Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror (33 page)

They
walked for a while away from the busy center of town, and Harry
wondered where Fife was taking her. Suddenly the pair came to a halt
up ahead, and he ducked into a doorway to stay out of sight. He
watched carefully as Maggie leaned towards Fife and whispered
something to him, then pulled away, holding his gaze. Fife smiled—
that predator’s smile Harry had seen earlier. Maggie grabbed
his hands and pulled him gently towards the alleyway they had stopped
in front of. Harry’s heart raced and he could feel the blood
surging through his veins as he licked his lips.

Ok,
Harry, let’s put an end this.

He
inched his way towards the entrance of the alleyway, his senses
suddenly acute, aware of everything going on around him. He peeked
around the corner expecting to see them, but there was nothing. The
alley extended for around thirty feet and then turned sharply to the
left. He was about to proceed, when he heard a noise ahead; a grunt
from around the corner. He walked slowly down the alley on legs that
felt like they were made of rubber, careful to stay in the shadows.
He took the knife from his pocket, holding it tightly in his right
hand as he inched across the wall. He was now at the turn of the
corner, and could hear them grunting and fumbling in the shadows. He
closed his eyes, a single tear rolling down his cheek, and turned the
corner.

So
much blood.

Harry
blinked as his brain tried to process the violence in front of him.
His wife’s eyes stared blankly, devoid of any semblance of life
as the eight inch serrated knife fell to the ground. It was at that
point as he watched it come to rest on a pile of soggy, slick
entrails that he felt something in his mind snap. He tried to speak,
but instead only smacked his lips, a strange gurgling sound welling
up from inside. He was sure he could have controlled it, had she not
chosen that moment to speak. Her tone was both an accusation and a
question—pleading and angry. It was that one word that sent him
over the edge.

“
Harry?”

As
he turned and vomited noisily, he wondered how this could have
happened, how his life could come to this.

Fife
was sitting on the ground, his legs splayed apart, his stomach and
internal organs pooled around him. His eyes stared lifelessly
downward, his chin resting on his chest as Maggie crouched beside
him, her own knife jammed deeply in his throat.

Maggie
stood defiantly, pulling the knife free with a wet crunch as she now
stared at Harry. He searched her eyes for anything, any semblance of
the woman he had loved, but saw only darkness there. She walked
towards him slowly, smiling without humor as she lifted the blade.

“
Close
your eyes, Harry,” she said seductively. Too shocked to do
anything but cooperate, Harry did as he was told. Finally, he
understood. Fife’s words echoed back to him from their earlier
conversation.

‘
Did
you see the news tonight? Police found another body. That’s
seven now. Someone out there is on a spree.’

“
Yes
they are,” Harry said under his breath.

He
could smell her now—the expensive perfume mingled with the wet
copper smell of blood. He felt his bladder let go and prayed it would
be quick.

Mallone’s
restaurant was located in the centre of New York’s Mulberry
Street. Known as Little Italy, it was once a thriving neighbourhood
of authentic Italian restaurants and stores, but since the influx of
Chinese immigrants, neighbouring Chinatown had begun to grow and over
time had absorbed much of Little Italy. Now only Mulberry Street
remained—a single row of fine Italian restaurants determined to
keep the tradition alive. Mallone's was quaint, with warm red brick
walls and large plate glass windows across its front. Their menu
boasted the finest Italian meals in the city, and to those who dined
there its reputation was entirely justified. A red white and green
awning fluttered above the door, and the hand painted sign, which
read simply
Mallone’s
in large red writing, had been the same since the fifties. On any
given evening, the restaurant was a hive of activity, with tourists
and locals alike keen to sample their excellent menu of traditional
dishes. The daylight hours were quiet, and it was during this time
that Victor Mallone ran his other business.

He sat at his private table at the back of the
restaurant flanked by his personal bodyguards. Even though the only
other people in the place were the waiting staff, already preparing
for the evening rush of customers, he had learned not to take any
chances. As the staff polished silverware and changed the red and
white patchwork tablecloths, Victor ate his lunch, slobbering and
grunting as he shovelled the Cannelloni down his immense gullet.

At three hundred and seventy pounds, he was the largest
of the Mallone family, and also considered himself the smartest. The
oldest of three brothers, his siblings had fared worse than he had.
Joey, the youngest, was serving a twenty-year stretch for armed
robbery and murder. His other brother, Salvatore, was never cut out
to be a leader, and worked as his head of security. Victor glanced at
himself in the mirror that ran down the side of the restaurant and
smiled at the reach of his power. He was large and flabby, with
thinning, greasy black hair he wore swept back and down to his
shoulders. His eyes were small and piggish but incredibly cruel, and
he had the hooked nose inherited from his father, Tino.

Tino had introduced Victor to the world of organised
crime when he was only a teenager. At first it was just simple
entry-level stuff. Money laundering, protection rackets and the like.
But Victor had taken to it like a duck to water, and from those
humble beginnings, he began to position himself to take over the
Mallone family. Whilst his brothers were out chasing women and
drinking, he was working closely with his father and getting his
hands dirty, proving he was cut out for the job. He already had
aspirations of his own, but they would have to wait until the old man
finally decided to die or retire.

Victor eventually got sick of waiting, and in the spring
of 94’ he smothered his frail old father as he slept. Nobody
questioned the circumstances of his death—no one dared. Finally
Victor had what he wanted. He was in control.

Over the next seventeen years he expanded the family
business, turning a small operation into a sprawling and feared
empire. Not content with protection rackets and money laundering,
Victor had stepped up to drug smuggling, prostitution rings,
extortion, kidnapping and contract killings. The business that
initially turned over eight hundred grand a year, now turned over
almost five times that amount, and there was no shortage of
customers. Over the years, Victor had dealt with all manner of
people, from all walks of life, who needed a little help here and
there. Be it the woman who came to him looking to buy an American
baby with no questions asked, or the lovers who wanted to rid the
world of their respective spouses, or the crazy old recycling couple
who wanted help getting away with murder. As long as they had the
cash, they were all the same to Victor. He asked no questions.
Everyone knew that Victor was a man without conscience, without
morals, and without the capacity to forgive. And although he had
homes in Madrid, Sicily, and Southern France, he chose to stay here
in New York, close to the roots of his businesses. It was to show he
had no fear of living down on street level with minimal protection
(or at least to make it appear so). But the flipside was that it also
made him a target. Several attempts had been made on his life, and
apart from a narrow escape in the early part of ‘02, Victor was
always one-step ahead of his enemies.

He finished his meal and let out a huge belch as
Salvatore hurried out of the kitchen, wringing his hands. He was
skinny with tight, drawn in features and prominent cheekbones. Like
Victor, he had inherited his father’s thin hair, and was
completely bald apart from a stubborn ring of black hair around the
back of his head.

“
Victor,
I need to talk to you.”

Victor motioned for him to sit as he wiped his mouth
with a napkin.

“
What
is it, Sal?”

“
More
trouble with the Chinaman. He plugged Crespo.”

Victor tossed his napkin down in disgust. The Chinaman
was Wang Li, a thorn in Victor’s side for the past seven years.
Their paths had crossed many times, as they often found themselves
with their fingers in the same lucrative pies. Like Victor, Wang Li
was willing to do whatever it took to be successful. But whereas
Victor was very much a public figure, Wang Li was something of a
recluse and was rarely seen outside of his fortress like home above
the restaurant he owned in Chinatown. People feared Wang Li just as
much as they feared Victor, and since leaving such a rival alive was
unwise, Victor had put a bounty on the Chinaman's head for fifty
grand.

The first to try was a Russian contract killer called
Valuev. He came highly recommended to Victor as a man who could get
the job done. Three days later Victor received a package in the mail
containing Valuev’s severed head. Others tried, but had also
either turned up in pieces or just disappeared altogether. The bounty
on the Chinaman was now at an even two million dollars, but there had
been no takers for almost two years. Word had spread of those who
went before.

“
Crespo?
Ah, he was a nobody anyway. No loss.” He said this with a
dismissive wave of his hand, but inwardly he was furious. Crespo was
a major player in the weapons smuggling branch of Victor’s
business, and this was a terrible blow to that particular revenue
stream.

“
That’s
not all. The Chinaman wants to meet you.”

Victor felt a rare flash of fear, which he masked with a
smile.

“
I
bet he does. Then what? An ambush? Does he think I was born
yesterday?”

“
Word
on the street is he’s sick—that he wants out. Wants to
end his days back in his homeland.”

“
In
my experience, Sal, the word on the street isn’t worth spit.”

“
I
thought so too, but he sent this.”

Salvatore reached into the pocket of his jacket and took
out a DVD.

“
It’s
from him. I mean it’s
personally
from him.”

This was intriguing. Despite their on-going dispute,
Victor had never actually seen the Chinaman. He turned the clear DVD
case in his pudgy hands and considered his options.

“
What
are you thinking, Vic?”

“
Let’s
watch it and see what the old bastard has to say. Be in my office in
an hour. And keep this quiet, Sal.”

“
No
problem. I’ll see you up at the house.”

The two brothers shook hands and Salvatore left. Victor
wondered just what the Chinaman was up to. In his
experience, people always had an angle, and rarely did anything
unless they stood to gain something. He checked his watch, and right
on cue the door to the restaurant opened and a man walked in for his
appointment. He was one of Victor’s best, a real hard-ass with
a vicious mean streak. He nodded to Victor and sat at the table
opposite, hands folded on the tabletop.

“
Alex,
it’s good to see you.”

“
Mr.
Mallone.”

Cold. To the point. He was in the zone and ready to
work. Victor wished he had more men like Alex. He briefly considered
giving his assignment to someone else and bringing him in for the
Chinaman situation, but Tony Valentine had been ducking his loan
repayments for too long and Victor needed someone who could get the
point across.

“
I
want you to do something for me, Alex. I want you to go visit Tony
Valentine and get me my money. Whatever he doesn’t have in
cash, I want you to bring back in body parts.”

“
How
far would you like me to go, Mr. Mallone?”

“
Don’t
kill him. Just make sure the lesson sticks.

“
Understood.
Where does he live?”

Victor handed over a folded slip of paper with the
address scrawled on it.

“
You
are a great asset to my business, Alex.”

“
Thank
you, Mr. Mallone,” came the cold reply.

Victor nodded and was grateful to have someone so
professional on his side. As the man left, Victor turned his
attention back to the DVD, which sat beside his empty plate. This
Chinaman business bothered him, but he was curious to see how it
would play out. He slid out of his chair with some effort, and
snatched up the DVD.

“
Take
me to the house,” he barked at the two men flanking the table
who hurried on ahead of him. One opened the passenger door as the
other rushed to the driver’s side of the bottle green ’63
Rolls Royce. Victor waddled out of the restaurant and clambered into
the back of the car. He thought he might take a vacation soon, he was
feeling drained and could do with a break. Stifling a yawn, he closed
his eyes and dozed for the twenty-minute journey to his house.