Murder at the Benbow Inn: A Mobfoolery Mystery

By J. Channing & Donna Lane

Dom Panicio and Pauly Molinaro have a problem. When boss Eddie Miggliori gets whacked, these two aging wise guys know they've got to get out of Staten Island while they still can. Sal Alimonto, Eddie's successor and executioner, has it out for these two loyal crew members. And he'll stop at nothing to keep them from turning on him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red Team Ink (DBA) of Zealot Solutions Idaho
• Release date: Mar 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088018224

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Red Team Ink

DBA of Zealot Solutions, Idaho LLC

9480 River Beach Lane

Garden City, ID 83714

Copyright © 2022 by Red Team Ink

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For permission requests or information about discounts for special bulk purchases please contact: [e-mail]. Substantial discounts on bulk orders are available to corporations, professional associations, and small businesses.

Printed in The United States of America

Print Book ISBN: 978-1-0880-1817-0

E-Book ISBN: 978-1-0880-1822-4

Title: Murder at the Benbow Inn

Description: First Edition

Cover Design by Donna Lane

PROLOGUE

New Springville, Staten Island, New York

Bruno the Beast yanked the dark wool drapes shut, harshly scraping the brass rings against the heavy rod. He grabbed a few nails from his belt with his mighty paw and pounded them through the wool, twisting them into the oak baseboard. A precaution to ensure privacy.

Don’t be a schmuck again, Bobby, said Sal Alimonto, who was seated across the living room, in Roberto Gagliano’s dinner chair. I come to your house, we share a meal on a Friday night, I expect to be extended certain, you know, courtesies.

Bobby was slumped over his wife’s dining chair, soaked in his urine. A thin nylon rope bound his hands behind its brocade-upholstered back. Sal’s silk pocket square jutted from Bobby’s mouth. He had been punched repeatedly in the ribs and was struggling to sit up. A message for lowly foot soldiers who step out of line and try to horn in on someone else’s action.

Sal admired the gold signet ring on his pinky and gave it a twist. Then he looked at his errand boy, Bruno. And you, get your little Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall ass over here and listen good. If I gotta ask you one more time, warned the large man in the chalk-striped suit, if I gotta open my mouth, if I gotta take any time from my brain to tell you to get the damn drapes closed, you will not be makin’ future decisions with your head on.

Okay, Boss, he said, setting the hammer on a table in the now darkened room and looking at the rest of the crew, standing with their hands behind their backs. We got it down.

Good. Now, place our gentle host back here in the dining room, so I can look at him. And tell him to stop pissing on his chairs. We’re civilized people.

The hallway was lined with dark, narrow-cut wood paneling. Gagliano tried to shout as Bruno tilted the chair back, but his voice only reached his uninvited visitors.

Don’t bother about your little wifey, Sal said. She tried to pull some YMCA mommy and me jiu jitsu crap on Sammy Zito, so she’s tied up with Christmas lights in the furnace room.

Bobby squirmed against his restraints, expelling a muffled whimper as Bruno dragged the chair across the carpet. No more pissin’ on chairs, Bruno quipped, hovering by Bobby’s ear.

Yeah, Sammy says she tried to poke him in the eyes with her keys, but they just went up his nose instead, Sal laughed. He did not like that.

That’s right, said Bruno, pushing Bobby to the table. The only thing that goes up Sammy’s nose is his finger.

The henchmen burst into hoots of his finger!

Sal raised his hand, silencing the men. But we got her and your two lazy, fat kids in the basement with our own babysitter. Y’know, I think if we put a bag of Cheetos, some soft hay, and a TV remote down there, I don’t think those kids would complain until the Cheetos ran out.

Bobby grimaced. Saliva dribbled from his mouth, still stuffed with Sal’s pocket square.

One of Sal’s goons, Danny, removed the silky fabric and dabbed Bobby’s chin. Then he pushed his fat face down into Bobby’s. You should clean yourself up. Sal brought along a master craftsman today, Mr. Unger.

Bobby gulped fresh air through his mouth for the first time in hours. He choked and gurgled on the spittle accumulated in his airway and cleared his throat repeatedly.

Sal eyed his pocket square with disdain. At least you didn’t piss on it. He waved his hand and Danny folded the damp fabric and tucked it into his back pocket. Bruno brought over a piece of creased paper, which Sal smoothed on the table as he continued, "You see, Bobby, Mr. Unger is a dedicated specialist, who takes time to understand the intricacies of his work. In fact, Mr. Unger gave me a copy of the vital organ chart he keeps in his butcher shop. As a skilled artiste, Mr. Unger can explain how you will be separated from certain small, unnecessary body parts in this process. Sure, it’s time-consuming, but I admire his commitment to his craft."

Sal, gasped Bobby, sweating profusely, I just gotta ask you one question.

Alimonto leaned back, laced his hands behind his head, raised his legs to the dining table, crossed his feet, worked a toothpick between his incisors, and gave Bobby a long, icy glare. Okay, meat, talk.

I invite you to my home, Bobby said, through a series of dry coughs, like I’ve done many times before to share a meal and talk about the problems of 18th Street. And this is what I get? Whatever happened to tradition and respect? In my own home? Bobby wriggled against the rope, straining to gesture. Don’t those things mean anything to you?

Sal flicked the toothpick away and eyed the table. There was a large bowl of mostaccioli, some garlic bread, and two open bottles of wine. A platter of cannoli sat on the buffet.

Bobby, you make a good point. Those are the old ways. You work hard on the streets, you get made, you work your way up, become an earner. But when you break bread with someone at their home, they should feel comfortable. Safe. Does that sound about right, guys?

There was a collective grunt, then Bobby let out a soft sigh.

Sal took his feet off the table and leaned forward. But those are the old rules, he said. Things change. It ain’t like that anymore. Eddie Miggs, Big Tommy Petricello, Three Fingers de Nuzzio and them all had their day. Then they got a little too … comfortable. Helpin’ themselves to things that don’t belong to them. Gettin’ a little too touchy-feely with other people’s family. But we’re da new guys and we make da new rules.

But Eddie— Bobby started, before being hushed by the wave of Sal’s hand.

New rules.

Bobby shifted in his chair. Sal poured a glass of a wine and sipped. He set the glass down and gestured toward the serving bowl. You know, Bobby, I find it disturbing that a fine Italian woman, such as your wife, would conclude that hardworking men like us could be nutritionally satisfied with mostaccioli. Now, I personally view it as a complementary, though tasty, side dish. But I never believed that mostaccioli, by itself, was filling enough to be considered a main course. I think most credible Italian chefs and butchers would agree with me.

Bruno piped up, I agree with you, Boss. I agree that they would agree with you, Boss.

Thank you, Bruno. I personally felt a little disrespect when I saw the mostaccioli in question. If we would have been treated to your wife’s veal parmigiana, or that scampi that you brought to Eddie’s big Easter feast, that woulda been different.

Bobby’s chair creaked, and a rivulet of sweat streamed from his forehead. Sal another sip of wine, emptying the glass, then slammed it on the table. But instead, we got some fuckin’ mostaccioli like the goddamned Olive Garden, Sal fumed.

Bobby jumped. Bruno, Danny, and the rest remained still.

Sal relaxed. Ever been to Olive Garden, Bruno? You know what Olive Garden is?"

Yeah, Boss, Bruno replied. That’s the place with never-ending pasta and those smiling people on the TV.

Sal shook his head. Bruno, that is where real Italian food goes to die. It sets down its sword, takes off its fuckin’ armor, and then kills itself in endless soup, salad, and breadsticks.

Yeah, but when you’re there, you’re family, ain’t that right?

Okay, that used to be what they said, Sal agreed. But not anymore. New rules. Danny, please find Mr. Unger. He’s in the garage with Bobby’s twenty-year-old scotch.

Bobby swallowed hard as Mr. Unger appeared. He had a long, thin, bald head, with a closely trimmed pencil mustache. One eye seemed to be lower in its socket than the other.

Thank you for joining us, Mr. Unger, said Sal. I have prepped the patient. He laughed, and his goons laughed with him.

Mr. Unger nodded.

"Now, Bobby, Mr. Unger don’t say much. He speaks with his instruments," Sal explained as Bruno and Danny shoved the dining table, wedging Bobby against the wall.

Mr. Unger hummed, almost in sync with a small electric bone drill which he started and stopped several times, listening carefully to its pitch. Finally, he removed a small scalpel-like object and two shiny metal scoops, glistening and spotless, next to a small refrigeration unit.

Bruno blurted out, What are those scoops for? Eyes? Eardrums? Nuts?

No, the butcher replied. A little gelato calms me before I work. He removed a petite, silver footed bowl of lemon gelato from the refrigeration unit. Minutes later, he dabbed his lips with a linen napkin, washed his hands, and donned a pair of yellow gloves. Then he motioned to Sal, who instructed Danny to turn on the stereo. One of Bobby’s kids had left a KidzBop CD in the player. A choir of prepubescent voices singing Boom Boom Pow filled the room.

Mr. Unger delicately unwrapped a long, sheathed rod, which looked like a hybrid of an icepick and a hypodermic needle. After using a folded towel to rub it with an alcohol mixture, he grabbed Bobby’s right hand and gave Danny a nod to turn the music up. He lifted the instrument.

You can’t do this, Bobby pleaded. My wife, my kids, they’ll hear me!

You shoulda thought about that when you muscled in to nab our juice, Sal replied.

Thought there was enough for everyone, Bobby sputtered. And Mikey Filardo said you were retiring.

Even Mr. Unger chuckled slightly as he kept his tools in position. He pushed the switch on the micro-cutting bone saw, which quickly ramped up to 600 revolutions per minute.

Oh? Sal raised a thick brow. "Bobby, I’m just gettin’ started. And by the way, do you know why Mr. Unger has such a delicate instrument for what could be a brutal, barbaric act?"

Bobby shook his head.

He likes to leave his initials on certain bones in the body. You got that?

Sweat dripped from Bobby’s forehead as he watched the whirling blade near his arm. But it wasn’t the only thing dripping onto his chair. Stop, stop, I got something for ya, he begged.

Sal looked down. Bobby, the only thing you got, again, is a drawer full of piss as big as a goddamn archery target in your crotch area, you little girl.

Mr. Unger loomed, paused for now. Bobby looked at his urine puddle and frowned.

Okay, Bobby, said Sal, sitting back to examine his captive, "let’s pretend you’re serious and not just makin’ shit up because you don’t want your stronzo turned into a windsock."

Bobby’s butthole twitched impulsively. I am serious, he pleaded.

Sal looked around. Okay, after the gracious hospitality you’ve shown us, let’s not waste more time. With a wave of his hand, Mr. Unger powered down the saw to a low throttle. Boys, pull the table back and loosen Bobby’s arms. Let him think.

Bobby massaged his wrist, his gaze quickly shifting to the hammer on the side table. Bruno slid in front of it. Bobby inhaled, then said, When I saw there could be problems within our family, I had a few of my guys move in on a heist we’d been planning the last five years.

Sal scooched his seat up. Five years? You waitin’ for everyone to die of old age?

Bruno, Danny, and the others laughed as if on cue until Sal silenced them with a stare.

Nah, Bobby said, I been quiet because I wasn’t sure how things were gonna go. But it’s kinda like your new rules.

Sal sat up straight. Oh, is that right?

Bobby continued, See, I got a freelance crew I sometimes use in Seattle, to clean things up. They’re going on a jewelry job right now, but you can get in on it, said Bobby. All you gotta do is stop ‘em, beat ‘em to the score, or grab their jewels later.

Bobby, Sal said, his mouth curving into a thin smile, "did you say jools, or did you say jewels?" Sal grabbed his own crotch and gave a mock yank. A hearty laugh emerged from his belly, and it invited the rest of the crew to mimic him. Then it stopped as suddenly as it began. Only the slow hum of the saw and the occasional squeak of Mr. Unger’s gloves remained.

Bobby smiled in relief. I said jewels, Sal. An Asian group smuggles ‘em into the country every month. Hardcore organization if you know what I mean. I think they buy ‘em off a guy in one of those African countries with all the fighting. They get into the States to kinda clean their pedigree, ‘cause nobody’s supposed to buy these jewels.

Sal pressed his palms together. "Blood diamonds. Mined in war zones, sold to finance certain business activities. Sure. And these diamonds, you know who carries them?"

Our guy doesn’t know that, Bobby continued, but he knows where they’re stored for a day or two every month in Seattle. Then they’re separated and shipped around the country. He straightened, confident he’d survive this tete-a-tete with his limbs intact. See, it’s big-time international shit. We got a pilot who told us about this setup years ago. Guy owed us a favor. Sounded like an easy score, but we were tense about jumping that Asian serpent, you know?

Yeah, the Tongs are hardcore. Like you said. Sal ran a thumb over his pinky ring and rested his fingers against his formidable chin. Years ago? Hm. So why you doin’ it now?

"The Seahawks keep losin’ and this pilot is in deep to a certain friend, Bobby relayed. He wants to keep his family safe. So, he told us they’re starting a new delivery route next month, and this will be the last Seattle shipment. After that, everything goes through San Diego."

Sal sipped his wine and carefully set the glass on the table. What kinda activity are we talking here, Bobby? Enough to fill your empty bladder?

Each shipment contains about six to twelve ounces of diamonds.

So, 850 to 1700 carats, Sal interjected.

Give or take, Bobby continued. It comes through in a diplomatic courier pouch, so customs can’t touch it, and nobody looks at it except the embassy guy.

Sal put his fingers on the stem of the glass and gave the last of his wine a twirl. Bobby, I’m glad we had this sit down. This is useful information, and I think we may no longer need Mr. Unger’s services. Today. Long as you can tell me what I wanna know.

Mr. Unger silenced the saw and meticulously gathered his instruments.

The next window starts in a few weeks, Bobby said. The problem is finding a crew that won’t be recognized. Seattle PD’s been sniffin’ around.

Sal raised his glass, the light from the chandelier glinting off the ring squeezed across his thick pinky. Bruno, Sal called, get this man a fresh pair of underwear and a new chair, pour him some wine, and dish him up a plate of this friggin’ mostaccioli so we can talk.

Bruno followed orders, then looked at Sal, who nodded. Without warning, Bruno lobbed his thick fist into Gagliano’s eye, crushing the socket. Bobby grunted and slumped into the cold pasta. Sal remained expressionless before taking a final sip of his wine. Salut!

***

Edoardo Migliori, Jr. ambled down sun kissed, breezy Third Avenue on a Saturday morning in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, New York. The 83-year-old meandered across Seventy-First Street, against the light. Eddie Miggs, as he was known to every cop, associate, and the public, paid no mind to a car screeching to a halt in front of him in the crosswalk. Even at his advanced age, Old Eddie was far from oblivious to his surroundings. He simply didn’t care to acknowledge things. He left that to his bodyguard Meaty Pete Pizzuto, warily trailing behind him as usual. Meaty Pete shot an icy glare at the driver. That’s all it took to prevent a justified honk. Migliori stepped on the curb and headed for the faded green awning of his favorite produce stand.

"Signore, Don. How are you? A fidgety man from behind the unfinished wood counter came over and kissed Migliori’s varicose hand. And what are you looking for today, sir?"

Tomatoes. Fresh.

Oh, the freshest tomatoes for you. May I interest you in some arugula? It just arrived.

Migliori’s response was a subtle tilt of his eyes toward Meaty Pete.

Did you hear him say anything about arugula? the human wall said to the ingratiating proprietor. Tomatoes don’t sound like arugula to me. How about you?

Meanwhile, Eddie was idly perusing as his bodyguard terrified shopkeepers on his behalf.

Tomatoes, the nervous man said, hurrying to fetch the best of his lot. He offered a bag—no charge—to Eddie. Meaty Pete took it in his baseball mitt hands. The surly duo continued their slow march down Third, following the aroma to the old man’s favorite bakery.

Hi, Mr. Migliori said a girl no more than sixteen as Eddie entered, accompanied by the jingle of a bell on the door. The usual?

Yes, child, he muttered, and she neatly packed up a box of cannoli and another box of sfogliatelle, enough to keep the old man happy for a few days. Nearly everyone in Brooklyn referred to Eddie as Boss, but he was a powerless servant to his sweet tooth.

Pete, the old man instructed, be sure those don’t slide around.

Meaty Pete’s shoulders dropped, recalling the lecture on the whipped cream-dotted lid he’d received the previous week. He tightened his grip on the boxed confections. Yes, boss.

They were nearly at the Seventieth Street corner when a grade-schooler interrupted the old man’s stroll, holding open a carton of chocolate bars for solicitation.

Hi, mister, would you like to help? My basketball team needs uniforms.

What now?

We’re selling candy bars to raise the money. What do you say?

Migliori hunched to eye the boy, then turned to Meaty Pete. Give the kid a few bucks.

It’s one dollar for one candy bar.

Keep ‘em, Eddie said, waving as he sauntered ahead.

The boy’s eyes widened then darted toward the street. He sidled up to Meaty Pete, who was fumbling in his pocket while juggling the tomatoes and two stringed pastry boxes.

I think your money fell on the ground, the boy said, pointing. Back there.

The lumbering brute looked all around the sidewalk, his view obstructed by one of the pink boxes, which he nearly dropped. He struggled to keep it level, knowing there would be hell to pay if Eddie’s cannoli were smooshed. When he finally reared up again, seeing nothing on the pavement, the boy and his chocolate had disappeared.

A prolonged gasp rose above the sound of traffic and chatter spilling from the neighborhood shops. Pete watched as Eddie pressed his weathered hand to his bloodying chest and staggered to the sidewalk. A large figure bundled in a puffer jacket and knit cap pushed through a throng of shocked passersby before disappearing around the corner. Meaty Pete dropped the pastries and tomatoes, which rolled out of the bag and scattered into the street. He tripped over a pile of unboxed cannoli, spattering whipped cream on his shoes as he made his way toward the old man. Pete fell to the ground over the rapidly fading Migliori, a glinting stiletto lodged in his heart. His deep voice cracked as he yelled for a goddamn ambulance.

I hate basketball, Eddie Miggs uttered, his head