Capo

By JJ Rushmore

I entered Barone’s funeral home and signed the guest book as “Buster Washington.” I felt it best to omit “Detective.”

The mood was somber in Viewing Room One. Dark suits and black dresses milled about, forming clusters and dissolving with no apparent pattern. Conversations buzzed and faded like distant summer cicadas.

Memories washed over me as I stood by the coffin. Close as brothers, we were. Me and Carmine. Best friends in childhood, best friends in manhood. Except when we couldn’t be.

They had done a surprisingly good job with his appearance, considering the bullet holes. Fourteen. I had counted.

The captivating scent of blood orange invaded my reverie. I had always loved that fragrance.

The perfume whispered behind my ear. “So, are you family, or friend?” The voice was soft, a mere murmur.

“I don’t have any friends.” The words tumbled out unbidden, surprising me, cutting deep.

“I can see why. Was he the only one? Or the last one?”

I didn’t answer. And I didn’t look at the speaker. I didn’t need to.

“You must be family, then,” the voice purred.

“Do I look like family?”

The petit brunette leaned into my field of view. She inspected the cadaver with its pale olive complexion, followed by a frank examination of my ebony skin.

“So, not a blood relation—family by marriage, maybe?”

“Not anymore. You ask a lot of questions.”

“Well I haven’t seen you in, what is it Buster, six months?”

“Seven months, three weeks, and five days. I thought it best to stay away.”

She grabbed my arm and turned me toward her. “Because of me, or Carmine?”

“Both. Why aren’t you in the receiving line, Victoria?”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore. Rocco’s being a jerk. And Mama, well, you know what she’s like. And you know goddamn well it’s Vicki.”

I did. I also knew Mama Testaroli could be a venomous bitch when she wanted, which was most of the time. And it was no surprise Vicki’s younger brother Rocco was being difficult. He was born that way.

“What are they on about now?”

Vicki flailed a hand in her family’s direction. “The usual. Marinara versus Bolognese, gelato versus cannoli, who killed Carmine, that sort of thing.”

“And what do they say?”

“Rocco accuses the Russians. Mama thinks it’s the Garganelli family.”

“What do you think?”

“You know what I think. I’m waiting for you to prove it.”

“I’m working on it, but the brass has been fighting me. They say I’m too close to it.”

“Because the victim’s your brother-in-law?”

“Ex-brother-in-law.”

“That was your choice,” she said. “I was willing to make it work.”

“I couldn’t do what I needed while being married to you.”

“Hmph! So you say.” She crossed her arms and gave me her classic look of disbelief.

“We’ve been through this,” I said. “They didn’t trust me at the precinct. Wouldn’t let me on the task force. Wouldn’t let me see the evidence.”

“So did it work?”

“Finally. They’re upgrading my access tomorrow. Then I’ll know for sure.”

“I want to hear it first.”

“We’ll see. I have other obligations.”

Fists on hips, Vickie glared at me. “More important than your wife?”

“Like I said, we’ll see.” I didn’t quibble over our relationship status. It was a gray area.

“Why are we whispering, anyway?” she said.

“I don’t know. You started it.”

“Are you coming to the house tomorrow? After the cemetery?”

“Your mother wouldn’t like it. Neither would Rocco. They’ve been giving me the evil eye since I got here.”

“That never stopped you before. Seems like small potatoes compared to your marrying me.”

“Maybe I’ll start calling you Spud.”

She punched me in the arm.

“Ow!”

“Try it, Buster, and see what happens.”

“Okay, okay, but I can’t come by tomorrow. I’ll be busy at the precinct. Apologize to your Mama about today, and handle Rocco however you want.”

“I intend to.”

***

The only sounds were those of the pool game; the soft thump of a leather-tipped cue striking an ivory ball, the muffled rumble of the ball rolling over green baize, the muted clicks of balls striking one other, and the occasional thock of a ball falling into a rawhide pocket.

A dozen men drifted about the Testaroli’s basement game room in twos and threes. They wore sharkskin suits with ties, or dress slacks and leisure shirts. A few played pool. The other men smoked, drank highballs, and whispered tales of Carmine’s exploits, many of which were worthy of a minstrel’s ballad. Carmine had been a caporegime, or capo, a captain in the Testaroli mob.

Vicki remained aloof in a wooden captain’s chair at the far end of the room. She wore a black knee-length skirt and white blouse.

Rocco clumped down the stairs and swaggered into the room, puffing a pungent Cuban cigar. He gave patronizing nods to the men. He stopped short upon seeing his sister. His face clouded over as he strutted toward her.

“I thought Mama called a meeting,” he growled. “For made men. To choose a new capo.”

“She did,” Vicki replied.

“Well where is she?” Rocco stabbed his cigar at her. “And you can’t be here.”

“Oh, but I can. Mama and the boys met yesterday and made me.”

“Bullshit! That’s not possible! No woman has ever been made.”

“Who do you think has been running this family since Papa died, Rocco? Mama may not have been made, but she makes all the decisions.”

“Besides, these are changing times,” I said, as I stepped from behind a curtain.

Rocco spun around. “What the fuck are you doing here? You’re not famiglia.”

“I’m here as an observer—”

“Actually you’re wrong, Rocco,” Vicki quipped. “Mama knows the judge. He apparently filed our divorce papers without any signatures. So we’re still married.

Rocco was livid. “I don’t give a f—”

“Really?” I said to Vicki. “And when were you going to divulge this nugget of information?”

“I just did,” she said. “Now, don’t you have something to say to me?”

“What is this,” Rocco said, “marriage counseling? I don’t have time for this shit.”

“I do have something to say, Vicki.” I said. “Something you’ll want to hear.”

Vicki nodded and whirled to face Rocco. “Let’s talk about what you do have time for, Rocco. Let’s talk about how you squealed to the cops on Carmine—how you ratted out your brother so you could eliminate him and take over as capo.”

“You’re crazy! Boys, throw this wacko bitch out.”

The Testaroli crew had abandoned their pool game. They fidgeted, their eyes bouncing between Vicki and Rocco like spectators at a tennis match.

Vicki went nose-to-nose with her brother. “Let’s talk about how you killed Carmine.”

Time stood still.

Rocco broke the silence. “What is this? You’re blowing smoke out your ass, Vick. You got no proof.

“Wrong again, Rocco.” I threw a thick manilla folder onto the pool table, scattering the balls. “That’s the task force file on Carmine. The file identifies the police informant in your family. The stoolpigeon who torpedoed Carmine’s jobs by telling the cops the wheres and the whens, undermining his standing in the family, and getting him indicted by the DA.

“There’s also a thumbnail drive with security video clearly showing who shot him. You were right all along, Vicki. Carmine’s killer and the stoolpigeon are one and the same person. The file says its Rocco. The video shows its Rocco.”

Vicki reached around her back and pulled out a polished chrome 0.22 automatic. The one I had given her for our first anniversary. She put two rounds in Rocco’s chest.

“That’s for being a snitch,” she said.

Rocco covered the spreading bloodstain with one hand, a mingled look of pain and surprise contorting his face.

I stood mesmerized as two of the men unrolled a black plastic sheet on the carpet behind their former crewmate.

Rocco’s knees wobbled. Vicki knocked him over with a shove of the pistol. She stood over him and spit in his face.

“And this is for Carmine.” Vicki double-tapped Rocco in the forehead and turned back to her chair. With a careless wave to her soldiers she said, “Now get this piece of garbage out of here.”

The boys wrapped up the corpse like a big black burrito and carted it away.

Vicki gave me a look.

“That was my initiation,” she said. “As a made woman. And capo.”

“Jesus, Vick…”

“He betrayed us, Buster. He betrayed the famiglia.” She paused. “And you were never here.”

“Of course not,” I said, “And a husband can’t be made to testify against his wife. But you knew that.”

“You’re more useful if we stay divorced.”

“So I can’t join the team.”

“There are rules against…” She caressed my cheek.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I paused. “Maybe I could do whiteface like Michael Jackson…”

She shook her head. “He had a skin disorder.”

“Right. Whatever. Do I at least get conjugal visits?”

She grinned. “All part of the package.”