Smoking Mirrors and Other Stories

By Laurence Clark

Smoking Mirrors—Salvatore Cifero, a gorilla in a man suit known as Sal, is a low level enforcer for the Medici Crime Family. He sits in Pancrizio's Italian Restaurant at his corner booth with a stack of books, and a terrifying aura fed by rumors of his unimaginable capacity for violence and mayhem. It's said that he spins webs far more intricate than the tales the dream weavers spin of this gorilla in a man suit.

Gods and Cows and Aliens—What do gods, cows, and aliens have in common? That would be the Panhandler's Saloon in Verdeville, a forgotten Arizona town somewhere between here and there along Route 66. Of course, there's also Y'Naug, a former alien soldier, Higgins Cavanaugh, a retired engineer turned rancher turned detective, a couple of alien assassins, and the corpulent body of a murdered bar patron with a perfectly round 2-inch diameter cauterized hole in the middle of his forehead.

Ficus in the Doorway—Duncan Gilchrist was the perfect companion to Gisela Van Aken, the heir to the vast Van Aken fortune; he was thoughtful, a fabulous chef, and attended to her every need and whim. What does a thoughtful boyfriend give a busy woman who has everything? A ficus, which, with careful cultivation over time, can be grown into anything the heart desires. What does her heart desire?

Bauthrough—When John Lothenstein finished the painting, it was a swirling mess of colors unlike anything he'd ever created before. His usual was hyper-realistic subjects layered with elements of swirling chaos. This work was different. He had started with the swirling chaos first, and now he felt something in it calling him, pulling him in, a shadowy figure in its swirling chaos called Bauthraugh.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurence Clark
• Release date: Jul 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393134039

Laurence Clark

A technical writer by day, but at night, with the sounds of neighbors barking, dogs whining, caterwauling cats…  caterwauling, airplanes at full engine take-off, I'm a guy spinning yarns on a laptop on the back porch with his dog barking at everybody to shut the heck up!

Book preview

Chapter 1

I think of the prisoner after I've lopped off his head, somehow still thinking, eyes staring in disbelief, watching the world spin away as his head leaves his body. I wonder what final thought flittered through his disembodied mind, what god he prayed to. Afterwards, I eat, drink, and fornicate until I can't think. –John Salvatore's executioner

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Sitting in a corner booth, his head bent, elbows braced heavily on the table, Sal, a gorilla in a man suit, read from a small cloth-bound book, a small stack of books on his left, a nearly empty plate pushed to the side. A gorilla in a man suit, it never failed. Everyone seeing him in Pancrizio's Italian Restaurant for the first or last time thought of a gorilla in a man suit. To his boss, Pancrizio Lefty Medici, the owner of the restaurant and capo in the Medici crime family, he was Sal. To anyone who knew him, he was Sal. To anyone who met him for the first or last time, he was Sal. Only to himself and the restaurant staff was he Salvatore Cifero.

Sal glanced at the busboy entering the dining area carrying a gray plastic tub under his left arm, and a white kitchen towel in his right hand. Placing the tub on the table opposite Sal, the busboy quickly and efficiently removed the plate, wiped the area, and dropped a small slip of paper near Sal's books. Sal's massive hand covered the paper as the busboy left to clear another table across the room. He picked up the paper and unfolded it. After glancing at it, his actions casually precise, he looked around the room as he jotted a few notes on it, carefully refolded it, and covered it again.

A few minutes later, the busboy delivered an espresso to Sal, setting it down along with sugar and steamed milk, and retrieved the note. Sal sipped the espresso, ignoring the sugar and milk at first as he continue reading, then added a splash of milk and several heaping spoons of sugar between page turns, absently stirring the sweet slurry. The restaurant remained quiet for some time and the book continued to occupy his attention until the front door opened.

He looked up as two men entered; both men conspicuously dressed in garish and dated tracksuits. He smiled a mirthless smile, openly staring at the men as they sat at a table near the kitchen entrance. Sal recognized Nico Nicky Russo, the other one was new.

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The two men, after sitting at the table for several minutes, remained quiet until the waiter approached. Good afternoon, Mr. Russo, would you care for your usual?

Nicky nodded and held up two fingers.

Very well, sir.

When the waiter left, Nicky glanced around the room. There, sitting in his usual booth, Sal stared at him with that goddamned unnerving smirk. Nicky turned his head quickly when a cold sickening feeling filled his stomach and throat; his body trembled. He took a few moments to calm down before leaning closer to his companion, Gino Skinny Joe Giordano, the newest soldier in Lefty’s crew, and spoke quietly, closely. It ain't no secret. Your uncle, Lefty, put a open contract on Sal over there for what, like, five years ago. Still ain't been collected. Tilting his head more to avoid Sal's stare, he said, You didn’t hear this from me, but seeing as you’re the new guy, you got to know about Lefty, and Sal—if you's gonna... make it.

Nico paused for some time, staring past Gino, ruminating, remembering. Maybe Lefty seen too many movies. Anyway, after he got made, he acted like some kind of big shot from the old world, like a— Nico snorted quietly. Pancrizio, the made man. Nobody outside the family knows why for sure, but you know, before he was Lefty, back in the day, back when he was trying to make his bones, he was Pancrizio, the made man. He was cocky after he got made, then it was Pancrizio—to everybody, just Pancrizio. Made him feel big. He had this attitude, like he was some—

The waiter set down two full beer mugs, placing one in front of each man, then retreated.

Gino leaned in, entranced, his voice quiet but earnest. What you mean?

Okay, um, maybe this is, I don’t know, maybe a cliché, but you ever seen The Godfather, or any of them mafia movies?

Yah, I seen The Godfather.

Nicky sipped his beer. The second one?

Um, yah, I think so.

Nico quaffed half his beer, set the glass down carefully, and ran his finger along the rim. Okay, good. You maybe remember them scenes where Vito was like a kid in Sicily? Then him having to leave 'cause his family got wacked?

Yah, I seen it

Okay, good, good, then you got the idea. Lefty, with his dad being the boss, he grew up thinking that he was like the old Sicilian mafia. Not because the movies, mind you, but how he grew up, like he was special. He wanted obedience, blind obedience, like them. Do this. Do that. Nico glanced at Sal and swallowed, his face blanching when he realized that Sal was still watching him. Point is. After he got made, this one time he orders Sal to whack some guy, a fuckin’ nobody. You gotta remember, as kind of a rule, we don’t do nothing with nobody outside our business. It’s just bad for business.

Gino tilted his head like a cartoon dog. "How’s it bad for business?

How’s it bad for business? How’s it bad for—are you kidding me? Think about it. You know, doing that thing we do, and maybe, not wanting no police around? It’s bad for business.

Gino looked down for a moment, then back up at Nico. Okay, got it. But, I was thinking, like, I was in the Marine Corps. We ain’t supposed to ask no questions, just follow orders. So, like that, just do what we gotta do ‘cause the boss said we gotta do it.

Nico watched him for a sign of understanding. Goddamn, Gino, for your sake, I hope you ain’t as stupid as you seem. Yes, we follow orders, but we all gotta know that doing some things is bad for the family. Some things, orders or no, we just don’t do. If we do, we get heat, and too much heat means Lefty’s boss, his Uncle Federico loses money, and that’s bad. Federico ain’t the highest on the food chain neither, and that’s really bad if we ain’t kicking money back. That’s when guys get whacked, to set an example. So, no business gets done when the police is sniffing around. Got it?

Unfazed by the insult, and still seemed slightly confused but focused, Gino nodded and said, Got it.

Nico sipped his beer before continuing. So, like when Sal wouldn't do it, wouldn’t whack that guy, Lefty got pissed. Imitating Lefty, Nico pointed to his own chest and said, Nobody says ‘no’ to Pancrizio.

Puzzled, Gino furrowed his brow. To Pancrizio... before he was Lefty?

Nico sighed, trying to hide his impatience. That’s what I’m tellin’ ya. I’m tellin’ ya how he got known as Lefty. Almost whispering, Nico said, Maybe perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but like I said, you gotta know. You got to know why you don’t mention how he got his nickname. He’s your uncle, but you don’t call him that. When you is around the guys, you call him Boss, or Lefty, or Mr. Medici. He likes it when the guys call him Mr. Medici. Just don’t ask him about it, capiche?

Gino nodded slowly and said, Got it.

Okay, good. So, remember, Lefty’s pissed about Sal. Calls his uncle to have Sal wacked. Federico, he maybe agrees, I don’t know, but soon after that, three outside guys is contracted. They tried three different times. I mean, we got a code, we got loyalty, and if, but, you know, some things is just off limits. Like I said, maybe Lefty watched too many movies.

Nico shifted his weight, playing with his beer glass. "You gotta know something about Sal. Sure, we got our code, but Sal's code isn't like ours. He don't seem to mind whacking some guy who needs whacking, or breaking a guy's arm if he owes us money, but he don't hurt nobody outside of that thing we do.

The body of the first guy, the guy Federico hired to kill Sal, it got found out front on the sidewalk, all mangled, broken, head caved in, ribcage crushed and torn open. The police was called, and maybe because someone thinks they know what’s up, the news got called and it was a fucking circus. The coroner what done the autopsy? He finds a Glock 21 lodged inside his ribcage, rammed there through his guts. The police identified the guy, but couldn't prove nothing. Except for him being out front, no connection to Federico, no connection to Lefty. Just that he—they suspected him.

Gino glanced at Sal and started rocking, not nervously, more like an excited boy watching a chase scene. So, what happened? Did he hit him with a car or something?

That's the thing. The police don't know. No idea what happened. The coroner, on the autopsy report, said it was unknown. But me, I think about those gorillas at the zoo. I think about, maybe, what would happen if a gorilla gets really mad. I think about if somebody fell in. I mean, the guy's chest was crushed; his head was crushed. Nico sipped his beer, sitting quietly for a moment, staring into the foam. A day before they found the body, Sal comes in here with his head all bandaged up, mostly on the left side. Not a word, he didn't say nothing. Nothing.

Maybe like a month later, I find the second guy outside our warehouse, the one by the docks. This body was worse—much worse—all torn apart, mangled blood and body parts everywhere—fucking blood everywhere. Glancing at Sal, Nico shivered. I know it was that guy that Federico used to use, a guy he'd use when maybe he needed someone to disappear. This guy was careful, a real pro. We didn't call the police this time, me and the boys took care of it. That night, Sal comes in with his stack of books and sits down like nothing happened, except, this time he has this big old bandage on his neck.

Gino stopped his rocking for a moment. Nothing? He doesn't say nothing to nobody? Why didn't someone ask him?

Nobody asks Sal about nothing. Used to be if you did, he'd just stare. Doesn't say anything, just stares. Some guys might laugh it off, some guys might get pissed; but nobody ever—ever—pushed it with him. He has this look, like he's staring through you. You get all queasy inside and feel like you're gonna hurl. It's fucking unnatural, maybe except to, you know, anybody outside of that thing we do. Anyways, if the boss needs someone hurt or worse, Sal will do it, no questions asked. It's funny, ever since the bodies, Lefty always sends one of us with him, not as backup, just, I don't know, maybe hoping someone'll collect that reward. But, yeah, I don't know—.

Gino waited for more, but Nico remained silent. You said there were three guys.

"Right. Yah. Okay, so, the third guy is basically how Lefty got his name. With the two guys that Federico hired getting killed; Lefty hires this ex-military sniper. He’s the guy Lefty uses when he wants to, you know, like AT&T, reach out and touch someone—at a distance, make an example. Like him saying, ‘I can get you anywhere.’ This guy was good, always one shot to the chest. Sal shows up one day and drops the guy’s rifle on the table. Sal just stares at Lefty for a long time. Lefty don’t look back at him, just at the rifle. Then really fast, Sal grabs lefty and drags him out front. Lefty’s just kicking and screaming for help. I guess we was shocked. None of us moved. We just sat there.

Lefty don't never say nothing to nobody about what happened. Because ain’t nobody else will ask, to his uncle, he still says that it was some kind of car accident. No details, just his hand got tore off. Lefty comes back late that night, his arm all bloody and bandaged up, and before he passed out, tells us that we’d find the third guy on his boat. He wasn't all tore up like the other guys. Just the guy's head was crushed. Also, and this is the part that nobody ever mentions to Lefty, Lefty's severed right hand was buried all the way up the guy's ass. Afterwards, we don’t say nothing, just cut the guy up, wrap all the bits in plastic, and dump them, like, ten miles off the coast. Lefty don’t come back for a long time, couple of weeks, and when he does, he got that fake hand. He don’t say nothing about it, and ain’t nobody gonna ask him.

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Nico startled violently when a giant hand settled heavily on his shoulder.

Deep, but velvety and soft, Sal's voice was strangely lyrical, controlled, and metered. "It's been a while, Nico. So, who's your little friend?

Gino spoke enthusiastically, extending his hand, seemingly unfazed by the giant man's presence. Gino. Gino Giordano, but the Guys call me Skinny Joe.

Sal shook Gino’s hand, a linebacker shaking hands with a toddler. Hello, Skinny Joe.

Gino grinned and rocked a bit from side to side. Is it true you crushed those guys?

Uncharacteristically, Sal smiled at Gino, taken aback by his enthusiasm, then glanced at Nico and smirked. Sounds like Nicky's been filling your head with pretty little stories. Sal rested a massive meaty hand on Gino’s shoulder to stop his rocking. Listen, Skinny Joe, you shouldn't believe everything you hear, and some stories, well, they're just stories.

Chapter 2

Fear has a way of ruining a perfectly good party. That and cheap wine. Fear and cheap wine, those are the things that lovely civilized people cannot abide, fear and cheap wine and pretentious art. No, lovely civilized people love celebrating pretentious art with cheap wine to hide their fear. Most lovely civilized people fear that competent people, like the ones who built this civilization, learning that they are helpless without them, without their competence, without their civilization. —Katheryn Baldrago

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Evelyn Rivndahl loved her reception desk, a plain dark wooden block, like one out of an old detective film. It was one of the reasons she took the job. An antique wooden ceiling fan circulated state-of-the art climate-controlled air, resulting in a sterile lab aroma. The office walls were light beige, the corners and ceiling framed with dark-stained oak molding, the floors, originally stained dark, now heavily worn.

To entice her to accept the position, Gerald Paul McGregor, CPA and forensic accountant, had offered to let her design and remodel the offices. Comic books and film noire guided most of her decisions, which, for the most part, remained somewhat frugal, splurging here and there where necessary. The Bakelite rotary phone, with its multiple lines and matching intercom, had taken some time to find, which she did, ‘coincidentally,’ in her parents upstate antique shop. As an only child whom her parents doted upon, she suspected that it wasn’t so coincidental. The only concessions she made to modern technology were her computer and chair.

Her computer case, monitor, and keyboard looked like they almost belonged there—almost. The low profile case she had purchased from a pawnshop down the street, an ugly beige box that she had painted black, which she then had refitted by the technician in the computer store up the street. The steampunk inspired monitor and typewriter-keyboard she had ordered from a specialty website.

The first chair Evelyn bought was an oak swivel chair, chosen through some sense of continuity and nostalgia to match her desk. After a few weeks,