American Criminal (34 page)

    Burnside finished a second cigarette by the time the Hummer reached the twisting canyon road that led to the mansion. Another half cigarette and they were there. Burnside had never been into chain-smoking, but after what he had been through, it seemed like the only way to take the edge off. He wasn’t feeling good about being forced to kill so many people. He kept expecting to be struck down by God at any moment, and he felt relieved when it didn’t happen. Despite the guilt, he was happy to be alive. He knew it could have easily gone the other way.

    Guido parked in front of the mansion at the top of the hill and they exited the Hummer. Ray and Tommy helped Joe out and guided him up the stairs while Guido held the door. Joe was able to limp forward on his one good leg as Ray and Tommy held him up. They led him into the large foyer where they were greeted by the youthful butler.

    “We need some medical assistance,” Burnside stated the obvious.

    “Sure, come this way,” the butler said, leading them down the hall.

    They took a right into a spare bedroom and Joe lied down on the bed. He grunted as his ankle brushed the mattress.

    “I’ll get the doc,” the butler said as he exited the room.

    “Hey, brother, how about another cigarette?” Joe asked.

    “No problem,” Burnside said, producing one from his pocket and handing it to Joe.

    Joe put the cigarette in his mouth and Burnside lit it. Joe inhaled deeply and blew out a thin, gray cloud of smoke.

    “You did a helluva job today, hotshot,” Joe said to Burnside.

    “I appreciate that,” Ray said, lighting up his own cigarette. Ray blew out smoke and turned to look for Tommy. Tommy was gone.

    “Hey, where did Tommy go? He was right here a second ago.”

    “He must be meeting with the Boss,” Joe said, taking another drag from his cigarette.

    “Do we have to meet with the Boss too?” Burnside asked.

    “No, you just chill out for now, hotshot,” Joe said, grinning. “When he wants you, you’ll know it.”

    Burnside nodded at the gangster and took another drag. Tendrils of thin, gray smoke drifted in the air like mist through a rainforest.

    A short, thin, balding man wearing horn-rimmed glasses entered the room carrying a black briefcase. Burnside thought he looked more like a golfer than a doctor with his tan khaki shorts and light blue button-down shirt.

    “Who are
you
?” the doctor asked Burnside, warily.

    “Ray Burnside.”

    “You have to leave.”

    “No problem.”

    The doctor slammed the door shut as Burnside left the room. Ray figured the doc must be slightly paranoid about his unofficial mafia house call. Ray sauntered down the hall toward the foyer, smoking. He exited the front door and stood in the driveway, gazing out at the dark canyon. It was still night and he could see house lights gleaming at the summit of the cliffs opposite the road. The black road twisted its way through the canyon like a massive python. It was empty of traffic. Burnside smoked and thought about the bizarre events he had been dragged into. He was in so deep now, he didn’t know if he could get out if he wanted to. He just had to ride it out and see what happened.

    Burnside heard the door open behind him and saw Tommy poke his head out.

    “Burnside, the Boss wants to see you.”         

    “Sure,” Ray said, dropping his cigarette and stamping it out on the pavement.

    He followed Tommy into the house. They retraced their steps from the day before and arrived at the large dining room with the wall-length picture window looking out at the canyon. The corpulent mafia boss, Johnny Michaelitsi, sat in the same chair as before at the end of the long executive-style table, smoking a cigar.

    “You can go now, Tommy,” Michaelitsi said.

    Tommy turned and left the room.

    “Have a seat,” the boss said.

    Burnside sat down in a chair placed at the center of the table, leaving some room between himself and the mafia boss.

    “Would you like a cigar?” Michaelitsi asked.

    “No thanks.”

    The mafia
Capo
sat smoking and staring at Burnside. Burnside stared back. After an awkward amount of time, the boss spoke.

    “I don’t know what to make of you, Burnside. You’re an ex-con who fights like a soldier. Were you in the military?”

    “Something like that,” Burnside replied.

    “Something like what?” the boss asked.

    “I was a member of a paramilitary organization,” Ray said.

    “Can I inquire which one?”

    “As long as you keep it between us.”

    “Done.”

    “I was on the NYPD.”

    Michaelitsi’s eyes widened as he froze with his cigar halfway to his lips. Then, unexpectedly, his massive body started quivering as he emitted a deep, bellowing laugh. He got himself under control and took another drag from his cigar.

    “Well that takes the cake. A fucking ex-cop,” the boss said.

    “I worked part-time on the tactical team, so I learned how to handle weapons.”

    “Very nice. No wonder you don’t want the other guys to know. It’s probably no surprise to you that they don’t like cops very much.”

    “I would imagine so,” Ray said.

    “Myself, I’m not prejudiced,” Michaelitsi said, grinning. “I’m an opportunist. I’m also sophisticated enough to appreciate what a man of your talents can do for our organization.”

    “I appreciate that.”

    “I’m sure you do,” the boss said. “Tommy told me about the mission. He told me you were - how did he put it? Integral. That’s it. He said you were integral to its success. I asked him to elaborate and he tells me about a crazy maneuver you pulled that turned the whole thing around. Needless to say, I was surprised. I knew you were a mean-as-hell ex-con, but I didn’t realize you had combat skills. What a bonus for us.” Michaelitsi paused to take a drag from his cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke, which hovered over the table. His eyes narrowed. “Over the years, I’ve developed a certain management style,” the boss continued. “I find that it’s essential to reward good performance. That’s why I’m giving you this.”

    The mafia boss reached his pudgy hands inside the open briefcase and pulled out a wad of bills.

    “There’s fifty hundreds in a stack,” the boss said, sliding a stack of bills down the table to Burnside.

    Burnside picked up the stack of bills and examined it.
     

    “Five grand?” Burnside asked. “That can’t be right.”

    “It’s right,” the boss said, blowing smoke across the table. “That’s the standard payment for a high-risk assignment. I’m not done with you yet though.” Michaelitsi reached into the open briefcase again, pulled out another wad of bills, and slid it down the table.

    Burnside picked it up and saw the top bill was a fifty. He skimmed through the money as if it was a pack of playing cards and saw that all the bills were fifties. The second stack was the same height of the first.

    “Another five grand? For one job?” Burnside asked, stunned.

    “The first five grand is your payment for the job and the second five is your bonus,” Michaelitsi said. “Tommy said the mission would have failed without your participation and I think that deserves a bonus, don’t you?”

    “Sure,” Ray said holding a wad of bills in each hand and staring at them with wide eyes as if he still couldn’t believe it.

    “When Joe recovers, he’s going to be your immediate supervisor,” the boss said. “Until then, Tommy will get you started and assign you jobs. For now, until you get to know the area, you’ll be tagging along with him. When you get used to doing jobs, then you can go solo.” Michaelitsi paused to take a drag from his cigar. “Tomorrow, we’ll make you a fake California driver’s license that you can use as your ID. We’ll also give you a fake social security number. You can crash here for now in one of the empty guest rooms upstairs. If you get tired of living with a bunch of yahoos and want to get your own place, you’ll need a bank account and a credit card for your background check. I suggest you apply for both online ASAP and use this house as your address. We have a laptop computer in every guest room, so you can use that to get online. That should get you started.”

    Burnside didn’t know what to say. He never expected the situation to work out this well. He simply hadn’t thought this far ahead. Before, he just wanted to make it out of the mission alive. These guys were going to create a new identity for him. He had a place to stay and ten grand to spend. He was out of prison. It didn’t get any better than this.

    “Mr. Michaelitsi, I don’t know what to say,” Burnside said, placing a wad of bills in each pocket. “This is an incredibly generous offer.”

    “No problem, Burnside,” the boss said, grinning. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. A fucking New York cop. I thought I had seen everything.” Michaelitsi paused to take a drag from his cigar. “As far as getting started, if you open a bank account, make sure you never put more than two grand in it so no one will get suspicious. We have a locked safe in the basement you can use to store your money if you don’t feel comfortable carrying it around. Talk to Tommy if you’re interested. You can use the basement kitchen any time. There are two big fridges and a walk-in freezer downstairs – stocked with enough food to feed an army. You can use the pool in back any time you want – day or night. Same goes for the widescreen TVs in the basement living area, although the guest rooms are already equipped with decent TVs. Any questions?”

    “I don’t think so.”

    “Okay then. Go relax. Tommy will fill you in on your next assignment tomorrow.   Welcome aboard.”

    “One more question,” Burnside said, narrowing his eyes. “There’s something I want to take care of as soon as possible to minimize the risk of getting caught and sent back to prison.”

    “Okay, shoot,” the boss said, blowing out smoke.

    “How much does plastic surgery cost?”
 

    Burnside was able to get a basic plastic surgery job - that subtly altered the contours of his face - for $9451. He received cheek implants for $2840, a chin augmentation for $2254, and a rhinoplasty (nose job) for $4,357. He used the first payment the boss gave him to pay for it. Ray had an ID, a bank account, and a credit card, so he was able to use a legitimate plastic surgeon rather than a mob-only doctor.

    The doc borrowed some extra skin from his forehead to give him more pronounced cheekbones, a wider chin, and a slightly larger nose. Ray thought it was just enough of a change to make him unrecognizable to anyone who knew him before. Ray also darkened his hair from brown to black and grew a goatee that he thought made him resemble a movie villain. He kept his hair short – though not quite as short as when he was a
Skinhead
in prison
. 

    During his first two weeks at the mansion, Ray relaxed by catching up on TV shows he missed while in prison. His favorite shows were
the Shield
and
Prison Break.
The Shield reminded him of Pierce and Devlin: the corrupt cops he was planning to kill as soon as he got the chance.

    Ray talked to Tommy about a transfer to NYC, and Tommy explained that he had to put in at least a year’s work in LA first. That was no problem for Ray. He had waited this long and another year wouldn’t matter. If anything, he would be able to gain more skills that might be helpful in his confrontation with his former “friends.”

    Ray made effective use of the fully equipped gymnasium in the basement of the mansion to keep in shape. He followed up his workouts with laps in the backyard pool. He wasn’t used to working out with state-of-the-art equipment, but he quickly became accustomed to it. Sometimes, he thought about Devlin and Pierce when he was bench-pressing, and he wasn’t sure he could do another rep. It always worked. A muscular Italian kid named Johnny, who lived down the hall from him, spotted him sometimes. 

    Burnside went on his first job during week three. It was easy enough. He and Tommy shook down a lowlife for some outstanding gambling debts. Luckily, they didn’t have to kill him. After giving the loser a severe beat-down, the guy paid up. Tommy let Ray do most of the work. Ray was still wearing the bandages from plastic surgery, but he didn’t let that slow him down. Tommy’s only contribution was to kick the deadbeat in the gut after he was already down. Tommy told Ray, “R.H.I.P.” or “Rank Has Its Privileges.” Ray told him that was fine because he was starting to get soft hanging around the mansion watching TV and smoking anyway.

    During week four, the bandages came off and Tommy and Ray visited some local Laundromats to shake down the owners for protection money. Before the “high risk” mission a month earlier, the laundry owners had been paying protection to the Triads. Now there were not enough Triads left to collect. The LA Mob had made simultaneous hits on a number of Triad strongholds in conjunction with their original money and drug operation.

    Everything went smoothly until halfway through week five. One of the Laundromat owners refused to pay. The owner said he would only pay the Triads. Tommy and Ray took him out back and convinced him that the Triads weren’t coming back to collect any time soon. After his left eye was swollen shut and his cheek turned purple, the owner became convinced.

    The action escalated during week six. Michaelitsi had organized another of what he referred to as a “high risk” mission. They hit an armored truck as it cut through a back alley before it could deliver its payload to a bank. The mission went smoothly and they didn’t have to shoot either of the guards.

    Ray cut the armored truck off with the black Hummer, while the gray Hummer blocked the rear. Ray and Tommy popped out of the black Hummer pointing M-16 rifles with attached grenade launchers at the truck’s windshield. It was bulletproof, but not grenade proof. The guards were smart. They exited the vehicle and dropped their weapons. If they resisted, Ray’s instructions were to step back a hundred feet and blow out the windshield.

    During week seven, Ray and Tommy collected more protection money; this time they hit up all the local pawnshops. Ray thought they must have hit over a hundred pawnshops in LA alone. He never knew LA had that many pawnshops. He couldn’t believe the obscene amount of money they collected.

    Ray found week eight a bit more challenging. Their job was to eliminate the manager of a Mob-owned cell phone dealer who was skimming off the top. The LA Mob hated to be ripped off. Tommy and Ray followed the manager to his beautiful home in the Valley and shot him in his driveway. A cluster of trees obscured the closest neighbors and they used silencers, so it was quiet and quick. Ray had a hard time with that one. Although he and Tommy had both pulled the trigger and the guy would have died with or without his help, he was still a part of it. Ray rationalized that the guy knew the risks when he joined the Mob and decided to steal money from them.

    Then the nightmares came. Ray woke up screaming in the middle of the night. He dreamed he was back in prison; this time it was for murder. Three guards escorted him to the electric chair and strapped him in. Then, they lit him up. The dream was vivid and he imagined he could feel electricity burning his skin like napalm. That’s when he woke up screaming.

    The young butler and the Italian kid, Johnny, from the down the hall showed up at his room and knocked on the door to see if he was okay. He was embarrassed to answer it and explain that it was just a nightmare. If that had been the end of it, he would have been fine. But that wasn’t the end of it. It happened every night. Pretty soon, the butler and everyone else living on the second floor got used to it happening every night. Burnside was embarrassed as hell, but there was nothing he could do about it.

    The nightmares inspired Ray to find his own apartment. After working for the LA Mob for two months, he had enough money saved up to pay his first and last month’s rent, and then some. He rented a two-story, fully furnished condo-style apartment downtown. It even had a gym and an indoor pool, so he could continue working out and doing laps. He still woke up in the middle of the night screaming, but the walls were thick and none of the neighbors complained.

    Ray also bought a car. He thought about buying something sporty like Tommy’s red Lamborghini, but he didn’t want to attract any extra attention to himself. He ended up buying a brand-new, gray Toyota Celica. He paid for it with cash. It was the first time he ever bought a car without putting it on a payment plan.

    Ray was making good money and he wasn’t being overworked. He averaged one job a week and spent the rest of his time working out, doing laps, exploring LA, and relaxing in his condo. A typical job netted him a thousand dollars, so he was essentially “earning” a thousand dollars a week. He even paid taxes by using his fake identity and social security number. That way the IRS wouldn’t investigate his bank account, although he never kept more than $5000 in it like the boss told him to. Ray was listed on the mob’s payroll as a “personal trainer.”

    “High risk” jobs netted him five thousand a pop – just like the first one. He hated the high-risk jobs, but he liked the paychecks. The more people he hurt, the worse his nightmares became. They were starting to interfere with his life, but he didn’t know what to do about it. It was getting so he never slept through the night and woke up every two hours. He watched TV or surfed the computer until he felt tired again and then went back to sleep. He averaged about four hours of sleep a night and started taking naps in the afternoon to supplement his energy.    

    Now that he was settled in his own place and felt safe, Ray became restless. He continued to do jobs, but something was gnawing at him; something was missing. It wasn’t until Tommy invited him out clubbing that he realized what he was missing: women. He was so wrapped up in survival mode and making money, he had forgotten he was still a man with needs.

    Ray shaved off his goatee, slicked back his hair with gel, and bought some new clothes. He was surprised when the “club” that Tommy took him to turned out to be a strip club, but then he decided it was the perfect place to get some practice. After more than two years without the company of women, he was getting rusty. His equipment still worked, but he was not used to flirting and having conversations.

    The high-class strip club,
Top Models,
was just what the doctor ordered to cure Ray’s reticence with women. Being in good shape, good-looking, and most importantly having plenty of money, he had no problem attracting the attention of the hottest women in the “club.” He quickly made up for lost time in prison by spending most of his free time in the infamous “champagne room” at the back of the club.

    Ray quickly discovered that his new hobby was highly addictive and even worse – highly expensive. He found himself blowing through substantial amounts of money he had accumulated by doing bad deeds for the mob. When he discovered he was broke, he knew something had to change.