For Nothing by Nicholas Denmon Page A

one.
    “Alright then. I know a great place to get some spaghetti and meatbal s. Chef’s Pasta Place. Be there at eight?”
    Again Rafael nodded his approval.
    “Wait right here,” Rontego said.
    Shutting the door, he slipped away and went to a compartment in the floorboard of his closet. A brown paper bag was inside, and inside that bag was the prettiest color Rafael Rontego knew .
    Green cash .
    He counted the money, left some in the bag and removed the rest, setting it back in the and removed the rest, setting it back in the compartment. He rol ed the bil s into a tight bal and opened the door.
    The Cleaner held out his hand, knowing ful wel what Rontego was up to. Rontego looked the cash into the Cleaner’s hand.
    “Half now, half at dinner”.
    Closing his fist around the green rol , the Cleaner tilted his head and left. Fatigue assaulted Rafael and he stumbled towards his mattress. He lay down on his bed, thinking that he could get some food in a bit. He lit a Sobranie, took a drag and then left the cigarette burning on the edge of his glass ashtray, next to the mattress.
    Seconds later, though, sleep began to overtake him and he slipped into a dream. As he dreamt, the lit Sobranie cast an eerie gloom about his living room for a while, before it burned down to a low ember. Then it too was asleep as the last spark was distinguished by a brief gust of air. The smoke-induced gloom lingered for a while, then it dissipated and the room waited in stil ness and quiet.
    The rhythmic breathing of the assassin echoed in the otherwise silent room. Fast asleep; he swirled amongst dreams of slaughter houses and the ghosts of acquaintances past.

    *

    Frankie DeRisio rumbled with a heavyset frame and a wad of curled black hair precariously clumped on top of a very round and red, puffed face.
    It was on account of his reddish hue that people thought they cal ed him Frankie Red. Though, if you asked him that, you better be ready to defend yourself from slow moving fists that would pulverize you if they connected.
    Among his associates, when Frankie was around, the word was that he was cal ed Frankie Red because he was fond of smoking Marlboro Reds.
    “The
    only
    decent American
    nicotine,”
    according to DeRisio’s sworn testimony.
    He was Alex Vaughn’s initial contact and the man who vouched for Victor Garducci at the beginning of Alex’s undercover operations.
    They left his seedy apartment building several blocks from the vacant Bethlehem Steel properties and drove about fifteen minutes back toward Wizeguyz Bil iards. Victor was hungry. Despite Sal’s bragging on getting Frankie to feed them, he was il -
    prepared for company and a bag of potato chips was al they took with them.
    It was apparent to Victor, the way Sal was fidgeting, that he brought Frankie along for support.
    Frankie and Victor, as far as Sal was concerned, were his guys. And unless he got cal ed into a meeting one on one, he was not going to go anywhere without ‘his guys’.
    Sal was driving his Escalade and Victor was in front passenger, courtesy of a wel played
    “shotgun” cal .
    DeRisio shot back,”I’l show you a real shotgun, up close and personal like.” His voice was as thick as the lasagna he loved to eat and came out slow and purposeful.
    Though he didn’t stutter, he made you take time in order to listen to his thoughts, which developed as slow as the words which formulated in his mouth.
    Frankie was sitting in the back middle and reshuffling his weight as they drove along; making it very noticeable how there was not enough room for his stumpy legs. Though the truth of the matter was that, he had problems getting his considerable bel y situated on his knees. As the occasional sighs slipped out in breaths of disgruntled air from DeRisio, and the steady hum of the SUV’s heater added a constant background noise, Sal Pieri kept talking about the meeting with Aldo and Muro, and perhaps Falzone himself, waiting for him at Wizeguyz.
    “Wel