The Bagman

Chapter 1
The Way Things Are

Chapter Description: In which we briefly meet Don Coglione, Detective Ditko, and Johnny

Chapter 1- The Way Things Are.

Don Vincenzo “The Jerk” Coglione was holding court in Mama Maria’s Italian Eatery. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a little mom and pop place that the Don visited from time to time to do business. Everyone knew that it was Coglione’s money that kept this place from collapsing back into the rat hole where it came from, and that it was the strange affection he had for this place that kept him coming.

It certainly wasn’t the food. Not that it was bad, but it was hardly great. It was about on par with Olive Garden, but then again what self-respecting Mafia head would be caught jerking off at an Olive Garden? This wasn’t a five star restaurant, but the place had character. More importantly, Vincenzo knew everyone in the place. There were no strangers allowed at Mama Maria’s, especially not on the nights where Don Conglione dined.

The Don sat at his favorite table in the back of the room, sipping on red wine. He was in a plain, conservative suit, his thinning gray hair slicked black to cover the balding spot. His new wife tried to convince him to dye it black; make him look younger. Looking sloppy and disheveled was one thing, but there was nothing to be ashamed of with getting older. Some people- stupid people- might think otherwise, but being old and still in this business meant you were strong.

Vincenzo knew this. He also knew that someday some young turk would come and try to uproot him, take his place. He’d be ready on that day. IF and WHEN Vincenzo retired, it would be at a time of his choosing with an heir ready to take the reins and continue on the Coglione family name. His oldest son was a screw up, and a junkie- too much sampling the family product; practically ate up the profits. His wife had just got pregnant, and Vincenzo didn’t even know if the baby was a boy. So Vincenzo wasn’t planning on retiring anytime soon. He liked it that way.

For almost thirty years, Vincenzo had carved out his little piece of the Bronx, held it, and expanded it. There wasn’t an illegal gambling, drug operation, or prostitution ring that Coglione didn’t have his fingers in. And now, with that castrati Mayor outlawing serving portions, a new prohibition was on the rise. It was good to be in business.

Vincenzo had it good. Too good some might say. Not to his face, mind you, but it was said. The Don had his informants. The Families still had a good grip on New York, though, so his main competition was only competing for his money, not his life. He was a made man, so none of the Families would touch him or risk violating the code that kept them civilized. Not like those dirty Russians, the Triads, Yakuza, or the Jews. Pretenders- all of the them. They copied all of the organization that made this a business, and none of the honor that made this a lifestyle.

Every few minutes, someone came to his table to speak to him, to ask him for some kind of favor or make a business proposal. As was his way, Vincenzo just sneered at them, saying nothing. There was a reason he was called “The Jerk.” Vincenzo never showed a preference or hint of a smile at anything while doing business. He’d make notes of which proposals he liked and the people whose debt might be worth something in the future. Later on, he’d give out orders and send out messages to make his wishes known. Let the lucky few know that the Don had had a “change of heart.” It made the people he actually DID favor more eager to please. Whether he favored them or not, only the Don knew, and he kept only his own council. Let the peasants sweat trying to figure it out.

Vincenzo looked up as two cops walked into the place. More importantly- two cops that weren’t on his payroll. He didn’t recognize the first one. The kid looked young, rookie probably. The other one he knew well. Detective Roger Ditko, NYPD. One of the few “good cops” in New York. Someone who was too stupid to know a good thing when he saw one. Ditko had had a good run, but he was a has-been now, not even an old man yet, and his hair was going gray from the stress. In the three years he had known about the little piss ant, he had never seen the guy in a different suit, always that plain blue suit with a red tie tied on wrong. Weren’t detectives supposed to have at least two good suits? And weren’t they supposed to know how to wear a tie like a man? At least get a clip-on if you couldn’t dress yourself. Life was just so much easier when you knew you were beaten.

“Detective,” the Don broke his usual silence. “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to show the new kid what evil looked like,” the detective replied. Really? Who talked like that? The mook was so far in dreamland that he was talking like he was out of some B-Movie.

Coglione smiled softly at the poor sap. He signaled to one of his soldiers to bring over a briefcase. Coglione hadn’t gotten this far without being prepared. The briefcase was opened a crack and a manila envelope was slid out and put into Don Coglione’s waiting palm. He presented it to the detective.

“Detective,” Vincenzo began, “I have a gift for you.” He slid the envelope across the table. “Contained herein, is a final, damning, but conveniently missing piece of evidence on George “The Face” Smiley. As I recall, you boys at the Vice Squad were having difficulty pinning something on him. This won‘t prove that he was running a drug cartel, but the photos should prove that he was involved in the murder of a pregnant, underage girl that ended up in the harbor a few months ago.”

“What’s the catch?” Ditko asked, rubbing his stubbled chin. Vincenzo could see the hunger in the man’s eyes. He wanted this. He wanted it badly.

“No catch.” Vincenzo clarified. “Just a gift. For free.” Ditko reached for the envelope, almost barely grazing it with his fingertips before withdrawing.

“You see?” the cop turned to his associate. “This is how it starts. He offers you a little something. As a gift. Then the next thing you know, his goons are breaking down your door and working you over while he tells you how he owns you.” Close. So close. Maybe next time.

“Ahem,” the Don cleared his throat. “Perhaps a little constructive criticism?” He looked up at the two policemen while a waiter refilled his glass and left him a check. He didn’t want the check yet, but he’d have to correct that later. Poor boy was going to lose his job tonight. The two cops waited. The older one glaring, the younger one reeking of fear.

“You might not see it this way, but we are on the same side.” the older gentleman informed them. “We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. Men like you,” he gestured, “help the populace feel safe. Let them know that everything will be alright, and that in the end, good always triumphs. Good for you,” he added patronizingly.

“Men like me,” he gestured to himself. “We’re responsible for making sure people get what they want. It’s human nature to want to explore, to learn, to expand their horizons and to entertain them with pleasures they didn’t know they wanted. As soon as you realize this, and except that fact, that the city needs men like…us, your life will be a lot happier.”

“You’re talking about your drug and prostitution ring? Pretty ballsy.” the detective sneered.

“What?” Don Vincenzo feigned, “goodness no! I don’t know what you’re referring to. I was talking about the library at NYU named after me and the parts of Coney Island that I own.”

Ditko’s brow furrowed. “Man you’re a smug son of a-”

“COGLIONE YOU SACK OF SHIT!” Someone yelled from across the room. A man stood up with a revolver. He was greasy and sweaty and you couldn’t see his face for all of the hair that covered it. He might have been homeless from the smell. “MY SISTER OD’D CUZ OF YOU AND NOW YER GONNA DIE!”

Ditko was on him before he finished the sentence. The man was on the ground being restrained in cuffs within seconds, screaming bloody hell.

“Sir, you are under arrest for attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney, if one-” he droned on. Vincenzo smiled, bathing in the irony. He had been wondering when the junkie was going to make his move, and fate had smiled on him, now the detective was doing his work for him. Not that his men couldn’t have handled it, but why bother when you didn’t need to?

“Thank you detective!” he called out as Ditko dragged the arrested man out of Mama Maria’s. The rookie was still there, flabbergasted by what had just gone down.

“I’m here every Wednesday,” he said to the rookie, sliding the envelope forward. The rookie looked down at it, as if afraid the envelope might come alive and bite his hand off. “Go on, take it. I’m just going to give it to someone anyways. Might as well be you. Go get yourself a commendation” He winked. The rookie took it and walked out just as Ditko was calling for him.

Vincenzo smiled. One more flatfoot in his pocket. Now on to other things. He waved over to the owner of the restaurant, always on hand on nights when Don Coglione came.

“Si, Signore?” the fat man groveled in a fake Italian accent. Vincenzo loved it when he did that! Just to know he had that kind of power to make a man go to such lengths amused him to no end. It was like masturbation; you think you’re gonna grow out of it, but you never do. Sex was better, but this was just great!

“You’re new waiter dropped off the check too early.” Vincenzo said. “I was thinking on ordering some dessert.”

“New waiter?” the owner asked, dropping the accent. “What new waiter?”

Vincenzo immediately put down his wine. He hadn’t taken a sip yet, and now dare not. Drink could be antifreeze. He signaled his men to pull the car around, and be on alert. He opened the check to take a look at it. Written on the check was a single word-

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BOOM!

Johnny Spettro had the Devil’s luck. He had managed to get into the back of the restaurant, knock out the cook quietly with some chloroform, move in the ten tanks of propane he had brought with him, and blow out the pilot light, all without anyone noticing.

He had buried the tanks, one at a time under mounds of garbage outside the place hours ago. Garbage day was Thursday so the filth was at it’s highest, and the place wasn’t exactly up to code. Then it was just a matter of slipping in and setting up.

His months of scouting had paid off. Everyone at Mama Mia’s Italian Eatery was so on guard that it didn’t even function like a good restaurant when the Don was there. The old man had filled the place up with his goons and his boys, none of which partook in the crappy food, thrown enough money around to compensate the owner, and woe to the poor slob that interrupted the Don’s meal. Only the one cook and the one waiter remained to run the shop. Johnny had already dealt with the waiter.

Johnny savored the experience of looking that bastard in the face, pouring his whine while he waxed philosophical with some poor ugly bastard. He had wanted to say something, but didn’t want to give himself away. Next time would be bigger, he promised himself.

Then it was just a matter of going back in the kitchen, making sure the gas had leaked enough to catch, loosening the propane valves, and chucking a Molotov cocktail through the window from the outside. Johnny really hoped that Coglione had read the note before he was burned and/or crushed to death.

Now a blazing inferno and rubble were all that remained of Mama Maria’s; now quite literally a hole in the wall. Johnny walked away, not looking back, a sweatshirt and hoodie over his donated waiter’s vest. Yeah, it looked a little uni-bomber, but it did the job. He hit the subway and went home, making sure to switch trains three times and get off at wrong stops to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

This being his first strike, he likely shouldn’t expect much attention from either side of the law, yet. Drilling this kind of preparation was just keeping him ready for when he wouldn’t be just paranoid. He took his time counting the money in the clip he lifted off of Coglione. Nice. Easily two thousand bucks. This would help.

For most people this would be the end, vengeance had, justice served, call it a life. But for Johnny, this was the beginning. He was bringing down the whole thing and no one could stop him. Or so he thought….