The Bagman

Chapter 2
Calling The Bagman

Chapter Description: In which we meet the Dons of the other Families and the Bagman himself.

The Bagman Chapter 2: Calling the Bagman

The house was still. It was pristine. It was immaculate. It wasn’t too big or too small. The light tan Berber carpet perfectly complimented the white walls. The denim blue couch and brown Lay-Z-Boy Recliner faced the moderately sized television. It gave it a lived in, but sanitary look.

The bathrooms were all clean. You wouldn’t know that the toilets had ever been pissed in. There was a guest room with some overly decorated furniture; the kind of guest room that never gets guests. Pictures of other people’s families lined the wall of the staircase. A well maintained, but never used home gym was near the back, with an in-home office just a hallway away.

The basement…well let’s not talk about the basement. Let’s just say there was a reason there was a magnetic lock and soundproof insulation. Just by looking at this place, you wouldn’t think anything remarkable or out of the ordinary went on here. And its sole occupant preferred it that way.

The phone rang. Not just any phone-the white telephone with the old fashioned rotary dialer. The phone that never made outgoing calls, and for some reason changed it’s number after every incoming call, so you could never call twice unless the owner wanted you to.

A black leather clad hand picked up the receiver, and brought it to the owner’s ear. The owner said nothing. He simply listened, nodded as though the shaking voice on the other end could see him, and hung up when he was done.

The figure walked to the basement door and grabbed a bag hanging from a hook. It was a satchel really- black and leather just like his gloves-his tool kit. He checked through it to make sure he had everything: Bottles and containers, gags and tranquilizers, reagents and ingredients, things to contain messes, things to clean them up, a few nasty surprises just in case. All there. The basics anyway.

He’d need to go down into the basement sooner or later, but that could wait. He walked over to the front door, donned his fedora, and shuffled out the door into the night air. The cab was already waiting for him, even though no one had called for a pickup.

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“Why the fuck are we here?” Donnie Cazzo wondered aloud to himself. “This can’t wait till morning?”

“One ‘a the heads of the five got blown up tonight,” his buddy Tommy told him. “They’re prolly lookin’ to see who dun it an den chop up da territory.”

Donnie Cazzo and his buddy Tommy were nobodies; they were soldiers, glorified thugs, looking to make their way up in the Families. Tommy was a dumb ass. He wasn‘t going no where, but Donnie was gonna go all the way to the top; he just knew it. He just had to wait and show everybody else so they knew it too. So for now he used his muscle to make himself useful and waited till some of the high rollers would really need his brains.

He wasn’t bitching just to bitch, he wanted to see who was listening. Squeaky wheel gets the grease, and then they’d ask him why he was bitching, and he‘d tell them, showing his keen intellect and reasonable business instinct. Yeah, one of the big Don’s died. He was sloppy and careless. That’s why all the others should be hunkering down, not out in the open like this. Donnie had it all figured out.

“The Open”, in this case was a cleared out warehouse off of the docks. Which docks? Fuck you, that‘s which docks. You know any more about this, and the last thing you see is the inside of a trunk.

Dons of the remaining Four Families of New York were already there, sitting at a plane wooden table that had been set out for them. This was an emergency meeting and it was no time for luxuries.

Don Alphonse Mezzanotte sat at the head of the table. He had the most influence in the city, even before Coglione bit the dust. He had chosen the last five mayors of New York, yet implications of election rigging and voter fraud had never even made it past the accusation stage. At a little over 40 years old, Don Mezzanotte had never even seen the inside of a courtroom.

Tonight as always, he was dressed in black. No one had ever seen him wear any other color. Even his eyes were black. He had to be dying his hair by now, but his face had an ageless, almost supernatural quality about it. His thin black mustache made him look like classic depictions of the Devil.

To Don Mezzanotte’s right was Donato Leone, the Young Prince of the Five Families. Donato was on the better side of 30, and had taken the reins of the Leones after his father lost a battle with cancer. It was tragic, Donato assured everyone. The Leone’s were the premier smugglers in the North East, and Canada, and expanding their operation to the Eastern Seaboard. New York was their nesting grounds.

Their clientele were fewer, but with much more expensive tastes. Rich people paid a lot of money for pet tigers, Cuban cigars, fine cocaine, ivory, and little boys. “Prince” Donato made sure that every need and desire was met to his customer‘s satisfaction. Soon enough, he’d have enough records to go into blackmailing and New York‘s Merchant Prince would become the Prince of Truth and Lies.

Always fashionable, his gold hair was slicked back and his beard was neatly trimmed. Even his blue Armani suit though put on hastily fit him like a second skin without a wrinkle or blemish on the fabric.

Across from Don Leone sat Giovanni Canecattivo, the “Mad Dog”. Even in a three piece suit, he still looked like a greasy sleaze ball. Those with the balls to whisper such thing said that he had Gypsy stock in his family. Regardless, he was proof that money couldn’t buy class.

Don Canecattivo had experienced the American dream. He climbed up the ladder from being a simple drug dealer to being the Head of his own family. He left a trail of dead bodies in his wake and caused a bloody gang war to do it, but he did it. There were certain rules when conducting business that respectable gentlemen did not break. Not being a respectable gentleman, the Mad Dog had broken at least half of them. He was only welcome because he had agreed to change his business tactics in return for recognition. Now his profits were halved, but he was recognized as a “legitimate” Mafioso.

Finally, at the end of the table, sat Alberto Zecchino. Zecchino was a coward. For years he had been trying to go “Legit.”, but never fully committed, being afraid to cut ties. Now he was the main money launderer to the Families, with his soldiers- what few of them there were- running protection, insurance scams, and gambling. It was a shame when such a once proud family’s main source of income was white collar crime. Yuppies on Wall Street did the same sort of thing…the kind of people who thought they were better than you.

Frankly, any of the other Families could have taken him and his boys out. But Zecchino was good with money and figures. The glorified banker knew where all of their money was. If he died, all of the money he handled might suddenly vanish. So he was allowed his seat at the table in spite of being a spineless wimp.

So he sat at the end of the table, as far away as possible while still remaining respectful. His salt and pepper hair was combed messily and the gray suit that he had first put on this morning looked disheveled.

“What are we doing here?” Giovanni Canecattivo growled like his nickname. “Some little shit blew Coglione up, who cares?” He waved his hand in dismissal, before rapidly scratching his stubbled jaw. Donnie figured that would happen. The Mad Dog and the Jerk were rivals, with Coglione being Canecattivo’s only real competition in the city in terms of drug distribution. The Mad Dog would shed no tears tonight.

“Giovanni,” Don Mezzanotte chided, “I would hope you would show more respect for the dead than that. We are convening to discuss our next steps. Vincenzo’s killer cannot go unpunished.”

“My apologies, Alphonse,” Donato broke in, “but I do not believe we all share your concerns. It’s known that Vincenzo was your friend and mentor, but not all of us have such emotional ties.” He smiled an elegant smile, a practiced smile. Then he had the decency to turn it upside down and sympathetically shake his head. “I am sorry for your loss, truly I am. But what does this have to do with us?”

“We can’t afford to look weak,” Alberto Zecchino answered, his arms crossed and his eyes darting from side to side. “If one of us dies, it makes the rest of us look vulnerable. If we look vulnerable we are vulnerable. Vulnerable people die…they die. ” He broke out into a cold sweat. It was definitely about time for him to retire.

“Alberto is correct. We can’t allow someone from outside the Families to attack Bosses and made men. That is,” Mezzanotte continued, “assuming it was someone from outside the families.” All eyes were on Giovanni.

“What?” Giovanni asked. “You think I did it? Yeah, I hated Coglione’s guts, but I wouldn’t have blown him up.”

“Isn’t that what you did to your last, ahem, rival?” Donato asked. “Please excuse me if I‘m not convinced that this is beyond you.” He leaned back in his chair.

“That was before I was at the top.” Giovanni Canecattivo replied. “Now the rules are in my favor. I’ve got a lot more to lose if I break them.”

“Giovanni’s correct in this,” Don Mezzanote spoke up. “I would like to think that we’re more civilized than to break our code of conduct; and that if we weren’t we’d at least be quiet about it. Blowing up an entire restaurant. That’s going to make things more difficult for all of us.”

“So what do we do?” Zechino asked nervously, his eyes still darting.

“We make a statement”, Mezzanotte answered decisively.

“You don’t mean-?” Giovanni sat up straight.

“I do,” Mezzanotte answered. “We hire the Bagman.”

Everyone new who the Bagman was. He was a bogey man, THE bogey man of organized crime. When cops wanted to scare each other, they told stories of crimes they’d witnessed, scenes of murders and rapes. When wise guys wanted to keep each other up at night, they’d tell Bagman stories.

The Bagman was legendary, a hitman’s hitman. He only took hits on people within a Family or crime syndicate. Yakuza, Triad, Russian, Jew, Italian, Irish; it didn’t matter. The only rule is, you never hired him to take out someone from another organization. He was a punishment reserved for fuckups and traitors, and only the ones that you had no further use for.

A few he left alive as an example. All agreed that they were better off dead. Most just disappeared-gone. No body, no crime scene, no nothing. Literally disappeared into thin air. If you called the Bagman, you were inviting a monster into your house, hoping it wouldn’t take an interest in you.

“Who’s going to call him?” Zecchino shifted in his seat.

“I’ve already been called”, a gravely voice echoed throughout the warehouse. Donnie raised his gun and aimed into the shadows. “Don’t bother, kid, or you’ll be dead before you run out of ammo.” the voice echoed in response.

“Relax, Mr. Cazzo,” Don Mezzanotte told Donnie. “Regardless of how he slipped by you, the Bagman was invited.”

Shadows took shape as the figure stepped out of the darkness. He was fat, with his belly hanging over his relaxed fit slacks. His cheeks were puffy and his eyes were sunken in and had bags under them like he hadn‘t slept in weeks. His stringy grey hair reeked of sweat like it hadn‘t been washed in months. The cheap black fedora that he wore over it looked like it hadn’t been washed ever. This was the Bagman?!

He wore a grey button up shirt, and a black duster that reeked of a thousand cigarettes. He walked with a slight waddle up to the table. Over his shoulder, he carried a bag, more like a satchel really…or a purse. The thing even smelled faintly of perfume. The Bagman carried a purse! Wait till the fellas heard this! This guy has got to be more myth than legend, lookin’ like this, and carrying a purse. He looked like a friggin’ toad!

“Who is it this time?” the Bagman croaked out, his voice scratched from a lifetime of cigarettes and booze.

“Don Coglione’s, dead,” Mezzanotte answered. “We want you to take care of his assassin.”

“Name?” the toad asked. There was silence. All four men looked down at the table.

“We…don’t know.” Zecchino finally sputtered out. The Bagman looked them over.

“You expect me to do extra leg work?” the Bagman accused the assembled group.

“Couldn’t hurt, he might lose a couple pounds,” Donnie sniggered to his buddy Tommy.

“No name? Nothing?” the Bagman continued, apparently not noticing Donnie’s dig at him. “How do you know this isn’t war?”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Donato Leone spoke up, “but we have reason to believe there’s a traitor in our organization. No outsider could ever have gotten that close. Even if they could have, they would have let us know it was them.” The fat man stared at them, arms at his side. Whether he was taking time to think, or just breaking wind was anyone’s guess.

“Quadruple my usual fee… from all of you.” he finally rasped out. None of the Dons said a word. “Double my usual fee because of Coglione, and double that because I have to get the name myself. You get me a name before I do, and I’ll knock it back down to double.” They looked at each other, each silently nodding their consent, then passing it on to the man that they called. “Any problems with this? No? Good.”

The fat man turned his back on the table and walked to the front door. He brushed shoulders with Donnie. Donnie almost fell over, but not from the force, from the stench. Did this guy ever bathe? Donnie breathed out a sigh of relief when the stench had passed.

“One more thing,” the Bagman said, suddenly right by Donnie. “Your name’s Cazzo, right?”

“Yeah,” Donnie nodded, “Donnie Cazzo. What’s it to ya?” he snarled at the old, fat bastard. The Bagman put his hand on Donnie’s shoulder. Ewww, he was touching him! Donnie shuddered.

“I’m so SORRY to hear about your erectile dysfunction, Donnie Cazzo.” The Bagman spoke . “I’m so SORRY to hear about your bowels, Donnie Cazzo. I’m so SORRY to hear about your hair, Donnie Cazzo.” Then he took his hands off Donnie, and walked out again.

“The hell was that all about?” Donnie asked Tommy. Suddenly, Donnie felt cramps hit him in a tidal wave. Pressure was building up, and Donnie was doubled over in pain. Before he knew it, shit was rolling down his leg.

“FUUUUCK!” he cursed, pulling his hair in frustration. Donnie was greeted with the sight of his once beautiful hair in his hands as it started to fall out in clumps.