The Clown Don

By Joseph Barone

When his third in command gets brutally murdered, mob boss Enzo Clowneone immediately suspects his archnemeses, the Juggler and Mime families.

In order to stand a chance against their combined might, he must rally allied Carnival families to his cause - but who are his true allies?

This book is a dark comedy set in an insulated world of crime. It touches upon the impotence of power, and the struggle for the Don to be both good and feared at the same time.

Walking the line is hard but sometimes, to quote an old Clown adage, "you have to slaughter a family to save a village."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Barone
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370511167

Joseph Barone

I'm a Brooklyn author with many different likes and styles of writing such as fantasy, Scifi and other speculative genres, horror, etc. I have a passion for the act of writing and a beautiful family, each of which make me paradisiacally happy. My first novel, Harold the Imp, was published last year and I'm currently in the process of working on a sequel. My family is why I write, and they have always been extremely encouraging. I'm in the process of making things happen in the publishing space and looking to grow my brand bigger and better. To that end, I've been putting a couple of things on Smashwords for free so that readers can get a sampling- something that says, "If you liked that even a little, you'll LOVE what this guy can do with his pay books!" That last part was a little cheeky to ensure you were still reading. If you'd like to connect to collaborate, network, or are interested in an editor, ghostwriter, ?pen pal? - Then email me at [e-mail]

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The Clown Don

The Clown Don

Joseph Barone

THE CLOWN DON

All Small Tales

© 2017 Joseph Barone

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 - Requiem for a Harlequin

Chapter 2 - Avoiding World War Clown

Chapter 3 - Manuel

Chapter 4 - Diplomacy

Chapter 5 – The Feathered Tassel

Chapter 6 – Magic Time

Chapter 7 – The Police Perplexity

Chapter 8 – Prep to Impress

Chapter 9 – The Puppet Strings

Chapter 10 – To Slaughter a Family

Chapter 1 - Requiem for a Harlequin

Raindrops caressed the surface of the earth with a consoling pat, joining together to mourn the loss of a great man. They covered the grass, breaking into smaller teardrops on each blade. It was a gray, rainy afternoon, the perfect backdrop for a funeral if perfection had a dark lining. The velvet floors of Dingo’s Funeral Home added to the solemnity of the occasion. Solemnity sometimes called for fuzzy purple comfort.

Pallbearers entered the room and waited. They were dressed in gray, a favorite color of the deceased yet not what he was currently wearing. The men stoically folded their hands over their laps. They couldn’t begin their grim lift-and-shift without first getting the nod of approval from the Boss. Nothing official would happen without the arrival of that special mourner.

The deceased was named Angelo Sorriso and his significance in life was twofold. He was everything to his wife and two children, each of whom carried their sorrow with heavy hearts and muffled anger. They bore it as silently as the pallbearers would bear the casket, but their burden was heavier still, loaded with the rocks of profound loss. And they could never put it down.

Many things were often said about Angelo, but the description he was proudest of was family man. In his world, that meant two things. He was a Consigliere in a Mob family. It was the biggest, most influential criminal organization in the history of Metronia. Some would call that city the new capital of the world. The enterprise to which Angelo belonged was the Clowneone Family, so-called for its namesake leader.

Mourners were to pay their respects in just one day rather than spread over the course of two or three. The usual schedule for a Catholic wake was a three-hour viewing, followed by a break, followed by another three-hour viewing. But this was not the itinerary for Angelo.

Dingo’s was a Mob funerary establishment, and Mr. and Mrs. Dingo, the funeral director and mortician respectively, would keep the place open as long as was requested by their lofty benefactors. From the first mob-affiliated funeral onward, they knew they’d have to oblige favors in exchange for the money and protection they valued. This wasn’t the first time they’d done things out of the ordinary. Ordinary was only the front. The business, as always, was in the back.

After eight hours of viewing, beginning at eight am, the wake was over. Three solemn men walked into the funeral home. They were impeccably dressed. They had on white gloves. The gentleman in the middle was stout and dense but did not give the impression of being overweight. He wore a gray suit with shiny black shoes, a toned-down lavender shirt and skinny black tie.

The sewn-in patch on his left breast pocket below the lapel was a small black Jolly Roger: a skull and crossbones with a red clown nose and a jester’s cap on it that was instantly recognizable as the logo for Jolly Clothiers. It was a very popular brand globally but was also a favorite of this particular family. Angelo himself was a recurring patron. The Jolly suit jacket he was currently wearing would be his last.

The two men at each side of the stout man were also slightly behind him. They were bulkier, carrying more obvious heft. The middle man walked toward the coffin. It was polished walnut, like the interior of Angelo’s favorite American luxury car. The mourner thought a sad and often clichéd truth bore repeating: you can't take it with you. And so it remains.

The man in the middle began to do the sign of the cross and the two others followed in lockstep. He leaned over and folded his hands together, praying for the soul of his friend. He looked him over as he prayed, from feet to head. The deceased had somewhat oversized but elegant shoes, deep purple pants, pressed, a white button-down housed in a dapper plaid jacket, and a stylish brown plaid fedora on his head.

Angelo’s face was calm, serene, sublime. He was not only at rest; he was also comfy and cozy. That's what the plush pillow and upholstered interior were for, after all. His face was painted white, per his usual appearance, except that his nose and lipstick were immaculate, and there were large, black X’s over his eyes to indicate he was dead. This was a Clown custom. Clowns are nothing if not suited to ritual.

Close it up, the mourner whispered, standing to his feet, eyes trickling and smearing some of his own makeup.

The full detail of pallbearers silently strode to the coffin, bowed their heads and shut the lid, removing the light from Angelo’s face forever.

The ride to the cemetery was quiet as Enzo rode alone in his limousine, chauffeured by some pimple-faced kid who otherwise might be hustling and bustling on the city streets. The usual chauffeur was out of town. Many of Enzo's men weren’t present. It wasn’t necessarily safe for them. It wasn’t safe for Enzo either, but there was no way he could miss the funeral in good conscience. Angelo was always there for him and the family.

Sometimes paying back favors had to happen post-mortem.

Angelo wasn’t eulogized by friends or family. Most mobsters weren’t; it was disrespectful to eulogize a person without being honest, and it was impossible to be honest without speaking darkly about this breed of dead men. Instead, it was decided that he be remembered in the brightest strokes, no shaded tones, no blemished hues.

The priest, who hardly knew him, would give the eulogy near the burial plot on a mound of freshly dug earth.

Father Turiddu, formerly an exclusive mob clergyman, wore black and green vestments. He was the only one to speak at Angelo’s memorial, ensuring that the eulogy would be taken as a blessing and not as common discourse. There would be no blunted force or fault-finding. Only respectful deference.

Stepping up to the small podium, he was concise without being trite. That is a gift that only priests and those with a limited vocabulary are blessed with.

"Before we are born into this world, we are ashes blowing and settling in the wind. Just blowing and settling. We are given the chance to live and breathe and experience the world which formed us through the life God gave us, to bear witness to His glory, and His alone. Then we return to our natural state, as we say: from ashes back to ashes and dust unto dust.

"We are alive for decades but we are dust for millennia. Even so, this short time that we have sometimes seems even shorter. Blink and you’re here. Blink again and you’re gone. We don’t often think about it. What brings our minds back to the idea is often something big, like the death of a great man. Our friend Angelo Sorriso.

"He was loved by all who knew him, and we were all the better for his presence in our lives. His presence is the greatest gift Angelo gave us. His time. His laughter. His tears and his joys. And as Angelo has now given up this life and has returned back to the world, so we all are forced to give up our time with him, but not our memories.

He lives on because we do. Ashes ourselves, but not yet. Now we are embers glowing brightly, owners and stewards of his memory, and the memories of all who are gone but not forgotten. Amen.

As the casket was lowered down by a hydraulic crank, church singers professed soulful hymns, guiding the body of the man to its final resting place with the appropriate soundtrack. Should his spirit have taken its sweet time in rising from the body, it would have had to leave soon before the heavy compacted earth was thrust upon it, crushing it like the yawning wood.

Don Clowneone, I am very sorry for your loss, a large gruff man growled without much sentiment. The man was a lieutenant in a rival Mob family, the Jugglers. Enzo shook the hand he was offered and looked into the man’s almost scowling eyes.

The Juggler wore a standard purple suit with four golden bowling pins emblazoned on his left breast pocket. It was a classic Juggler get-up, replete with bowler hat. It wasn’t a bad way of dressing, simply a common one. It was a daily suit, not a suit of mourning.

Thank you. Enzo sat across from the slowly descending coffin, in the front row. He was always in a place of prominence. Except that this was undoubtedly Angelo’s day. Enzo would not have traded places for all the money in the world.

People threw a handful of dirt and a flower onto the coffin on their way to granting Enzo their condolences. There was a short lull in the grieves-making after the man in the bowler hat passed through. How dare he show his face? the person to Enzo’s right whispered. A Juggler, here.

Enzo leaned over to his second-in-command. Boffo, nobody here knows the circumstances of Angelo’s death but us. This Juggler’s from Chicago; he’s only loosely affiliated to the Juggler family in Metronia. We did some business back in the day, so he came to pay his respects to me.

A stunning Clown woman dressed in black with half-sphere white polka dots stomped her way up to Enzo. She had two small children in tow. She was blond with blue eyes and wore inked-on black circles around them as a sign of grief. Her boys looked a lot like her. They had her big blue eyes and their father’s darker hair. Enzo stood up and slightly bowed his head to her. It may have been a subconscious deference to her importance.

Rainy, I— he began, but was interrupted with a hard open-palmed slap to the face.

This is your fault. Your fault! I’m his wife. You didn't even tell me how he died, but I know he was killed or else you wouldn’t have buried him so quickly. How dare you? How in the hell dare you?

Enzo’s eyes watered slightly. Only those that knew him noticed. He softened, was for the moment no longer the impervious Don, but a man who can be pierced by sharp words.

How dare I what, Rainy? I didn’t do this. He put his hand on her arm and squeezed gently as a sign of commiseration. They were both full of grief. She let him hug her for a moment and found her own eyes well up. Then she assertively pushed him aside.

You kept him with you. He was older than you, Enzo. He wanted out. He deserved to spend time with his children. A man his age has grandkids. We have two young boys, damn it. Angelo was going to retire. But you asked him to stick around a little while longer. He told me that he was working on some kind of project for you. And he loved you so goddamn much that in the end he chose you over me. And them.

She wiped her eyes, smearing her black circles. No matter how fervently she wiped, they would not be dried.

And then you throw the funeral, you take care of his final expenses, the flowers, and the schedule. Because you're the 'boss.' Do any of these people gathered here right now understand just how much of a shadow you are of your former self? Or do they still follow the memory of the Great Don Clowneone? Looks like you got them all fooled. People come here and they give their condolences to you, you, the man who got him killed by being greedy with his time. Not me, his wife, the mother of his children.

Enzo tried again. He paused, giving her the chance to say anything else that she needed to get off her ample chest, but she simply looked at him. He knew that look. He’d given that look before. It was disappointment tinged with betrayal, with a hint of righteousness for effect.

He spoke in a low whisper, looking around to make sure no one was intruding on the private conversation. Rainette, I promise that I’ll take care of you and your kids for the rest of your lives. Angelo deserved that; he would have wanted me to. It's the absolute least that I can do. You won’t need for anything.

She wiped a tear but three more came to its funeral. Except a husband and father. How can you, of all people, not understand? My children will grow up their entire lives without him. When they graduate, when they play sports, when they get married. He won’t be there! Just like Emma wasn’t there for your son. And both times, it was your fault. You killed your wife, who was my best friend. And now you killed my husband, who was also my best friend. I want nothing from you, or for you. Come on.

She tugged at her boys, wearing expressions that Enzo also knew well: confused grief and planet-shattering sadness.

Rainette Sorriso walked back down the hill, dragging her sons behind her, never turning around. She was walking toward a younger man who was dressed like a shadow and who reached his hand to her cheek. She pushed that man aside, not accepting any condolences at this time.

Her back was to Enzo both literally and metaphorically. On her way down the small hill, she also walked past a woman in a red sundress with yellow flowers printed on it. The woman wore a wide-brimmed red hat with a hanging black veil. Enzo didn’t remember her name, but he knew exactly who she was. Angelo’s mistress. Enzo nodded at her and took back his seat next to Boffo.

He turned to his Underboss. I wanted to wait until after the funeral to do this, but call together an emergency meeting in the War Room tonight at eight. Every captain and lieutenant comes to the meeting. Every available soldier bunks in the compound. Move them in as quick as you can. We have to plan for every eventuality. This could just be the start of something big.

Boffo nodded his head slowly. He knew the writing on the wall, that the Don wanted practically the entire Family with him in his gated compound in Arcane City. It meant war, or close to it. Either way, it was serious. What about before eight? Do you want me to cancel your meetings?

No. Until then it’s business as usual. I got a couple of loose ends to tie up before we deal with this Angelo situation. He looked over the hill to his substitute driver swaying aimlessly while playing sentinel in front of the black limo. What happened to Laffy again?

Boffo scratched his head. Jimmie says he asked for vacation time a while ago. He’s been in Aspen with his family. Skiing or some shit. Laffy offered to come back but Jimmie told him to take the time off. He hasn’t had a vacation in twenty years.

Call him back east. There's no such thing as a vacation.

The Clown Family and all the other Carnival Mob families had a similar organizational structure. At the head was the Don - the Boss, the Head. The part of the fish that stinks the most, according to an Italian proverb. In the Clown family, this was Enzo Clowneone. He was the General, the Big Cheese, Head Honcho, BMOC, etc.

This position was like being President, Emperor or Chairman of the Board. It was where the chain of command terminated.

Below him was the Underboss, in this case Boffo Bofoni. An Underboss was like a Vice President or CEO who did the bidding of the chairman, the only official to outrank him. Usually this person also served functionally as a Director of Operations, overseeing daily business activities.

Below the Underboss was the Consigliere, or Counselor. Angelo was Enzo’s Counselor before his untimely demise. He was third-in-command and third in line to the seat of power, like the Speaker of the House. The Consigliere also performed duties much like the Secretary of State, a chief diplomat of sorts.

The three comprised the Executive branch of the Family. Sometimes there were more people in the inner circle, like a Treasurer or a second Underboss, but that often made things complicated. The more people in the executive branch, the greater likelihood of someone whacking their way up the ladder at some point.

Each of the executives had their own battalion of soldiers or footmen. They largely served as protection for their capos. A capo was similar to a director, or the head of a department. Reporting to the Boss directly were all the captains: Jimmie, Vinny and Rondo.

They were capos that led battalions and were like mini-bosses in their own right. Noblemen with fiefdoms ultimately in league with the throne. They acted independently for the most part, and had lieutenants and sergeants serving under them. They executed their various operating activities, both legal and illegal, with impunity.

Armed guards were always posted at the front gate and around the perimeter of Enzo's compound. Arcane City was a suburb and satellite sister-city of Metronia. It was once a ghost town but in the last decade had seen a resurgence of economic activity. Enzo now owned most of it, either directly or through subsidiaries.

The compound itself was affectionately called The Fortress or less often The Gray Fortress, and including the grounds it spanned the equivalent size of ten square city blocks. It was enormous, with thick-chained fence and barbed wire all around, not to mention electrified sections that didn’t have any warning signs. If you were foolish enough to try breaking in with some dark purpose, then you deserved to get lit up.

The Clown Don sat at his desk. It was immaculate and empty, except for an open manila folder that he was leafing through. There would normally be family photos surrounding him when he stayed there alone. But when there were meetings to be had, he put them away in his desk drawers.

Sentimentality was a sign of weakness.

Across from him was a nervous man with dark eyes and hair but extremely light makeup and a light gray suit. His hands were folded, waiting for his Don to finish doing whatever it was that he was doing with the folder. The nervous man was curious as to the purpose of the meeting, but he knew better than to speak before Clowneone did.

The room looked regal, with gold trim everywhere and fancy red velour lining the floor and guest couch. Yet it was distinctly an office, the only trappings of which were the oak desk and silver-plated bookshelf behind the desk. It was somewhat disorienting for a guest sitting across from Enzo.

That was on purpose.

Buddy Rangel. So you used to work for Angelo. A soldier in his private battalion. He stated it as a fact, not a question, yet he waited for a reply. He fancied himself a master of control, and nothing in his experience had ever proven him wrong.

In arguments, in diplomacy or in any other kind of discussion, he employed the Clownian tactic of Sciarrare, which was a unique way of getting your point across without saying too much. Maintaining control through brevity. It was mastering a conversation through intricate manipulation.

Yes, the antsy gentleman said.

He was a good man. The Don paused a short while after making the statement, and just when he saw his guest open his mouth to agree, he continued.

Now, I hear that you have girl troubles. Is that right? He didn’t wait for a response this time. He looked down at a piece of paper which in reality was blank. The safest place to keep information, he found, was in his head.

A Miss Annie Mae Bambolina. She was your girlfriend. I heard that she’s been giving you a little bit of trouble lately, and I’d like to hear your side of the story.

Buddy looked even paler than the makeup lightly caked on his face. Can I have a glass of water, Don Clowneone? He was parched from anxiety.

The Don spent no time considering the request. He tapped the tips of his fingers together.

No. What happened? He leaned forward. Enzo was not the tallest man, 5’9 or 5’10, but he gave the impression of being taller. He had considerable heft, most of which was obvious muscle. Aside from the formidable office which he occupied, his physical and mental stature were just as imposing.

Buddy wrung his hands and wiped his face, taking sweat along with white face paint. She made a fool out of me, Don Enzo. We dated for almost two years. One day I went to her apartment and found her cheating on me with some mook. I just saw red. In a moment of rage, I—I killed her side piece. I could not abide the disrespect. Surely you could understand what I mean about respect.

There was another pause. Clowneone’s face didn’t change at all, but he folded his hands in a prayerful way. Enzo didn't think so much as calculate.

The lower-level Clown seemed to