Bodhi Crocodile 2: The Button

Chapter 1

Button (n.)
A soldier for the Mafia who is called upon to perform an execution.

The man in the moon—he’s a witness to this evil world. When the moon is full, it sees all. A crescent moon only sees what it wants. Sometimes, the moon goes away because it can’t stand the sight of things. The same goes for the sun, except it has no choice but to show itself each day. All it can do is hope the weather is cloudy, so it has something to hide behind.

To find yourself in a place like this means you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. Again. This time, you’re not wandering through some lousy neighborhood, praying you don’t bump into the wrong kind of people. This time, the wrong kind of person is already after you. It doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not; if they find you, you’re as good as dead.

Both inside and out of this abandoned two-story warehouse, silence falls thick like the fog of an autumn night. This place—known to the public as Union Freight—was once a historic facility where blue-collar ghosts unpacked liquor during Prohibition. In recent months, it served as a distribution center for “snow-filled powder packages,” courtesy of Pablo Velázquez. Through a twist of irony, his downfall came from Skinner’s death.

An estimated couple of days after the butcher’s brains splattered the inside of his meat freezer, a group of well-dressed men stormed this warehouse, knocking over tables, tipping stacks of boxes, and unleashing a hail of gunfire. Miles away from the fading echoes of the last shots, Pablo was home, mourning the loss of his fiancée.

Unbeknownst to him, a lone killer slipped in through the rear patio. The silent peril—dressed in designer clothes as dark as his soul—walked with tranquil steps. He found Pablo on his knees in his quarters, praying by candlelight to the Virgen de Guadalupe. Reaching from behind, the intruder slapped a hand across Pablo’s mouth, gripping his face and forcing his head back against his thighs. He stabbed a syringe into a bulging vein on the side of Pablo’s neck. The contents—venom from a Russell’s viper—rushed through Pablo’s body, and his blood instantly coagulated into thick, gelatinous clots. Excess blood leaked from his eyes and nose, draining down the killer’s bare hands. Pablo’s struggle to break free soon ended; his body fell limp. With a swift kick to the center of his back, he thudded to the floor. As a fresh pool of scarlet surrounded the corpse, the killer vanished.

With Skinner no longer spreading nightmares and his predecessor executed, the city’s underground returned to its rightful owners. To this day, organized crime exists. The gangsters of the Rosario and DiGiovanni families are no longer the older men with fat cigars and Cadillacs but a new generation spawned from the downfall of culprits you only find in movies and documentaries. However, the organization’s strict hierarchy remains: associates work the streets beneath soldiers; soldiers take orders from caporegimes; caporegimes answer to the underboss; and the underboss works directly beneath the boss and his liaison, the consigliere.

Today’s mobsters are younger and more sophisticated, blending so seamlessly into society that you’d never notice. They could be anyone doing anything. The man sitting next to you on the bus might have pockets stuffed with cash from picking off a casino. The woman passing you on the street could have just heisted a bank from her laptop over a café latte at Starbucks. The teenager at the supermarket only works there as a cover—he makes more collecting bets for bookies than he does bagging groceries for minimum wage. Anyone, doing anything.

Corruption. Gambling. Racketeering. Tax fraud. Stock manipulation. Extortion. Murder.

As of now, the two rival families share control. Despite their harmony, peace can only last so long. Eventually a fly lands in the ointment for no better reason than to gain power for itself—a crazy insect, rebellious and angry, feeling it deserves a world never handed to it: Enzo “The Sting” DiGiovanni.

The concrete floors of the spacious warehouse are smudged with grease and long-dried blood. A thin film of dust covers the worktables. Splintered wooden rails and creaking boarded steps lead up to a second-floor balcony, where stacks of rusty barrels and overturned cardboard boxes offer perfect hiding places. Patent-leather shoes echo with each cautious step as Enzo advances, gripping a 12-gauge Remington Magnum.

He’s dressed in extravagant fabric—five-hundred-dollar designer jeans and a two-hundred-dollar silk button-up shirt. A crucifix hangs from a silver chain around his neck. Nailed to the tiny cross is a snarling likeness of Jesus flipping both middle fingers in the air. Enzo’s hair is styled in place, with a few loose, sweaty strands dangling in front of his eyes. His face is cast with five o’clock shadow. He sings to this vast coliseum of silence like a child searching for prey in a deadly game of hide-and-seek.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Enzo’s voice bounces between the chipped, painted walls. His teeth gnash with a sickening grin as he takes in every detail of his surroundings. A musky scent lingers in the air, like the odor of a vintage thrift store.

“This is nothing more than business!” The hum of electricity buzzes from flickering fluorescent bulbs. “And there’s only one way in and one way out of here!” Untenanted cobwebs hang in the stagnant breeze. “So, let’s talk about it!” The room offers no reply.

Enzo’s gun aims into open space, leading him around a corner. He listens. Nothing. His heels tap the floor. He’s brave, confident, calm, and collected; the thought of his own demise never crosses his mind. Enzo snickers as he makes his way down the corridor. “Don’t be like this! It’s not how grown men solve their problems!”

Silence. Dead silence—soon broken by a rattle from across the room, like a bottle cap bouncing along the floor. Enzo jumps from behind the wall and aims his weapon, ready to fire, but he freezes. His sight locks on something centered in the room, and his mouth falls open.

“C’mon.” Enzo lowers the barrel and stomps toward a metal folding chair bathed in a beam of streetlight shining through a tattered, canvas-covered window. He reaches to the seat; his fingers grasp what waits for him—a forest-green fedora.

Snickering, he lifts it and lets it fall to the ground, but his burning eyes widen at the sight of what’s hidden underneath. His shout reverberates through the warehouse in anger. “What’s the point of hiding?” No one responds. Enzo spins as though noticing someone with him. “I know everything about you!”

He fires a shot into the balcony—BANG!—and chunks of wood blast from the railing. “I know about your poor, elderly mother!” He steps forward and pumps the action—Click!—an empty shell casing lands, rattling beside his feet—Clack!— “I know about your little nurse friend who takes care of her!” He fires again—BANG!—and the lid of a tin drum flies off with a shower of sparks.

The deafening echo fades, and grim stillness fills the room. He releases the second shell casing and drops the gun. His teeth grind as beads of sweat form across his brow. “I don’t care what anyone says; I know you can speak!”

Enzo produces a hard plastic case from his pocket—its size and shape reminiscent of one for reading glasses. “If you’re short on words, I have a few I can teach you!” Inside is a capped syringe fastened to a spongy mold. “Strychnine! Cyanide! Sodium fluoroacetate!” Enzo bites off the cap and spits it to the floor. “Tetrodotoxin! There’s a good idea for ol’ Mom!” He removes a glass vial from his pocket. “Are those words too hard to pronounce?” The needle penetrates the ampule seal, and his thumb pulls back on the plunger. “Maybe I’ll give your pretty redheaded friend some easier words—like ‘drain cleaner!’”

The syringe fills with clear liquid. “In the meantime, I’ll teach you two of my personal favorites!” He tosses the empty vial over his shoulder and watches a drop of fluid threaten to fall from the needle’s tip. “Potassium chloride.” Enzo rages with a roaring voice. “YOU HEAR ME?!” His head tilts down, eyes rolling upward at the balcony. Stretching an evil grin across his face, Enzo paces toward the staircase, mumbling under his breath: “Come out, come out, wherever you are, Bodhi the Crocodile.”