Rizzo’s Slice Shop Episode Nine: Breakfast Bagels And ‘Buca Shots

The contents of Enzo’s stomach seared through his oesophagus, decorating the pavement he was hunched over. His hair a lifeless, soggy black mop, matted across his forehead. Sweat seeped out of every pore, infused with the reek of the previous night’s beer and liquor. His throat burned, his stomach churned and his vision blurred through the throb of a severely dehydrated brain.

“God fucking damnit….shit, I mean, sorry sisters”

Enzo limply lifted his hand in apology to the three nuns walking past him, shooting disapproving shakes of the head his way. His perpetual sense of catholic guilt was only too self aware of how disrespectful his current manner appeared. Here he was, first thing in the morning, sweating, vomiting and cursing outside Our Lady of Mount Carmel church.

Pouring a few remaining drops of his bottle of water onto the sidewalk did little to wash away the mess Enzo had made outside the church, as he slumped onto the bottom step outside the entrance. The Cammareris, among hundreds of thousand of other Italians had regularly attended masses at Our Lady since it threw open it’s doors on 187th St and Belmont in 1917. But for the countless visits to the church Enzo had accumulated in his 30 years, he had always managed to keep his guts to himself, even if the whir of incense inside a packed congregation on a summer’s day did almost send him plummeting from his pew on more than one occasion.

“Here, you look like you need this even more than I do”

Enzo glanced up to see an equally hungover and sleep deprived Mickey pushing a cup of coffee in his direction.

“Jesus Christ, I need today like I need a case of crabs. Four hours in a car wit’ that lunatic? Dealin’ wit’ Petey and Dino when they hear about all this shit? And we gotta meet this guy at a fuckin’ church?”

Mickey shrugged at his friend’s myriad of complaints, taking a hit of coffee and shaking the brown paper bag gripped in his left hand.

“Bacon, egg and cheese right here. Joe’s Deli. The best.”

“Mick, you can see what I just dropped on the pavement. That’s like the fourth time I puked in the last hour. You think I want to throw an egg sandwich down my throat right now?”

“C’mon ‘zo. You got all last night’s booze back up, or ya sweated most o’ it back out through ya forehead. We eat these, have a cup o’ coffee and we get some o’ that Hudson Valley air in our lungs. Couple o’ hours and we’ll be fine.”

The irony of Mickey now being the voice of reason was not lost on Enzo, who had until now been using his own powers of persuasion to coerce his oldest friend into involving Il Polpo in their plans to combat the threat of Benjamin Walters and Joey Riggs.

“Maybe you’re right. Time is it?”

“I got 7.56”

“You get much sleep?”

“I dunno. Some. Couple o’ hours. Who’s lookin’ after the restaurant today if we ain’t there?”

“Just the guy’s and Ricardo’s kid brother, Carlos, I told Ric to give him some work.”

“He the boxer? Good. Maybe he can beat some sense into that douchebag who moved in above the place. I banged on their door the other night about that leak in the kitchen. It’s coming from his bathroom, I swear. Prick wouldn’t answer his door.”

“Whaddya gonna do, huh? We’ll let Petey and Dino know today. Maybe they can send somebody round there to straighten ’em out.”

Just then, the pair’s conversation was cut short by the sudden arrival of a rather unremarkable, slightly worn looking silver Toyota Camry. The passenger side window rolled down with a stubborn female New Jersey accent beckoning “Get in” at them.

Enzo and Mickey stirred their weary bones towards the car, surmising that one of Il Polpo’s many hired hands was behind the wheel.

Entering the vehicle, Enzo sprawled across the back, while Mickey collapsed into the passenger seat. He looked the woman, who was no older than her early 20’s with a peroxide buzz cut and intensely azure eyes, up and down with the usual nervous suspicion he reserved for anyone associated with Il Polpo.

“So where the fu…oh what the fuck?”

Mickey’s line of questioning was interrupted by the sight of Il Polpo himself casually descending the church steps towards the car, trading places with the driver, much to the bemusement of his two passengers.

“You were in there the whole time?” bellowed an exasperated Mickey.

“Morning confession, Michele. I like to absolve myself whenever I can. It’s my form of therapy” came Il Polpo’s unflinching response.

“But the girl and, we were just sat outsi…..y’know what, just for today, can you just please, for the love of fucking christ, be fucking normal?” a now visibly agitated Mickey ranted.

Il Polpo allowed himself a victorious little grin, as if the knowledge that he had wormed his way under Mickey’s skin so quickly was a proud accomplishment. While the pair shared a darkened past, involving some moments neither man was in any hurry to talk about again, there was also a mischievous side to their odd couple relationship, which had been twisting and turning for a decade now.

“I’m sorry, Michele, does my religion offend you? You attended this church with your mother as a kid, no? You took communion and confession here, both of you, in fact, countless times?” Il Polpo was having more fun with Mickey and Enzo, now, clearly prodding their hangovers to within breaking point.

“But why make us meet here? We could have met anywhere. We were sat outside like a pair of prize assholes. Enzo coulda puked in the can inside the church instead o’ the pavement. You could see us from in there couldn’t you, ya sick fuck?” Mickey’s grip on his bag of breakfast bagels now tightened to the point of tearing the wrinkled brown paper, Il Polpo beamed towards him, answering Mickey’s question without so much as a word leaving his lips.

“You two boys seemed to have a lot of fun, last night. If my fun is bringing a couple of friends to their childhood church to trigger their hangover anxieties first thing in a morning, is that really so bad? Especially given how much helpful information I’ve recently bestowed upon them?” Il Polpo relaxed into the driver’s seat, positioning his brown Berluti Italian leather driving gloves nonchalantly on the steering wheel and rolling the car away to begin the adventure to Saugerties.

“Sick fuck. That’s what you are. Hey ‘zo, you alive back there? Remember about 10 minutes ago when I said everythin’ would be a’right today? Well I fuckin’ lied. This psychopath just wants to watch the world burn. And why the fuck are we in a fuckin’ Toyota?”

Il Polpo lowered his eyes and pointed towards the bagel bag Mickey was clutching.

“What, you didn’t have us picked up in a nice car because you were worried I’d spill food everywhere? I’m 30 fucking years old” The veins in Mickey’s head throbbed to the point where even Enzo was getting a kick out of his friend’s mounting frustrations, which were now teetering dangerously close to an apoplectic explosion any second.

Il Polpo rolled his deep brown eyes at his target’s taking of his very obvious bait.

“Do you know the Toyota Camry is one of the most commonly bought cars in New York? This one in particular has thousands of miles on the clock and slightly faded paintwork. It’s a completely anonymous vehicle. So if any associates of, I don’t know, Anthony Zuffarelli, say? If they wished to spend their morning following us, it would make life a lot more difficult. Also, three Sicilians turning up to meet a couple of hoods on the lam in a sleepy town like Saugerties? It looks a lot less suspicious in a car like this.”

Mickey stewed on Il Polpo’s reply, recognising that everything he had laid out made perfect sense and that clearly his plan had been fine tuned to the most minute detail.

“Can we at least eat our fuckin’ sandwiches now?” Mickey impatiently retorted.

Mickey flung Enzo’s bagel into his lap. Enzo who, only 20 minutes before had been in no mood to even contemplate solids for the entire day, ravenously tore open the wrapping to reveal one of the most glorious morning sights in all of New York. The B.E.C — Bacon, Egg and Cheese.

The version of the New York staple from Joe’s Deli in the Bronx came on an everything bagel, the poppy and sesame seeds cascading down Enzo’s torso and legs as he lifted it mouthwards for his inaugural bite.

Two slices of sharp, almost luminous yellow American cheese were now congealed into a delicious, if slightly lukewarm goo which was bestowed the responsibility of holding together the structural integrity of the sandwich. Between this dynamic dairy duo sat two sumptously smoked rashers of bacon, crisped to a tee, providing just the right amount of crunch while not simply shattering upon impact when clamped between someone’s jaw. There was enough give to make the blissful recipient feel like they’d earned their mouthful. Atop this porcine pile was a perfectly folded layer of softly, ever so slightly scrambled egg, which had the top layer of cheese scrambled into it, becoming affixed to the top of the bagel which, sat uneaten in Mickey’s bag for almost half an hour, had now begun to resemble a more compact, rigid structure, but also one that allowed the smokey saltiness of the bacon to blend even more intensely with the creamy viscosity of the cheddar blended eggs.

With their stomachs lined and tempers cooled, the trio left the 1,000 mile per hour chaos of the city behind and headed upstate. Enzo drifted in and out of sleep in the back seat for the first hour of the trip as Mickey fidgeted with the radio, struggling to settle on a playlist that could aptly sate his hangover. Bouncing between Social Distortion, Pixies, Dope Lemon, Beck, Frank Ocean, William Onyeabor and the Velvet Underground, he turned the radio off and opted for silently staring out of his passenger window.

“Don’t turn it off on my account” chimed Il Polpo, shrugging his shoulders as if completely uninterested by Mickey’s rapidfire radio jukebox.

“I can’t concentrate anyhow. Got enough to worry about without getting twotty at the friggin’ radio.”

“Well, here’s one less thing to worry about, although I’m not sure you’d even given it a second’s thought this morning…”

Il Polpo reached under his seat and pulled out the files he had presented Mickey and Enzo with only a day previously.

“Remember these? Left in your car yesterday afternoon. If I can find them so easily, so can Zuffarelli’s men. Just a word of warning.”

Mickey looked shellshocked. The knowledge of the file, which contained every finding of Il Polpo’s investigation into Benjamin Walters and Joey Riggs’ involvement with one of the most feared mafia families in New York, had completely slipped his mind between last night’s festivities and this morning’s recovery.

“Shit, I um, I’ll be more careful next time. Thanks” Mickey offered sheepishly. “I don’t suppose yo…”

“Your car’s safe. It will be ready and waiting for you when we return later tonight.”

“Shit, we gotta be almost there” interjected a freshly awake Enzo.

“Ah motherf…we forgot to pick up supplies for Petey and Dino. I meant to swing by the restaurant before we left the Bronx.”

“All taken care of. There’s a care package, all sourced from Arthur Avenue Market, sitting in the trunk” reassured Il Polpo.

“Lucky break that at least one of us isn’t a drunken ass liability” Enzo smirked, him and Mickey cracking their first real laugh of the day as Il Polpo gently shook his head, a wry smile half cracked from the corner of his mouth.

“Get a load of that view,” Enzo yawned, still coming around from his backseat nap.

“I don’t get out this way enough. All the fresh air, the trees. Imagine this scene in the fall, the leaves all oran…”

“I swear to God, ‘zo, not another ‘When Harry Met Sally’ fucking reference. Every goddamn time the calendar gets close to September you start with this shit.” Mickey pointed at Enzo in the rear view mirror, “You literally live a half hour drive from where that entire movie was filmed. Why would you wanna live it out two hours upstate? You wanna have a Hudson Valley film fantasy? How about watching Sleepy fuckin’ Hollow? Get into Headless Horseman mode because that’s the fuckin’ mood we’re gonna need to be in to take down Anthony fuckin’ Zuffarelli.”

“Jesus” laughed Enzo, “I was just saying’, a’right? What, you don’t see the leaves change colour and immediately think of Billy Crystal in a huge fuckin’ sweater, or goin’ to a ball game with Bruno Kirby? Huh? Orange leaves don’t make you think of flirtin’ with 1980’s Meg Ryan?”

“You see what I put up with? huh?” Mickey helplessly shook his head at Il Polpo, “At least twice a week he brings that fuckin’ movie up. I tell ya, if when all this is said and done, if the Zuffarelli family ain’t killed him, I’m putting a bullet in his head.”

Saugerties, the so called antiquing capital of Ulster County, was a far cry from the Bronx. A quaint town of less than 20,000 people in the shadows of the Catskills mountains, on the west bank of the Hudson River, it’s congenial and bohemian nature was certainly at odds with it’s two most recent residents, the DeMarco brothers, who were more well versed with making scores on the streets of Belmont and Fordham than they were immersing themselves in artisanal markets and independent art galleries.

Slowly rolling through the main strip of the town, Il Polpo threw some cursory glances out of his window, taking in the small, rural Americana scenery, all brick buildings and ornamental corbels, while Enzo seemed genuinely excited by the apparently thriving bookstores, bakeries and wine merchants on either side of the road. Mickey, meanwhile, fiddled once more with the radio, alternating between the unlikely triple threat of The Doors, Gravediggaz and Odyssey.

As the trio pulled away from Main Street, they began to wind their way into more residential areas, coasting past several Victorian mansions in varying stages of disrepair until they veered off down a slightly overgrown dirt road for a few hundred yards, before finally reaching a slightly dilapidated looking converted barn, which Peter and Dino DeMarco had been calling home for the past two weeks.

Killing the engine as he parked the car, Il Polpo popped the trunk, instructing Enzo and Mickey to fetch the DeMarcos’ supplies. As they prepared to reunite with their childhood friends, Il Polpo busied himself among the surrounding woodland. Enzo rapped upon the wooden door. A muffled voice replied “who is it?”

“Hudson Valley Park Rangers. We’re here to investigate some pic-a-nic baskets being swiped” Enzo cackled along with Mickey.

The door cracked open a few inches.

“Come in, jerk offs.”

A worse for wear Petey DeMarco welcomed his visiting friends into the humble abode he and his brother had been cooped up together in for the previous fortnight. Everything about the property felt foreboding. The low level of natural light, sunshine barely able to make an impression through the dust coated windows. A pungent hum of cigarettes, sambuca and unwashed bodies hung in the air like the cloying embrace of a subterannean dive bar. And not a good one.

“Jesus H Christ, you ever think about cleaning up? The fuck else you got to do around here?” pondered Enzo, as Petey placed his gun back onto the dresser.

“Lemme put some pants on and I’ll go get Dino. Make yourselves at home. Welcome to paradise,” Petey sighed as he trudged up the stairs, adorned in only his blue silk boxer shorts and white sleeveless vest, a gold St.Christopher pendant a permanent fixture around his neck.

“These two mamalukes are already going oobatz out here. How much longer you think they’re gonna last?” asked Mickey under his breath.

“I dunno, but this is not good” answered Enzo, surveying a scene of two young men who were clearly not faring too well. Dirty plates, glasses, beer bottles and cutlery littered the floors and surfaces. Ashtrays were overflowing on a coffee table scattered with porno magazines, a detail that confused both Enzo and Mickey immensely.

“Who the fuck is reading titty magazines in 2020?” pondered Mickey, unfurling the centrefold from a three-year-old Hustler.

“The wi-fi out here sucks ass” came a voice from the stairs. It belonged to Dino, flanked by his older brother, now donning navy track pants. The younger DeMarco sibling, with his propensity for erratic behaviour, seemed, on appearances at least, to be holding himself together better than Petey. Freshly showered and bedecked in a crisp, white long sleeve grandad tee, grey marl jogging bottoms and pristine white athletic socks, he did not appear any where near as tense as his brother. His closely shaved head and designer stubble still in tact, the opposite end of the spectrum from Petey’s feral facial fluff and unkempt, overgrown, chocolate brown quiff.

“You try lamming it with Pornhub bufferin’ every five seconds. See how you like it” Dino continued.

“Well if Nicole Delvecchio is to be believed, you barely have five seconds in ya, so what’s the problem?” Mickey quipped back, dodging an airborne empty beer can for his troubles.

“The fuck’s Inspector Clouseau lookin’ for outside?” queried Petey, peering through a gap in the curtains at Il Polpo pacing the land.

“We discovered it’s better to not ask. Just let him do his thing” responded Enzo, opening up the box of provisions Il Polpo had acquired for the DeMarcos.

“Anyway, forget about him for a second, feast your eyes on this. A delivery fresh from Arthur Avenue. We got your fresh bread, pruzhut, provolone, gabagool, muzzarell, cannolis, shfooyadell, some nice olives, balsamic, tomatoes, the fuckin’ works. We got everythin’ you need in here” boasted Enzo, to a rather unimpressed pair of DeMarco brothers.

“Oh yeah? Got a couple o’ broads in there too?” remarked Petey, shaking his head as he grabbed a hunk of bread and the bottle of balsamic vinegar.

“Don’t you have enough on your coffee table to keep you occupied?” replied Enzo, trying to placate his clearly frustrated friends.

“Don’t take it personally, fellas, but we been out here two weeks already and we got no fuckin’ idea what’s happenin’ back home. We’re goin’ fuckin’ stir crazy” assured Dino, joining his brother at the dining table to dip a wedge of fresh baked ciabatta in the balsamic.

“Hey gogootz, you got any wine in that box?” shouted Petey.

“It’s like fuckin’ ten in the morning, Petey” exclaimed Enzo.

“Where the fuck I gotta be? Unless you’re here to take us back to the Bronx? But judging by that fuckin’ piece o’ shit car you pulled up in, somehow I don’t think that’s the case.”

“You will probably want to save any alcohol for after you hear the news we have to share” came the voice from Il Polpo, strolling through the front door and straight up the stairs.

The DeMarcos looked on in bewilderment, tearing and dipping without looking at their food, as Il Polpo sleuthed around their new home.

“The fuck is his deal, anyway? How do you even know him?” wondered Dino, slightly apprehensively and clearly a little worried about Il Polpo’s mental state, having heard innumerable stories about him over the years.

“We don’t really got time for all o’ that today,” began Mickey, “what he is, is a fuckin’ crack investigator, because not only did he find out where you two knuckleheads were hiding out, but he also found out which motherfuckers put you here and what their fucking motives are. Believe me, this fuckin’ guy has taken more crooks and scumbags off the streets over the last 20 years than every NYPD department combined.”

“So what, he’s like a fuckin’ Italian Batman or somethin’?” snipped Dino.

“Oh shit, I would watch the shit outta that movie” added Petey.

“RIGHT!?” shouted Enzo eagerly.

“Again, with the paisan Batman? You wrote like 12 pages of the script for that movie 10 years ago and you haven’t shut the fuck up about it since” snapped Mickey, “Do us all a favour and put it with all ya other unfinished scripts and toss them in a fuckin’ fire so we never have to hear about them again, huh?”

“They were 12 great pages though, ‘Zo” interjected Dino, “hey we actually watched one of your favourites the other night. Harry and Sally…”

“No! No, no fuckin’ chance…” Mickey began, infuriated, before Enzo excitedly jumped in.

“Oh shit, no way. How come youse two were watchin’ that anyway?”

“All we got is DVD’s to watch. The internet being fucked out here means no Netflix or nothin’. The lady who owns the place, it’s Jackie Boy’s aunt, so we been workin’ our way through her collection. Lotta romcoms.” Dino seemed surprisingly upbeat about spending his spare time watching the likes of When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle instead of his usual hobbies of illicit bookmaking and extortion.

“Jackie Boy’s aunt, huh? What is she, like 70? She leave you the porn, too?” Enzo wondered.

“Her son, the skip’s cousin, Nino. Lives a few towns over. He’s done a couple of late night supply runs, I guess it’s his old stash. He’s a good guy, don’t ask too many questions, safe, uses a different car for each visit. A fucking godsend, to be honest wit’ ya.” explained a grateful Dino.

Giacomo ‘Jackie Boy’ Marino was the boss of the Esposito crime family, who had previously been at war with the Zuffarellis back in the late ’80s and early ’90s, after Anthony Zuffarelli tried to make inroads into their turf in the North Bronx. Jackie Boy earned a reputation as a devoted soldier during this period, working his way up the ranks through a combination of fat envelopes and marquee murders. He also spent four years in prison between 1994 and 1998, with his unwillingness to turn state witness another feather in his cap upon his release. A decade later and he was serving as Salvatore Esposito jr’s consigliere when the don died of a sudden heart attack. Assuming control of the family from that point on, Jackie Boy had enjoyed a relatively peaceful reign, although there had been one or two high profile run-ins with fellow Bronx family the Lombardis.

Petey had begun working for Jackie Boy when he was barely out of high school, performing small time roles such as lookout, running messages back and forth and general errands, which took on a greater degree of risk as the years went by, such as ripping off delivery trucks and breaking into warehouses to help unload thousands of dollars worth of merchandise at a time.

Once he had begun to earn the trust of the crew he worked for in the Esposito family, under the tutelage of capo Sammy ‘Clams Casino’ Angelini, Petey introduced Dino to the family and together they began to pair up to take down more and more scores, earning a lot of notorious people a lot of money and in turn, earning themselves even more respect. Recently, they had managed to parlay a large portion of their earnings into real estate and were bringing in a fortune doing so, until they were forced into their upstate hideaway.

Il Polpo descended from upstairs and into the kitchen. He returned and casually detailed the living area and dining room as the others looked on with interest, almost captivated by his every move. Finally, he ushered Enzo and Mickey to sit at the table with the DeMarcos, where he laid out the folder of information for Petey and Dino. They drew their chairs in close as Il Polpo began to map out each and every finding from his investigation into Anthony Zuffarelli’s involvement with Benjamin Walters and Joey Riggs.

When the presentation was done, there was nothing but silence. One minute, then two, then three passed by. Looks were exchanged around the dining table before Petey rose from his chair and walked to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of sambuca and five shot glasses.

Filling up each glass, spilling the sambuca across the table as he did so, he ruminated further on Il Polpo’s discovery before making an admission.

“We got the OK from the boss when we got out here, that whoever was responsible for putting us here was going in the fucking ground when we got out. So these two motherless fuck stick up cocksuckers who turned over that jewellery store in Westchester, they’re gone…”

“Walters and Riggs, though,” interrupted Dino, “that’s some complicated shit. Public figures, no known ties, publicly at least, to Zuffarelli. Making them disappear ain’t fuckin’ easy.”

Enzo and Mickey downed their shots and looked precariously at each other. Here they were, in a safe house 100 miles away from home, hearing two of their oldest friends discussing at least two potential murders. For all the years they had known Petey and Dino, they had known them to be involved in some violent, sometimes quite heinous acts, but never anything this serious.

“The fuck you two lookin’ so worried for?” asked Dino. “We’re not asking you to clip anybody.”

“Nah, it’s just, y’know, we talk a lotta shit y’know, ‘I’m gonna kill this prick’ and whatever…” stuttered Mickey.

“You don’t think we’re up to it? Motherfuckers have come after our whole livelihoods. We’re out here on the run from the fucking cops, facing God knows how long in the fucking can. If that fucking store clerk doesn’t wake up from that coma, that’s a life sentence.” Dino slammed his shot glass to the table and racked up another round for everyone except Il Polpo, who was yet to touch his first.

“But you never whacked anyone, Dino. You either Pete. Old man Marino’s got cops on his payroll, can’t you just lean on them to try and find these two pricks who did the robbery and you’ll be off the hook?” pleaded Mickey.

“Whacking two members of the Zuffarelli family after enduring all this shit gets us both fucking made, Mick, you got that? Set for life. This ain’t about discussions or politics, this is all out fucking war. They’re trying to put us in the can for the rest of our lives because they want a few fucking buildings in Belmont? You think that’s where this shit ends? Let me paint you a picture, fellas. We do our time, those motherless fucks get their hands on our entire fuckin’ business and start flipping those buildings in Belmont and Fordham and every fucking where else. Soon, those buildings are housing Zuffarelli casinos, massage parlours, running girls, dope, guns, you name it. You two are out on your ass because they’ll take the lease on your building and give it to Joey fuckin’ Riggs. While we rot in fucking prison. But you don’t want us to have any blood on our hands over this? Spare me the moral fuckin’ high ground, a’right?”

Another stark silence greeted Dino’s impassioned speech. Enzo sank another shot and stared thoughtfully into his glass.

“Well, when you kill those two pricks, could you at least take the douchebags renting upstairs from Rizzo’s with ‘em?”

“Fuck ya talkin’ about, ‘Zo?” muttered Petey, fresh off another sambuca.

“Nuttin’, just a dumb fuckin’ joke. Some new guy in the apartment upstairs. Causing us some headaches. Leaky fuckin’ roof, that sorta shit. Fughedaboutit.”

“Fuck. We got Frankie Argentino takin’ care of all that shit for us. We’ll give you his number if you need anyone to pay him a visit. He’s friendly with Crazy Eddie, so you’re in good hands” assured Petey.

“Crazy Eddie? From Yonkers Crazy Eddie? He’s back? Last I heard he was gettin’ thrown outta that strip joint where Enzo’s ex worked. Set a fire extinguisher off on the bouncers or some shit.” Mickey smiled fondly.

“‘Zo’s ex? Sim….oh Valentina! Now there’s a blast from the past. Holy shit, that girl was smokin’ ‘Zo. Batting way above your fuckin’ average. I remember you could never walk straight after a night wit’ her” howled Petey as the four began to reminisce.

“Jesus, she wasn’t my…well she sorta, madone, that’s like seven or eight fuckin’ years ago. Anyway, can we focus on the matter at hand here? What are the next steps?” Enzo and the rest of the table turned to Il Polpo, who was rolling his shot glass between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can get eyes on Zuffarelli’s crews, that shouldn’t be a problem. Infiltrating them may be problematic however. They run a very tight ship over there, so discovering the identities of the ‘Petey’ and ‘Dino’ who framed you in Westchester may take some time. Leave it with me. I’m assuming you’re using burner phones? Good. Get a message to Marino to call off his cousin’s supply runs here. It’s too close to the family. You two are a prime target for the federal government. They could have eyes everywhere. I will assign my own messengers to do two drops a week. Anything you need.”

“Why the fuck don’t you two got alibis any how? You were at the pizza parlour a few hours before all this shit went down, what the fuck happened after that?” asked an exasperated Mickey.

“Well,” began Petey, “We weren’t exactly being all that innocent ourselves. You may have seen a slightly smaller story in the news that weekend about a couple o’ trucks that may or may not have been under Lombardi family ownership being firebombed out in Port Morris?”

“Jesus H Christ. I don’t wanna know any more” concluded Mickey.

“Listen, I hate to cut this high school reunion short, but Mick, we gotta restaurant to get back to. Petey, Dino, you all good with his plan?” Enzo attempted to wrap up proceedings, noting that any plans would have to be put into immediate effect.

“We’ll make the call to Jackie Boy fucking ASAP” assured Petey.

“Good, Mick, we gotta…one minute, the fuck does he want? I gotta take this…”

Enzo’s phone brought a brief halt to his farewells as Mickey, Il Polpo and the DeMarcos talked between themselves.

“Listen fellas, just sit tight for as long as you can here, a’right? This guy, I know he’s…unconventional and he’s probably cost your own boss a lotta money in the past, but he is fuckin’ thorough, understand? We really appreciate you both lookin’ out for us with the building and every fuckin’ thing else with the restaurant. We’ll get you outta this and then, well, you go do what you gotta do I gu…”

“MOTHERFUCKER”

The group, startled, turned around to see Enzo slamming his phone against the door frame after stepping back inside the barn.

“The fuck ‘zo? What the hell’s goin’ on?” shouted Mickey.

“That was my old man. Those fuckin pricks upstairs? Yeah they skipped town by the looks o’ things. Right before that fuckin’ leak turned into a fuckin’ downpour. Their entire apartment has crashed through the restaurant ceiling. Fuckin’ place is flooded. Ruined. My old man’s wit’ the fire department and the cops right now. Some customers have been hurt. We’re fuckin’ closed.”

Petey took another hit of ‘buca, straight from the bottle this time.

“Don’t worry. We’ll add ’em to our list.”