Morty “The Butcher” spread his arms. The shaved gorilla patting him down plucked three guns from the bodyguard. Morty’s boss, Emry Timinski, coughed. The subtle order prompted “The Butcher” to remove a switchblade as well as a tiny fourth pistol.
Depositing them in a basket, Morty said, “I better get these back.”
The gorilla nodded. Stepping aside, he opened a thick wooden door. Morty went first followed by Emry. The dank basement hallway opened onto a well-lit room. The large space resembled a gentleman’s club not the dingy underground one might expect. Bright ornate lamps killed the darkness, and elaborate Oriental rugs beautified the concrete floor.
Already several well-dressed individuals lounged about the interior. Several stood clustered together. A few sat alone, save for the silent presence of their bodyguards. Though each enjoyed a glass of quality booze, their eyes remained sharp.
A fellow in a tweed suit clapped softly for attention, “Ah, Emry’s here. We can get started.” Once everyone sat, the tweed suit said, “First of all, gentlemen, thank you for coming. For those who don’t know, my name is Cohen. I’m acting as the representative of Messrs. Bernstein.” He gestured to a pair of men seated near him.
Morty recognized the two, Ray and Abe Bernstein, heads of the Purple Gang. He couldn’t help cocking an eyebrow. Emry said this get-together meant meeting the royals, so to speak.
Cohen went on, “This meeting is to address the recent unpleasantness that’s been afflicting all of us.”
A balding fat man slapped the table, “I want to know whicha yous motherfucks killed my kids.”
“Fuck you Sorisi. We all know Italians kill their own no thinkin’ twice.” A redheaded Irishman said.
Sorisi scowled, “You think I’d take my own son’s eyes?”
“Maybe.”
Morty tried not to snicker. Standing behind Emry, he glanced down. His boss eyed the room silently as the fighting escalated. Soon the room filled with shouts, accusations flung in all directions. Everyone in the room amounted to the heads of Detroit’s organized crime. From the Purple Gang to midlevel Greek gangs, anyone who made a dishonest living sat in this room. More importantly, however, it sounded like everyone here lost a child in the last few months.
Rumors floated about the underworld, and yeah, it all started with Sorisi’s kids. His son Alfonso went down an alley to take a piss. They found him nailed to the wall with railroad spikes and his eyes torn out of his head. His bodyguards, now residing at the bottom of the Detroit River, swore no one could’ve got at the kid. He went into a dead end alley alone. No one came in, or out. Next thing they knew, he was screaming. Seems he didn’t die right away.
Not long after a Chinese gang let slip a few of their boys and girls went missing. All seven turned up hanging from the Ambassador Bridge. The youngest couldn’t’ve been older than thirteen.
Cohen called for calm.
“Let him speak,” Emry said. The room quieted. Ray Bernstein nodded thanks.
Cohen said, “We’re all aware of the current epidemic that is, frankly, Biblical, and I sincerely doubt, as do Messrs. Bernstein, that any of us is responsible.”
Jerry “The Greek” remarked, “I think one, or two, yeah I could see some of us being that vicious.” He gestured towards Morty, who smiled in appreciation, “But seventeen. Some are practically babies for Christ’s sake.”
A low murmur of agreement filled the room. Two weeks ago, Frank “The Hammer” Castelli, driving his kids home from elementary school – his story sounded like madness. A figure appeared in the road. The streetlamps went out. He said something huge slammed into the sedan, flipping it on its side. Concussed, he could only watch in a daze as some bearded demon – “bear with burning eyes” – snapped the necks of his children; holding each up then executing them one at a time. Three right before his eyes.
Such accounts echoed rumors about a hideous presence appearing in the night. It stood next to the beds of grieving mothers and forced a sack over their heads. According to Emry’s sources, the bosses suffered a similar fate. Alone, they suddenly found their heads engulfed by a burlap sack. Gasping, they almost suffocated until just as unexpectedly the sack vanished. Looking around, totally alone, they couldn’t explain what happened so told few.
Cohen said, “There appears to be an unknown player in the game.”
Emry said, “The fact of the matter is, whoever’s doing this is targeting our children, and – apologies for not being able to put this better – as far as I know, I’m the only one who still has a living child.”
Jerry “The Greek” raised a glass, “I heard she was born last night. Congratulations.”
The rest of the room lifted their drinks. Emry expressed thanks.
“However,” he said, sighing heavily, “Not to sound selfish, I’ll give everything I have to protect her.”
Conversation began, each mobster sharing whatever info they possessed. Jerry said he barricaded his last son, twenty-two-year-old Phillipos, in a brownstone. They turned the place into a veritable fortress. The next morning, no one answering the phone, he and his men went there only to find everyone inside dead.
“Looked like a slaughterhouse.” Hands shaking, he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.
He didn’t go into details, but Morty heard they found Phillipos gutted, his intestines stuffed down his throat. This mystery man felt like a kindred spirit. Morty almost regretted a need to kill him. He half hoped this overkill amounted to an over the top audition.
Emry said, “One thing is the same: the description.”
That proved true enough. No matter the account, everyone who glimpsed this monster described him the same way. He stood over six feet tall, long greying beard, and amounted to a mountain man come into the city.
Emry held up his hand. Morty produced an envelope from his inside pocket. He handed it to his boss.
“Taking that as a cue, I looked into the description. It matches a guy named Lynch. Cillian Lynch.”
Confused murmurs went around the room.
“I’m not surprised he doesn’t ring a bell.” Emry removed the papers in the envelope, “He and his brothers stole, I suspect unintentionally, about fifty thousand dollars from one of us.” Tactful to the last, Morty liked how Emry wouldn’t say who to spare Sorisi the embarrassment. Then his boss went on, “Retribution occurred. Lynch’s brothers are dead, but he survived.”
Sorisi said, “Sos all we gotta do is find this sonuvabitch.”
Cohen said, “Agreed. I suggest we start with his surviving family. They may be able to illuminate us further as well as provide leverage.”
Emry said, “I’d agree, however, he’s got no one. His father died in a hunting accident, shot by Cillian, and his mother killed herself while he was in Europe. He only had his brothers.”
From there the meeting went nowhere. Although it served enough of its purpose – to get the gangs to stop blaming each other, thus avoiding more blood shed in retribution – the end result, naming Cillian a suspect, only labeled the horror. As far as Morty cared, they didn’t stand on any firmer ground.
Emry disagreed.
Afterward, walking back to their car, Emry said, “Now we can focus on casting a net instead of pointlessly killing one another. We’ll get him.”
Lighting a cigarette, Emry looked up at the sky. Morty smirked. The boss tended towards this habit when his mind considered difficult matters resolved – the stars finally aligned. “The Butcher” figured things now amounted to a united front instead of each going it alone. He didn’t see that angle until just then. It reminded him why, though he did the dirty work, Emry ran the show.
Morty said, “Come on, I’ll buy you drink.”
Emry sighed, “Sadly, I’m more inclined to go home.”
“Tired?”
Emry shook his head, “No, I want to be with my family.”
Morty shook his head. He never thought he’d see the day. But he let the matter slide, preferring to take the boss home – whatever made him happy. He opened the sedan’s door.
Emry froze. The color drained from his face. He shivered like a loose lid on a boiling pot.
Morty glanced over. There in the backseat – his mind didn’t register it at first. He kept thinking of Coney Island kewpie dolls. He heard Emry howling. Some of the other mob bosses came running. Jerry “The Greek” threw up. Slowly, Morty comprehended the sight of the baby’s head in the backseat.
Depositing them in a basket, Morty said, “I better get these back.”
The gorilla nodded. Stepping aside, he opened a thick wooden door. Morty went first followed by Emry. The dank basement hallway opened onto a well-lit room. The large space resembled a gentleman’s club not the dingy underground one might expect. Bright ornate lamps killed the darkness, and elaborate Oriental rugs beautified the concrete floor.
Already several well-dressed individuals lounged about the interior. Several stood clustered together. A few sat alone, save for the silent presence of their bodyguards. Though each enjoyed a glass of quality booze, their eyes remained sharp.
A fellow in a tweed suit clapped softly for attention, “Ah, Emry’s here. We can get started.” Once everyone sat, the tweed suit said, “First of all, gentlemen, thank you for coming. For those who don’t know, my name is Cohen. I’m acting as the representative of Messrs. Bernstein.” He gestured to a pair of men seated near him.
Morty recognized the two, Ray and Abe Bernstein, heads of the Purple Gang. He couldn’t help cocking an eyebrow. Emry said this get-together meant meeting the royals, so to speak.
Cohen went on, “This meeting is to address the recent unpleasantness that’s been afflicting all of us.”
A balding fat man slapped the table, “I want to know whicha yous motherfucks killed my kids.”
“Fuck you Sorisi. We all know Italians kill their own no thinkin’ twice.” A redheaded Irishman said.
Sorisi scowled, “You think I’d take my own son’s eyes?”
“Maybe.”
Morty tried not to snicker. Standing behind Emry, he glanced down. His boss eyed the room silently as the fighting escalated. Soon the room filled with shouts, accusations flung in all directions. Everyone in the room amounted to the heads of Detroit’s organized crime. From the Purple Gang to midlevel Greek gangs, anyone who made a dishonest living sat in this room. More importantly, however, it sounded like everyone here lost a child in the last few months.
Rumors floated about the underworld, and yeah, it all started with Sorisi’s kids. His son Alfonso went down an alley to take a piss. They found him nailed to the wall with railroad spikes and his eyes torn out of his head. His bodyguards, now residing at the bottom of the Detroit River, swore no one could’ve got at the kid. He went into a dead end alley alone. No one came in, or out. Next thing they knew, he was screaming. Seems he didn’t die right away.
Not long after a Chinese gang let slip a few of their boys and girls went missing. All seven turned up hanging from the Ambassador Bridge. The youngest couldn’t’ve been older than thirteen.
Cohen called for calm.
“Let him speak,” Emry said. The room quieted. Ray Bernstein nodded thanks.
Cohen said, “We’re all aware of the current epidemic that is, frankly, Biblical, and I sincerely doubt, as do Messrs. Bernstein, that any of us is responsible.”
Jerry “The Greek” remarked, “I think one, or two, yeah I could see some of us being that vicious.” He gestured towards Morty, who smiled in appreciation, “But seventeen. Some are practically babies for Christ’s sake.”
A low murmur of agreement filled the room. Two weeks ago, Frank “The Hammer” Castelli, driving his kids home from elementary school – his story sounded like madness. A figure appeared in the road. The streetlamps went out. He said something huge slammed into the sedan, flipping it on its side. Concussed, he could only watch in a daze as some bearded demon – “bear with burning eyes” – snapped the necks of his children; holding each up then executing them one at a time. Three right before his eyes.
Such accounts echoed rumors about a hideous presence appearing in the night. It stood next to the beds of grieving mothers and forced a sack over their heads. According to Emry’s sources, the bosses suffered a similar fate. Alone, they suddenly found their heads engulfed by a burlap sack. Gasping, they almost suffocated until just as unexpectedly the sack vanished. Looking around, totally alone, they couldn’t explain what happened so told few.
Cohen said, “There appears to be an unknown player in the game.”
Emry said, “The fact of the matter is, whoever’s doing this is targeting our children, and – apologies for not being able to put this better – as far as I know, I’m the only one who still has a living child.”
Jerry “The Greek” raised a glass, “I heard she was born last night. Congratulations.”
The rest of the room lifted their drinks. Emry expressed thanks.
“However,” he said, sighing heavily, “Not to sound selfish, I’ll give everything I have to protect her.”
Conversation began, each mobster sharing whatever info they possessed. Jerry said he barricaded his last son, twenty-two-year-old Phillipos, in a brownstone. They turned the place into a veritable fortress. The next morning, no one answering the phone, he and his men went there only to find everyone inside dead.
“Looked like a slaughterhouse.” Hands shaking, he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp.
He didn’t go into details, but Morty heard they found Phillipos gutted, his intestines stuffed down his throat. This mystery man felt like a kindred spirit. Morty almost regretted a need to kill him. He half hoped this overkill amounted to an over the top audition.
Emry said, “One thing is the same: the description.”
That proved true enough. No matter the account, everyone who glimpsed this monster described him the same way. He stood over six feet tall, long greying beard, and amounted to a mountain man come into the city.
Emry held up his hand. Morty produced an envelope from his inside pocket. He handed it to his boss.
“Taking that as a cue, I looked into the description. It matches a guy named Lynch. Cillian Lynch.”
Confused murmurs went around the room.
“I’m not surprised he doesn’t ring a bell.” Emry removed the papers in the envelope, “He and his brothers stole, I suspect unintentionally, about fifty thousand dollars from one of us.” Tactful to the last, Morty liked how Emry wouldn’t say who to spare Sorisi the embarrassment. Then his boss went on, “Retribution occurred. Lynch’s brothers are dead, but he survived.”
Sorisi said, “Sos all we gotta do is find this sonuvabitch.”
Cohen said, “Agreed. I suggest we start with his surviving family. They may be able to illuminate us further as well as provide leverage.”
Emry said, “I’d agree, however, he’s got no one. His father died in a hunting accident, shot by Cillian, and his mother killed herself while he was in Europe. He only had his brothers.”
From there the meeting went nowhere. Although it served enough of its purpose – to get the gangs to stop blaming each other, thus avoiding more blood shed in retribution – the end result, naming Cillian a suspect, only labeled the horror. As far as Morty cared, they didn’t stand on any firmer ground.
Emry disagreed.
Afterward, walking back to their car, Emry said, “Now we can focus on casting a net instead of pointlessly killing one another. We’ll get him.”
Lighting a cigarette, Emry looked up at the sky. Morty smirked. The boss tended towards this habit when his mind considered difficult matters resolved – the stars finally aligned. “The Butcher” figured things now amounted to a united front instead of each going it alone. He didn’t see that angle until just then. It reminded him why, though he did the dirty work, Emry ran the show.
Morty said, “Come on, I’ll buy you drink.”
Emry sighed, “Sadly, I’m more inclined to go home.”
“Tired?”
Emry shook his head, “No, I want to be with my family.”
Morty shook his head. He never thought he’d see the day. But he let the matter slide, preferring to take the boss home – whatever made him happy. He opened the sedan’s door.
Emry froze. The color drained from his face. He shivered like a loose lid on a boiling pot.
Morty glanced over. There in the backseat – his mind didn’t register it at first. He kept thinking of Coney Island kewpie dolls. He heard Emry howling. Some of the other mob bosses came running. Jerry “The Greek” threw up. Slowly, Morty comprehended the sight of the baby’s head in the backseat.
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