Coldstone 2: The Setting

Citizen Avery

Coldstone was like a rapidly growing child to Steadman Avery . He watched it blossom from mid-west burg to major metropolitan center of America. He was no passive spectator either. He bore the birthing pains of the craggy metal and glass skyline. His involvement with organized crime hadn’t gone unnoticed by law enforcement. The “microbiologists” of the criminal justice system studied every business maneuver. He weathered the storm as no other. He saw it coming, literally and figuratively, as Commissioner Graves blue-clad angels swept over the cannery like the rain. Roman Carvaggio did not once mention his name. For this Avery was indebted for life.

Steadman Avery stood in his office at night surveying what he helped to build. With the lights off in his office save for an antique lamp that spilled a warm amber glow over the room he took in the night lights of the city as if seeing it for the first time. He had always had a love affair with Coldstone. He would also do whatever it took to protect and nurture her.

His eyes turned to the current project that was in development at Avery Global Enterprises. A model lay sprawled across half of a conference table. It caught the ambient light and shimmered. The dock dispute had been settled in his favor several years after the smoke cleared from the gang warfare. An eight-mile stretch of hotels, casinos, and entertainment venues would be the sparkling horizon of Coldstone. The construction was nigh complete on what would be Coldstone’s flagship casino-hotel-resort, The Olympus.

Avery had seen to every aspect of design. His sole purpose was to restore the glamour to his cherished town by giving them a pleasure palace that would DWARF anything out west. To all involved, Steadman Avery was a success. The Olympus, now shrouded by scaffolding and bright red drapery, would be unveiled in three short weeks. The paperwork was being completed and he realized how costly it had been to push gambling in the state as he glanced over the name of his largest investor, The Capella Foundation .

Inmate #6711

Roman Carvaggio sat in his cell reading the paper, smoking, and drinking a nice port. He stopped briefly to gaze at his own reflection. Prison hadn’t been all that bad to him. He had a touch of gray at the temples, but his physique had bulked from weight lifting. He opened the third and fourth button of his uniform and looked at the bubbly-scarred skin right above his navel. He padded over to his cell door, which was ajar. Pushing it open the noise in the corridor grew.

Over the past several years many a Mafioso from all over had been sentenced and sent up to Granite Hill Federal Prison. One way or another Roman’s cellblock attracted them all. It was a virtual who’s who of organized crime from as far back as half a century. The noise was coming from three “old-timers”, Sal “The Shiv” Maldonado, Vinnie “Flanksteak” Pentaglio, and Franco “The Gut” Antonetti. The Shiv acquired his name by Shivving some 56 inmates over his 30-year stint at Granite Hill. Flanksteak was a contract man from back in the old days that used to shave a little muscle off his victims flank and force them to eat it. The Gut gained his unfortunate moniker from 1) being 400 lbs and 2) from smothering his wife to death during a conjugal visit, tacking on another five years to his 3 consecutive life terms. Roman stepped out into the corridor to see the three elderly men playing pinochle.

“You old crooks, keep it the fuck down. I’m reading.” Roman shouted.
“Go back to your sushi bar, Benihana.” The Gut shouted back.

Roman stalked over to the card table. “What?” he said grabbing the huge man by his pup tent-sized uniform. The tension thickened around them. Roman drew back his fist and fast as lightning pinched the fat mans robust cheek puncuating it with a light slap. The four erupted into laughter.

“Go fuck yourself, Rome…I almost pissed myself” The Gut chortled through hacking coughs.

“This joint ain’t got enough mops if you pissed yourself, you fat fuck” said The Shiv. Roman pulled a folding chair up to the table and joined them. Just then the door at the far end of the cellblock opened and a lone guard walked in.

“Mr. Carvaggio, telephone. The warden says you can take it in his office.” The young guard spoke clear, evenly, and full of respect.

“Thanks, Tony.” Roman removed a neatly folded wad of bills from his pocket and stuffed the guard’s pocket with several Benjamin Franklins.

“You have a boy, don’t you Tony?” Roman asked him as he escorted him to the warden’s lush office.

“Yes, sir. Anthony Junior…6 years old.” Roman palmed him another $300 without a word.

The warden had left for the evening so Roman sat at his desk and answered the phone curtly. He expected that pain in the ass reporter, but was surprised by the voice on the other end.

“Frank! Yeah have O make all the necessary arrangements. You don’t need to get too personally involved. You do what you do best.” Roman smiled genuinely.

“That’s right. Coldstone International Airport. 8pm. Gate 14. Before you do anything you bring him here first. Yeah. Viglio. V-I-G-L-I-O. But make sure the driver’s sign says ‘Dr. Frank Cannon’. If you could bring him here personally it would be appreciated.”

Roman glanced at his watch.

“Yeah. See you then. One more thing about our guest…let the guys know not to mess around with him. You might underline that.” Roman hung the phone up and immediately unscrewed the receiver. He removed a small device and tossed it to the guard Tony.

When Roman arrived back at his cell the three elderly mob men had gone back to their own and he did the same. He sat for a long time reading and worst of all…waiting.

Julius and Othello

Othello Redman sat silently in his black Benz coup as Frank Tobiasi relayed messages. Othello checked the rearview, which held the sight of the massive gates that guarded San Martin Correctional Facility. He checked his watch again quietly sure that his older brother had screwed up the dates and time per usual. His brother, Julius “JJ” Redman, Jr., was sent up for 20 years at this shithole. Othello respected and detested the fact that while he was moving up in the world his older brother was doing time for a crime he didn't commit. JJ took the heat out of a combination of fear, stupidity, and pride for one of the Black Disciples. Screw up that he was, family is family is family and Othello loved him. Allowing his mind to wander Othello was snapped out of it by Tobiasi.

“O, still there?” he asked slightly irritated. “Yeah, man. I’ll handle…” Othello started as he felt something hard pressed behind his left ear. Othello disconnected the speaker phone and let his hand start to drift under the drivers seat. Whoever was holding the gun to his head burst into laughter.

“I got you, bitch. AWWW HAHAHAHA HAWHAWHAW. I never seen a big, bald, black man almost toss his greens like you done just then.” Othello looked back to see JJ holding his hands like a gun.

“What you refer to as ‘tossing his greens’ was me about to put five bullets in that already empty head.” Othello shot back grinning as he got out of the vehicle. The brothers hugged each other tight. Othello felt a surge of hot tears stinging his eyes. JJ leaned back and noticed his brother’s emotion.

“I missed you too, man. I missed whoopin your ass ‘specially.” The big man leaned and threw some fake punches at O’s midsection. JJ was the size of Othello, big and imposing, but softer in the gut and with a more jolly face. Othello noticed the cheap suit the prison saw fit to bestow on his brother.

“Look what these crackers did.” JJ grabbed a fistful of the cheap polyester blend. “Worst of it is: I came into this motherfucker looking DAPPER, yo. I put on some weight since then, all muscle, and these punk ass crackers go to Sears and get me some preacher digs. O, I was wearing some silk boxers. They burned ‘em and give me some scratchy ass Fruit of the Loom tighty-whiteys. I told ‘em you ‘you can’t do this to a black man…it ain’t right! My shit has to breathe.’ Goddamn crackers.” Othello smiled as he saw that his brothers jocularity was still firmly intact, undiminished by years of confinement.

“Let’s get the fuck out, O. I spent too much time here already.” JJ turned to the prison where a couple of guards could be seen on parapets and he raised both middle fingers to them yelling, “Y’all can kiss my black ass and think about me making love to WHITE WOMENS when yo’ asses are up y’alls stank ass trailer pumping one another. Thank you and good night!” With that JJ ran to the passenger side of Othello’s ride and hopped in.

The car spun out spitting gravel in the direction of the prison. For a long time the reunited brothers didn’t speak but soaked in the twilight and freedom. Othello glanced at his brother whose smile was contagious.

“So what now, JJ? What are your plans?” Othello almost regretted asking.
“I thought I could come work for you. Maybe be a pit boss or deal cards to them old drunk crackers at them casino’s” JJ removed some paperwork from inside his cheap suit. “I put you down as my residence for the parole peoples. On second thought, I think you should put me in charge of them showgirls.” A devious smirk flashed. “Cause I can teach bitches how to MOVE, y’see.” Othello laughed one of his roaring laughs. JJ cranked the volume on the stereo and Othello hit the gas, parting the new night.

The Old Country

With the death of Paolo diRossi a power vacuum was created in the old country. Palermo and the whole of Sicily went to war to determine who would control the remnants of the once powerful family. Money from the States stopped coming in as Carvaggio was imprisoned and Tobiasi took the power. The rolling green hills of the Sicilian countryside were wet with fresh blood, as men in loose twill shirts roamed about killing at will. Chaos was the true master.

Word reached Rome that none were stepping up to fill diRossi’s iron throne. His sons were dead and the lieutenants under them were too incompetent or stupid to truly lead. The heads of the three families convened to determine a successor. They would all agree, they HAD to agree and they could put someone in that region whose ideology would mesh with theirs. One name came almost too easily. Anton Vallone . His appointment came swiftly and in the several years since, he pulled Sicily back into order.

Vallone was in his fifties, of slight build, with neatly trimmed gray hair and eyes of grayish blue, which glimmered like industrial steel. He stood on the veranda of his Sicilian estate, surveying HIS territory. DiRossi and his sons were arrogant and foppish twits, he thought. Marco Capella was ten times worse as he put a half-breed, son of a Japanese whore in a position to lead a family. Blasphemy. Carvaggio was useful when he was a contract man for the Families, but now a liability even in jail. The half-breed, the black man, and the gutter trash who was leading the rabble now were going to feel the sting of Vallone’s judgment soon enough.

As if his thoughts were being broadcast, Vallone startled as his personal weapon stepped out of the shadows awaiting his next order. America, this Coldstone, would taste Sicilian vengeance all too soon.

A Stripper, a Gangster, and a Priest...

Paulie DiVialoso met his girls promptly at 5pm every afternoon at the dressing room entrance to the Tony’s Tiger. Any stragglers or bitches that weren’t on their game were bounced from working that night. He ran a tight ship and if you didn’t pull your weight, you were gone. He sat quietly on a barstool watching them file in as he watched the game on a small portable TV. His eyes would inspect every girl, especially one: Sinthia Slater. She was his little moneymaker and star attraction. She was also the best piece of ass Paulie had ever had, absolutely no bullshit. She finally arrived for her shift on the pole.

Sinthia was a leggy, six-foot brunette with softly chiseled features as if sculpted from soft, sleek marble. Everything about her was perfect from top to bottom. Paulie had done her right away, like he did all the girls, but there was something special about her that left him wanting more every time. Sinthia moved like a regal lioness cutting a swath through the other girls and everyone of them made way. Her attitude on the stage was bold and vivacious she INSPRIED men to part with their highest denominations. Bottom line: Sinthia was Paulie’s stake horse.

She moved about to her private dressing room leaving the door cracked just enough to let Paulie know she was “available”. He knew better than to knock the goodie box so close to show time so he went out to the bar to slam a few drinks before the customers started wandering in.

Sitting at the bar were Paulie’s pals, Giacomo Marlioni, a foot soldier in the Tobiasi crew. Paulie personally poured him a Seven & Seven, slapped him on the back “On the house, Guy. But the pussy ain’t” Paulie said as he caught a glimpse of something out the front window.

Paulie pried the blinds apart to see the All-American boy getting out of the van across the street. The van had been parked there for a couple weeks and this kid was always getting out to fetch bear claws and coffee from the Korean grocer. The balls on this fuckin’ kid, Paulie thought. The fucking feds have the stones to spy on me and they have Robert Redford walking around like I’m too stupid to know better. Paulie leaned out the front door.

“Hey, Eliot Ness! Next time you are running surveillance don’t get out of the fucking truck!” Paulie felt the veins struggling to pop inside his head he was so goddamn furious. He ran a nice respectable pussy joint.

He was so incensed he decided to take a walk down to St. Michael’s, clear his conscience, and visit an old chum. He walked the four blocks briskly checking behind him every so often. St Michael’s Catholic Church was one of the biggest, grandest churches in the city. Paulie walked in took a lungful of the incense, sloppily dipped his fingers in the holy water and crossed himself making his way across the huge expanse to the confessionals. Three confessional booths lay open. He entered the one on the left and waited for a priest to come here his sins. The priest slid open the screen.

“In the name of the Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit. How long since you last confession?” the priest asked in more informal tone than most priests.

“A long fuckin’ time, Father. Oops. A long time.” Paulie said.
“Please go on, my son.” The priest replied ignoring the profanity.
“Well…about five years ago me and this fat fuck named Dino killed a whole bunch of these cocksuckers…” Paulie stopped as he heard the door swing wide hard enough to slam into the wall. The door to his own confessional was yanked open fiercely by Father Dino Morinelli . The priest’s anger melted into a huge smile as he realized it was Paulie.

“They don’t put you guys on a diet or nothin’ when you join the priesthood, Dino?” Paulie stood up and clasped the big man round the neck and mussed his hair.

“Father Dino, you putz.” The former gangster turned man of the cloth looked around to see if any parishioners were startled and then resumed his reunion. “How did you find out I was assigned here?” he asked.

Paulie smirked “Please. Coldstone might as well be Mayberry the way people flap their fucking traps around here. Hey, you should come by the club. Got a slew of coozes that will burn your ball hair…” Paulie’s eyes caught the collar and he stopped cold. “Oh yeah. Well, there’s a boys little league team…” the two men smiled and silently noted the huge gaps in their current lifestyles.

“Well, big man. I just wanted to come by and see ya’s. If you need anything, Dino.” Dino nodded his gratitude and clasped his hands over Paulie’s.

“And same to you. If you or any of the guys needs ANYTHING. I’ll be here.” His smile almost knocked Paulie on his heels; it was the smile of a genuine peaceful man.
Paulie two-finger saluted his old comrade-in-arms and headed back to Tony’s.

City of Angels

Seas of people churning through the terminals of LAX are unaware of events unfolding practically right under their noses. A gateway opens up into a VIP lounge area where a man in a black suit holds a placard for Mr. Marty Klein. A short, fat balding man lumbers up to the driver.

“Get my bags. I’m going to catch a drink.” Klein barks through a haze of established in-flight drunkenness. The driver watches him attempt to straddle a bar stool like a tall man would. Klein gropes the railing of the bar and hoists himself up.

“What are you gawking out? Go get the fucking bags, kid or your tip will be where to seek new employment.” The driver without a word heads to the baggage carousel and grabs two bags. He goes across the parking lot and puts them in trunk of a white Mercedes. He goes back for the passenger.

Marty Klein tilts his cocktail way back allowing all the drink to slide down his throat. The driver notices the fresh scabs on his knuckles.

“Get in a fight, Mr. Klein?” He asks.
“Mind you fuckin business, driver.” Klein slurs. “Stupid bitch whore cunt.”
“Whatever you say.” The driver helps Klein off the stool before he falls backwards.
“Yeah. Whatever I SAY. Cause I’m the goddam KING. Bitch.” Klein stumbles into a table. The driver steadies him and escorts him to the waiting vehicle.

The driver opens the door and Klein rolls inside. The drive slams the door shut and enters the vehicle. The car speeds off. The driver rolls the partition glass down to see Klein asleep. He steers the car off an exit ramp and into a wooded area behind the airport.

The driver cuts the headlamps and slowly rolls over broken earth. Winding the vehicle to a construction site that is deserted for the night. Another vehicle is parked amidst the cranes and diggers. Its lights flash high low high. The driver returns the signal. Two large men get out of what appears to be a Dodge Aries K. The driver gets out and moves to the backseat and whips open the door spilling Klein out onto gravel.

The drunk barely stirs. The driver reaches inside and pulls a decanter of steaming hot coffee out. Without hesitation he pours the scalding liquid over Klein’s sleeping head.

“OW JESUS OW What the fu..” He slowly takes in the situation. “You are fucking dead. You minimum wage fuck!!!” he screams. “I’m Marty Klein. I own cats more valuable than YOU, cocksucker.”

The driver smiles and pulls off his coat. His stark white dress shirt appears to be the tailor-made variety. He unsnaps the cufflinks and rolls up the sleeves. He crouches close to Klein’s face.

“Do you recognize those two gentlemen?” The driver motioned at the two HUGE Italian looking men. Klein shook his head. “That’s Petey and that’s Nicky. They got a little sister that flew out here from back east to make it as a singer-actress-model-whatever. You took her under your wing and promised her the moon. Then you plied her with drugs and booze. You and your big shot Hollywood buddies then took turns raping and beating her. THEN…dumbfuck that you are…made a videotape of you doing it. That girl was Marie Cantone. She needed 275 stitches in her face, dental reconstructive surgery, she was blinded in one eye, and she got an abortion because one of you fucking scum got her pregnant.” Klein was weeping inaudibly at this point. The driver spoke the last words that Klein would ever hear. “My name is Virgil Abrizza , I’m Marie’s Seraph…and I’m giving you to her brothers.”

The two men picked up huge industrial wrenches that were already placed there and moved in to Klein. Virgil leaned on the hood of the Limo smoking a cigarette watching as the two brutes physically destroyed another human being piece by piece.

The Tobiasi Crew

Frank Tobiasi hung out at the Coldstone Italian Social Club or “Marcello’s” as the patrons called it. It reminded him of his fathers kitchen when he was a boy. The smell of roasting sausages, sweet onions and peppers wafted from the grill. Sides of prosciutto, netted cheeses, and Italian breads hung in the front window. The old men sat at round tables in their short-sleeved shirts, smoking stogies, sipping wine, and talking about the good old days. Frank appreciated the humble surroundings.

Marcello Garibaldi was a fat old ‘mustache pete’, he clung to the old values; he owned the joint and allowed Frank to talk business as needed. The heat was coming down. The feds were now fully alerted to his presence, dubbing the Capella Family The Tobiasi Crew. His loft apartment had to be de-bugged once a month and the oh-so inconspicuous vague white panel van was seen more often than was comfortable.

Frank winced a smile despite his concerns as his capo-regimes appeared through the front door. Alphonse “Big Al” Tessio was an old-school mook who was a button man in the Capella Family and held no love for Roman. His mild contempt for Carvaggio was due to the lithe assassin passing him over and being near to the old man Capella. But he was a good leader and his tributes always came in suitcases rather than briefcases. He held his tongue in check around Frank regarding Roman.

Charlie Luciano was the new guy. He sported custom, stylish suits. He drove a flash car and was Frank’s “high concept” idea man. Charlie rolled high in direct proportion to his take. He masterminded an airline heist that cost no lives and netted the crew millions. His thin frame twitched compulsively as ideas were always surging.

With the profits of the legitimate casino business keeping them all wealthy beyond what the span of their lives would be. The actual criminal enterprises maintained by the Tobiasi crew was streamlined. Drugs were gone from Coldstone. It marveled Frank how much in shipping it cost to airmail a Columbian dealmaker back to his country, in seventeen parcels. Gambling was becoming legal but the after hours betting on any and everything would always be lucrative. Loan sharking was good and Big Al ran it with an iron fist. Thieving and heisting was big money for the crew. There were no tributes going across the water. The Tobiasi Crew was riding a wave of profitability. This attracted attention from everywhere.

Tobiasi had the full attention of his capos when he spoke. The Zeta-Cannery battle was the stuff of legend around his guys.

“The eyes are on us. I can practically hear shutters clicking every time I piss.” Frank spoke in hushed tones even though this was a safe location.

“No fucking shit.” Charlie replied. “I haven’t seen so much off-the-rack since prom night. No class them feds.”

Big Al nodded his approval, “The government wants a piece of the action. That’s all it comes down to. From the day the first wop stepped off a boat…the government has wanted a piece. It’s discrimination.” Frank thought little of Big Al’s “theories”. But he obliged his senior capo with a nod.

“My main reason for this sit-down was to discuss an invite I recently received. Seems the big shot in Palermo wants to discuss reestablishing old ties. Any ideas?” Frank searched their faces.

“Fuck them up their old wop culo’s.” Charlie offered. “Those fucking old cunts, no offense Al, helped whack old man Capella, then came over here with their fucking hand out. If you want boss I’ll put two in the back of his fucking head and send his cock back to those fags in Rome.”

“Calm down, Billy the Kid.” Big Al chimed in. “Frank we gotta take this deal seriously. I mean reestablishing a connection with the old country might behoove us. I know things are good now…but what about ten years from now. It’s a solid foundation. I say we hear what he has to say. But I agree with the kid in as much as we should never trust them again. We gotta maintain…um…awe-tun-a-me.” Frank nodded thoughtfully.

“Well I have things to think about. Thanks, boys.” Frank waved them away. Charlie got up and removed a fat envelope.

“I took this off that cab company last night…about five grand. Your cut.” Charlie walked out and hopped into his convertible. Frank sat for a moment in quiet contemplation. The bell to the front door jingled as it was opened. Standing there was strange man. He was eerie in his normalcy. Out of place. He stood looking right at Frank dead in the eyes. He turned, never taking his eyes off Frank, and reached for a paper leaving a quarter on the stack. He smiled.

“See you around, Tobi.” He whispered. Frank jumped out the chair and the man disappeared through the door. Frank darted outside, spinning left and right to see no one. The stranger was gone.

The Rising Son

Miyamoto Hiro Takeshi admired himself as the coastal sun crept into the window basking his honed body in light. He stood shirtless in loose black pants as he practiced his kata causing the red dragon that encircled his shoulders and torso to writhe. For a man of near sixty his body was still as potent as it was in his twenties. His muscles and joints offered no audible protest as he flexed, sprung, and contorted them. His entire body was a honed weapon. But even at the height of his physical mastery, his mind was the true weapon of mass destruction.

The west coast sun was caught mid-leap into the sky as he finished his exercises. An attendant entered his chamber and began silently laying out Takeshi’s business suits for his next trip. Takeshi went about seeing to his personal hygiene. More attendants filed in and began to dress him. Every detail was managed and choreographed. A younger man in a three-piece suit with bi-focals entered and began reading in Japanese Mr. Takeshi’s daily agenda.

He was flying to the city of sin for a meeting with a casino manager. But first he had a meeting with two gentlemen from a security agency. So many details obscuring his American visit. He moved to his conference room where his colleagues were waiting for assignments. He pulled the screen doors wide to reveal an assortment of Japanese men in dark suits. They all greeted him in unison.

His assistant moved about the table providing them with files. Once again as if all being marionettes dancing at the end of an unseen puppet master they all opened to the first page in sync. The first page was an 8x11 black and white photo of a vaguely Japanese man. Takeshi spoke:

“Roman Carvaggio.”