We are delighted to welcome authors Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner to Omnimystery News today.
Frank and Eric behind the voices of Cam and Bricks in the crime novel The Backlist (Down & Out Books; September 2015 trade paperback and ebook formats), full of action, twists, verbal jabs, and mayhem. Lots of mayhem.
We are pleased to introduce you to the book with an excerpt, the first two chapters. And from now through the publication date of September 15th, you can pre-order The Backlist at a special price of just $2.99 for Kindle.
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ONE
Bricks
GETTING IN TO SEE THE OLD man used to be easier.
Actually, it was even easier to get face time with his old man, but I guess it isn't really fair to make comparisons. I was still wearing pigtails and a training bra when Saverio was the boss. Not exactly a major security threat. Add to that the fact that I was always with my pops, who Saverio trusted in more ways than one, including with his life.
So I guess I shouldn't judge Salvatore too harshly. He inherited the big chair at a time when any pretense of omerta was out the door, and when the family started making sure its soldiers remained loyal through pretty simple means: if you turned rat, they killed your whole family. It was old school Sicilian. It was harsh. And it was effective. There wasn't a single made guy who turned state's evidence in the decade Sal's been the boss. So that's something ya gotta respect.
Still, getting through the gauntlet of doors and sides of beef wearing cheap suits just to see him was a pain in the ass. And he summoned me. It's not like I was just showing up trying to sell magazine subscriptions.
Finally, I made it into the waiting area outside his office. Bruno Taggliarti stood next to the door, his giant arms crossed over his chest. He looked at me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, two words I'd be impressed if he knew.
"Be a minute," he grunted at me.
I shrugged and took a seat. As if he knew the old man's schedule anyway. Besides, I knew there was a pin-sized camera just above the door. When Sal was ready for me, his consigliere, Max, would come out and get me. Bruno would get the news same time I did.
The waiting area was quiet for a few moments except for the sound of Bruno's labored breathing. Christ, I'd hate to hear what he sounded like after doing anything strenuous, like opening a door or reaching down to tie his shoes.
"Tell me something, Bricks," Bruno said.
"What's that?"
"You a dyke or what?"
I fixed him with a flat stare. "Why, Bruno? You cruising for a piece of ass?"
"Always," he said, his tone becoming affable.
I shook my head and looked away. These guys, every one of them thinks if you won't sleep with them, the only possible reason is because you're gay. Couldn't have anything to do with them being slobs.
"Seriously, though," he said.
"No."
"No, you ain't a dyke?"
"No, I won't sleep with you."
"So I suppose a blowjob is out of the question?" He gave me a meaty smile.
I was already tired of this jousting, but sometimes I think Sal has it set up to be part of the price of admission. You want to see the boss? Well, you gotta put up with Bruno's bullshit at the door. And don't pussy out, either.
"Why do you care?" I asked him. "You doing a dissertation?"
"A disser-what?"
Christ.
"Why do you care, Bruno?"
He shrugged. "Just wonderin'. I mean, you got the look, right?"
"What look is that?"
"Short hair. Kinda stocky. And you don't dress like no girl, neither."
"Sounds like you got it all figured out."
Bruno scratched his fat cheek. "Yeah, not really. I got, like, you know, suspicions. It ain't a for sure. Which is why I'm asking. So, whaddaya say?"
"I say I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last man on earth."
He gave me a knowing look and wagged his finger at me. "But if I had tits...?"
"Take a look in the mirror, jerk off. You're a B cup, easy."
He frowned. "Why can't you just answer a straight question, Bricks?"
"Same reason you can't see your own dinger."
He gave me a confused look.
"Because you're a fat asshole," I said, helping him out.
He sighed. "Gotta be a carpet muncher with that attitude," he said, half to me and half for the record. "Man hater, right?"
The door opened. Max DaCosta stepped into the room. His tailored suit was such a sharp contrast to Bruno's ill-fitting excuse for one that it almost made me squint in pain.
"Problem here?" Max asked Bruno, his tone quiet but authoritative.
"No, sir," Bruno answered immediately. He didn't exactly snap a salute but I was pretty sure he straightened his posture when he spoke.
Max turned to me, his eyebrow arched.
"No problem," I said. "Bruno and I were just talking a little anthropology."
Max glanced back to Bruno. "Impressive." Then he waved me inside. "Mr. Giordano is ready for you, Paula."
I rose and followed him into the old man's office.
Salvatore Giordano was what you'd call a traditionalist. In an age when most of his peers wore track suits and played video games most of the day, Sal was old school. He dressed well, he had manners, and he believed in loyalty. His pops taught him all three things, if you ask me, but where do any of us learn our most important lessons, right?
"Bricks!" Sal said, giving me a smile as he stood. "Good to see you."
"You, too," I said.
Sal came around from behind his desk, opening his arms to me. I leaned in. He took me firmly by the upper arms and brushed a kiss on first one cheek, then the other. His skin smelled of expensive cologne, but was rough and scraped against mine.
"Please, have a seat," Sal said, releasing me. "You want something to drink?"
"No, I'm good." I sat in the plush leather chair in front of Sal's desk.
"No? You sure?"
"Positive."
Sal returned to his own seat, settling in. Max took a chair off to the side.
We sat in silence, me waiting, and Sal just watching me. I had the uncomfortable sense that he was deciding something right then, and I didn't like it.
"How long you been with me, Bricks?" he finally asked.
"I've been with the family all my life." Couldn't hurt to remind him of that, especially with the odd vibe I was suddenly getting. "My pops used to bring me in here when your old man had that chair."
He smiled but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, yeah. The good old days," he said with a light chuckle that quickly faded. "You know, having you do what you do for me, it's kind of strange. Something they call a contradiction in terms." He spoke the last part slowly, like it would be a concept I had never heard of or wouldn't get.
"How's that?"
He motioned toward me. "Look at you. You're a woman."
"Last time I checked, anyway."
"How many women you figure get used as button men?"
"I'm guessing zero."
"Exactly. Zilch. But my old man, he had a soft spot for yours, so here you are."
I didn't mention how my pops also got pinched taking care of a particularly messy problem for Saverio, and how he went to prison for it. How he didn't utter a word to the cops the entire time, even after he got the cancer. How he took every single secret he had to his grave.
I didn't mention it because it was Sal's mess that my pops was cleaning up. So while the loyalty he showed to the family was understood, it was also an unpleasant reminder that even Sal fucks up sometimes.
He leaned back in his chair, appraising me. "Still, I gotta admit, there's another reason I kept you on the payroll. You know why that is?"
"Yes."
His eyebrows shot up. "Yeah? What, then?"
"I deliver." Then, because I can't leave well enough alone, I added, "Just like my pops did before me."
To his credit, Sal didn't frown or otherwise react. He just nodded slowly. "That's right. You deliver. Like the Federal fucking Express."
We were quiet again for a few moments. Then I asked, "Is this about a job, then?"
Sal never gave me my assignments directly. Usually, I met with Max at some diner somewhere and he gave me a packet with everything I needed to know. The money came after. I paid my own expenses.
Sal sighed, and glanced over at Max, giving him a little nod. Max stood and motioned for me to do the same.
Confused, I stood up.
Max held his arms straight out to the side, miming me to follow suit. "If you please."
Then I understood. "Christ, you think I'm wired?"
"Just a precaution," Max said.
I shook my head in disbelief. "In a million years, I wouldn't even think to do something like that." I looked over at Sal. "I'm my father's daughter, Sal, just like you are your father's son."
"I know," he said. "But what's the old saying? Trust, but verify."
"You're quoting Russian proverbs now?"
His eyes narrowed. "I thought Reagan said that."
I turned back to Max, holding my arms out to the side. "Go ahead," I said. "I don't even have my pistola. Your guy at the front door took it."
Max stepped forward. He ran his hands over my body, searching me with a light but firm touch. He was efficient and thorough, checking everywhere. Still, I was glad it was him doing the search instead of Bruno. That was something, at least.
When he'd finished, he gave me a curt, almost kindly nod, but there was no hint of apology in it. Then he motioned toward my chair, and returned to his own.
I sat down, took a huge breath, and let it out. Sal sat, watching me. "You want to tell me what's going on?" I asked.
Sal reached out for a gold colored pen on his desk, toying with it while he considered my question. Finally, he said, "I'll cut right to it, Bricks. Times are tough."
I knew that. It'd been four months since my last assignment and six months since the one before that. I guess it was a good thing I lived cheap and knew how to budget.
"You know, with the economy and all that?" Sal continued. "Well, it affects our business, too. We're like a corporation, just like GM or Ford or IBM. We deal in what they call fiscal realities."
Slow and steady on the last two words again, like I was a moron. I suppressed the frustration, not wanting to let it show on my face. This guy might have his doctorate in Mafioso 101 but I'll bet he didn't know that in between doing jobs for him, I managed to get a real degree from a real college.
And he didn't need to know, either, I reminded myself. Just like he didn't need to see how much his condescension pissed me off.
I sat stoically, and waited.
"These fiscal realities are forcing me to make some hard decisions. Decisions my old man never would have imagined possible in his time."
"You declaring bankruptcy?" I blurted.
Oops.
Sal scowled. "Don't be a wise ass, Bricks. It ain't attractive."
Like I gave two shakes about what he found attractive or not. But I did care about leaving this office alive and staying that way afterward, so I buttoned up.
Sal sighed, and let the scowl diminish. "Actually, it ain't that far from the truth. We're gonna have to downsize our operation."
"Downsize?"
"Yeah."
"How much?"
Sal looked over to Max. I followed his gaze.
"Significantly," the consigliere said.
I waited for more, but Max simply sat quietly and said nothing.
"Yeah, so here's what significantly means," Sal continued. "It means I don't really need more than one button man these days."
Oh, Christ. I was being laid off by the mafia.
"You're kidding," I said.
Sal shook his head. "No. Dead serious."
I almost laughed at that. Then I wondered how in the hell I was going to file for unemployment, and the desire to laugh out loud doubled. I pressed my lips together to hold it inside.
"The thing is," Sal said, "we're gonna try to do this honorably. You know, in a way my old man would've been proud of? So we're gonna license a few people to start their own families in other cities if they want. Other people we'll give a nice severance package. Some people have already got their legit business for laundry purposes, so they can get by on that. It'll work out."
That sounded like something Sal told himself so that his father's ghost didn't haunt his dreams at night, but I kept that inside, too.
"But," Sal said, holding up a finger. "There are a few loose ends. Some things that need to be tidied up."
"Like?"
"Like a couple of guys who know too much. Guys who we know won't keep their mouths shut once they get cut loose. Guys who fucked some things up to help put us in this situation. Things like that. They've been on the backlist for a while, but now we gotta move on things, so their number's up."
A picture of where this was going started to form in my mind. "And that's where I come in?"
Sal smiled that same empty smile he'd flashed at me when I came in. "Always the smart one, Bricks."
I shrugged. It didn't take a genius.
"Yeah," Sal said. "That is where you come in. I've got three of these loose ends that need taking care of. You take care of them, you not only get paid, but I keep you on as what they call an independent contractor."
Christ.
"So, capisce?"
I thought about it, more for form's sake than anything else. I didn't have a choice, and we both knew it. If I refused, I became another loose end. I had to say yes, and decide later if I wanted to follow through or blow town.
Like that was even an option. What kind of work was I going to get with experience as a hit man and a degree in philosophy?
Dishwasher, that's what.
"What about your other buttons?" I asked.
Sal gave me a frank, even stare. "I'm asking you to do this. Because of your old man and mine, truth be told."
"And because I always deliver."
"And that."
"Well, I guess that settles it, then."
Sal flashed his insincere smile again. "I knew I could count on you. Max will be in touch with the details in a day or so."
I stood up. So did Max. Sal didn't.
"This has to be taken care of as quickly as you can," Max said quietly. "We can't begin our downsizing measures until all three issues are resolved."
"I understand."
Max gave me a look I couldn't quite interpret and didn't really like. Then he escorted me to the door, and I found myself standing next to Bruno the mouth breather again.
Bruno asked me something about eating pussy, but I didn't catch all of it and didn't answer. Instead, I made my way back the way I'd come. It was much easier leaving than it had been arriving.
TWO
Cameron
I REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME I got past the second set of doors. It was my first meeting with the big man, Saverio. The day I was invited in.
It helped that my Uncle Rocco was high in the ranks of the organization, but I swear that wasn't the only reason they took me in. Since that day more than ten years ago I've proven myself, same way I had for seven years before that meeting.
Shit jobs, boring jobs, muscle jobs, whack jobs, even. I do it all. I'm a triple threat. The all-arounder. The utility man.
Christ, it gets goddamn tedious sometimes.
But now I was being invited back inside. To the room where good things happen. Promotions. Sure, Saverio is long gone, but if I made it past the outer set of doors, something was up.
Little did I know.
The regular guys were there. Mikey and his cousin Leo. Everyone called him Big Mike, but I'd known Mikey since we were both virgins on the prowl so I never called him anything but. Even when he started giving me the orders. And now he was sitting in the big office? What gives? I knew it didn't mean he'd jumped up the ranks that high. He was a guest here. Holding meetings in the safest place there was. Away from prying eyes, bugs, and snitches.
It didn't bode well for whatever this meeting was about, but all I could think about was how it was Mikey and not me sitting behind that desk. I guess being a nephew of Rocco's only got me so far to the front of the line. And in this business, blood is thicker than just about anything. Even Rocco's own wife's gravy.
Leo, he never says a thing. Just sits there while Mikey gives me my assignment. So Mikey does all the talking again. I think he could see the disappointment on my face. Soon as I saw him and not someone higher up, I knew this wasn't my big break.
"It ain't good news, Cam," he said.
No shit.
"Why? What's up?"
"Things..." He sighed and leaned back in his borrowed chair like the weight of the world was on him. "Things ain't what they fuckin' used to be."
"Tell me something I don't know."
I was trying to keep it light. Mikey was sitting there like two tons of bricks.
He told me why. Things were ugly up top. Somebody broke ranks. One of the bigs.
"He turn states or something?" I asked.
"Worse," Mikey said.
He flipped sides. Took a dozen guys with him and all the business they ran. Florida guys. Bastards. The short story was that things were tough all over. The shit had hit the fan and all of us in that room were standing downwind.
"So what do we do about it?" I asked.
"Cutting back," Mikey said. "Big time."
I swallowed but it got stuck halfway down my gullet. "I'm fired?"
I was about to protest, "But I'm blood, Mikey," when he stopped me.
"You ain't fired. In fact," he leaned forward on the desk. "I need you to do some firing for me."
I couldn't help a smile crossing my face. I felt the new sweat on my forehead start to cool as the blood flowed out of my face and back to normal. I'd been spared.
"Whatever you need, Mikey. You know that."
Mikey smiled. Pained and weak, but it showed I was one of the last people he could trust. I wondered where the really top guys were. Mikey's bosses, and their bosses. How bad did this get and how high did it go? Not for me to wonder, I guess.
"It's gonna mean some gun work," he said.
I nodded. "You know I'm good for it."
"You've always done right by us, Cam. Always."
"Hey," I said. "I'm family." Subtle reminders never hurt. Sometimes I wonder if Mikey remembered. Not like I was on his Christmas card list or anything.
And a hit? Yeah, I'd done that before. Twice, in fact. It had been a while and the others weren't exactly my best work, but when the coffin lid closes nobody cares how a guy died, only that he did.
Mikey stood, international symbol for 'this conversation is over.' A guy like him is all about the subtleties of body language. This business is all about it. Who shakes hands with who, and who goes first. Who stands when you enter a room and who waits until it's time for you to leave. How big is the pucker when you kiss somebody's ass.
"I'll send over your first assignment tonight, okay, Cam?"
"Okay, Mikey."
He took my hand. For a minute we were old friends again. Lifting cases of booze off trucks, working a guy over for a missing payment, sweating our balls off to get with Marie Fitzano.
"You do this well for us, we got more," Mikey said. "You help us clean up the mess, and there's a spot for you here. On the inside. For keeps. You get it?"
I smiled. "I got it. I'm your man."
"'Cause you're family," he said.
I never felt more like it.
Gave my whole goddamn life for this family. I grew up hearing my mother bitch and moan about no good shiftless bastard Uncle Rocco. Why was he walking around like the king of shit mountain while my dad is dead in some army helicopter crash off some Pacific island? She hated Rocco and everything he stood for on his whole side of the family.
This was a guy I had to meet.
I started riding my bike across town to sit with him and his pals outside of a sandwich shop that served meatball grinders Rocco said would, "Make your dick hard, your arteries harder and your stomach solid steel."
I got him and the boys coffee. I bought him his paper. I'd go down to DeLuca's and get him the cannoli he liked special.
How could he not bring me in?
So that was the first sacrifice. It wasn't even my dignity and pride at running errands for him like a slave right off the ship, it was my mom. She said if I kept on working for the man I'd be dead to her. I called her bluff, but she was dead fucking serious.
I tried to call a few times, even stopped by on Christmas Eve, but she left me on the porch with snow falling down my collar while she turned up the volume on her favorite holiday record — the one of the dogs barking out Jingle Bells.
Never saw her again.
Then there was Tia. Lovely Tia. Two years younger than me, but smarter by a mile. Tight little body. Dark brown hair, dark eyes. Full lips and a smile that showed her crooked teeth and, man, did that slay me.
The minute I saw her I stopped chasing tail with Mikey. I had a purpose. I didn't want to just get this girl in the sack. That's how I knew it was different. I knew I'd fallen in love.
Say that word and you get your ass kicked by the guys I run with, but I didn't care. I went to the bookstore and tore out pages of Shakespeare and copied it down for her. I swiped roses by the dozens off the carts those Korean guys run uptown.
Then the job started getting more serious. I had my first muscle job and came to her afterward to get my knuckles bandaged. And my nose. And my ribs. My muscle job days were a slow start. I went in with my fists, but often met up with guys who fought back with shit like baseball bats and steel pipes.
She started to say things. Not like my mom kind of things, ultimatums and stuff, but she was worried. She told me she loved me too, and she didn't think this was a good path I was on.
I told her it was the only path I knew, then I quoted Robert Frost about two paths in the woods and I figured she'd think I was smart. She said all that meant was that I chose wrong.
Then came the first hit.
I told Tia everything about my jobs. I couldn't not tell her. So I did. She told me if I did the hit that she'd leave me. Made me choose.
Now, I'm not the kind of guy — but I know a lot of them — who would tell his girl to shut up. Remind her that he's the man. She was my world, but the family — the job — that was my life. How do you choose?
So I called her bluff and guess what? I'm two for two. She moved out. Changed her number.
A bunch of the guys said I should go get her back. That it's my call when things are over, not hers. But if she didn't want me, I wasn't gonna force her.
I told the guys if you love something, set it free.
They beat the shit out of me. I stopped reading poetry after that.
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Eric Beetner writes hardboiled crime fiction. A lot of it, with more to come. Many folks have said nice things about his books. He's won a few awards like the 2012 Stalker award for Most Criminally Underrated author. He lives in Los Angeles where he co-hosts the Noir At The Bar reading series.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at EricBeetner.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of numerous crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Chattaroy, Washington.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at FrankZafiro.com and his author page on Goodreads, or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
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The Backlist by Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner
A Crime Novel
Publisher: Down & Out Books
When the mob finds itself on hard times and has to lay people off, the boss decides to give two different hitters separate lists of "overdue accounts" — a backlist — to see who distinguishes themselves enough to remain on the payroll.
The sharp-tongued Bricks and the hapless, eager to please Cam find themselves faced with challenges they never imagined when they got into the business.
But there's no other choice than to settle out the names on … the backlist.
— The Backlist by Frank Zafiro and Eric Beetner
