship. A chilly night, he donned a red hoodie, loose-fitting baggy blue jeans revealed his boxers and untied white Nike. His companion the oldest of four belonging to Macone. Helen Macone, Irish-Italian destined for the Ivy League on an academic scholarship, though her dancer legs could have gotten her an arts scholarship to any university of her choice. Her gray conservative attire from head down to feet and blonde hair worn in a librarian bun. Reggie opened the door for Helen. She strolled inside the car and he hustled to the driver’s side escaping the cold. Neither family clueless about the forbidden romance. Reggie and Helen gazed into each other’s eyes, flashed their pearly whites, leaned in, and locked lips. Reggie turned the ignition. The future of two youths proved life is short. Spaghetti Warehouse at 100 North Park Avenue beside the city monorail tracks. It looked like its namesake: a big block shaped building stained glass windows and brick armor faded 100 percent red hue. On the inside the decor screamed pure restaurant patrolling waiters, waitresses, and a Maître d’. Pictures, paintings, 19 and movie posters of movie stars decorated the walls. A bill of fare listing Italian cuisine: Lasagna, Fettuccine Alfredo, and, Spaghetti and meat balls. Popular eatery attracting standing-room-only crowd every night, which was why it surprised citizens when it went defunct. Proprietors turned a five-star bistro into the hottest nightclub in Metro city. Nadine was the club’s name. They took advantage of its space dividing the factory in sections keeping the brasserie ambiance, but not the original cuisine except for four types of pizza; sausage, bacon, pepperoni, cheese and hamburgers; single and double with or without cheese on the card. Your choice to dance and drink or eat, dance, and drink. Tables in the front part of the club for lounging, smoking, listening to piano, saxophone a small stage built for one singer the owner herself. Stools for sitting as long as the bar. The club name, Nadine, honored the middle name of the late Sheila Green, who had raised them as her own. Claire’s circle called her Song Bird, her stage name because of her hypnotic siren voice. She graced the stage from time to time, but booked most of the acts for her club. Her close friends called her Birdie. She made a profit gambling. Nadine housed a mini casino joint down in the basement. It wasn’t Las Vegas though it cost you a thousand to enter the hole of poker chips and slot machines. The basement sealed off, but enough room for two Black Jack tables and five small 20 round tables for poker players. It came equipped with two muscular bouncers standing on opposite sides of the elevator dressed in black muscle shirts, slacks, and loafers. Two eye-candy hour-glass figure waitresses clad in sleeveless black body-hugging mini-dresses, hose, and heels moved among the tables serving drinks. A midsized bar with a stocky bartender serve drinks. The club closed upstairs and only four patrons remained playing poker. All four cold-blooded killers; what club Nadine catered to, but every killer left their bad attitudes at the door and weapons in their vehicles. One of her club benefactors and dearest friend, Chubby Pone. Pone, sat at the table holding a winning hand. He loved stepping out into the night clad in black and white Doc Marten’s wingtips with rubber soles, black slacks, a crisp white shirt, black vest laced with twelve small Ninja throwing knives, and a black bowler enhanced his chiseled clean-cut baby face. His counterparts: Sonny, a past-his-prime almost-senior-citizen, average height and a saggy pudgy body, he proclaimed himself as the world’s oldest teenager. He wore a brown fedora, pink shirt, tan slacks, and brown loafers. Stick looked like a walking skeleton with skin as pale as ivory. He wore a gray suit, black shirt with a loose fitting thin gray tie, and black pointed roach-killer shoes good for killing roaches who tried to hide in a 21 corner joked his buddies. The last of the four poker players, Big Ben Donovan. All six-nine and three-hundred pounds of what he said soul-brother muscle. Black as coal, bald head as smooth as a baby’s bottom and pet word shit ending with a D sound at the end. He wore a green polo shirt, black slacks and penny loafers. The game was nearing the end as it came down to Pone and Big Ben. “What’s that you drinking?” asked Big Ben in his baritone voice. “Malta Goya.” A beverage that wasn’t a beer, wine, ale, or even soda. A carbonated malt drink that appealed to Pone. He discovered the drink when he ate at a Venezuelan diner. “Shit’d…that some kind of new beer?” Pone held up the brown long-neck-shaped bottle examining the label. “Non-alcoholic malt beverage also made with hops.” He took a sip. “Sweet…not bitter,” said Pone. Ben frowned and shook his head. “Give me a classic beer anytime.” “Keeps me alert on my way home.” Pone dealt with car chases on his way home including unwanted gunplay. “How come you the only one I see drinking that shit?” asked Ben. “You ain’t sweet on the owner,” said Stick. 22 The room got quiet; Pone gave Stick a stare down. Stick crossed the line and knew it. He put his foot in his mouth and, like a snake, his long lanky body coiled. “When you boys going to finish this damn game?” asked Sonny in his raspy voice. “It’s late and I need to get home.” “Shit’d…been past your bedtime, old-timer,” said Ben. Sonny took a deep breath and raised an eyebrow. He and Stick already folded and stuck around for the conversation. Stick finished off his Vodka Martini and pulled the Olive off the tooth pick with his teeth while Sonny clutched his Gibson after being called an old timer. “Sonny, finish your dink. That damn onion making my eyes water,” said Pone. He never understood the drink, a dash of dry Vermouth and two ounces of Gin with a slice of onion. Got to be an old man’s drink, thought Pone. “Ben, it’s late…let’s finish this.” Five-thousand dollars on the table. Pone studied the large man. He could tell Ben craved one of his signature stogies; smoking not allowed in the casino.. Each man took one last card from the deck. Ben nodded with approval. “What you got, big man?” asked Pone. Ben laid out three Queens and two Jacks. A full house. He leaned back and his chair creaked struggling to support his weight. He toasted then downed his beer. 23 Pone glanced at his cards, the cards on the table and then at Ben who displayed a confident smirk on his face. “Well, nothing like a good woman if you got three and two of them brought their sons along,” said Pone. Ben started to giggle until Pone laid down his hand. Three Kings and two deuces known as a full house Kings high. Ben stared at Pone. He knew his com padre had two nick names: leave him alone Pone and lucky eight. Pone a pool shark as well. Ben sighed. “Shit’d.” He shook his head watching Pone collect his winnings. The rest of the observers breathed a sigh of relief because they wanted to go home. Pone and Ben rode the elevator together. “Mind if I holler at you if you got the time?” asked Ben. Pone and Ben took a seat at the bar. The temporary bartender a Sicilian name Antonio. He supervised the restaurant and the reason they served Italian cuisine on the menu, and Birdie’s boyfriend. Birdie used her expertise handling music entertainment and left comestibles in Antonio’s hands. He knew the connection between Pone and Birdie and didn’t like it; he accepted the bond between the two because he loved Birdie. He told Pone and Ben he’d be in his office; to let him know when they finished their conversation. 24 Ben nursed his Moose head. “So he cool with you and Birdie?” “If he can’t keep her, it won’t be because of me,” said Pone. Ben cleared his throat then took another swallow of his Moose head. Pone sipped his Goya. “You remember Al McGee?” asked Ben. “Your sometime partner,” replied Pone. “He’s gone missing.” Partners far and few considering your partner could become your enemy if hired to kill you. Pone didn’t believe in having one for possible back stabbing. He preferred to work alone for in the killing business who better to trust than yourself. He knew some jobs called for two men or women who made a living in the business too. If he needed support, Pone knew his poker buddies wouldn’t hesitate to assist him. “What do you mean missing?” asked Pone. Assassins and hit man alike once a job finished tend to lie low waiting out the murder investigation. Disappearing at least three months till things quieted down. Pone didn’t know much about McGee except what he heard from Ben. Ben carried the man, did the heavy lifting when they did a job together. Not good since it took a cold-blooded person to do what they did for a living. Pone considered McGee a tick, leach draining blood off another man’s work. Pone detected a strong friendship between Ben and McGee so 25 he kept his personal feeling about the bloke to himself. Pone wanted to tell Ben maybe McGee took a solo job and fucked up. “Gone…disappeared…vanished.” Pone exhaled. “You know for what we do, sometimes we have to go incognito.” Ben shook his head. “Naw man, not Al…he don’t need to . He don’t screw up.” “Nobody’s perfect, Ben,” said Pone. “Some of us have no business to be in the business.” “Al’s always careful.” Pone studied the giant. He saw the concern as well as heard it in Ben’s words. He also knew about Ben and Al’s partnership before he mentioned it. Pone took a large gulp of his Goya. “Okay it’s getting late so spill it.” Ben nodded. “Al got a woman, Ruby and a couple of kids.” Pone frowned. “When you say woman…” “Shit’d…he ain’t, but we need loving too.” Pone never understood why men in his profession got married or why women in the business did the same. It made problems when enemies found out about the ball and chain. Cold-blooded assassins took out the spouse and kids no matter how pristine. The life of a killer already complicated to involve others. The inculpable clueless what their love interest did for a living and those who knew showed an ignorant blind-eye 26 to the easy lifestyle and money. Naive thinking led to tragedy, thought Pone. Pone took another sip of his Goya. “You met this Ruby?” “Yeah,” sighed Ben in his deep base voice. “She called me a week ago worried because she hadn’t heard from Al. The longest he’d gone without contacting her is two days…that ain’t like him. He loves his family.” “Did he go on a job?” “We did things together. The only time he went anywhere by himself was to bars and clubs.” “Any club in particular?” “The Viper Lounge.” “Bad booze and cheapass women…owned by a woman named Black Medusa.” “So you know the place.” Pone nodded. “So why me?” “Shit’d, you know the cops don’t give a shit about us and you ain’t a killer-for-hire no more… I can pay you.” A zip sound went off in Pone’s pocket. He checked the text message and shook his head. “You know I’m busy?” “I know you still work for the Brigand family.” Red Brigand to be exact, the youngest of the Brigand Band brood who everyone considered Pone’s guardian angel. The reason he still breathed. After the death of J. Paul he left the family business to his offspring. Problem. Pone wanted to ease his way out of the killing business; 27 Red’s siblings would have none of it unless Pone left the game escorted by death. J. Paul’s older children the twins, not Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum; in fact all four Brigands college-educated. The lookalikes Linda and Susan, Sue for short and ten minutes younger, had inherited their father’s girth and features, but their mother Mary’s petite size. Both sported portly five-two bodies, round faces, wrapped around auburn hair and hazel eyes. Though not ugly, but plain Jane with little help from make-up. Beggars cannot be choosers, thought Pone. In other words if they found male callers then they better not play hard to get and they didn’t, husbands similar, but a couple inches taller. Stanley belonged to Linda. Cue ball bald, a saggy gut on its way to meet with his balls. When he sat down his belly joined him and when he walked people joked his belly and balls sounded like bongos bouncing off each other. An exaggeration, but funny. Sue’s man Murray a mop top Moe Stooge style hair on is head and a waist line with more spare tires than the Michelin Man. Put Stanley and Murray together and you’d wonder who would play Larry for a three stooges reunion. They gave J. Paul grand-kids: Linda and Stanley the proud parents of two girls. Sue and Murray two boys. J. Paul’s younger kids: Paul J. and Brooke (Red) acquired his height, but their mother’s pretty features and slender body. Paul J. named opposite of his father. 28 Six-four tennis player body, blue eyes, golden hair, bronze skin, chiseled face, and a deep cleft chin. He married a trophy wife, Angel a former supermodel. A brunette with big brown eyes, oval shape face, olive skin and hour glass figure. Three children came from the marriage: a girl fist followed by two boys which made J Paul happy to have the family name carried on. Skepticism on Paul J rumored he preferred a man’s touch from time to time. J Paul knew sugar flowed in his son’s veins, but glad Paul J. respected him enough to marry a woman and have children. Angel knew you got old in the modeling business fast and no fool how the industry worked. A thirty-year-old model got put out to pasture making room for teen queens and twenty somethings. Word of mouth she made sure Paul J. carried plenty of Trojans. Red convinced her father she wanted to work outside the family business and became a lawyer though she knew she’d always have a link to the mobster life. Sometimes when two people meet a man and woman who are both young it could mean sparks. No sparks between Red and Pone; a connection allowed them both to feel as comfortable as drinking a glass of water on a hot summer day. Pone told her why a college educated man became a hired killer. Revenge a cruel monster reared its ugly head. Pone, her father’s top man since Wisdom’s skills decayed. Pone’s mentor did everything except hanging him upside down from the 29 tallest building to convince him not to go into a life of crime. Pone knew in order to get revenge on the man who took Sheila Green from them he needed to become a killer to get a killer. He did and Brigand replaced Wisdom with his new knight. He told Red his ordeal and from that moment a special friendship developed between the two. She convinced her family Pone would be under her thumb and work for her as a troubleshooter; no longer a killer-for-hire. The family agreed, but made it clear they’d keep a close eye on him. “I work for Red… I can’t make any promises, .” He handed Ben a card. Ben never seen any of Pone’s business cards before. “Troubleshooter…shit’d,” said Ben shaking his head. He nodded then took off. Pone dropped in on Antonio who he called Tony. Tony sat in his office drinking shots of Jim Beam. Pone felt sorry for the fellow. Antonio treated Birdie good and loved her. A mystery to Pone why she didn’t settle down with him. Pone saw her as a sister; some said they would make a good couple. He and birdie grew up together along with her baby sister Jade. Raised in a group home ran by Sheila Green. It made Pone and Wisdom proud when Birdie used Sheila’s middle name Nadine for her club’s moniker. Pone thought the reason she made Tony her manager because she loved the buck too and wanted to keep him a part of the club. Pone hoped Antonio held 30 no grudge to why he and Birdie didn’t jump the broom. Pone wondered if Birdie pined for his `amor. He hoped she didn’t and if she did then he would encourage her follow her heart and make a life with Antonio. A good guy and he deserved better. Antonio loved her enough to tolerate the brother sister act Pone and Birdie displayed. Birdie sat on Pone’s lap, a huggedfrom behind, and kiss on the cheek. Pone didn’t encourage or stopped her. Pone let Antonio and Birdie dabble in their own world. Because he led a complicated life. “About to take off.” Pone looked at the half empty bottle of booze and the glazed eye Italian. “You okay?” “She won’t marry me.” Tony took another shot of the hard whiskey. “Look at you, baby hair, porcelain skin…no stubble. Mister Hollywood handsome. Ladies pet, men’s regret.” He shook his head. “Every girl wants you and every guy wants to be you. A real mack daddy, daddy mack.” “Don’t forget, I don’t have eye-lashes. No thanks to Alopecia,” said Pone. Pone hated watching people wallow in self-pity. Commit to one woman, Pone shook his head. Too many women to be owned by one, thought Pone. “But you have eyebrows and hair on your head.” “A miracle,” Pone sighed. “My business is done. You can close shop.” “Good night, Chub,” toasted Tony. 31 2 a.m. Pone inhaled the cold night air to relieve his stress. The great meteor made the planet colder and Autumn and Winter lasted longer than Spring and Summer. Metro city not the deep south, but not the north either. Pone loved the cold, it cleared his head. He embraced the chill on his face peering at the night sky. A few stars out and the moon winked at him. One of his ladies waited for in the big parking lot. A steel body, big, red, and strong. He climbed inside getting comfortable on her black interior. Pone loved everything about Lucille his Chevy Avalanche. He leaned back and thought, he called me Chub. Antonio drowned his jealousy in a bottle of rot gut. Antonio heard Birdie call him Chub. Pone bit his lower lip Antonio still couldn’t grasp he and Birdie raised up together and the hugs and kisses she gave all innocent. She accepted Pone when he lost his hair to Alopecia. All the kids would call him baldy sitting behind his seat in class whispering in his ear until he retaliated and took blame for disturbing the class. On his Twelfth birthday a miracle or puberty. He grew hair, soft baby hair, but all the same it covered his head and the teasing stopped. A porcelain face. No five o’clock shadow or razor stubble. Blondish brown hair and no eye-lashes. Pone smiled because even if bald, Birdie and Jade showed love . Pone 32 turned the ignition, time for the get together with Red his guardian angel. The reason he walked among the living. On his way to see Red, Pone thought about his poker buddies. Chuckling to himself, thinking how many assassins can a killer call a friend. The first to come to mind the old timer Sonny. His hair facial and head made him look like the famous actor Redd Foxx. His tools and talent for killing, a 357 magnum and explosives. Sonny no longer strong enough to pull the trigger of a gun. He never mentioned his age; Pone figured Sonny at least twenty years over sixty. Wisdom told Pone anything needed to be blown up then no one could get the job done like Sonny. Now the decaying man lived out his years with men half his age playing poker. Pone smiled thinking how Sonny tried to keep up the conversation, but out of touch with today’s world. Pone thought of him as a walking library and encyclopedia of knowledge. Sonny helpful when it came to explaining and simplify things like explosives. Sonny never said what branch of the military he served or if he enlisted at all, or how he obtained his skills; asking him for his wisdom made him feel useful. Pone collected comic books from the past to the present. He even stocked up DVD’s of Japanese Anime. Stick looked like a live Anime character. Maybe radioactive meteor fragments affected his mother while he incubated inside her, thought Pone. Stick possessed yellow eyes, black pupils, a chalky complexion, raven 33 spiked hair like porcupine quills, and custom made jagged teeth. If they live in a comic book, then Stick would fit right in as a mutant; not an X-man, but a Morlock. A mutant resembling nothing human living down in the sewers. Stick wore a suit. Corporate appearance and crime syndicate his business. Swore you’d never catch him as a blue collar worker or a 7-Eleven clerk. No Stick came from Japanese Anime born to be a killer-for-hire. Stick dropped out of high school. The military didn’t accept drop outs. Air Force, Navy, and Marines won’t let you in with a GED. You can enlist in the Army with a GED, but Stick didn’t have either; he did have a mentor who took him under his wing. The man saw and realized Stick would have a hard time making a living. The kind soul unknown. Stick wasn’t accepted among his white peers, but comfortable around black people and called himself an albino which Pone, Ben, and Sonny paid heed. Stick loved black women and they adored him and not because he made a lot of loot doing what he did for a living. The ladies called him a silver-tongued devil. Stick, a contortionist. His gun a German Ruger military handgun. His specialty up close and personal. A garrote cord and switchblade. Stick wrapped his body around the victim like a constricting snake controlling all movement. 34 He looked his fatality in the eye like a constricting snake watching its doomed prey while strangling and slitting their throat. He even had a Joker like smile. Pone got chills thinking about his freakish friend. NBA size Big Ben Donovan not quick, agile, not even close to being a Fred Astaire. The big ox and Pone met over a poker game, both men stuck around long after the game ended to talk about life. Pone knew what Ben did to make a buck and Ben knew Pone’s reputation and his exploits with the Brigand Band. The two gunmen felt at ease with each other and formed a friendship. Pone cringed thinking about the poor soul who had a contract on his life and Ben assigned to be the Grim Reaper. Ben’s choice of weapons two shot-gun pistols. His talent earned him Bone Crusher Ben. His mighty mitts snapped necks like a twig. Pone’s thoughts got interrupted by what sounded like hard rain. Except it came from the driver’s side and not the roof-top of his red chariot. He glanced in his sidemirror and saw a cream color Crown Victoria. A once popular police car of the MPD. Now they cruise around in SUV s and different models. But as usual, the Po Po’s or the Heat as the Hip-Hoppers and Prohibitions called coppers no-where in sight, a protocol. Let the gangsters eliminate each other to clean up their own mess. Quiet streets meant no possible casualties, thought Pone. 35 A good thing. Drive by’s not Pone’s first rodeo. The name of the game, take him out and build your resume`. Pone dealt with both Probonos and Hip-Hoppers. The Crown Victoria found itself side by side with Lucille heading down North Tryon. During the day, cars and patrons made it the most frantic street in the city. The falling star forced all cities to adopt a curfew since gangster life came back in full effect. Lucille sprayed with more bullets. Pone glanced long enough to observe his would be assassins. Hip hop wannabes between early and midtwenties believing a life of crime a great career move. Whoever hired the fledglings didn’t outfit them with upscale weapons. An assault rifle popular back in the nineteen sixties used by the Air Force and Army. M1911 used 8mm ammo. Pone drove a truck for height advantage in battle. In Medieval times, the man on a horse believed to have the e