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Murder of Leon Romero...
Ordered By: Giuseppe Riina
Reason: War.
[Chapter One- When the Weather is Dry...]
"When do you have to leave?"
They sat in the living room, smoking, eating sandwiches and speaking about the trip to Palermo. It was nearing summer and in the apartment the heat was sweltering, and so the two were naked, hoping in their minds that no one had a telescope. Victor swallowed his food and took a sip of Kool-Aid before telling his woman, Celia, "Tommorrow morning, early flight. Don't worry, though, I don't think I'll be gone long." Celia shrugged, dragging off of her Dunhill.
The contract had come in earlier that week, from a big-time mob guy named Riina. Albert hadn't given a first name, and Victor hadn't asked for one. The hit was out on a crook in Palermo named Leon Romero, someone Victor hadn't--and now wouldn't ever--know personally. It was the first contract he'd gotten since the job Celia'd given him, and since then they'd been living quietly. She was disturbed by him leaving because of that.
Frowning, she said, "I wish you could work closer to home. If you died over there I may not ever hear about it..." Victor shook his head, biting out a chunk of sandwich. It was left-over pork roast, and very good. Celia was an excellent chef. "Don't worry about it," he said, "If I die over there Al will tell you." Celia wrinkled her nose a little. She didn't like Al, partly because he was a little bit responsible for the loss of Victor's left eye, partly because he was just a mean asshole. "I still don't like it, Vic," she said. Victor shrugged.
Couldn't be helped.
[Chapter Two- Mambo...]
When the plane landed in Palermo, Victor jerked awake and looked out the window. It was near nightfall.
He left the airport in a hurry, heading to his hotel room, which was under the name 'Ronald Kasper'. Victor didn't believe in traveling anywhere under his real name, it could turn a job sour in a hurry. Cops check that kind of thing, airline tickets and all that. So how would it look if a mobster got killed one night, and the next morning a plane seat is reserved for a known hired gun? It would look bad, very bad, bad enough to land a guy in prison.
He unpacked his sparse bag at the hotel, hanging up his two suit jackets and folding his shirts and pants. Vic hadn't brought a gun, if one was neccessary, he could call Al and get one set up. But so far he didn't know whether or not a gun would be needed, so he didn't get one.
After re-dressing in some dark clothing, Victor walked out of the hotel and took a cab to Romero's gun shop. It was a little square building on the corner of a street moslty populated by small shops and little houses. The shop had a window selection of guns, mostly pistols, and there were two men inside browsing and one clerk, an old guy in suspenders. Victor idly stood around, pretending to look at gun for at least ten minutes, then turned and walked to a diner down the street and ordered a sandwich and some beer. The sandwich was okay, the beer terrible.
Victor sat, and tried to think of a way to do this job. When he thought of one, he tipped the waitress extra and left for his hotel room.
[Chapter Three- Al's Contact...]
Al's contact was a skinny fellow with an aura of grease and sleaze around him named Carlo, no spoken last name. He spoke in broken English.
They met in the back of a bar not far from Romero's gunshop, a dingy little joint, the name of which Victor couldn't pronounce. The gun that Carlo was showing him didn't fit, it looked new and flawless, and when Victor tested the hammer and the action it was smooth and fine. It was a Beretta .32 with a silencer, black, and easily concealable. Carlo was demanding a grand for it, and since Victor was getting fifty-grand for the Romero job, he shrugged and paid in cash.
Carlo stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his shabby overcoat, nodded, and left through the front door. Victor put the gun in his waistband and left through the back door.
[Chapter Four- The Hit...]
When the clerk finally asked what he was looking for, Victor walked to counter, started to speak, then pulled the .32 out of his waistband and smacked the guy in the temple with it, hard. The clerk jerked to the right, not falling, so Victor hit him again. The clerk fell.
He'd spent a week after buying the gun to just lay about and enjoy Palermo. Victor loved the place, it was beautiful, and he hoped he could live there in retirement. Most of the time he'd spent on 'vacation' was at the beach or in restaurants, and after a while be felt that he was slacking. So he started to case the gun store, waiting to see how many customers they usually got and on what days, seeing whether or not they had a security guard on duty, seeing when Leon usually left. The answers were that they got a lot of customers on Saturday and Monday, very few on Sunday, and mild on the rest of the week. There was no security guard, and Leon usually left the place around ten o'clock at night, on the nights he worked.
Victor decided to do the job on a Sunday. He had slipped on a light gray suit--no tie, too hot for a tie--and had tucked his gun in his waistband, then set out in a cab. He figured he'd take a cab back as well, to his other hotel room in Northern Palermo under the name Leland Orser. He'd paid for the room in cash, so there was no trail linking him to it.
And so here he was.
Victor walked around to the other side of the counter, taking a brief look around to see if anyone was watching, then looked at the old guy on the floor. The blows to the head with the butt of the .32 had split the skin, so that a bit of blood trickled down the side of his head. He wasn't out yet, the old bastard, still trying to get up. Victor knelt and whacked the man across the head again with the butt of gun, twice, until he was unconcious.
Victor, still kneeling, turned so that he was facing the door to the office and called out, "Hey! Hey, I need some help out here, the old guy is hurt!" In what he hoped was a believable tourist's voice.
The office door opened and Romero came out, walking steadily, and when he saw the gun he turned to go back, likely to get a gun. Victor shot at him twice, holding the silenced .32 steadily, both bullets catching his torso. The first shot ripped through what might be where his kidney is, making no exit wound, and the second got his spine. Leon fell to floor and began to convulse, and as he did so Victor fired a final shot into his skull and waited a few seconds until Romero looked dead. Even if he wasn't dead, he would likely be a vegetable, so it was okay.
Victor stood and slid the gun back into his waistband, buttoning his suit-coat over it, then walked out of the store and caught a cab a block away to his downtown hotel.
Job's done, he thought.
[Chapter Five- There and Back...]
The plane took off slowly, but Victor didn't care. He was already asleep.
After the job he'd stayed the night at his hotel, like he'd planned, and in the morning he'd taken the pistol out to a bar and left it in a public bathroom stall, with the fingerprints wiped off. After that, he caught his flight back to America, leaving all his shit at the first hotel behind. He figured he could buy more with Riina's fifty grand.
It all worked out in the end.
When he got back to Jersey, first thing he did was check in with Celia, and it turned out she was at work. Victor re-dressed before he left the apartment, then went to his diner.
Lighting a cigarette, he ordered a cup of coffee and a danish. Things were swell.
[End]
Requests
-Death of Lean Romero
-Hitman status
-For there to be no ties with Victor Parry and the murder.
_________________
[Closed for contracts.]
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