Dirty Money

Chapter 35 - Dirty Money - R.I.P

            Michael stood in his kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil as Terrence sat at the kitchen bench on a high stool eating toast. Two guns were present on the food benches at the ready and no family was to be seen. The new boss had ordered them to move house as soon as he got wind of the warehouse hit.

            “I should have fucking been there,” Michael said, his fingers turning white from gripping the butter knife he was using so hard.

            Terrence stopped chewing, “You would be dead also, they left no one,” he said, still with a mouthful of buttered toast.

            “We got to get out the game T,” Michael said, taking the kettle off the plate and pouring the hot water into two mugs.

            “I only ever saw two ways out; death or jail, but maybe this is our chance to retire,” Terrence said.

            “You ever get nervous?” Michael said, handing Terrence his mug.

            “With the amount of fucking things I done, and police technology advancing by the day…of course I do,” Terrence said, as he blew onto the top of his boiling hot coffee to try and cool it.

            Michael nodded as he stared at the kitchen bench, “That’s why now is the time to get out. I hope you been saving your money.”

            “I’ll be right for a long time,” Terrence said, smugly.

            “You know every day I still think about Angelo, and Brian,” Michael said.

            “I didn’t feel nothing for Angelo,” he took a sip of his coffee, “That was just orders, but Brian was a good friend,” Terrence said.

            “Rai out played all of us,” Michael said, emotionlessly.

            “They always had the numbers, we just help them build up. Chuck was too blind with the whole Giuseppe thing, it was stupid wasting so much time on that little crew,” Terrence said.

            “The Giuseppe’s used to be Contro. They took a beating from the government for years then the bikers, and finally Chuck came along,” Michael reminded Terrence. 

             “So are we going to send these mutts our resignation?” Terrence asked.

            Sin sat in his car in the lower class neighborhood Samuele lived in. He rented a one-bedroom apartment alone and today his car was out front. The new capo finally mustered the courage to remove the keys from the ignition. He wiped his face with his hands and took a mouthful or water from the water bottle sitting in the centre console. He cocked his gun ready, put on his baseball cap, and left the car parked directly across from Sammy’s. 

            He knocked on the door four times, “Sammy open up it’s me,” Sin said, nervously.

            The capo watched as a shadow flickered over the peephole, and the sound of a door chain unlocking was heard.

            Samuele stood with his hair messed up, eyes still half closed, in a singlet and briefs and holding onto the television remote. “What’s up?” He asked, annoyed.

            “Fuck you’re grumpy,” Sin said, waving around a rolled up edition of Contro Chronicles, “You read this?”

            “It’s fucking early, I haven’t had time to be out and about,” Sammy said, as he let out a yawn.