Where All Problems Go

The sedan pulled down the gravel road. If the color of the car could be determined in the dark, it would still be as black as the night that surrounded it. If the unlighted license plate could be seen, it wouldn’t matter. The plates actually belonged to a Toyota Yaris from Modesto. The driver drove two hours to reach this very special destination. It was a ritual for him to handle his biggest problems there. Other people in the business found it odd that he would go so far out of his way to dispose of his problems, but in his mind, they just didn’t get. Rituals are important. They give the violent life that he lived some small measure of order – organized the chaos.

The car came to a stop in a turn-about. The driver got out of the car and walked the few steps it took to look out over the cliff. In the darkness, he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks below. The sounds brought back memories for him. Not just memories of his childhood, but of the six other problems he’d fixed in that very spot. Enough reminiscing, he thought – time to get to work. He returned to the car, popped the trunk, and dragged out his current problem.

The current problem didn’t seem to want to go. He kicked and mumbled against the sock that was taped in his mouth. As soon as the problem began to struggle, the driver grabbed him by the head and pulled him from the trunk. Once out, the problem was dragged to the edge of the cliff and made to sit on his knees, facing the drop-off. The driver removed the problems gag.

“Tony?” The problem asked. “Is that you, Tony?”

The driver lifted the pistol and placed the end of the barrel flush against the back of the problem’s head.

“Tony,” the problem said. “I mean, if it’s you. I told you everything I know. I swear to…”

The driver pulled the trigger. The problem’s head snapped forward, casting off bits of skull and brain. He waivered on the edge of the cliff for a moment until the driver gave him a shove with his foot, sending him where all problems go – over the edge and out of the picture.

***

The office at 2200, 51st Street was simply decorated, adorned with a single light bulb hanging from a chain in the center of the ceiling. Below the bulb sat a small desk with a desktop computer. Vincent Carbone typed away anxiously, searching for some sign that the problem that turned out to be a major pain in his ass was eliminated. He typed ‘Ricky Thompson’ into the fifth search engine in a row, only to come up with the same result – nothing. The door opened and a large man with a black overcoat and matching luggage under his eyes walked in.

“Give me some good news, Tony,” Vincent said. “I’ve been looking for the prick all night. It’s like he doesn’t exist.

“Well, he don’t. Not no more,” Tony said.

Vincent smiled.

“You saying that our problem is gone?”

“I’m sayin that they pulled him outta the ocean about an hour ago with a bullet in the back of his head. It’s all over the police radios. Positive I.D.”

“It’s about time!” Vincent said, standing up. He felt as if a thousand pounds of pressure was lifted off of his head. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, and handed half of the stack to Tony.

“Go get you a nice girl or something. Take it easy for a few days. You earned it.”

Tony took the money, grunted, and then stuffed it into his overcoat pocket.

“You need anything else before I go, boss?”

“Naw, you go on – live a little. There’s no rush now. The worst is behind us.”

Tony nodded and left the office, stopping just before closing the door to ask, “Did he really think that he was going to take us all out?”

“Who,” Vincent said, “Ricky?”

“Yeah.”

“No, not all of us – just me. I guess he figured that once he clipped me, the rest of you would fall in line behind him – come over to his side.”

“I just don’t get why he turned on us,” Tony said. “He’s always been a loyal guy.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” Vincent said. “He’s dead, I’m not, and now my dear friend, you need to go. Give the girlfriend a warm kiss from me, huh?

Tony gave Vincent a puzzled look and closed the door.

After the big man was gone, Vincent sat back down behind his computer and turned it off. He would make it home before dawn after all, it seemed. When he left his office, he was happier than he remembered being in years.

***

Just as the sun was beginning to cast a soft glow on the horizon, Tony Ghilarducci walked into his favorite bakery, the one on 52nd street and Grand. He loved the donuts there, but only when he could get them fresh. He stepped up to the counter and pressed the top of the small, golden bell. The clerk appeared suddenly from a pair of swinging doors.

“What can I get you, buddy?” the donut guy, who’s name tag displayed the name Steve asked.

“I’ll take a dozen,” Tony said.

Steve, the donut guy reached under the counter, brought up a pink box and a pair of tongs.

“You want the regular ones?” He asked.

“Naw, none of that regular crap,” Tony said. “Give me the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?” Steve asked, confused.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Fritters, rolls, custard bars. You know – the good stuff.”

“Oh, you mean fancy,” Steve said and then immediately regretted it when he saw the look on Tony’s face.

Tony leaned over the counter and grabbed the donut worker by the front of his shirt.

“You think I’m stupid?”

Steve gulped and stuttered, “N…n…no sir. I was the stupid one for not un…under…st…st…standing y…y…you.”

“You goddamned right,” Tony said, releasing his grip on the man. “Now give me a box of the good stuff, fancy-pants before I see if I can squeeze you in that box.”

When he left the donut shop, Tony was whistling happily. He managed to get a pretty decent discount on the dozen donuts – a discount of the ‘Just take it and don’t hurt me’ variety. He unlocked his black 1991 Cadillac Brougham, climbed in, and set the box of donuts on the passenger seat. He started the car and immediately began singing along with the radio. New York, New York was always one of his favorites. He reached into the donut box, still singing and pulled out an apple fritter. He always liked the way that the fritters got those little crispy pieces around the edges. He enjoyed nibbling on those parts first. He brought the fritter to his mouth and held it there. The feeling of cold steel against his temple made him suddenly lose his appetite.

“Lift your other hand slowly and place it on the fritter,” a voice from behind him said.

Tony did as he was told, holding the donut in front of his mouth with both hands.

“Whatcha want,” he asked.

“Good,” the voice said. “I’m happy you understand who’s in control here. You’re not as stupid as you look. I want you to deliver a message to your boss.”

“What boss would that be?”

The side of the pistol slammed against Tony’s head. He cursed out loud, but didn’t remove his hands from the donut.

“Oh, that boss.”

“You tell your boss that I’m coming for him.”

“Okay,” Tony said. “But, who are you?”

The man in the backseat leaned forward. Tony caught his reflection in the mirror and gaped at him stupidly.

“You,” he said. “But, you’re dead!”

An electric shock to the side of Tony’s neck shut his lights out. When he woke a few minutes later, the man from the backseat was gone. He lifted the fritter off of his lap, took a big bite, and rubbed the two tiny burn marks on the side of his neck as he chewed. Mr. Carbone’s not going to like this, he thought. Not one bit.

***

“You could’ve called first,” Vincent Carbone told the huge man standing in his doorway.

“This isn’t the type of thing one discusses over a phone,” Tony said.

“What type of thing, coming over first thing on the morning? You could’ve said at least that much, you moron.”

“Oh, yeah; Sorry, boss.”

“Well, come inside before my neighbors see you.”

Vincent led the big man to his library. It was a quiet place away from the rest of the family and it was secure. He had it scanned for bugs at least twice a month. Once inside, he closed the door.

“So, what’s the emergency?” Vincent asked.

“It’s Thompson,” Tony said. “He’s alive. I don’t know how, but he’s still alive.”

“That’s impossible,” Vincent said, waving his hand dismissively. “His body was positively identified.”

“Well then, maybe he’s a ghost or something, boss. I dunno, but he told me to tell you that he’s coming for you.”

“When did this happen?”

“This morning, outside the bakery.”

Just then, a memory came back to Vincent that he’d completely forgotten until that moment.

“His brother,” he said. “It has to be his fucking brother.”

“I dunno boss,” Tony said. “He didn’t look like Thompson’s brother. He looked like Thompson.”

“No, dipshit. They’re twins. I remember Ricky telling me that he had a twin brother, but that he wasn’t in the life. Shit, how could I be so stupid? I told everyone that Ricky was dead, so they stopped looking for him. His damn brother wouldn’t have even been able to make it into town if I’d kept my mouth shut.”

“Whatcha want to do, Boss?”

Vincent thought about it. If Thompson’s brother was crazy enough to take on Tony, he was definitely more dangerous than Ricky let on. Maybe they were planning on taking him out together. There really was no other choice.

“Kill him,” he said. “Let me know when it’s done.”

“You got it, Boss.”

After Vincent walked Tony to the front door and closed it behind him, he heard a sudden cracking sound, followed by something heavy hitting the porch. He flung the door back open and saw Tony, laying face-down, a pool of blood circling his head like a dark red halo. Before he could fully process what he was seeing, a bolt of electricity pulsed through the side of his neck.

***

Darkness – A whole day of darkness. Vincent Carbone had been locked in a trunk a few times in his life, but never all day. His hands, mouth and feet were duct-taped. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t free himself. If anything, he made his situation worse. The constant twisting of his bindings made them tighter, pinching off the circulation. He hadn’t been able to feel his hands for the last couple of hours.

Just after sundown, he heard someone get into the car and fire it up. The constant bouncing, along with the sound of tires rolling over dirt and gravel told him that he was being taken to a remote location. He tried not to think of what that meant. Considering Tony’s fate, he knew that it didn’t look too good for him.

The car came to a stop and the driver got out. When Vincent was pulled from the trunk, he didn’t resist, but was thrown to the ground anyway. His abductor kicked him in the ribs a couple of times before grabbing a handful of his hair and forcing him to his knees in front of a cliff. Far below in the darkness Vincent could hear the sound of the waves. He closed his eyes and waited for the end, which he knew would come any second. To his surprise, his abductor tore the duct-tape from his mouth.

“It’s only fitting that the man who is responsible for my brother’s death dies in the same place, don’t you think?” A voice says from behind him.

Cold metal touches the back of Vincent’s head.

“Wait,” he shouted. “Jeremy – it’s Jeremy, right? That’s your name?”

“I’m listening.”

“Your brother wasn’t what you think. He was crazy. He was going to try and take me out. I had to put a contract on him, don’t you get it? It was him or me, you understand?”

The barrel pressed against Vincent’s head harder, digging a circular grove into his flesh.

“We never found him!” Vincent cried out. “I swear. I didn’t kill him.”

“I know,” The voice said. “I did.”

“Ricky?”

Ricky Thompson pulled the trigger and kicked his former boss’s body over the side of the cliff. Another problem taken care of, he got back into his black, Mach One and headed back to the city. He had a business to run.