time in the joint? Ooh, yeah. Sure. Real smart guy. I t'ink I have actually heard of him. Seems to me he's got this t'ing against unions.
Can't stand 'em. Locks 'em outta all his businesses. Not a guy for the working man."
"Who do you work for?" Ricky demanded. "Bellomo?
Persico? Who? I think we're going to have to talk with whoever is supposed to keep you under control."
"Listen you ginzo greaseball piece of shit. I work for me and the Teamsters. Max Chesny. That's who I am, you got it?"
Chesny backed up two steps. Without taking his eyes off Ricky, he began to reach for a two-foot metal pipe that sat on the warehouse floor.
Ricky prepared to lunge at him and his two cronies.
Every muscle tensed. His eyes bored in on the intruder.
As if in defensive response, the obese Teamster stood up instantly. He stiffened and shivered.
"Come on, blubberball. I'll take you and your buddies on," Ricky yelled.
Chesny's eyes rolled upward. His fingers straightened.
His legs trembled. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose.
He seemed to be rising from the ground.
The goon holding O'Meara fell onto his hands and knees, eyes bulged to the point of popping out of his head.
His tongue protruded from his mouth. The man's head appeared ready to explode. Ghastly moans emitted from PERMANENT INTERESTS
57
deep inside his shaking body. Blood-tinged foam gushed over his chin and down his throat, wetting the lapels of his overcoat.
Ricky heard a "Chump!" then a "Crack!" The third goon crashed to the floor. His neck began spraying blood in all directions. A fire ax was planted squarely down his right ear and into his jaw.
Ricky moved fast. He grabbed the pipe from the floor and zonked Chesny smack on the side of the head. But Chesny gave no reaction as bloody vomit oozed from both sides of his mouth. There was the sound of cracking ribs from behind.
Suddenly, there appeared none other than Dimitrov from a stack of crates containing Swedish refrigerators. The Russian had a sickly contented grin on his face as he visibly struggled against Chesny's weight. He was yanking a large knife up the dying man's rear rib cage.
Two of Dimitrov's mates were attending to the other Teamsters, one garroting the big man; the other admiring the handiwork of a quick ax to the head of the third Teamster.
From the rear of the warehouse ran Bags and Herman
"The German" Metzger, like Bags, a life-long and loyal employee of the Malandrino clan.
"What the hell…is this?" Ricky demanded.
"We are aborting a contract with Teamsters," Dimitrov huffed as he reached Chesny's shoulder blade.
"Holy Christ!" Ricky shouted.
Dimitrov ignored Ricky. He wasn't quite finished yet.
He let Chesny's corpulence drop to the floor. He then methodically commenced to eviscerate his victim. A geyser of blood gushed in several directions, covering the floor quickly in a sticky scarlet mess.
58 JAMES
BRUNO
Ricky grabbed Dimitrov's shoulder to yank him backward. The Russian bolted around and flashed a foot-long chromium blade to within a half-inch of Ricky's eyes.
He backed off, holding his hands outward from his sides.
The other two Russians held Bags and the German at bay.
"You see this?" Dimitrov asked calmly. Menace and madness radiated from his eyes.
"When I was boy in Murmansk, I work in fish factory.
Every day, I clean sturgeon, take out eggs to make caviar. I become like surgeon. Cut quickly and expertly. I do it with eyes closed. Sturgeon knife you can use to shave with." Dimitrov scraped Ricky's three-day growth, instinctively causing him to flinch. "Sturgeon knife cut bones like other knives cut cheese." The Russian broke his trance-like gaze and backed off slightly.
"Ricky, breathing hard, was half bent over, with his hands on his knees. "Next time I have some people over for a cozy massacre, I'll know who to call."
"I will tell you something, dear Mr. Ricky," the Russian said, resuming a distant glower. "We learn in Afghanistan how to kill properly. We, as
Can't stand 'em. Locks 'em outta all his businesses. Not a guy for the working man."
"Who do you work for?" Ricky demanded. "Bellomo?
Persico? Who? I think we're going to have to talk with whoever is supposed to keep you under control."
"Listen you ginzo greaseball piece of shit. I work for me and the Teamsters. Max Chesny. That's who I am, you got it?"
Chesny backed up two steps. Without taking his eyes off Ricky, he began to reach for a two-foot metal pipe that sat on the warehouse floor.
Ricky prepared to lunge at him and his two cronies.
Every muscle tensed. His eyes bored in on the intruder.
As if in defensive response, the obese Teamster stood up instantly. He stiffened and shivered.
"Come on, blubberball. I'll take you and your buddies on," Ricky yelled.
Chesny's eyes rolled upward. His fingers straightened.
His legs trembled. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose.
He seemed to be rising from the ground.
The goon holding O'Meara fell onto his hands and knees, eyes bulged to the point of popping out of his head.
His tongue protruded from his mouth. The man's head appeared ready to explode. Ghastly moans emitted from PERMANENT INTERESTS
57
deep inside his shaking body. Blood-tinged foam gushed over his chin and down his throat, wetting the lapels of his overcoat.
Ricky heard a "Chump!" then a "Crack!" The third goon crashed to the floor. His neck began spraying blood in all directions. A fire ax was planted squarely down his right ear and into his jaw.
Ricky moved fast. He grabbed the pipe from the floor and zonked Chesny smack on the side of the head. But Chesny gave no reaction as bloody vomit oozed from both sides of his mouth. There was the sound of cracking ribs from behind.
Suddenly, there appeared none other than Dimitrov from a stack of crates containing Swedish refrigerators. The Russian had a sickly contented grin on his face as he visibly struggled against Chesny's weight. He was yanking a large knife up the dying man's rear rib cage.
Two of Dimitrov's mates were attending to the other Teamsters, one garroting the big man; the other admiring the handiwork of a quick ax to the head of the third Teamster.
From the rear of the warehouse ran Bags and Herman
"The German" Metzger, like Bags, a life-long and loyal employee of the Malandrino clan.
"What the hell…is this?" Ricky demanded.
"We are aborting a contract with Teamsters," Dimitrov huffed as he reached Chesny's shoulder blade.
"Holy Christ!" Ricky shouted.
Dimitrov ignored Ricky. He wasn't quite finished yet.
He let Chesny's corpulence drop to the floor. He then methodically commenced to eviscerate his victim. A geyser of blood gushed in several directions, covering the floor quickly in a sticky scarlet mess.
58 JAMES
BRUNO
Ricky grabbed Dimitrov's shoulder to yank him backward. The Russian bolted around and flashed a foot-long chromium blade to within a half-inch of Ricky's eyes.
He backed off, holding his hands outward from his sides.
The other two Russians held Bags and the German at bay.
"You see this?" Dimitrov asked calmly. Menace and madness radiated from his eyes.
"When I was boy in Murmansk, I work in fish factory.
Every day, I clean sturgeon, take out eggs to make caviar. I become like surgeon. Cut quickly and expertly. I do it with eyes closed. Sturgeon knife you can use to shave with." Dimitrov scraped Ricky's three-day growth, instinctively causing him to flinch. "Sturgeon knife cut bones like other knives cut cheese." The Russian broke his trance-like gaze and backed off slightly.
"Ricky, breathing hard, was half bent over, with his hands on his knees. "Next time I have some people over for a cozy massacre, I'll know who to call."
"I will tell you something, dear Mr. Ricky," the Russian said, resuming a distant glower. "We learn in Afghanistan how to kill properly. We, as
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