Just another Day

The year is 1964, November 23^rd. It is raining, pouring; the clouds are angry and dark. They swirl and yell at the top of their lungs as though to warn someone; the clouds look as though ready to swallow all of New York City whole. Manhattan Island is where our story starts with a man named Umberto Salieri. In Manhattan there is a restaurant in Little Italy called Freddy’s. This restaurant however, only takes up two-thirds of the building in which it resides. The last third is a back room in which Mr. Salieri does his “business”.  Salieri is a sophisticated yet feared man in New York City, as he came from Sicily during the war to escape Mussolini’s deadly grasp. Don Salieri, as he is called, is a large man, six feet tall and two hundred thirty pounds of pure Italian powerhouse. He wears only the finest and expensive Italian suits giving him a rich look. His voice is hoarse from many years of barking orders and old age. At sixty-five his hands and forearms are muscular and hairy. However even as one of the most powerful people in this fine city he can not even expect what is to come next.

            Lightning strikes as Salieri takes a bite of his cannoli, and reads the daily news. He was admiring an article in the paper about Mickey Mantle; something about him saving two girls from a rapist. He takes a quick glance at his gold Rolex watch reading seven thirty. Salieri is going to the opera tonight and needs to be on his way if he’s going to make it on time. He takes the last bite of cannoli, brushes crumbs off his suit, and exits the back room. He motions for his guards to bring around the car as it is raining and he wished not to get wet. The car is black, windows tinted and bullet proof. As it stops outside the restaurant the pitter-patter of raindrops on the windshield becomes louder. His goons open the door, an umbrella in each hand. As Salieri walks out he notices an old homeless man lying at the entrance of his restaurant.

            “Take him into the alley and teach him a lesson I don’t want filth at my doorstep” Salieri said pointing at the old man. After helping Salieri into the car the thugs brought the man into the alley and beat him relentlessly. They kicked him repeatedly till the boss motioned to stop.

            “Don’t ever show your face around here again understand!” one of the goons said.

The hobo said nothing, but simply moaned in pain curled up in a ball he looked up at the one goon and nodded his head up and down. The goons got into the car with Mr. Salieri and began driving. The driver of the car, the one the hobo looked up at, felt unsettled like he had missed something, like he had seen that man before. He racked his brain for a few moments, when he couldn’t remember anything he started going over the hobo’s features in his head. His beard, black and grey, was gnarled and twisted, winding every which way. He wore a light brown torn to pieces winter overcoat, and a blue bowler’s hat covering his hair. Yet with a torn jacket and twisted beard the old coot had an expensive pair of suit pants with black dress shoes to go with it. What hobo has hundred fifty dollar pants and shoes? Without noticing the driver stopped at a red light. The street was empty. He thought about just driving past the light but he worried about being pulled over with Mr. Salieri’s short fuse. It was then that he realized something horrid. The driver had remembered the color of the man’s eyes. Black as the sun was bright, so dark you couldn’t tell where the pupil started. In the Italian underworld a man with black eyes brings swift death. The driver realized where he knew this man, he was the commission’s sweeper Jack Smith. You see, the commission is a committee of all the mob bosses in New York City, and the sweeper is there to take care of anyone who breaks the commission’s rules. In Salieri’s case the commission must have realized Salieri was selling dope strictly forbidden by the commission. Realizing the end was near, the driver turned to Mr. Salieri and said just two words to his terrible boss, one of them being a swear word. Before Salieri could say a word a high pitched beeping noise could be heard from under the car and the car exploded. The ball of fire lit the street like a huge candle, pieces of body and shrapnel flew everywhere.

            Back to the alley behind the restaurant, a content Jack Smith sat up from his fetal position nap. He tore off his fake beard and cap to reveal a clean shaven face and greased back black hair. He rose to his feet and removed his jacket showing off a nice dress shirt with an Armani tie, black with the Roman numeral XIV written in red going vertically across it. He left the alley and entered Freddy’s. He walked to the bar and took a seat.

            “What can I get ya?” the bartender asked.

            “Some espresso and do you guys have a phone I could use?” Jack asked

            “Yeah right there” the bartender said scared realizing the color of Jacks eyes.

 Jack walked over to the phone and pulled out a number written on a piece of paper from his pocket. He dialed the number and waited as it rang.

            “Hello?” An old scratchy voice answered like something a long time smoker would sound like.

            “I swept up the mess.” Jack said then hung up. He returned to the bar and took a seat. He sipped his espresso and thought what a wonderful day it was, it raining still, pouring clouds and all. An hour later Jack was still at the bar; reading a news paper sipping a second espresso.

            “So, what happened now?”  The bartender asked

            Jack looked up at the bartender with a puzzled look then looked back down at his paper.

            “I already know you’re the sweeper meaning Mr. Salieri is dead so what now?”

            “It depends on what the commission has in mind for this fine establishment.” Jack said. Jack looked at the bartender he couldn’t be more then five years older then Jack making him thirty-nine.

            “Meaning what exactly?” the bartender asked

            “Either they’ll send in a fixer, some one to change the name and owner, or I blow it up.” Jack whispered to the bartender.

            “Well how will we know?” the bartender asked worryingly his hands shaking

                        Jack ignored him and kept reading his paper

            “Are you listening to me?” the bartender yelled

            “Here’s an interesting article, Mickey Mantle saves two gals form rapist.” Jack said reading out loud. Before jack could continue the phone behind him began ringing Jack picked it up. He didn’t say a word he only listened. The bartender gulped his hand reached under the counter to a sawed off shotgun. Jack hung up the phone and walked over to the bartender.

            “How much I owe ya?” Jack said pulling out his wallet.

            “One dollar.” the bartender relaxing and taking his hand off the shotgun.

            “Why so happy all of a sudden.” Jack asked almost laughing

            “Why would you pay if you were gonna kill us all?” the bartender asked

            Jack smiled and paid the bartender

            “Thanks” the bartender said putting the money in the cash register

            “Fuggedaboudit.” Jack said smiling “by the way these are yours.” Jack pulled two shotgun shells from his left pants pocket and left them on the counter. The bartender looked at him embarrassed.

            Jack grabbed his jacket off a hanger next to the door; he walked outside and across the street he then pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket and lit it. Jack took a long puff of the cigar. Jack then looked up at the rainy dark sky.

            “Cause it helps me cope with what happens next.” Jack whispered still looking up

            Suddenly the bar transformed into a blazing pillar of red and yellow fire. Black smoke rose to the sky making the day gloomier then it already was.

            “I think its time to go home.” Jack said as he started walking in the rain newspaper in his hand above his head. As he was walking he couldn’t help but look back at the innocent bartender he had just killed just because someone told him to. It was then he had a thought he hadn’t had since he started as the sweeper. Maybe, just maybe, He was in the wrong line of work.