The Council

By Andrew Tarantino

What do these men have in common? Your wife's abusive ex-husband, your pedophile father who left when you were five, the drug dealer who has your fiancé in his clutches, the powerful man who's trying to ruin you out of spite, the boyfriend of the woman you love; answer, they would all be better off dead. If you found out you were able to kill this man, and you had a guarantee you would not be caught, would you do it? Five strangers, pulled from the fringe of society, were asked this question and replied, "hell yeah."

For one of these men, the price of justice is too high. Doing away with his wife's ex leads to her death. Not having learned his lesson, he exacts justice on the other men responsible. He struggles between continuing the war to satisfy his own instincts for revenge and giving in to honor his murdered wife's wishes for peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Tarantino
• Release date: Feb 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466169470

Andrew Tarantino

Andrew Tarantino lives in Michigan with his wife and daughter. He works in the financial services industry as a corporate trainer. This is his first novel. He also makes occasional guest appearances on The Walk it Off Podcast.

Book preview

THE COUNCIL

by Andrew Tarantino

Copyright 2012 Andrew Tarantino

Smashwords Edition

*****

PART I

THE AMATEURS

CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTIONS

2000

For Peter Genovia, there was nothing like a good bar fight for unwinding, and he had started this one intentionally. He was a big hulk with a demeanor that intimidated the toughest of men, whether they admitted it or not. He had left the Marines but hadn’t found a replacement for the sensation of a physical fight. When life got tough, some smoked a cigarette, others took a drink, and Peter started a fight. He really needed this one. It had been a while. He was cutting back.

He had called a likeminded friend; they found a rough looking Chicago bar and applied his favorite instigation technique. He approached a mean looking man who wore a Chicago Bears jacket and loudly proclaimed in a faux Irish brogue, God bless the Packers. That always did the trick. He was a Bears fan himself, but it was worth it.

Outside the little bar, a short, tough looking man in a sharp suit was striding purposefully up the sidewalk. As he neared the bar, someone crashed through the door, landed sitting on the pavement, got up, collected himself, and stormed back inside. The pale, well dressed, diminutive man walked in and stepped to the side, staying against the wall.

Peter and his menacing, Italian friend were fighting just about everyone else in the bar. The two of them fought back to back, looking like boxers in their stance. They were bloody, swelling, and cut, but they relished every swing. The well-dressed man, who had just entered, found a side booth and watched the fight. Three people in succession fell back and hit their heads against his table.

Peter dealt a vicious uppercut to foil the man in the Bears jacket, and another man, this one with a ponytail, followed quickly after, swinging away. Peter ducked, and the man punched Peter’s friend in the back of the head. The friend fell unconscious. Peter was standing, fighting ponytail man when another tackled him at the knees, taking him and his opponent to the ground. Peter got to his knees, straddled the helpless ponytail man, whom he had just fallen on top of, and maniacally began punching him in the face. As Peter unloaded his wrath, the man who tackled him stood behind him with his hands around Peter’s neck. Peter barely seemed to perceive the man’s fingers burrowing into his sweaty, sinewy throat.

The man from the booth slid out and went to the bar. He grabbed a towel and fastened it to his plain but well shined right shoe. He calmly walked over to the man who was doing the choking. He took four quick steps, as if he were about to kick a field goal. At the end of his stride, he kicked the man square in the side of the head. He fell to the floor, motionless. Peter got up, rubbed his red throat, and brushed himself off.

What’s the towel for? Peter panted. Trying to go easy on him?

The man carefully removed the towel and buffed his shoes with it.

Screw him. I’m going easy on my shoes.

He said it in a very serious tone. It was not a joke, simply the truth.

You Peter Genovia?

Peter nodded.

The man straightened up, reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, pulled out a yellow business card, and handed it to Peter.

As Peter looked down at the card he asked, What are you, a fucking cheese head?

By the time he looked up from the card, the little man was already walking briskly down the street. Peter looked down bewilderedly at the yellow business card. All it showed was a hand written address and time. He thought of his unconscious friend and put the card in his pocket, pushing the curiosity out of his mind in favor of trying to revive his buddy.

~

At Natolla’s Italian grocery store, a frail, old clerk stood in the doorway of the mom and pop store, looking down the street. He turned into the shop, closed, and locked the door.

Angie’s coming! He whispered with a trace of an Italian accent. Hurry, hurry.

Everyone in the store went into a well-rehearsed, efficient routine of quickly closing the shop and making it appear abandoned.

Angelo (Angie) Ficha was a tall, lanky man with thin, black, slicked back hair. He was well dressed in a flashy suit with a very wide tie, and a diamond stickpin. He was marching down the sidewalk, getting into his best badass character. His best was none too convincing. The word was out on him. He had earned a reputation as a push over. His frustration over this was probably the only factor that allowed him to pull off any semblance of a believable badass. He approached the front door of the grocery store where he saw the closed sign and the apparently empty building. He pounded on the glass door with his fists.

Gordo! I know you’re in there. Next time I won’t walk away. You owe me money! he screamed.

He punched the glass, but to his embarrassment, it wasn’t the widow that gave. It was his throbbing knuckles. He stormed down the street angrily with his head down, but his eyes looking up ominously.

As he walked, the short business card giver stepped out from an alley with his silenced pistol drawn. He rested the muzzle on Angie’s nose.

Keep your hands in your pockets, and keep your mouth shut. Don’t worry. I’m going to help you.

Angie didn’t move, but his blood was boiling. The nerve on this little son of a bitch, he thought, doesn’t he know who I am?

The man pulled the business card out of his pocket with his free hand and slid it into the breast pocket of Angie’s over coat.

What the hell is this? Angie asked.

Just shut up and turn around.

Angie turned around and the man disappeared down the dark Alley. Angie didn’t know what to think. He was angry, embarrassed, and curious all at once. The nerve on that little punk, he thought. Was it just a weird prank, or was he serious? He pulled out the business card and looked at the time and address.

~

Rick Carson was sitting in a college classroom. He was reviewing the insult of a grade on the paper in front of him. He was not the type to start trouble, but he was reaching his boiling point. Ordinarily, this poor grade would have rolled off his back like most of his other problems, but the other problems were beginning to exhaust his patience.

He got up from his seat in the back of the room, snapping the chair out from under him. All of the other students were filing out of the room. He walked against the flow of traffic to the front of the room. The professor, a tall middle-aged man with a shaved head, stood stoically. Rick paused for a moment to compose his words. He was not one to speak simply out of emotion. He was young, fair, and anything but threatening in appearance.

What do you need, Rick? the professor calmly asked.

Rick handed his paper to the professor and began to stare him down.

It would help if you would tell us what you want before the paper is due.

Read the syllabus. he replied with an infuriating calm.

Every time someone asks you, you change the subject. You would think when seventy five percent of the class bombs and the rest barely scrape by; it’s not our problem.

The requirements were…

Rick interrupted, Maybe we’ll just have to go to the dean.

You’re talking to a tenured professor, you little punk. Do you think you’re intimidating me?

Rick moved uncomfortably close to the professor and spoke in a low, angry, but level voice.

Maybe she would like to hear about your other little extracurricular operation.

The professor stood speechless and stunned as Rick turned on his heels and walked quickly out of the room.

In the hallway the man with his yellow business card was leaning on the wall, waiting. When Rick walked into the hallway, the little man caught up with him and stopped him.

It’s Rick, right?

Rick had no clue as to whom he was talking. His mind searched its banks and came up empty. He turned toward him but decided against a verbal reply.

The man extended a hand to shake and went on. Hey, it’s been a while. How’ve you been? Are you still with…? What’s her name? Um…

Rick, still puzzled but going with it, shook hands and answered. Yeah, Kerrie.

Well, see you around. he said, and he disappeared into the crowded hall.

Rick opened his hand, looked down, and saw the yellow business card. He shook his head, put the card in his backpack, and walked down the hallway.

~

It was nighttime outside the Goodman Theater stage door. John Tarantino, a stout, tough-looking Italian, walked up to the door and went in. There was a big Vegas style show on stage. John walked to the wings just as Julia Branch walked off stage. She was a tall, thin, blonde knockout, dressed up in full 1930’s showgirl regalia. John grabbed her by the arm as she went by. He whispered in her ear, and she led him back toward the dressing rooms.

In the dressing room, Julia was changing out of her costume and into a green dress. John stared out the window with wide, distracted eyes.

As she slid the dress straps up her shoulders, she showed some irritation. Why do we have to do this again? I’m sick of it.

John snapped, I just got to blow off some steam. Are you going along or not? I thought you got off on this.

Julia walked to John and turned her back to him so he could zip her up.

John looked at the dress and threw his hands up. Not sexy enough. You know what I want.

She let out a groan, removed the inadequate green dress over her head, and went back to the closet.

Not sexy enough? Kiss my ass, DAGO.

I’d love to. Bring it over here, Sweet Cheeks. And watch that DAGO shit.

Like Peter, John also needed a little violence to settle him down. He had neither the toughness, nor the skill for one of Peter’s all out brawls, so he had to be a bit more devious to find an outlet.

~

Julia was standing on the sidewalk, leaning against a redbrick building. Eight feet down, was the corner of the street and an alley. John stood just around the corner, hiding in the shadows. A couple of men walked by, looked Julia up and down, but remained silent.

John said quietly from the shadows, The next one had better not walk past.

Julia flashed an irritated look toward the alley. She used to find this thrilling, but the thrill was beginning to wear off. When she saw another man approaching, she arched her back, exposed a long leg through a high slit in the dress, ran a hand through her thick hair, and gave him an inviting look.

What’s the good word? As soon as it left her mouth, she wanted to call it back.

The poor bastard had no idea what was in store for him. He was a bruiser with a military haircut. He slowed down and stopped in front of her. He leered at her sideways, looked her down, and up again.

The good word? Legs baby. You want to go back to my place and spread the word?

Julia covered her mouth and whispered sincerely, I’m Sorry.

John sprung out of the shadows, turned the man around by his shoulder, and punched him square in the nose.

John screamed, So you’re going to just pick up my girl while I’m standing right here?

Poor Bastard was bending down, leaning on his knee with one hand, and holding his bleeding nose with the other.

John continued, What am I, some kind of motherless mutt who…?

John wound back with his foot and buried it in poor bastard’s unprepared stomach. He fell over sideways and curled up in the fetal position. He mumbled as John continued.

Please, I didn’t…

John was kicking him in the ribs as he screamed. You didn’t what? KICK. Are you going to call me a liar now? KICK. Come on, call me a liar. KICK.

Julia stood to the side with her hands covering her mouth. Her eyes were tearing up. It was a truly pathetic sight, such a strong, invulnerable looking man rendered so utterly impotent.

John! She pleaded.

What? Someone needs to teach this guy to leave other guy’s girls alone.

John dropped another few stomps onto the man’s kidneys.

Stop! You’ll kill him.

John stopped kicking to look down at the bloody, quivering mass on the ground. He rubbed the uppers of his shoes on the backs of his pant legs and turned around.

Come on. he ordered.

He took her hand, and they started walking down the street together.

Out of nowhere, the business card distributor walked up behind them. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled at Julia. They turned at the noise.

Sexy, you know, those legs go all the way up and make a fine ass of themselves!

John was incensed. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

He spun around like a flash and threw a lightning fast punch toward the man’s face.

The man swiftly put up both hands and caught John’s fist. He slowly brought the fist down, opened it, and placed his yellow card in it. John and Julia looked down at the card and looked up to find the man gone.

~

The exterior of Orchard Club was beginning to deteriorate. Some of the letters in the neon sign no longer lit up. The red façade was badly in need of cleaning, and the dark canvas awning over the door was torn and dingy. It was located in what was left of Little Italy, Chicago.

Inside, there were several old, Italian men sitting at the oak bar, having coffee. Several others were playing cards at little round, felt-topped tables. The morning light was beaming through the horizontal blinds, slicing through the smoke and dust. Signed pictures of The Rat Pack, Al Pacino, and other famous actors and singers, mostly from the 60’s and 70’s, trimmed the dark, wood paneled walls.

Upstairs, there was a loft with a large, round, mahogany table and an old-fashioned stained glass lamp hanging over it. Don Genovia; a dark, young Italian man, and his uncle Bob Genovia; a dark skinned, elderly, white haired man, were sitting at the table playing a card game. They were both smoking big cigars and drinking coffee.

Bob chuckled, You going to turn up the Briscolla card or what? I think you’re going senile before me.

Keep your shirt on, here it is. Don snapped back with a faint smile.

Don turned up a card and set the rest of the deck on top of it. There was just enough of it sticking out to tell which card it was. They each held three cards. They played them in turn, one at a time. After they played each card, they took another from the draw pile. They played as they talked. It was a family tradition. Talking during a card game was the norm. Some Genovias had trouble putting together a coherent thought if they weren’t holding a hand of cards. Visiting their family reunion was like visiting the world series of poker.

Don asked, So, how are things with that guy?

You mean our fine public servant Alderman Burke. See for yourself. Look around. Place is turning into a dive. I got no money left for upkeep. This stunad Burke, he holds a grudge for sixty years.

You’d think he was Sicilian.

Yeah, I couldn’t have been more than ten when that shit went down.

What’s he actually doing? Don asked.

Bob brought his finger to his lips and Don shut up.

The frail, old waiter shuffled up to the table, refilled the coffee cups, and emptied the teaming ashtray.

The waiter was a kindly, rough looking, old, Italian who sounded like a buzz saw when he spoke. He motioned to Don and said, Hey Donnie, why don’t you take it easy on your old uncle?

Bob raised a finger in the air. This young guy’s got no respect. He beats me every game.

Don protested, Hey, I keep trying to lose. This guy can’t even beat me when I take a dive.

The waiter walked away after sharing a polite laugh with them.

Anyway, this guy, this Burke, every year when they assess the place, what I owe goes through the roof. And I’m talking high. It’s putting me out of business. Then he sicks the health department on me, then the building inspector, then the fire marshal. First, it’s this code then that code, codes up the asshole. I’m losing my regulars because the place is falling apart.

Don got up from the table, put his coat on, and snubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.

I got to go. Write down the score and we’ll finish the game next time. Don’t worry too much, Uncle Bob, I’ll think of something.

You’re a good kid, Don, but leave it alone. I don’t want you getting into any trouble on my account. My brother, God rest his soul, would never forgive me.

Don smiled at his Uncle and walked down the stairs. As he exited the front door, he bumped into the man coming in. When he reached his car and went for his keys, he found his yellow business card.

CHAPTER 2

THE SUMMIT

In a large hotel conference room, sat the recipients of the mysterious business cards. A large rectangular conference