Conspiracy to Commit
1
Just after 10 p.m. and just off the corner of 183rd Street and Whipple Avenue, four men gathered in a basement around one end of a four by eight feet fold-out table.
The faint, thrumming sound of jazz filtered through the ceiling from the social club and bar above them. When the bassist hit a particularly solid note, dust filtered down too. The only other sound was the occasional clang from an ancient boiler shrouded in darkness in the other end of the room.
The table top was covered with a plastic veneer. Someone had wiped away most of the dust, but where it wasn’t gouged, curled, or spotted with ancient spills or cigarette burns, the veneer looked like stained hardwood.
Each of the men had taken a light grey folding chair from the stacks against the wall, unfolded them and set them on the floor. They didn’t speak, but nodded and looked nervously from one to the other. Except when they looked up to speak or respond to a question, their eyes were shielded by fedoras in varying shapes and sizes.
Above the table, a single, dusty, bare bulb dangled from an extension cord. The light was just bright enough to illuminate the table top, the seats and backs of the folding chairs, and the men’s faces. It also streaked alternating highlights and shadows on the suits they wore. The darkness engulfed everything else.
The door to the club opened. For a moment, light splashed down the stairs. The music was louder for a moment and accompanied by the light buzz of conversation. Then the door closed again and the sounds were muted to only what filtered through the ceiling.
Heavy footfalls sounded on the steps. Finally Salvatore “Big Sally” Petrillo stepped off the bottom step. As he turned left, one hand still gripping the rail along the stairwell, he said, “Hey, guys.” He released the rail and approached the head of the table. He spread his hands. “So sit a’ready.”
The men shifted behind their chairs, but they didn’t move to sit down.
Petrillo was dressed in his trademark off-white, fine-linen suit and matching fedora. Before he sat, he glanced at the table top. As he sat he was careful to avoid the table and rest his forearms on his thighs. After he was seated, the metal folding chairs of the other four men complained against the unfinished concrete floor as they stepped around the chairs, then sat down and adjusted them.
When the men were settled, Petrillo raised his forearms from his thighs and spread his hands again. His voice was gruff but quiet. “Listen, t’anks for comin’, a’right? I t’ink you all know we got a’ untenable situation here.”
The second man on the right, Johnny “No Nose” Signorelli, raised a hand. “Untenable, boss? What’s that?” He was clad in a dark blue suit.
Carmine “Mutt” Martinelli, the man directly across from No Nose and dressed in sharkskin grey, slapped the table with both hands. “Hey, let the man talk, a’right? Untenable means like we can’t put up with it no more.” He gestured toward Petrillo. “G’head, boss.”
“T’anks, Mutt.” Petrillo shifted his gaze to No Nose. “What Mutt said, a’right?” He looked at the other men. “So yeah, untenable. An’ it can’t go on. I’m jus’ sayin’, we gotta do somethin’.” He paused, then gestured with his left hand. “You all know it’s been comin’ for awhile.” He paused again. “An’ I t’ink” and he tapped the table with a thick left index fingernail, “the time is now. Tonight.”
Joseph “Joey Bones” Salerno, sitting to Petrillo’s left, shifted uneasily in his seat. “You sure, Big Sally? ‘Cause you gotta be sure about t’ings like this.”
Petrillo only nodded.
Salvatore “Little Sally” Renoso, sitting to Petrillo’s right, said, “Yeah, you know, I kind’a agree wit’ Bones, Boss. Bones been a made guy longer’n any of us.” He glanced at Petrillo. “I mean no disrespect, boss.”
As he glanced sidelong at Renoso, Petrillo put a cigar in his mouth and brought a lighter up to light it. As he puffed, he said, “Yeah, hey, no—” He took a puff. “Offense—” He took a puff. “Taken, eh?” He took a drag. “An’ we all know an’ love Joey Bones, am I right?” He caught the cigar between the index and middle fingers of his left hand, took it away from his mouth, and gestured with it toward Bones. “Me an’ Bones both been here—What, forever, Bones?”
Bones only nodded.
The other three men chuckled nervously.
Petrillo reached with his left hand, the cigar still in it, and gripped Salerno’s right shoulder. “I said isn’t that right, Joey?”
Bones shrugged. “Hey, when you’re right, you’re right, boss.”
Petrillo clenched the cigar with his teeth again, then reached to pat Salerno’s right cheek lightly with his palm. He gazed at Bones. Quietly, he said, “Yeah. When I’m right I’m right, eh?” He glanced at the other men again. “Hey, speakin’a which, Billy Bat’s is gonna help too. I mean, he’s in. He tol’ me he wanted’a be here, only he had somethin’ else he hadda do. So I tol’ him what I’m gonna tell you: We go tonight at midnight. You know, an’ I tol’ him the place.”
Bones frowned.
Johnny No Nose, ever a paragon of timely interruptions, frowned. “Go where, boss?”
Mutt slapped the table again, but a little more forcefully. “Jesus, Nose! To the place, a’right? Where Big Sally’s gonna tell us! Try an’ keep up, eh?” Mutt glanced at Petrillo. “G’head, boss.”
Petrillo’s brow furrowed slightly. “Yeah, Mutt. T’anks again.” Again he looked at the others. “So like I said, we go at midnight.” He looked specifically at Johnny No Nose. “Rico’s. You know the place, right?”
“Yeah, boss. On a hunnerd an’ third an’ Stokes, am I right?”
“Yeah. Good boy.” Petrillo shifted his gaze to the others again. “Ever’body get that? Rico’s, at a hunnerd an’ third an’ Stokes. Calabrese’ll be there wit’—”
Joey Bones’ chair scraped the concrete as he pushed back slightly from the table.
Petrillo spread his hands and looked at Bones. “Hey, what is it wit’chu, Bones? You got nerves or somethin’?”
“Nah. But if that’s it, Sally, I gotta go to the john.”
“Yeah, sure, but stay where you are for a minute, a’right? Jus’ one minute. I got a’ announcement.”
“Sure, boss.”
Petrillo addressed the table again. “A’right, so like Bones said, that’s it. Any questions?”
None of the men said anything.
Petrillo gestured. “A’right, then the meetin’s over. Jus’ be there and be heeled, a’right? We take out Calabrese, I’m runnin’ the show.” He paused, and again, he reached with his left hand to grip Bones’ right shoulder. “An’ like I said, I got a’ announcement. My right hand guy’s gonna be Joey Bones Salerno, eh?” He laughed, and the other men all broke into a round of applause.
Petrillo, a grin spreading on his face, looked at Salerno. “So you surprised, or what?”
“Yeah, I’m surprised. T’anks, boss. So I gotta go now, a’right?”
Petrillo waved a hand. “Go, a’ready. Go.”
Bones slid his chair straight back, pushed up from the table, and headed for the stairs.
Behind him, Little Sally watched him go as the others chatted and laughed among themselves.
As Bones’ footfalls sounded on the stairwell, Little Sally pushed back too. He said nothing, but he turned and followed Bones up the stairwell.
Petrillo frowned and glanced over his right shoulder. “Hey, Sally! Whaddayou, gonna hold it for him?”
Again the others burst out laughing.
The door at the top of the stairs opened and music spilled into the room, accompanied by a barked order from the bartender and the ever-present buzz of conversation.
The door closed and the sounds fell away, then opened again as Little Sally reached it and went through. The sounds were back for a few seconds. Then the door closed again and the sounds fell away.
A brief moment later, the door opened again, then closed. Multiple footfalls sounded on the stairs, and Petrillo’s chair scraped against the concrete floor as he turned around, still grinning. “What? Did you guys forget somethin’ or—”
Three quick explosions sounded, and each muzzle flash temporarily illuminated Billy Bats’ face.
Upstairs, someone yelled, “What the hell was that?”
The music faltered, then died away.
Two of Bats’ bullets struck Big Sally in the forehead. The third took out his left eye. Big Sally crumpled forward off the chair.
Bats yelled, “Done!”
Multiple other explosions sounded as two men on the stairs above Bats opened up with semi-automatic pistols. The flashes illuminated the faces of Joey Bones and Little Sally.
Panicked screams and the sound of frantic footfalls, accompanied by dust falling dust illuminated by the bare bulb, filtered down through the ceiling.
Three bullets took Johnny No Nose in the chest. He slapped backward, his butt still on the chair, his shoulders and head on the concrete floor, his arms splayed.
Three more bullets hit Mutt Martinelli, two in the chest and one in the face. He also fell backward out of his chair. The chair fell over too. Mutt’s final kick shoved it into Bones’ former seat.
Silence descended.
No more screams or running filtered down from upstairs.
Downstairs the only sound was the occasional clang of the ancient boiler.
2
The door at the top of the stairs opened, remained open, then closed. Little Sally keyed the deadbolt, locking it.
The club was deserted, though ed and blue mood lights still swept randomly back and forth across the stage.
Without speaking, Franco “Billy Bats” Rinaldi, Joseph “Joey Bones” Salerno, and Salvatore “Little Sally” Renoso all headed for the bar.
Bones said, “You guys sit.”
Bats and Sally each claimed a barstool.
Bones walked around the end of the bar, pulled a bottle of Jameson’s from the shelf, arched his eyebrows and held it up. “Eh?”
Both of the other men nodded.
Bones poured three fingers into each of three old fashioned glasses and set two of them in front of the men. “I figure we got a few minutes.”
Bats held up his glass. “I figure.”
After they all clinked glasses and sipped, Sally said, “So now we do the other t’ing?”
Bones nodded. “Yeah. You know, like the boss said.” He grinned.
The other two chuckled.
Bats held up his glass again. “To the true boss.”
Sally held his up to. “To the boss.”
Bones said, “T’anks, guys.” Again they all three clinked glasses and drank.
Sally said, “We got time for one more?”
Bats grinned. “Hey, don’t be greedy.”
Bones said, “Nah. Like the man said, we go at midnight. That’s when Calabrese’ll park out front. We go casual-like, jus’ hangin’ out. An’ when he steps out, we pop’im. All’a us.”
Bats nodded. “Ditto.”
Sally said, “Cool.”
Bones downed the rest of his drink and set his glass on the bar. He walked along behind the bar, then approached the other two. “Can you believe that guy was never even made?”
Bats said, “Not on anything he did on his own.”
Sally said, “Really?”
Bone said, “Yeah really.” He gestured toward the door with his head. “Let’s go.”
*******
About the Author
Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.
Harvey is an award-winning writer who follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly. He has written and published over 100 novels, 9 novellas, and over 270 short stories. He has also written 18 nonfiction books on writing, 8 of which are free to other writers. And he’s compiled and published 27 collections of short fiction and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.
These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key “StoneThread Publishing” or “Harvey Stanbrough” into your favorite search engine.
Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for “Harvey Stanbrough’s (Almost) Daily Journal.”
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