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John Machi coughed as he finished the cigar. He hated cigars, but it was necessary to smoke then. All crime bosses smoked cigars. You can’t be a crime boss if you don’t smoke cigars. He threw the cigar in the steel bin beside him, and sat down in the leather armchair behind him. He was sitting in a moderately large room, with a shuttered window at the side. The shutters were currently closed. There was a wooden door, a desk on which rested various paperwork, a cigar container, a phone, a few fountain pens and various other items. The desk was of good wood, probably mahogany. In the corner of the room was a grey filing cabinet, and beside that a plant. Blue grey cigar smoke filled the room, floating around idly. Machi switched on the roof fan, and the smoke began to move more quickly, and in a short time disappear. He sighed and lifted himself out of the chair, pacing around the room, until he stopped at the window and tentatively pulled back the shutters with a hooked finger, peering outside. Yep, they were still there, predicable as ever, thought John. Don’t the FBI ever sit in vans that aren’t black with blacked out windows, which say “Mario’s Pizza - Fast, Quick and Cheap” on the side? He shook his head, and watched the figures on the street below. He was high here, about eight storeys up. He could see lots of people, but it was one particular figure he kept his eye on. It was a hunched figure in crutches, making his way pathetically down the street. When he was level with the FBI van, he fell, apparently slipping his crutch on the kerb. In a few minutes he was up, and hobbling away again, only this time faster. Machi smiled a grim smile. Gambino had done his job well, but there was still room for fault. He had to play this one carefully. He walked over to the phone on his desk and lifted it up.
“Yes, Mr. Machi?” came a voice, probably the secretary’s.
“Ah, hello there Margie. I was just looking out the window, thinking ‘I fancy myself some pizza’ and lo and behold, I saw a pizza truck on the other side of the street! Anyway, could you send someone over to it, and see if they can deliver one up here? It’s black and it says “Mario’s Pizza - Fast, Quick and Cheap” on the side.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Machi.”
“Thanks Margie”.
Machi hung up the phone and walked quickly over to the shutters again. He peered out. Sure enough, he saw the tell tale signs of fumes from the vans exhaust, and then it nudged further out into the street, and began to move out down the road with the rest of the Detroit traffic. Well, his phones were tapped, but he had guessed that already. Now for the observation post. He peered out the shuttered window again, and sure enough, there was the all familiar room on the hotel opposite with the unmistakeable lens of a high powered camera just protruding from the window. Machi checked his watch, he was on schedule. He went over to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out a folded piece of paper with a number scribbled onto it. He dialled it.
“Sonny’s Laundry Service here.” came a husky voice.
“Hello. I would like you to clean a black suit for me.” Said Machi.
“Okay, we’ll come get it now. I presume you want the full service, clean up and all?”
“Naturally.”
Machi hung up. Things were going well. Time to relax now with a cigar, which he took out of the holder and lit up. Smoking this deeply, he went over to the window yet again. He saw a white van parked outside the hotel opposite, with “Sonny’s Laundry” on the side. Then he flicked his eyes up to the observation post. Everything was quiet, and through the small window he just make out a figure walk over to the door. A pause. Semi automatic gunfire ensued, quietened effectively with silencers, so it just sounded like rambunctious clapping. The figure at the door was knocked back with some force. More figures approached the door with guns drawn, but were cut down as men in white suits entered, parading some weapons much more effective and much larger than the petty FBI 9mm Berettas. The white suited men entered the room and closed the door after them. One went over to the window and give it a wipe with a red handkerchief. The signal. The observation post had been eradicated. Machi opened his bottom drawer and removed a briefcase, which he handcuffed to his arm. Then he took out a Sig Sauer which he slipped into his suit pocket. A cosh followed, a small revolver was fastened to his ankle, a flick knife into his trouser pocket and knuckle dusters into his shirt pocket. Then, with a quick glance around his office, John Machi left for the last time.
He passed the secretary and approached the stairs.
“Ah, Mr. Machi.” came a reedy voice.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Now, Mr. Machi, we have some things to talk about, don’t we? Now, we can do this here or down at the station. Which is it going to be?” The speaker was a small weasley man in plain clothes. Detroit Special Branch.
“Lets not talk at all.” Replied Machi, firing 3 shots with the Sig. The force blew back the weasel a few feet against the wall which he slid down, leaving a trail of death.
Machi put back the Sig and went down the stairs, until he came to the garage. He went over to a black limousine parked at the side and rapped the window. It rolled down smoothly, powered by a motor.
“Ready Mr. Machi?” Said the chauffeur.
“Yes. Lets go.”
Machi had done it again. He knew he had. 4 States and 5 cities, and still the Feds couldn’t get him. His men were all ready in position at his next site. The cleaners will have erased any evidence at the observation post. He was home free.
Driving down the Detroit streets, he came to a road where he was diverted from. Down it all he could see was some wreckage of a van, which looked like it had been black before a pound of Semtex had been exploded under it. A crowd had gathered, and a man with crutches were poking at the wreckage.
Machi patted his briefcase.
Crime paid.
“Yes, Mr. Machi?” came a voice, probably the secretary’s.
“Ah, hello there Margie. I was just looking out the window, thinking ‘I fancy myself some pizza’ and lo and behold, I saw a pizza truck on the other side of the street! Anyway, could you send someone over to it, and see if they can deliver one up here? It’s black and it says “Mario’s Pizza - Fast, Quick and Cheap” on the side.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Machi.”
“Thanks Margie”.
Machi hung up the phone and walked quickly over to the shutters again. He peered out. Sure enough, he saw the tell tale signs of fumes from the vans exhaust, and then it nudged further out into the street, and began to move out down the road with the rest of the Detroit traffic. Well, his phones were tapped, but he had guessed that already. Now for the observation post. He peered out the shuttered window again, and sure enough, there was the all familiar room on the hotel opposite with the unmistakeable lens of a high powered camera just protruding from the window. Machi checked his watch, he was on schedule. He went over to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out a folded piece of paper with a number scribbled onto it. He dialled it.
“Sonny’s Laundry Service here.” came a husky voice.
“Hello. I would like you to clean a black suit for me.” Said Machi.
“Okay, we’ll come get it now. I presume you want the full service, clean up and all?”
“Naturally.”
Machi hung up. Things were going well. Time to relax now with a cigar, which he took out of the holder and lit up. Smoking this deeply, he went over to the window yet again. He saw a white van parked outside the hotel opposite, with “Sonny’s Laundry” on the side. Then he flicked his eyes up to the observation post. Everything was quiet, and through the small window he just make out a figure walk over to the door. A pause. Semi automatic gunfire ensued, quietened effectively with silencers, so it just sounded like rambunctious clapping. The figure at the door was knocked back with some force. More figures approached the door with guns drawn, but were cut down as men in white suits entered, parading some weapons much more effective and much larger than the petty FBI 9mm Berettas. The white suited men entered the room and closed the door after them. One went over to the window and give it a wipe with a red handkerchief. The signal. The observation post had been eradicated. Machi opened his bottom drawer and removed a briefcase, which he handcuffed to his arm. Then he took out a Sig Sauer which he slipped into his suit pocket. A cosh followed, a small revolver was fastened to his ankle, a flick knife into his trouser pocket and knuckle dusters into his shirt pocket. Then, with a quick glance around his office, John Machi left for the last time.
He passed the secretary and approached the stairs.
“Ah, Mr. Machi.” came a reedy voice.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Now, Mr. Machi, we have some things to talk about, don’t we? Now, we can do this here or down at the station. Which is it going to be?” The speaker was a small weasley man in plain clothes. Detroit Special Branch.
“Lets not talk at all.” Replied Machi, firing 3 shots with the Sig. The force blew back the weasel a few feet against the wall which he slid down, leaving a trail of death.
Machi put back the Sig and went down the stairs, until he came to the garage. He went over to a black limousine parked at the side and rapped the window. It rolled down smoothly, powered by a motor.
“Ready Mr. Machi?” Said the chauffeur.
“Yes. Lets go.”
Machi had done it again. He knew he had. 4 States and 5 cities, and still the Feds couldn’t get him. His men were all ready in position at his next site. The cleaners will have erased any evidence at the observation post. He was home free.
Driving down the Detroit streets, he came to a road where he was diverted from. Down it all he could see was some wreckage of a van, which looked like it had been black before a pound of Semtex had been exploded under it. A crowd had gathered, and a man with crutches were poking at the wreckage.
Machi patted his briefcase.
Crime paid.
Heh, "rambunctious"
Neat story. An enjoyable read.
Neat story. An enjoyable read.
Cheers. Alot of stories are around at the moment so I decided to do one as well. I like it when the gangster gets away, like The Usual Suspects, which you mentioned.
Heheh, I really enjoyed that. Kind of reminded me of a mix between The Usual Suspects and some other Chazz Palminteri film. Good short story! ;)
John Machi coughed as he finished the cigar. He hated cigars, but it was necessary to smoke then. All crime bosses smoked cigars. You can’t be a crime boss if you don’t smoke cigars. He threw the cigar in the steel bin beside him, and sat down in the leather armchair behind him. He was sitting in a moderately large room, with a shuttered window at the side. The shutters were currently closed. There was a wooden door, a desk on which rested various paperwork, a cigar container, a phone, a few fountain pens and various other items. The desk was of good wood, probably mahogany. In the corner of the room was a grey filing cabinet, and beside that a plant. Blue grey cigar smoke filled the room, floating around idly. Machi switched on the roof fan, and the smoke began to move more quickly, and in a short time disappear. He sighed and lifted himself out of the chair, pacing around the room, until he stopped at the window and tentatively pulled back the shutters with a hooked finger, peering outside. Yep, they were still there, predicable as ever, thought John. Don’t the FBI ever sit in vans that aren’t black with blacked out windows, which say “Mario’s Pizza - Fast, Quick and Cheap” on the side? He shook his head, and watched the figures on the street below. He was high here, about eight storeys up. He could see lots of people, but it was one particular figure he kept his eye on. It was a hunched figure in crutches, making his way pathetically down the street. When he was level with the FBI van, he fell, apparently slipping his crutch on the kerb. In a few minutes he was up, and hobbling away again, only this time faster. Machi smiled a grim smile. Gambino had done his job well, but there was still room for fault. He had to play this one carefully. He walked over to the phone on his desk and lifted it up.
“Yes, Mr. Machi?” came a voice, probably the secretary’s.
“Ah, hello there Margie. I was just looking out the window, thinking ‘I fancy myself some pizza’ and lo and behold, I saw a pizza truck on the other side of the street! Anyway, could you send someone over to it, and see if they can deliver one up here? It’s black and it says “Mario’s Pizza - Fast, Quick and Cheap” on the side.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Machi.”
“Thanks Margie”.
Machi hung up the phone and walked quickly over to the shutters again. He peered out. Sure enough, he saw the tell tale signs of fumes from the vans exhaust, and then it nudged further out into the street, and began to move out down the road with the rest of the Detroit traffic. Well, his phones were tapped, but he had guessed that already. Now for the observation post. He peered out the shuttered window again, and sure enough, there was the all familiar room on the hotel opposite with the unmistakeable lens of a high powered camera just protruding from the window. Machi checked his watch, he was on schedule. He went over to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out a folded piece of paper with a number scribbled onto it. He dialled it.
“Sonny’s Laundry Service here.” came a husky voice.
“Hello. I would like you to clean a black suit for me.” Said Machi.
“Okay, we’ll come get it now. I presume you want the full service, clean up and all?”
“Naturally.”
Machi hung up. Things were going well. Time to relax now with a cigar, which he took out of the holder and lit up. Smoking this deeply, he went over to the window yet again. He saw a white van parked outside the hotel opposite, with “Sonny’s Laundry” on the side. Then he flicked his eyes up to the observation post. Everything was quiet, and through the small window he just make out a figure walk over to the door. A pause. Semi automatic gunfire ensued, quietened effectively with silencers, so it just sounded like rambunctious clapping. The figure at the door was knocked back with some force. More figures approached the door with guns drawn, but were cut down as men in white suits entered, parading some weapons much more effective and much larger than the petty FBI 9mm Berettas. The white suited men entered the room and closed the door after them. One went over to the window and give it a wipe with a red handkerchief. The signal. The observation post had been eradicated. Machi opened his bottom drawer and removed a briefcase, which he handcuffed to his arm. Then he took out a Sig Sauer which he slipped into his suit pocket. A cosh followed, a small revolver was fastened to his ankle, a flick knife into his trouser pocket and knuckle dusters into his shirt pocket. Then, with a quick glance around his office, John Machi left for the last time.
He passed the secretary and approached the stairs.
“Ah, Mr. Machi.” came a reedy voice.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Now, Mr. Machi, we have some things to talk about, don’t we? Now, we can do this here or down at the station. Which is it going to be?” The speaker was a small weasley man in plain clothes. Detroit Special Branch.
“Lets not talk at all.” Replied Machi, firing 3 shots with the Sig. The force blew back the weasel a few feet against the wall which he slid down, leaving a trail of death.
Machi put back the Sig and went down the stairs, until he came to the garage. He went over to a black limousine parked at the side and rapped the window. It rolled down smoothly, powered by a motor.
“Ready Mr. Machi?” Said the chauffeur.
“Yes. Lets go.”
Machi had done it again. He knew he had. 4 States and 5 cities, and still the Feds couldn’t get him. His men were all ready in position at his next site. The cleaners will have erased any evidence at the observation post. He was home free.
Driving down the Detroit streets, he came to a road where he was diverted from. Down it all he could see was some wreckage of a van, which looked like it had been black before a pound of Semtex had been exploded under it. A crowd had gathered, and a man with crutches were poking at the wreckage.
Machi patted his briefcase.
Crime paid.
“Yes, Mr. Machi?” came a voice, probably the secretary’s.
“Ah, hello there Margie. I was just looking out the window, thinking ‘I fancy myself some pizza’ and lo and behold, I saw a pizza truck on the other side of the street! Anyway, could you send someone over to it, and see if they can deliver one up here? It’s black and it says “Mario’s Pizza - Fast, Quick and Cheap” on the side.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Machi.”
“Thanks Margie”.
Machi hung up the phone and walked quickly over to the shutters again. He peered out. Sure enough, he saw the tell tale signs of fumes from the vans exhaust, and then it nudged further out into the street, and began to move out down the road with the rest of the Detroit traffic. Well, his phones were tapped, but he had guessed that already. Now for the observation post. He peered out the shuttered window again, and sure enough, there was the all familiar room on the hotel opposite with the unmistakeable lens of a high powered camera just protruding from the window. Machi checked his watch, he was on schedule. He went over to his desk and opened a drawer, taking out a folded piece of paper with a number scribbled onto it. He dialled it.
“Sonny’s Laundry Service here.” came a husky voice.
“Hello. I would like you to clean a black suit for me.” Said Machi.
“Okay, we’ll come get it now. I presume you want the full service, clean up and all?”
“Naturally.”
Machi hung up. Things were going well. Time to relax now with a cigar, which he took out of the holder and lit up. Smoking this deeply, he went over to the window yet again. He saw a white van parked outside the hotel opposite, with “Sonny’s Laundry” on the side. Then he flicked his eyes up to the observation post. Everything was quiet, and through the small window he just make out a figure walk over to the door. A pause. Semi automatic gunfire ensued, quietened effectively with silencers, so it just sounded like rambunctious clapping. The figure at the door was knocked back with some force. More figures approached the door with guns drawn, but were cut down as men in white suits entered, parading some weapons much more effective and much larger than the petty FBI 9mm Berettas. The white suited men entered the room and closed the door after them. One went over to the window and give it a wipe with a red handkerchief. The signal. The observation post had been eradicated. Machi opened his bottom drawer and removed a briefcase, which he handcuffed to his arm. Then he took out a Sig Sauer which he slipped into his suit pocket. A cosh followed, a small revolver was fastened to his ankle, a flick knife into his trouser pocket and knuckle dusters into his shirt pocket. Then, with a quick glance around his office, John Machi left for the last time.
He passed the secretary and approached the stairs.
“Ah, Mr. Machi.” came a reedy voice.
“Oh. It’s you.”
“Now, Mr. Machi, we have some things to talk about, don’t we? Now, we can do this here or down at the station. Which is it going to be?” The speaker was a small weasley man in plain clothes. Detroit Special Branch.
“Lets not talk at all.” Replied Machi, firing 3 shots with the Sig. The force blew back the weasel a few feet against the wall which he slid down, leaving a trail of death.
Machi put back the Sig and went down the stairs, until he came to the garage. He went over to a black limousine parked at the side and rapped the window. It rolled down smoothly, powered by a motor.
“Ready Mr. Machi?” Said the chauffeur.
“Yes. Lets go.”
Machi had done it again. He knew he had. 4 States and 5 cities, and still the Feds couldn’t get him. His men were all ready in position at his next site. The cleaners will have erased any evidence at the observation post. He was home free.
Driving down the Detroit streets, he came to a road where he was diverted from. Down it all he could see was some wreckage of a van, which looked like it had been black before a pound of Semtex had been exploded under it. A crowd had gathered, and a man with crutches were poking at the wreckage.
Machi patted his briefcase.
Crime paid.