No, No Nona! by Tom Koperwas
Two cops go looking for a mob boss who has been behaving oddly, and they're surprised by what they find.
"Disgusting," grunted the tall, burly police lieutenant Scotty Niven, as he trod his way gingerly through patches of tall grass and clumps of litter, to the entrance of the dimly lit estate.
"And this is the home of a big mob boss?" queried the slim, young police rookie Ryan Smith at his side. "I don't get it."
"Frankly, neither do I," said the lieutenant, ringing the doorbell. "Alberto Grigio has been in Vegas for several weeks, where he dropped a fortune. Maybe he can tell us what's been going on here. His home and his gang have deteriorated, and I for one would like to know why."
A tired, slovenly looking woman brandishing a duster yanked open the door and looked over the two policemen.
"Cops, eh?" she muttered. "Mr. Grigio ain't in."
"Where is he?" insisted the lieutenant, politely.
"Bob's Bar. His home away from home these days."
"Thanks," said Scotty, grinning, as the surly woman slammed the door.
"Charming domestic," whispered Ryan.
"Come on," urged Scotty, heading off toward the unmarked police vehicle sitting in the teardrop driveway. "Bob's Bar is at 4th and 5th. Ten minute drive."
Scotty pulled up in front of a rusty yellow fireplug. Leaning forward, Ryan peered through the windshield. The faded paint on the bar's exterior was cracked and peeling; the dark, tinted windows dirty and impenetrable. A green pair of neon martini glasses flickered, forlorn, high above the grimy street. An ancient 'bucket of blood,' Bob's was a booze-soaked watering hole at the bottom of the urban cesspit.
Niven pushed open the battered wooden front door and strode over to the rickety table occupied by the mob boss's fat head and shoulders. The obese man had apparently drunk himself into oblivion and fallen forward onto his drink; broken glass and an accompanying puddle of vomit decorated the floor below.
"And this is Alberto Grigio, the big crime boss?" queried Ryan, his eyebrows arched in disbelief.
"Ya. And that's his brother William," replied Scotty, pointing to the tall brightly dressed effeminate man struggling in vain to get his brother to his feet. "These are the 'real men' you read about in the background report when you were assigned to the City Mob Squad."
Scotty walked over to the table and pulled one of the slobbering gangster's arms over his shoulder.
"Let me help you," he said to William, wrapping his other arm around the drunk's girthy waist. Together, the two men lifted the enormous boss from his chair and hauled him out of the bar. Once outside, they squeezed Grigio into William's black Escalade.
"You'll never get him out of the vehicle without some help," said Scotty. "We'll follow and assist you at your destination."
"I don't know what you want, lieutenant," replied William. "There's no talking to Alberto in his present condition. But you're right, I'd never get him out without help."
Scotty followed the Escalade through the city to a wartime neighborhood, stopping at the driveway of a small wooden victory home.
William propped open the front screen door of the house. The three of them then dragged Grigio inside and dropped him onto a butt-sprung couch. The policemen's attention was drawn to a tiny black bundle of a woman seated in a rocking chair, next to the living room window. The ancient woman was in a world of her own; her vacant eyes stared into the air outside the window, while her satchel-like mouth babbled to a one-eyed tomcat lolling in her lap. Her rheumatic, twisted hands moved mindlessly, like parts of a mindless machine, stroking the animal's fur.
"There has been a marked increase in uncontrolled street violence in your territory," said Scotty suddenly, looking back at William. "And several incursions from other gangs. What's happened to your brother and the gang?"
William froze. His face went pale and his mouth fell open, as he turned and faced the old woman seated by the window. Her once busy hands had fallen still. Black rheumy eyes that, a moment ago, had stared vacantly into space were now staring fixedly into his, emitting a wild, feral light. Sitting up in the chair, the old lady squeezed her twisted hands to form a pair of gnarled fists that shook with an elemental fury. Gone was the cloud of dementia that had hung over her like a pall.
"No, no Nona!" cried William, cold sweat breaking out on his face. "Everything is fine. Just fine. Believe me. We're taking care of business!"
William threw up his hands as if to protect himself from the old woman's wrath, and stepped back toward the two astonished police officers. But the flash of paradoxical lucidity had already begun to fade. The crone sat back in her rocking chair and again mumbled little nothings to the cat. Her twisted hands resumed their eternal petting motions. The window of clarity had closed.
"I know nothing about Alberto's business. Nothing at all!" shouted William. Pointing a shaking finger at the door he said, "Now get out!"
"Who is that old woman?" asked Ryan, as he opened the door of the police vehicle. "There was nothing about her in the mob report."
"I don't know," whispered Scotty, looking back at the house with a puzzled expression.
William waited until the police vehicle was out of sight, then he slipped out the back door. Meanwhile, the clock on the living room wall ticked as the minutes passed. The old woman rocked, murmured, and petted her cat. Soon, the stream of incomprehensible chatter tumbling from her lips began to change. Her speech became measured, her words clear.
"I don't want you any more, Al," she growled as her hand opened the door of a small cage standing on an adjacent table. Taking hold of the obese guinea pig sitting next to its unused exercise wheel, she pulled it out of the wire enclosure and placed it on the floor.
"You've become fat and lazy," she complained. "All you do is eat and drink. You're a no good worthless bum."
The tomcat on her lap looked down at the guinea pig and purred. Stretching its paws, it exposed its array of razor sharp claws.
Scotty and Ryan were in their vehicle the next day when they received a Signal 5 over the police radio. Driving to a vacant lot in the city's west end, they found a single patrol car and an officer standing next to a body lying in the tall grass.
"There was no one about when I discovered it," he explained. "I searched the area after reporting, but I couldn't find anything that could have served as the weapon. It's the gangster Alberto Grigio, isn't it?"
"No doubt about it," replied Scotty, looking down at the massive blood-drenched figure spread out on the ground like a bag of trash.
"I can't imagine how those wounds could have been made," continued the patrolman. "A machine might have carved him up like that. But there's no vehicle or machine tracks anywhere. Whoever did it must have done it somewhere else then dumped the body here."
Ryan squatted next to the corpulent corpse, and he examined the long, deep lacerations, running from the bottom of the belly up to the neck, that had partially disemboweled Alberto Grigio.
"There's ten," he observed quietly. "Ten distinct tracks carved deep into his body. Jesus, it's like the claw-marks of some monstrous cat."
"The old lady hasn't moved an inch since we got here," complained Ryan, staring at the tiny figure in the window of the old house. "Maybe she's dead."
"And maybe not," said Scotty, checking the time on the unmarked vehicle's mobile data terminal. "You remember how she came to life before?"
"Ya, she was a prime time horror show."
The two policemen had been staking out the house since dawn, when William had parked his Escalade in the driveway. It had been a week since Alberto's body had been discovered.
"Do you really think he murdered his brother?" asked Ryan.
"Doesn't look like he could kill a fly," replied Scotty. "But you never know, do you? Wait. Here he comes now."
William, dressed in a swank solid yellow three-piece suit, strode down the driveway and hopped into his vehicle. Backing up onto the street, he drove away. Scotty started up the police car and followed at a discreet distance.
Back inside the house, the clock on the living room wall ticked, the minutes passed, and the old woman murmured while mechanically petting her cat. Soon, a gleam appeared in her eyes and she fell silent. Reaching out to the cage next to her chair, she opened the wire door.
"Get out Willy!" she barked at the yellow canary. "You're pretty but pretty useless. All you do is eat seeds and preen all day. You're a deadbeat!"
The frightened bird fluttered its wings and flew out of the cage. Circling frantically about the living room, it darted out the open window. Soon it was out of sight, far from the house, the old woman and the one-eyed cat.
Meanwhile, Scotty and Ryan were pursuing the Escalade as it sped through the city, weaving wildly in and out of traffic. They were halfway across the city when William slammed on the brakes and leapt out into the street, turning to run down a narrow alley between two abandoned warehouses.
"We better not lose him," shouted Scotty, pulling the police vehicle over to the curb. Jumping out, the two policemen raced down the alley. When they came to the end, they stopped and looked about. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but an empty brown field, where a sprawling oil refinery had once stood.
"Looks like our bird has flown," whispered Ryan.
"That's the two of them," said Ryan.
The two young men - one dressed in white, the other in black - walked out of the victory house toward the two-tone Charger Daytona in the driveway. Playfully bumping into each other, they began to tussle. Separating a moment later, the men broke into laughter and gave each other a friendly fist bump. Jumping into the car, they backed out of the driveway and drove off.
Scotty shook his head ruefully and leaned back in the seat of the unmarked police vehicle.
"We have no idea who they are or where they came from," he complained. "But the fortunes of the Grigio gang have improved dramatically since Bob and Phil joined the crew. It took only three months for them to reassert control over the gang's territory, liquidating any interlopers or gang members from out of town who tried to muscle in. The reversal of fortune for the Grigio Gang is complete, yet one question still remains. Who is the mastermind behind the big change?"
"The stoolies downtown say it's the old witch," piped up Ryan. "They believe she's the one who's really in charge of the gang, that she generates lifelike simulacra from her pets that do the gang's dirty work."
"Ridiculous," interjected Scotty, laughing out loud. "Nona's just a crazy old lady."
"I should have stayed in homicide," declared Ryan. "The psychos and serial killers are boy scouts compared to these crazy gang-bangers."
Scotty started up the car and turned it toward the police station. Inside the house, the clock on the living room wall ticked, the minutes passed and the old woman murmured as she mindlessly petted her cat. Down by her feet, two young puppies tussled on the carpet. One was black, the other was white.
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
"And this is the home of a big mob boss?" queried the slim, young police rookie Ryan Smith at his side. "I don't get it."
"Frankly, neither do I," said the lieutenant, ringing the doorbell. "Alberto Grigio has been in Vegas for several weeks, where he dropped a fortune. Maybe he can tell us what's been going on here. His home and his gang have deteriorated, and I for one would like to know why."
A tired, slovenly looking woman brandishing a duster yanked open the door and looked over the two policemen.
"Cops, eh?" she muttered. "Mr. Grigio ain't in."
"Where is he?" insisted the lieutenant, politely.
"Bob's Bar. His home away from home these days."
"Thanks," said Scotty, grinning, as the surly woman slammed the door.
"Charming domestic," whispered Ryan.
"Come on," urged Scotty, heading off toward the unmarked police vehicle sitting in the teardrop driveway. "Bob's Bar is at 4th and 5th. Ten minute drive."
Scotty pulled up in front of a rusty yellow fireplug. Leaning forward, Ryan peered through the windshield. The faded paint on the bar's exterior was cracked and peeling; the dark, tinted windows dirty and impenetrable. A green pair of neon martini glasses flickered, forlorn, high above the grimy street. An ancient 'bucket of blood,' Bob's was a booze-soaked watering hole at the bottom of the urban cesspit.
Niven pushed open the battered wooden front door and strode over to the rickety table occupied by the mob boss's fat head and shoulders. The obese man had apparently drunk himself into oblivion and fallen forward onto his drink; broken glass and an accompanying puddle of vomit decorated the floor below.
"And this is Alberto Grigio, the big crime boss?" queried Ryan, his eyebrows arched in disbelief.
"Ya. And that's his brother William," replied Scotty, pointing to the tall brightly dressed effeminate man struggling in vain to get his brother to his feet. "These are the 'real men' you read about in the background report when you were assigned to the City Mob Squad."
Scotty walked over to the table and pulled one of the slobbering gangster's arms over his shoulder.
"Let me help you," he said to William, wrapping his other arm around the drunk's girthy waist. Together, the two men lifted the enormous boss from his chair and hauled him out of the bar. Once outside, they squeezed Grigio into William's black Escalade.
"You'll never get him out of the vehicle without some help," said Scotty. "We'll follow and assist you at your destination."
"I don't know what you want, lieutenant," replied William. "There's no talking to Alberto in his present condition. But you're right, I'd never get him out without help."
Scotty followed the Escalade through the city to a wartime neighborhood, stopping at the driveway of a small wooden victory home.
William propped open the front screen door of the house. The three of them then dragged Grigio inside and dropped him onto a butt-sprung couch. The policemen's attention was drawn to a tiny black bundle of a woman seated in a rocking chair, next to the living room window. The ancient woman was in a world of her own; her vacant eyes stared into the air outside the window, while her satchel-like mouth babbled to a one-eyed tomcat lolling in her lap. Her rheumatic, twisted hands moved mindlessly, like parts of a mindless machine, stroking the animal's fur.
"There has been a marked increase in uncontrolled street violence in your territory," said Scotty suddenly, looking back at William. "And several incursions from other gangs. What's happened to your brother and the gang?"
William froze. His face went pale and his mouth fell open, as he turned and faced the old woman seated by the window. Her once busy hands had fallen still. Black rheumy eyes that, a moment ago, had stared vacantly into space were now staring fixedly into his, emitting a wild, feral light. Sitting up in the chair, the old lady squeezed her twisted hands to form a pair of gnarled fists that shook with an elemental fury. Gone was the cloud of dementia that had hung over her like a pall.
"No, no Nona!" cried William, cold sweat breaking out on his face. "Everything is fine. Just fine. Believe me. We're taking care of business!"
William threw up his hands as if to protect himself from the old woman's wrath, and stepped back toward the two astonished police officers. But the flash of paradoxical lucidity had already begun to fade. The crone sat back in her rocking chair and again mumbled little nothings to the cat. Her twisted hands resumed their eternal petting motions. The window of clarity had closed.
"I know nothing about Alberto's business. Nothing at all!" shouted William. Pointing a shaking finger at the door he said, "Now get out!"
"Who is that old woman?" asked Ryan, as he opened the door of the police vehicle. "There was nothing about her in the mob report."
"I don't know," whispered Scotty, looking back at the house with a puzzled expression.
William waited until the police vehicle was out of sight, then he slipped out the back door. Meanwhile, the clock on the living room wall ticked as the minutes passed. The old woman rocked, murmured, and petted her cat. Soon, the stream of incomprehensible chatter tumbling from her lips began to change. Her speech became measured, her words clear.
"I don't want you any more, Al," she growled as her hand opened the door of a small cage standing on an adjacent table. Taking hold of the obese guinea pig sitting next to its unused exercise wheel, she pulled it out of the wire enclosure and placed it on the floor.
"You've become fat and lazy," she complained. "All you do is eat and drink. You're a no good worthless bum."
The tomcat on her lap looked down at the guinea pig and purred. Stretching its paws, it exposed its array of razor sharp claws.
Scotty and Ryan were in their vehicle the next day when they received a Signal 5 over the police radio. Driving to a vacant lot in the city's west end, they found a single patrol car and an officer standing next to a body lying in the tall grass.
"There was no one about when I discovered it," he explained. "I searched the area after reporting, but I couldn't find anything that could have served as the weapon. It's the gangster Alberto Grigio, isn't it?"
"No doubt about it," replied Scotty, looking down at the massive blood-drenched figure spread out on the ground like a bag of trash.
"I can't imagine how those wounds could have been made," continued the patrolman. "A machine might have carved him up like that. But there's no vehicle or machine tracks anywhere. Whoever did it must have done it somewhere else then dumped the body here."
Ryan squatted next to the corpulent corpse, and he examined the long, deep lacerations, running from the bottom of the belly up to the neck, that had partially disemboweled Alberto Grigio.
"There's ten," he observed quietly. "Ten distinct tracks carved deep into his body. Jesus, it's like the claw-marks of some monstrous cat."
"The old lady hasn't moved an inch since we got here," complained Ryan, staring at the tiny figure in the window of the old house. "Maybe she's dead."
"And maybe not," said Scotty, checking the time on the unmarked vehicle's mobile data terminal. "You remember how she came to life before?"
"Ya, she was a prime time horror show."
The two policemen had been staking out the house since dawn, when William had parked his Escalade in the driveway. It had been a week since Alberto's body had been discovered.
"Do you really think he murdered his brother?" asked Ryan.
"Doesn't look like he could kill a fly," replied Scotty. "But you never know, do you? Wait. Here he comes now."
William, dressed in a swank solid yellow three-piece suit, strode down the driveway and hopped into his vehicle. Backing up onto the street, he drove away. Scotty started up the police car and followed at a discreet distance.
Back inside the house, the clock on the living room wall ticked, the minutes passed, and the old woman murmured while mechanically petting her cat. Soon, a gleam appeared in her eyes and she fell silent. Reaching out to the cage next to her chair, she opened the wire door.
"Get out Willy!" she barked at the yellow canary. "You're pretty but pretty useless. All you do is eat seeds and preen all day. You're a deadbeat!"
The frightened bird fluttered its wings and flew out of the cage. Circling frantically about the living room, it darted out the open window. Soon it was out of sight, far from the house, the old woman and the one-eyed cat.
Meanwhile, Scotty and Ryan were pursuing the Escalade as it sped through the city, weaving wildly in and out of traffic. They were halfway across the city when William slammed on the brakes and leapt out into the street, turning to run down a narrow alley between two abandoned warehouses.
"We better not lose him," shouted Scotty, pulling the police vehicle over to the curb. Jumping out, the two policemen raced down the alley. When they came to the end, they stopped and looked about. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but an empty brown field, where a sprawling oil refinery had once stood.
"Looks like our bird has flown," whispered Ryan.
"That's the two of them," said Ryan.
The two young men - one dressed in white, the other in black - walked out of the victory house toward the two-tone Charger Daytona in the driveway. Playfully bumping into each other, they began to tussle. Separating a moment later, the men broke into laughter and gave each other a friendly fist bump. Jumping into the car, they backed out of the driveway and drove off.
Scotty shook his head ruefully and leaned back in the seat of the unmarked police vehicle.
"We have no idea who they are or where they came from," he complained. "But the fortunes of the Grigio gang have improved dramatically since Bob and Phil joined the crew. It took only three months for them to reassert control over the gang's territory, liquidating any interlopers or gang members from out of town who tried to muscle in. The reversal of fortune for the Grigio Gang is complete, yet one question still remains. Who is the mastermind behind the big change?"
"The stoolies downtown say it's the old witch," piped up Ryan. "They believe she's the one who's really in charge of the gang, that she generates lifelike simulacra from her pets that do the gang's dirty work."
"Ridiculous," interjected Scotty, laughing out loud. "Nona's just a crazy old lady."
"I should have stayed in homicide," declared Ryan. "The psychos and serial killers are boy scouts compared to these crazy gang-bangers."
Scotty started up the car and turned it toward the police station. Inside the house, the clock on the living room wall ticked, the minutes passed and the old woman murmured as she mindlessly petted her cat. Down by her feet, two young puppies tussled on the carpet. One was black, the other was white.
No comments: