THE GAMEMAKER’S FATHER
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© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER 24
Roya Fetova
A Crowd Sourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
Back in the car, Tony de-briefed with Roya.
“What do you mean you whacked them both? I told you to get them out of the way.” Roya chewed her lower lip. “This is not good.”
Tony felt a distinct annoyance at her shrill tone. Two clean hits. What was the problem? “Hey, that’s what I do, okay? And what’s the risk? Nobody can recognize me in this banker’s suit. Grey. Bald. I look like a 50-year-old businessman.”
“Tony, I want Grasso and his mob—not a war with Vegas.”
Didn’t this gal understand the power plays that went on between mobs? “Listen little girl: Aldo Gionelli is close family out in sin city. Killing him might get that group to pull back. That’s what you want, right?”
Roya didn’t respond.
“I stuffed the bodies in the dumpster. We can go right up to the office like you wanted.”
Roya pulled away from the curb. “No Tony, as it is now you’re going in alone. Next time do exactly as I say. Now I want you to see Desi Grasso personally and set an appointment with him for tomorrow morning at 9 am. Here’s your ID.”
Tony opened the black leather wallet, glanced at the credit cards, the driver’s license, the business cards. Conservative. Nice embossed lettering. He studied his name—Anthony Dmitri, Investment Counselor. “This says our office is in the Aon Building. Nice real estate.”
“We’re renting it by the hour. When you talk to Desi, just try to sound like an educated man. No tough stuff. Give the air of big money. And Tony—don’t threaten—don’t kill—no matter what. Just invite him to the meeting. Be polite.”
Her phone rang and she listened for a moment. “Tatiana, you’re hysterical. Take some deep breaths…Yes, I’ll send a lawyer and see what I can do at my end…No, don’t you do anything—don’t say anything, not a word…He’ll be there soon…I’m sorry Tat, but these things happen. Try not to attach so much importance to it…Okay later.”
Roya snapped the phone closed. “Be respectful, Tony. You’re making a friendly visit—delivering an invitation. Make it cordial. If he asks how you got in, just say his employees gave you some resistance and leave it at that. He’ll find the bodies soon enough.” She squinted at him. “Think you can pull that off.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She grinned. “After your pleasant talk, the sight of those bodies will put him into a tailspin. He’ll believe he’s out of his depth. I think we can turn Desi against his uncle Uomo with the right combination of fear and greed. Remember, we’re putting on a front and you’re my ambassador.” She pulled up to the curb in front of Desi’s electronics shop. “Can you handle the lock?”
Tony glance at her from under his brows and said nothing.
“All right, Mr. Businessman. The show is on. Get in, get out, and walk away. Call me with a pickup location.”
Tony climbed out of the car.
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to fit it in.
1.) IT’S EASY – Just enter an idea, such as: “their jeep drives off a cliff.”
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – In general, if it wouldn’t fly in a 60′s Bond flick, then it’s out.
3.) SHARE – If I publish, I’ll list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.
© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER 15
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
Desi Grasso’s phone came alive with an electronic version of Ave Maria. After a pause, he answered it. “Speak.” His voice cracked and in his embarrassment, he knew nobody would ever mistake him for his Uncle.
“It’s Nick.” The metallic speaker made the voice more menacing. Desi recalled the expressionless eyes and asked, “Did you stake out Tony’s sister? Do you have him?” His Uncle taught him, always watch the family first.
A pause. “No, Mr. Grasso. Things are quiet except for a couple necking in a car across the street. Delores’ place is dark. You want we should break in? If she’s there we could… Let’s say I can make her want to cooperate.”
Desi felt a chill. The offer to interrogate Tony’s sister smacked of behavior he didn’t want or need. He liked to push the buttons and leave the rough stuff to the help, but he still shrank from violence, especially when it came to women. “Don’t let her know you’re there. Just watch another couple hours. If Tony doesn’t show, then report and get some sleep.”
* * *
Roya pulled her mouth away in time for Frank to breathe, then put a finger to his lips and peered over the seat. What made her run so hot and cold? The back seat of a full-sized SUV left room for almost anything but the plan was to stay alert and watch for Ferragamo, not turn it into a love nest.
Her breath in his ear: “Frank—two men watching from that car—no don’t look around—one’s getting out. Yes here he comes. I know him—” She shrugged the straps off her shoulders. Unzipped her jeans with one tug. Before Frank could register surprise, she pinned his shoulders against the seat, leaned forward against his chest and shoved her jeans low on her hips.
“Roya, stop it.”
“Shuttup.” She whispered it with a fierce edge. Wrapped a knee on either side of him. Let her spike-heeled sandals kick upwards. “It’s that Nick—Uomo’s attack dog. He scares me. Zombie eyes. Either we make this look real or we’re both as dead as his soul. Wrap your arms around me. Don’t let him see our faces.”
She kissed him just as light shown through the window—a lousy flashlight. The beam ran up and down the seat and Frank knew the guy was checking out Roya—watching like some kind of pervert. Frank’s anger at the intruder mixed with Roya’s advances brought on a rush of confused emotions. He still loved his estranged wife, but he found himself in a jam and Roya kept him alive. He never knew what to expect from her but he liked this dangerous woman and decided to follow her lead.
“C’mon Frank, at least try.” Frank went stiff when Roya shifted her weight and ran her fingers along his pants. She kept it up and soon he let go his reserve, drown in her kisses and forgot the intruding flashlight.
It finally switched off.
Roya immediately pushed away and spun around. Crouched over him, her eyes just cleared the window. “He’s checking the house. The other one’s still in the car. Frank, take your hands off me—this isn’t the right time. It’s business.”
“I am busy and business is looking up.” He tested the smoothness of her skin, running a finger down the small of her back to the few inches of exposed cleavage.
“She turned and gave him a smile. So I make you forget her after all, Frank? Maybe just for a moment? A poor Russian girl and only with a kiss.” She let out a light laugh and turned back to the window. “Frank, stop doing that. I’m trying to concentrate.” She reached back and brushed away his hands. “He’s coming.”
Suddenly she dropped on him, kissing him and that perverted light played across them again. Then her fierce whisper: “Make him believe this is real. Peel my pants down. Tug at my blouse. Run your hands over me. Surely you have not forgotten how?”
Frank felt his ears burn and knew she saw his blush. It had been a while since he was intimate with a woman. The light beam panned across them for a long time and she expected him to put on some kind of act while that perv watched and licked his lips.
Then it was gone again.
“Be alert.” She straightened his tie. “Drive away slowly. Wait—they started their motor. I have an idea—stay down.” She straightened her top. Zipped her jeans. Slipped off both shoes and used a heel to crack the dome light and crush the bulb. “Tatiana will forgive me for this.”
Frank squinted against the falling glass.
Roya immediately slipped out the door. Frank brushed glass from his jacket, peeked out the back and saw her exposed in the halogen streetlight, out of place, barefoot as if in a dream, her lithe form gliding to the cover of a huge tree. Frank imagined a leopard stalking its prey as she slipped to the next trunk. The goons in the car never looked her way. One talked on the phone. Then she ducked behind their car and Frank lost sight of her.
* * *
Ave Maria sounded and Desi pulled out his phone. “Yeah.”
“Nobody in the house, Mr. Grasso.” Nick’s voice. “The two lovebirds still in the SUV. We done here?”
“Wait for them to leave.”
“That’ll take hours. Don Grasso wants me early.”
“Don’t get sloppy, Nick.”
“Let me explain the situation to you, Mr. Grasso.” Desi thought he heard a hint of derision at the use of his name. Nick went on: “They’re taking their sweet time. After an hour playing around, the guy’s still in his suit, working her pants off. Could take all night. You want Pete and me should give him some help?”
Desi pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, don’t make noise and spoil our trap. Go get some sleep. I’ll put a wiretap on Delores’ phone. Likely as not Tony will call.”
“Nice tush on that broad. Shame for it to go to waste.”
Desi cut the connection.
* * *
Frank watched the big car pull away. Roya stood and sauntered toward him as if this were an ordinary evening. Her diminutive form moved through the shifting shadows of streetlights. In a moment, she was in the vehicle, and with her, the stink of gasoline, her fingers black with grease, arms streaked with it.
“Follow them, Frank—but not too close.”
He climbed in front and while he drove, rooted around for a rag, finally passing back a handful of fast-food napkins.
“Thank you, Frank. That was nice.”
“You said it was just a kiss.”
A long pause. Then, “I was thanking you for the napkins. Look.” Her hands stretched forward from the back seat, fingers splayed out. “Almost clean. I believe you really care about me.”
He focused his gaze on the street, suddenly angry, not knowing why. “What did you do to their car?”
“Just a small inspection. Seems their left rear brake line leaks bad and by the way, so does their gas tank. Maybe something unfortunate will happen—I really couldn’t say.” She sighed. “A woman knows nothing of these things.”
* * *
Tony sat in a tavern, drinking beer and thinking. The cops took it personal when the victim was one of their own. Chances of finding Frank Smith and that girl? Slim to none. He needed a place to lay low—a base of operations. Once the cops arrested Smith and locked him up, Uomo’s mob had him in their hands. He needed to keep tabs on the situation, but mostly he needed to wait and stay clear of the police.
Delores’ place? That’s the first place Uomo would look. He had a friend named Mario shacked up with some Mexican girl—Elsa something. Uomo couldn’t expect him there. No love lost between the Latin gangs and the Italian mob but Elsa’s brothers accepted Mario. Tony knew he could count on the guy. And Mario was always generous with his weed. His place was out in Aurora—a nice safe striking distance.
To get there, Tony had to steal a car or ride the West Line out of Union Station. After knifing the cop that place swarmed with angry men in blue looking for revenge. The notion of revenge gave him pause. Angry guys acted stupid, but anger meant motivation too. It needed some thought. He ordered another beer.
* * *
Agent Stan Harris ran a hand across the back of his neck and read the report one more time as if he could squeeze more information out of it. Time to accept the facts and stop second-guessing. No fingerprints. No weapon. The surveillance footage showed little enough but what he saw convinced him. Yeah, he was sure. Frank Smith killed that policeman at Union Station. Tony Ferragamo probably never left Joliet. New muscle on the street and an agent gone rogue.
How long did Roya Fetova stay undercover with the Russian mob before she turned? Two years? Three? Harris knew he couldn’t predict her movements without knowing her mission and now the Bureau had no assets left in that area—or did they? He’d check with Mahoney on that. This had to be important to activate a sleeper agent. “Hey Paul, what’s Russian for Frank Smith?”
“Gimme a minute.” In less than that, Paul dropped a printout on Harris’ desk.
Frank Smith, “Фрэнк Смит,” Phonetic: F•eenk Smit
Harris studied it. “See what you can find under that name. By the way, when did you learn Russian?”
“Didn’t. Just typed in into the Internet. Webster.”
Frank looked at him. “I can’t even pronounce it.”
Paul grinned.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 13
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Uomo. Both of ‘em were already dead when we got there.”
A massive fist, came down on the desk and Desi watched Grasso’s bloated jowls tighten. “Do not—do not ever simper with apologies. If that were necessary, you would already be…let us say I would have no further use for your services.” He scowled and leaned back in his massive chair, suddenly placid or seemingly so. Desi knew his uncle’s changing moods.
Oumo tilted his desk chair back a few inches, a chair Desi had personally chosen. $1,500—a birthday gift. It held his uncle’s 450 pounds and could hold more. Desi ordered a new one every year. Now, standing before the crime lord, he tried to appear calm and competent.
Fat lips formed words slowly in a low growl. “I sent you too late, Desi. I must speak to my people about their—shall we say inadequate alacrity?”
Desi tried not to let his expression change as his uncle went on.
“Now I have something of a dilemma. Not only must I find the traitor, Mr. Ferragamo, but I have lost two of my best men, the men who knew the most about his location. The airplane cannot be traced to me but I do not like the fact that Gort is dead—a man who possessed a peculiar facility to instill obedience. And I will miss my friend Luigi, who was not only intelligent but loyal like a brother to me. Always remember, Desi, loyalty is most important. It is difficult to buy outside of one’s family.
Desi nodded, but remained standing and controlled his expression. He’d kill Uncle Uomo if he could figure a way to take his place.
The low voice again: “We have Mr. Ferragamo to thank for this—this outrage. I will not underestimate him again but I will have my vengeance. Put the word on the street. One hundred thousand to the one who brings me his—shall we make it his head?” The fat lips curled into a sneer that Desi recognized as Uomo’s smile. “Yes, his head—on a silver platter. It’s so exquisitely Biblical.”
* * *
“Paul, get me Dan Mahoney at organized crime.” Agent Harris waited for the signal then picked up the receiver. “Mahoney let me pose an interesting question. Is your suspended agent capable of strangling a 300 pound giant?”
Mahoney chuckled and responded in his nasal whine. “Even for Roya that’s a bit unconventional.” He paused. “It does seem unlikely, but I suppose it’s remotely possible. She is quite resourceful and does what it takes to get the job done. Don’t let her petite frame fool you. Pound for pound she is physically very strong.”
“Okay, that’s all I wanted to know.”
“I haven’t finished, Stan. Since she is technically still my responsibility, I would like to be kept in the loop. There are some ongoing undercover operations that could be compromised if we don’t handle this correctly.”
Harris balled a fist. “What gives you to think it won’t be handled correctly you Washington pencil pusher?”
The nasal voice: “No offense, but recall that incident with Sergey.”
“That was your screw-up, not mine.”
“It happened in your jurisdiction, Harris.”
“You’ll hear from me when I’ve got something for you. Till then, stay out of my way.” Harris slammed the phone on the cradle. “Paul, find me these people. We got an agent gone bad and new muscle out there. I want them off the street. Got that?”
Paul nodded.
* * *
Tony Ferragamo watched Roya duck into the women’s restroom at Union Station. She hadn’t spotted him—he was sure of it. He stood half hidden behind a kiosk selling sunglasses. How she’d eluded him on the train, he couldn’t figure, but now he knew what he was up against. This needed more care, more thought. For the present, he’d follow her and she’d lead him to Frank Smith. He could plan his next move once he took in the whole situation.
There she was, marching out the door at full stride. She went right up to a beat cop. What the hey? In a minute, they both marched directly to him. Tony looked over his shoulder and scanned the room. No escape. When he turned back, the blonde and the cop stepped up to his face. She pointed at Tony and spoke to the cop. “Officer, I don’t know about rules and stuff, and maybe I watch too much TV, but this guy has been stalking me all the way from Joliet. You can see he’s carrying a gun in his pants.”
Tony saw her flash a quick smile then switch back to a frightened look. He wanted to shoot both of them right there.
The cop’s expression turned from blank to grim and he unbuckled the flap on his holster. “Sir, do you have a permit for a concealed weapon?”
Tony tilted his Cubs hat back on his head and tried to look innocent. He watched the blonde back away. She kept backing up. Then she turned and walked briskly to the stairs. He was losing her.
He looked the cop in the face. “Officer, I’m a Federal Agent in pursuit of a criminal. Here’s my ID.” In one move, Tony pulled a hunting knife and plunged the blade into the cop’s solar plexus and up to the heart.
The feeling gave him an instant thrill. The policeman went down immediately. Crouched on one knee, Tony withdrew the knife, wiped it on the uniform, then wiped his hand and wrist across the policeman’s coat. He slipped the knife into a sheathe in his jeans.
Those in the crowd that saw the act stood stunned then they made way for him.
He quickly moved through the milling crowd to the stairs. Posing as Frank Smith gave him a feeling of invincibility.
* * *
Frank Smith sat quietly on the Metra ride to Crystal Lake, watching Roya in the seat facing him, reflecting on what he knew and what he could surmise about events to date. Roya had to know more than she let on. “The guy chasing us—who was his target?”
She undid the pony tail and shook out her hair. “What makes you think I know?”
“You figure him for a hit man. You figure it’s a hit gone wrong. You figure the target was somebody important. The guy looks just like me so you figure he wants the mob to kill me in his place. You were on the inside. So I figure you know the target.”
Roya closed her eyes for several moments then finally looked directly at Frank. “We know Uomo Grasso is after you and thinks you’re this hit man. He could have told the goons to make you disappear in Missouri instead of bringing you to Chicago, so, we know it must be personal with him. That means Grasso let the contract himself. So I was thinking. If Don Grasso himself wants Frank Speck so badly, it might help if we got to know the guy better. Maybe have him on our side. Of course we have to make sure it’s not a trap. I’m sure he’ll untangle himself from the police and find us again. When he does, I want a talk with him.
Frank looked at her. Was she crazy? “You’re joking. You already told me Speck will kill me himself if he can’t get the mob to do it. That’s how he disappears, right?”
Roya smiled. “What’s the matter, Frank? Losing your nerve? I just want to talk to the guy. He’s kinda cute, if you know what I mean.”
Frank didn’t respond to her innuendo. “No, Roya. We lost him now—let’s keep it that way.”
“How we gonna do that, Frank? He’ll find you eventually. This way, if he doesn’t want to join us, I can take care of things. Listen, I have a friend back at the organized crime division. He and Sergey were tight. I can trust him. I’ll just ask some questions. So far we’re acting on guesswork. We need real answers.”
She pulled a phone out of her bag and dialed a number. “Dan Mahoney, please.” A pause. “Dan, it’s RF…Can’t help that. Gotta talk to you…Yeah everybody’s after us—you guys, the mob, and a loose hit man. What can you tell me about the hit man?…Uh huh…Okay later.” She put away the phone and went silent, looking pleased with herself.”
“So, what did he say?”
Roya grinned. “The hit man’s name is Frank Smith.”
“What?”
She laughed. “Dan’s gonna call me back. We’ll know more later. Here’s our station, Frank.”
Roya’s sister was waiting as they stepped off the train. Frank looked around at the quaint, small town stores a good hour and a half train ride outside Chicago. He thought it looked okay for a place to hide.
Tatiana led them to her SUV and they drove the few miles to her large house on the lake. There was a room above the garage for Frank. Roya took the guest room. Frank decided to take a shower. As long as Roya was with her sister, she couldn’t do anything crazy.
When he rejoined them a half hour later, Roya put away her phone. “Listen, Tatiana I think I’ll take Frank for a walk—show him around.
Outside, they walked the lawn to the lakeshore. A breeze off the water. The air alive with insect noise. A speedboat tied up at the dock. “What’s up?” Frank asked. “Or did you just miss me?”
“Actually, yes, but listen. I just got the call from my contact inside. The guy following us? Turns out it’s not you after all.” She giggled. “He might be Tony Ferragamo, who happens to be a hit man for Grasso. I don’t know the target but maybe Ferragamo squealed to the Feds. Maybe he got on the witness protection program under the name—and get this—Frank Speck. And maybe Grasso found him. And maybe you’re his patsy because you look alike.” She laughed again. “Frank it’s too beautiful to be true.” She spoke through the laughter and tears. “Our guesses were on target. I love it. I just love it.”
Frank looked at the lights across the lake and turned his thoughts inward. What was so funny about it?
She leaned against him. “Listen, Frank, you ever see that old Steve McQueen movie, Bullet? Remember when he’s being tailed and he switches places with the stalker? That’s what we’re gonna do. My contact gave me an address for Tony’s sister, Delores, in Berwyn. I think we might want to do a little stakeout to see if he’s hanging out there.”
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 12
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
Stan Harris checked his service revolver and slipped his arms into his suit coat on the way out the building. The back seat of the Crown Vic made almost enough room for his big frame and he settled back while Special Agent Paul Schneider steered the car into traffic, then handed back a phone. Harris still refused to carry one. “St. Louis on the line, Stan.”
Harris took a deep breath before raising the phone to his face. “Sammy? Stan. No, I’m on my way to Joliet Airport to check on some dead mobsters. You got that St. Louis gravel truck shooting covered?”
“Missouri State Police are on it. On my way to talk to them now. Get back to you, soon as I know something.”
“I’m following up a lead. Give me whatever you know now.”
A pause on the line then Sammy’s voice, less jovial. “Prints on the gun belong to Frank Smith, a local insurance agent, but I got to check it out.”
“Okay, keep me in the loop, Sammy. It may connect up with something at my end.” Harris cut the connection and the phone chimed immediately. “Harris. Talk to me.”
“Mahoney here.” Harris recognized the voice from the organized-crime task force in Washington. The guy’s nasal accent always irritated him. “Your mystery woman is Roya Fetova, one of our best undercover assets till about six months ago. She and her partner worked up some good intel on the Russian Mob in Chicago and connections in Boston and New York. I’m sending her picture now.”
Harris quickly looked at the photo on his phone. “Nice face. Still blonde?”
“As far as we know.”
Harris frowned at that. “Something slip at your end, Mahoney?”
“You might say that. Sergey went down in a turf war with the Italian mob. Ugly killing. Execution style, you know. Roya was convinced Don Grasso pulled the trigger himself. Oh by the way, we caught Sergey and Roya expanding on the department’s definition of watching your partner’s back. We had to pull her in.”
“Wanna spell that out, Mahoney?”
“Let’s say her professional conduct was compromised. Officially, she’s on leave of absence. She dropped out of sight and might be looking for some…” He paused. “Some personal justice.”
Harris winced. A federal agent gone rogue made for trouble. One bent on revenge made a mess. Stupid—pulling a trained agent off a case, just because she cared. Sometimes the department made no sense at all.
Again the nasal voice. “The photo of the male suspect checked out as one Tony Ferragamo, known hit man.”
Harris paused to consider what he wanted to reveal about his runaway witness under protection. “I think the guy in the photo is a lookalike. Last known name for Ferragamo is Frank Smith. He used that in St. Louis and then got lost. There’s a real Frank Smith in this with his prints on a gun that killed a truck driver. That give you any ideas?”
“Something slip at your end too, Stan?”
Harris didn’t immediately answer. Losing a protected witness didn’t look so good. “I’m trying to figure out if Ferragamo, Smith, and your suspended agent have anything in common.”
“I’ll run a check on that name and get back to you. Smith did you say?” He chuckled.
“You do that.” Harris handed the phone back to Paul then slammed his fist against the door. That Washington bastard just laughed in his face. Paul offered no comment, just inched the car forward in traffic.
Half way to Joliet, the phone rang again and Paul handed it back to him. “Harris. Talk to me.”
“Sammy again. Re-ran the prints of the gravel truck shooter. One Frank Smith. Ran his driver’s license photo. Came up with Tony Ferragamo, but the prints don’t match Ferragamo. What I got shows Smith about a year older, an inch shorter and about ten pounds lighter. The guy’s clean—not even a speeding ticket. Insurance agent. Census duty. Service record. Air Force pilot. But he’s definitely our shooter—not Ferragamo.”
“What about the car?”
“Stolen.”
Harris ran a hand across his chin. How did Smith kill a truck driver in St. Louis, then end up in a Joliet hotel with a loose-cannon FBI agent and a credit card in the name of Luigi Gastroni? “You’re sure this Smith whacked the truck driver?”
“Looks that way, yeah.”
“Okay, keep me posted.” Harris leaned back and closed his eyes. So the rogue FBI agent hired some new muscle. But an insurance agent? And what about the connection with Ferragamo?
They turned in at Joliet Municipal. Paul drove past the FBO and pulled up to a roped-off crime scene, lit with halogen lights. A tied-down Cessna and a handful of agents looking busy. The flashing lights of an ambulance. The driver turned to Harris. “Like I said, you gotta see this for yourself.”
“Okay, Paul.” He climbed out of the back seat, ducked under the yellow tape and pointed his flashlight at a stretcher, then at the coroner.
“O’Reilly. What you doing this far from the loop? It’s enough I have to deal with you back there.”
“I might ask you the same.” He unzipped the body bag. Harris immediately recognized the face of Luigi Gastroni. “You know him, right?”
“Yeah. What’s the story?”
Somebody snapped his neck. Martial arts move. Pro, I imagine.”
“How long?”
O’Reilly stiffened. “You’ll have my complete report in the morning.” He closed the bag.
Paul steered Harris away by the arm. “Stan, c’mere a minute. There’s more I want you to see before they bag the other body.” He pointed his flash at the open passenger door of the Cessna. “Ever see anything like that?”
Harris immediately recognized the huge awkward form and ugly features of Giovanni Ragliani, all the more hideous after strangulation. He stepped closer and fingered the material that bound the giant’s neck to the headrest. “A brassier? What’s up with that?”
“You tell me.”
“Gort caused me a lot of trouble over the years. Nobody ever messed with him—not ever. Oumo Grasso is gonna be pissed when he hears his two top enforcers got snuffed. What do we know about it?”
“We found gags and duct tape in the back of the plane. Waiting on prints. I’d like to get some skin samples for DNA.”
Harris flashed his light in back. “Seat’s gone. You check the frame for traces of drugs? Good.” He looked closer at Gort. “No woman did this—except the strong lady at the circus, maybe.” He snorted a short laugh. “What kinda martial arts pro goes up against a giant armed with woman’s underwear? Both these guys have guns?”
“Not Luigi.”
“That’s odd. Maybe caught by surprise. Tell O’Reilly to check for any sign Gort was unconscious before he got strangled. Luigi flying?”
“We found him in back.”
“That’s strange, too. Maybe killed on the ground?” Harris inserted a finger behind the wrapped brassier and tested the tension. “Anybody see this plane land?”
“Nobody. Airport closed during the storm.” Paul answered his phone. “Okay, thanks.” He pocketed the device. “Frank Smith’s prints are all over the plane.”
Harris nodded. “So Smith flew here from St. Louis. Then he used Luigi’s credit card. Smith looks like our man. We got some new muscle in town, maybe a new mob.”
* * *
Tony Ferragamo leaped onto the train just as the doors slid closed and moved slowly through the rear half of the car, scanning for his two targets. He opened the lavatory. He moved to the front half of the car. Nothing. He passed through to the next car. Frank and that arrogant blond could be anywhere along the line, but there was no place to hide. He’d just go from car to car until he found them.
Frank heard the door bang open but didn’t dare peer over the edge to the lower floor. He and Roya lay prone in front of the upper-deck seats, arms stretched forward to fit flat to the narrow aisle, invisible to anybody below. A man closed his computer lid and glared at them. Other people glanced, then glanced away. Frank heard the lavatory door open and slam shut. Then nothing but the noise of the train.
Would the guy climb to the upper deck?
The recording announced the next stop. The door to the entryway opened and shut. Frank peeked over the edge at the floor “He’s gone.”
“Don’t get so cocky, Frank. He might come back. He might be sitting below us.” Roya dusted off her jeans and grinned. “On the other hand, he might not.”
Frank didn’t like being hunted. At the next stop, he caught sight of the guy moving along the platform. “Roya.” He signaled her to get low. “He’s scanning windows. We’re lit up like a store display.”
The train jostled into motion again and Frank wondered whether Speck, or whatever his name was, got back onboard or stayed behind.
The PA announced Union station. “Frank, I want to split up. We’ll be less conspicuous. Meet me at Ogilvie Station in 10 minutes. Get on the train for Crystal Lake—fourth car, upper right deck. I’ll find you there.
At Union Station, Tony got off the first car in the midst of a sea of people and quickly moved to the head of the pack, then found a corner to watch every passenger as they passed.
There was Frank Smith. Alone.
Tony held his breath, not wanting to lose Frank, not daring to put himself ahead of that bitch.
There she was. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. Not much of a disguise. Probably hanging back to see if Frank picked up a tail. He dropped in behind her, letting her lead him to Frank.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 10
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
The train got underway and jostled Frank in his seat when Roya whispered in his ear. “Look at that guy in the lower level across the aisle. He tailed my Mustang and got on the train with me. Anything familiar about him?”
Frank glanced down at the man, then whispered to Roya. “Cubs fan? Looks like he could hit it out of the park. Why’d you let him follow you?”
Roya’s breath tickled Frank’s ear. “You know by now I like to get close to my work. Look at him again. Use your mind. Take away the hat, the glasses. Put him in a suit. Who does he look like?”
Frank concentrated then in sudden recognition turned and whispered to Roya. “He could be me.”
She nodded. “I’ve seen enough, unless you want to ask Mr. Cubs some questions.” She looked Frank in the eyes. “Didn’t think so—still, there’s something strange…”
Frank knew something was strange. A guy that looked just like him was following them. The overhead speaker announced Lockport Station and Roya stood. “This is it.” She slowly moved to the stairs and Frank followed. By the time they reached the main level, the train was pulling into the station and she opened the door to the exit bay. She turned and grabbed Frank’s lapels, blocking the door to the compartment. She snuggled his ear and spoke. “Follow me quick, and keep your head down.”
The train lurched to a stop and the sliding doors opened. They scrambled down the stairs to the station platform and Frank ran to keep up as they climbed back on the train at the next car. Roya looked back, then raised a fist, “Gotcha!” She grabbed Frank and kissed him full on the lips. He felt her tongue and the sensual curve of her body against his. When she broke away, she led him into the coach and they watched Mr. Cubs from a window.
* * *
Tony Ferragamo saw them leave their seats and depart the car. He pulled off his Cubs cap and slowly rose to follow, puzzled that they got off just one station away from Joliet. He reached the platform—empty. He moved to the station—closed. Looked in a window—dark. Checked the parking lot—not a car moved. The train pulled away and he turned to see Frank Smith and the blonde peering at him through a window. The blonde grinned and waved. Son of a bitch!
* * *
At the motel, Desi Grasso told Nick and Pete to have a smoke. He got his laptop from his black Camaro, hacked the DMV and ran the Mustang’s tag number. It turned up stolen the day before from the local airport. When he got back to the motel entrance, Nick was grinding out a butt with his shoe and Pete lit a new coffin nail with the previous one. Desi raised his voice to a command. “Meet me at Joliet Airport.”
Back in his car, he fired up the big-block engine and shifted into gear. On the way he speed-dialed his uncle. “Yeah, it’s me. The guy was here with some broad. Left the motel. They stole a car at Joliet airport. On my way there now.”
A pause, then the deep rumbling voice, speaking slowly, distinctly. “Inform me the moment you learn anything of significance—and Desi—do not fail me.” The connection went dead.
At the airport, Desi, Nick and Pete parked their cars and fanned out through the tied-down planes, scanning for Luigi’s Cessna. Within 10 minutes, Nick spotted it in the grass and shouted a string of expletives. When Desi approached, Nick stood, head down. “You better have a look at this, Mr. Grasso.”
From a distance of five feet, Desi peered into the open door of the 182. Gort sat bound by the neck to the headrest by what looked like a woman’s brazier, his swollen purple tongue sticking out of his gaping mouth. Desi almost gagged, but kept his reaction hidden from the help. How the hell did anybody do that to the giant enforcer?
Nick opened the cargo door and a hand flopped out the opening. He crouched down and reached through to rummage the body, then stood up and faced Desi. “It’s Luigi. Broken neck, looks like.”
Desi struggled to appear cool. “We’re outa here. I’ll phone Don Grasso.”
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 4
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
Tony had stolen a cheap Chevy for this job. When they reached heavy traffic, he closed to within two cars of the BMW and grinned. Either these guys didn’t expect a tail or they didn’t care. The one in front leaned his seat back. The one in back slid down out of view. The driver didn’t turn his head. Nighty-night boys.
* * *
The BMW wasn’t big on trunk room. In the dark, the woman’s shoulder dug into Frank’s face and her hip pressed against him. Then she gasped and took three deep breaths before he felt her teeth. She scraped at his cheek, working the duct tape off his face. With a rip it was gone. He spat out the rag and coughed. “How—how did you do that?”
“Tape doesn’t stick so good to makeup. Those idiots should’ve wrapped it all the way around.” She paused, then whispered, “We better keep the noise down. What’s your game in this?”
“I don’t know. Don’t even know what they want.” Frank realized she had no reason to believe him. The car abruptly slowed then accelerated and when they pressed against one another, the heat of a blush traveled across his face. He knew she couldn’t see it in the dark of the BMW trunk and didn’t speak again until he got his breathing under control. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Call me Roya.” She breathed on his wet skin. “Roya Fetova. And you’re Frank, right?” Suddenly she made a sharp exclamation. “I hate duct tape. Taping my elbows. The sadistic—” She stopped, then whispered again. “They trussed my wrists to my ankles. Can’t even kick my way out. Try to roll over and I’ll work you free.”
“No room. They tied me the same way.”
“Then I hope your teeth are sharp.” He felt her shift position. “Try to reach my elbows—my hands are numb.
Frank spoke in low tones as he struggled to work his way down her back. “Sorry you got mixed up in this. You must be worried about your twins. I bet they’re smart kids. They’ll probably know to wait for the police and it will turn out all right.” It sounded lame but he hoped it gave her some comfort.
A quiet laugh. “My twins are what I call my two Glocks. My Beagle—well that’s another piece of hardware. Just say I was making a delivery.”
Frank thought about that for a few seconds. “Did your car really break down?”
“You don’t need to know. I can tell you they took my purse just like they took your wallet. They’ll use my phone and ID to find out all about me, but they won’t learn anything real. And if that Italian smoothy thinks he owns me, he’s in for a surprise.”
Frank bit at the tape and she gasped. “That hurt?”
“I’ve had worse.”
He spit out a chunk of the sticky stuff. “It’s all twisted. This is gonna take some time.” He spit again, then rubbed his mouth clean against the carpet. “Who are you really?”
“All we need to talk about is how to get away.”
“Well, you seem to be the one with the answers.”
“Yeah, but not to that particular question.
* * *
The sun came up behind Tony as they left the city behind. Tailing under these conditions was easy. Then the BMW took an off-ramp. Tony stopped at the top of the bridge and watched it head north.
He backed down the apron and then drove onto the ramp. This road headed past some gravel pits then into the cornfields. Not a town in miles. He drove fast till he saw the black car crest a hill, then followed at an easy pace.
He came over the hill and spotted them just as a gravel truck appeared and drove right over the front of the BMW like a speed bump. The noise–even at that distance. The clouds of dust. Tony came to a stop and watched through binoculars. Watched a man kick open the back door. Watched him climb out. Pull a gun. Shoot the approaching truck driver. No hesitation whatsoever. Holy—
A huge man crawled out the same door head first. He opened the trunk and hoisted the man out, then the girl. Carried them like luggage. Slung them high into the bed of the truck, one at a time. Tony knew if he ever faced Gort, he’d shoot first and shoot to kill. The two men climbed into the cab of the truck and rumbled down the highway.
Tony cruised up to the wreck and got out. From the dashboard forward, nothing but crumpled metal. Glass windshield a sagging mess. He grabbed the long hair of the driver and turned his head. Neck broken. Bloody face. He felt for a pulse. Dead.
He walked to the truck driver. The smell of whiskey and blood. A fly crawled across the man’s face.
Tony got in his car. Pulled into the ditch and around the wreck. Drove off in search of the gravel truck.
In five miles he saw dust at a side road. Pulled to a stop. Approached on foot. A private drive, led to a large shed. A grass runway in the cornfield. A single engine Cessna turned into the wind. It’s prop got loud and it tore down the runway and into the sky.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 3
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
In the huge garage, Frank regained his balance, stepped away from the tool bench and rubbed grease from his hands. Oil soaked through his suit to the skin of his back. Across the garage, a gleaming black BMW was parked in the fourth bay, the limo driver working under its hood. Frank looked back at the two men confronting him.
Gort was huge—some kind of hired goon. The flat nose. The protruding brow. The older man sounded cultured, somehow foreign and wore a better suit than his crony. Probably European. Frank decided to call him Luigi then looked to the other side and peered through a small dingy office, spotting a grey steel door.
“I have clients waiting for me in the morning. I don’t know who this Speck person is and I don’t care. I’m leaving.” Frank started for the exit.
“Gort.” A single sharp command.
Just as Frank reached for the doorknob, he was lifted off his feet. Gort deposited him in a swivel chair and held him down while Luigi secured his wrists to the chair arms with duct tape, tight, then bound his ankles.
“Mr. Speck.” Again the smooth accented tones. “Why do you not cooperate and make it, how you say, pleasant for all of us?”
“I told you, my name’s Smith and I’m due at the office at nine.” Frank felt his face flush. What kind of guy was this Speck anyway, and how did this mix-up happen?
The foreigner sighed. He produced a knife, flicked it open and turned it over in his hands. “I am quite sure your fictitious clients will wait. You are now supposedly a peddler of, what was it? Insurance? Is not hard to rent an office and print business cards.” He clucked his tongue. “Not even a secretary. Yes, I do not think you will be missed.”
Frank knew he was in for a brutal questioning and he didn’t have any answers. “Now look here. My wife will miss me. She’s probably already called the police.”
The man’s mouth distorted in a sarcastic grin. “You live alone, Mr. Speck. You have been in St. Louis only a short time. You were traced to Burlington Iowa where you wisely left the government witness protection program, at which point I was called. You took this obvious name Smith for what reason, I know not. Did you think I would not find you? So you see,” he turned up a palm and shrugged, “there is no point lying. You are in a great difficulty, Mr. Speck. Uomo Grasso demands an audience with you. But, as you say, I have you now. Would you care to tell me where the money is hidden?” Luigi ran a thumb across his knife blade. “I have not been informed in what condition you must arrive.”
A knock at the door. They all turned. Frank shouted for help.
“Gort, silence him.”
The big man shoved a rag into Frank’s open mouth. As he struggled to spit it out, huge fingers tore a length of duct tape and stretched it across his face. The knocking turned to pounding, then what must have been kicking as the door shook. Frank prayed for it to be the police.
Luigi pocketed his knife and opened the door a crack. “I am afraid we are closed, young lady.”
Frank heard a woman’s voice from outside. “Let me in. My car broke down.”
“I am sorry. We are closed for the night.”
“But your lights are on. I need help. Your sign says roadside service—is that false advertising or what? I left my twins and my Beagle in the car and need to get back. It’s just a mile or so. Listen, I’m tired and there’s nowhere else open this time of night. Won’t you please help me? I bet it won’t take a minute for a smart guy like you—hey you’re dressed kinda fancy for a mechanic.”
“Precisely. Will you please go away?”
“How will I get home? At least rent me a car. Let me use the phone—my cell’s dead.” Luigi pulled the door closed as she called out, “I guess I’ll just flag down a squad car.”
Luigi turned with a look of exasperation. “Gort.”
The giant pushed the door open, yanked the woman inside and held her while Luigi stepped behind and wound duct tape around her arms at the elbows. She flailed at Luigi with high heels. She kicked Gort’s shin with a pointed toe then struck him with a knee. The giant dropped her and doubled over.
Luigi struggled to bind her feet and gasped when she kicked at his head. He swore and pinned her legs, wrapping five circles of tape around her ankles. She cried out until he taped her mouth shut. He got to his feet. Wiped blood from his brow with a handkerchief. Straightened his jacket, brushing off grit while Gort lifted her like a rag doll.
Frank was shocked. A pretty woman. Blonde. Twenty something. Designer jeans. White summer top. Spaghetti straps. Pearl buttons straining from the way she’d been tied. She flashed him a fierce look.
Gort licked his lips, then mumbled, barely moving his mouth, barely audible. “You want I should take her out back and ask some questions?”
“Shuttup.” Luigi’s face contorted with rage. He brought up his knife. Sliced off a pearl button and placed it in his pocket as if he’d taken ownership. Grabbed her chin. Turned her head. Touched the point of his knife to her throat and spoke through gritted teeth. “You cause me no more trouble. Capiche?” He turned his back to her. “Gort, put her in the trunk with Mr. Speck. We have wasted too much time. We must get to the airstrip.”
* * *
From his car, Tony Ferragamo watched while the woman got pulled into the garage. That was her problem, not his. It looked like the hired help took the bait. This Frank Smith even bore a physical resemblance to him. He congratulated himself but wanted to be sure the plan worked to completion. It had to fool Uomo Grasso.
Tony skipped out on witness protection just in time—needed a change anyway. Living in a flophouse as Frank Speck in Burlington Iowa almost drove him crazy and he was glad to be on the loose again. A few hundred bucks got him a Social Security card, a drivers license, and credit cards in the name of Frank Smith and he left a wide trail to St. Louis–one he was sure would be followed. Now he’d need a different identity. Frank Smith would die—Uomo Grasso would see to that—and the names Frank Speck and Tony Ferragomo would die with him. Nobody would ever find the money paid for a hit that never happened.
The overhead door rolled open and a BMW backed out. Tony cranked the ignition and followed.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
CHAPTER 2
Roya Fetova
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
The burlap bag restricted his breathing and chaffed his face. Trying not to panic, Frank brought to mind mystery novels, movies, crime shows—anything that might help him know what to do. He sensed occasional headlights and the movement of the big car. Memorizing every turn, he listened for clues to pinpoint their location. Crowded between the two goons, he counted seconds, minutes, and sweated freely.
His cell phone—it might ring and he didn’t want it taken away. He slid his hand slowly into his suit pocket and silenced it.
The car stopped. The engine went dead. By his count, a twenty minute ride, probably north of home. The sound of an overhead door rolling closed. The car door opening. The sudden flash of light through the burlap fibers. The bag abruptly pulled from his head. The gravelly voice of the larger man. “Get out of the car, Mr. Speck.”
Frank Smith didn’t argue, didn’t try to claim his true identity. He merely obeyed. He found himself in a mechanic’s garage, the last of four bays. The man shoved him and he backed into a greasy tool bench.
The older man’s cultured tones. “Not so rough, Gort. That’s no way to treat our guest.”
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:
1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.
2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.
3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your own original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.
MURDER
Life is precious. That’s my best response to the unanswerable question, “What place does murder have in fiction?” A few thoughts—
If a human life is threatened, the stakes are high. When a fictional character that we’ve come to know dies, something important has happened. It hits us at a primal level. We find ourselves caught up in an experience outside our norm. Nobody seems to say it, but we’re talking about the struggle between good and evil.
Often the event leaves behind a problem that must be solved, either by unlocking a puzzle or by direct action. We become personally involved in the story. Along the way we meet captivating characters. Hurdles are cleared—more threats encountered—we have a sense of danger survived.
At the resolution, our fear changes to relief or even triumph. Perhaps justice is done or shattered lives renewed.
