violence

Violence:

  Dodging people, cars, and trucks, Matt raced through the streets of Tribeca.
Fortunately, he was wearing tennis shoes, which allowed him to run with abandon
without too much fear of injury. He covered a lot of ground quickly, and decided not
to waste time looking for a phone to warn Carol. Stopping and starting would’ve cut
the efficiency of his hot engine body.
  He concentrated most on his stride, breath, and avoiding collisions. After this
hierarchy, three imperatives recycled through his brain: he had to get Carol out of
the studio, discover how the Cascones found out, and protect himself now that the
Mob was after him.
  Matt broke stride and came to a stop at his street. He peeked around the corner.
It appeared safe, so he made his way toward the studio. But he hadn’t looked
carefully enough, and now saw two men in a black Lincoln Continental, near the
entrance to his parking lot.
  Backpedaling to the wall, he kicked over a wine bottle, which broke on the
ground. He leapt into a nearby doorway and hid in the shallow recess. After a few
anxious moments, Matt stole a look at the Lincoln. Its bulky passengers were still in
the car and not turned in his direction.
  The one in the driver’s seat, a heavy-set man, read a newspaper, while the other
one talked. Matt recognized the talker by his profile. It was Chooch Morici, a
strong-arm for the Cascone gang. He wasn’t a neighborhood guy, so Matt didn’t
know him personally, but had heard Chooch was from a notoriously violent Jersey
City crew. Now that Matt had identified one, he guessed whom the other thug was
- Chooch’s partner, Biggy Pecoraro, also from New Jersey.
  Chooch opened the door and got out. He looked up and down the street while he
pushed his shoulders back to straighten his spine. He leaned into the car. Matt was
close enough to hear most of the conversation.
  “I’m gonna go stretch my legs. See if there’s another entrance or back alley. So
put the fucking paper down and keep your eyes peeled.”
  Biggy folded the paper and dropped it onto the seat next to him. “Yeah, yeah.
Go take your fucking walk.”
  Matt watched Chooch pass the front entrance to the studio and continue toward
West Street. He planned to make his move when the goon turned the corner. His
engine was still hot. There was no way he could stay parked in the doorway much
longer.
  When Chooch disappeared from sight, Matt left the doorway and dipped down
without losing a step to grab the intact neck of the broken wine bottle. Sneaking up
on Biggy became easier when the three hundred pound goombah picked up the
paper and starting reading it again. When there were no more parked cars ahead of
him to hide behind, Matt walked out into the street and approached the Lincoln at an
angle, which he estimated to be its blind spot. He reached the rear fender, bent low,
and scooted to the sidewalk. Another three steps had Matt at the open window,
pressing the jagged edge of the broken wine bottle against Biggy’s multi-folded
neck.
  “Sit on your hands, fat man.”
  Biggy dropped the paper, but didn’t lower his hands quick enough. Matt dug the
green glass into a layer of fat and drew blood.
  Biggy shrieked, “Okay! Okay! I’m doing it.”
  Matt kept the shard hooked inside the open wound to remind the obese hit-man
he was one false move away from death. In full compliance, Biggy slowly tilted to
the right, raising his left butt cheek, then carefully lowered his left hand and slid it
under him. He rolled back and trapped his hand under his great weight, then repeated
the process until his right hand was similarly imprisoned. Heavy beads of sweat
formed like storm clouds on Biggy’s forehead.
  “Where’s your gun?”
  “Left side.”
  Matt pulled aside the fat man’s leather jacket and smelled the fear coming from
his humid body. After retrieving a snub .38 from its side holster, Matt removed the
glass from Biggy’s jugular. The big man swallowed once before Matt struck him
repeatedly on the side of the head with the gun grip. When Biggy appeared sufficiently
unconscious, the skull bashing stopped.
  Matt held Biggy by his hair to keep him from slumping forward onto the steering
wheel. He placed the thug’s huge head against the door column and checked for
signs of blood. A red stream suddenly broke through the levee of black curls and
began flowing down Biggy’s neck.
  “Fuck!” Matt leaned into the window and grabbed the newspaper by Biggy’s
feet. He spotted the handle of a small baseball bat - the kind used by Pee Wee
Leaguers and Mob enforcers - under the passenger seat. He leaned deeper into the
car to claim the wooden club. To do so, he had to stretch his body across Biggy’s
paunch. In such a vulnerable position, Matt hoped to God there would be no miracle
recovery for the massive hit-man.
  With part of the newspaper in one hand and the small bat in the other, Matt
extracted himself from the car. He crumbled the paper and used it to wipe the blood
that trickled down the side of Biggy’s neck. Next, he blotted the source of the blood
flow and discretely stuck some wadded-up newspaper between Biggy’s head and
the column to divert further drips toward the back of his flubbery neck. Moving to
the front of the car, Matt examined Biggy’s appearance. There were no traces of
blood, and Biggy looked like he’d fallen asleep. There was nothing left to do but hide
behind the car’s rear bumper and wait for the other goon to get close enough for
Matt to throw his second surprise party.
  “Wake up, you fat prick!” Chooch bellowed as he neared his slumbering partner.
Chooch’s eyes lit with alarm. He’d probably noticed some blood because he
was reaching inside his jacket when Matt hit him flush in the face with the Pee Wee
sized bat. Chooch screamed and grabbed his busted nose as blood spurted through
his fingers like a ruptured water main. Matt continued to club him on the head, and
the wounded mobster crumpled to his knees, groaning with each blow.
  Matt struck with a vengeance. “Trying to kill me, you motherfucker!”
  He stopped swinging, when he realized a few more blows would probably kill
Chooch. At this point in Matt’s life, it didn’t matter much if the hit-man lived or died.
It was more of an elemental decision to stop hammering another man’s head. Matt
dug inside Chooch’s jacket for his weapon and felt the wounded man’s chest rise
and fall. As far as Matt knew both thugs were alive when he left the bloody scene,
carrying two handguns and a small bat.
  When he entered the studio parking lot, Matt heard a phone ring. The sound
came from the Lincoln. Others would soon be arriving to find out why nobody
answered the car phone.

h ome