Real Novel Chapter Seven
From PenguinWiki
Chapter Seven
The park was dark with a mixture of dusk rolling in and the ominous thunderclouds overhead. Big Tony cared little for the weather; there was still business to attend to. Business, and the park was a convenient shortcut. Pleasant scenery. Nature touched his soul, Tony thought with some indulgence - which was something his colleagues shouldn't know about. He did not underestimate them: they were ready to use his spontaneous affections to get ahead in life.
He walked briskly, his feet hitting the ground to the tune of a marching song in his head. He hated exercise but his mantra guided him. This was the compromise; he had to work off the pizza he'd had earlier. The pizza - not great, not bad but not great. Far too greasy for his palate, and already the sounds coming from his stomach were indicative of impending indigestion. He would have to pick up some antacids once business was completed.
The park was empty, strangely devoid of human forms. No couples engaged in conversation, arm in arm. No children running, playing, being noisy buggers, ignoring signs to keep off the grass. Big Tony pondered briefly, but shrugged it off. The wimps! Scared of a little rain! After Australia, Tony had learned to appreciate the rain.
Majestic trees and flowering bushes lined the path that led him deep into the park. In the distance ahead he heard a dog barking; behind him was the noise of the city. He stopped and looked at a nearby silver birch, litter entangled in its exposed roots. An empty bin nearby, unused. A lone bench covered in graffiti. From the pleasant to the obscene. The word "Pendulous" and the phone number 555-7349 caught his eye. He stopped to ponder this, but was disturbed hearing what sounded like a footfall dropping behind him.
He turned. He caught a quick glimpse of a tall, slim figure whose stature seemed vaguely familiar. His mouth flew open in silent protest as the first bullet exploded into his chest; his right lung was penetrated and filled rapidly with blood. He crumpled in agony. The second bullet hit him moments later between his eyes, leaving a small entry wound, but making a considerable mess upon its exit. His bladder emptied, hot urine streaming down his legs; but already dead, he was quite unaware of this as his body collapsed, its fluids pooling around him.
It was in this state that the early morning jogger found him; half asleep, listening to music and not paying attention, the woman nearly tripped over Tony's body, screaming when she realized what she saw in front of her.
Before long the cops were swarming the area, police tape everywhere. Officers held back the ever-growing curious crowd of rubbernecks, ghouls, and worst of all, journalists.
Two city detectives had been assigned to the scene, the senior of the two ordering his junior partner to perform the routine task of searching the body for basic ID. The older man no longer found he had the enthusiasm he once did for such police work; it had been a long shift, he was tired, and besides, blood could be hard to get off your shoes. As he stood there, looking bored and dreaming of breakfast, the younger officer turned to him with a driver's license in a gloved hand.
"ID has him as a Bruno Fratelli, boss" he informed his superior.
"What else we got, Jimmy?" the older man queried perfunctorily.
"Looks like one hit to the chest, one to the head. Cash is still in the wallet."
An eyebrow was raised. "A professional hit? Out here? Strange. Anything else - name ring any bells?"
Jimmy shook his head. "Can't say that it does. I dunno though - our vic seems kind of familiar somehow."
At this remark, his partner took his first close look at the body that lay face up on the ground, the mouth open in a last gasp of pain and surprise, but quite unmarred apart from the neat round hole in the forehead. After a second or so a look of disbelieving amazement flashed across his face. "Jesus, it can't be" Jimmy heard him murmur to himself. The elder man bent low to study the face more intently, and then, muttering to himself as he quickly slipped on a glove, carefully tugged up the corpse's shirt at its right hip, revealing a small tattoo, an elaborately decorated letter 'T'. "I'll be damned. It's really him." The old cop looked across at his confused partner. "Do you have any idea who this son of a bitch is, Jimmy?" he asked.
"No sir, but I have a feeling you're about to tell me" his partner replied.
Instead though, his superior swore, stood up and produced a cellphone, and keying in a speed dial number. "Division? This is Guthrie. Any idea what time it is in Australia? Doesn't matter, I don't actually give a damn what time it is. Get me Anderson, right now."
Guthrie shuffled impatiently in his overcoat for the best part of two minutes before he was greeted by the sound of the Sergeant’s less-than-chipper voice on the other end. “I’ve been treated to a piss poor day and a sleepless night. This,” he said, “had better be worth my God damned time.”
"Tony Scolletti," was all that Guthrie needed to say to make it clear to both Anderson and Jimmy that this was no trivial matter. As Guthrie heard the unmistakable noise of air being drawn in through gritted teeth over the phone, he watched his young partner look again at the corpse with a newfound sense of awe.
(Back to Index) , (<- Chapter Six) , (Chapter Eight ->)
