Chapter Text
"There's already been three deaths over the past week. No doubt mafia-related. And it's just going to get worse."
"I know, I know, but-"
"But what, Banjo?"
He followed her down the vacant hallway; it was late, later than he'd usually stay, and everyone else had gone home. "Don't call me that. Not in work."
"You're not in work. You're off the clock." Holly continued on, eyeing the door at the end of the corridor, underneath which was a strip of light. "I'm afraid this is very important."
"But he's my best detective, I-"
"I'm commandeering him."
"Oh please don't."
She reached the office door and knocked lightly, ignoring the chief's pout. There was a curious reply from inside the office.
"Come in?"
She went in. The owner of the office was sat at his desk. It was a simple office. There wasn’t a single unnecessary object in the room. There were two windows, one to the left of the desk and one to the right. The banker’s lamp was the only source of light at this time of the evening. The desk itself was simple dark wood with a glass top and a blotter, quite stained with ink. The man at the desk glanced up as they came in, and the light from the lamp emphasized the sharpness of his face. Holly wasn’t certain what gave the man such a hawk-like appearance; his pointed nose or his quietly observant eyes. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t scowl either. He just looked, taking every last detail in. She doubted he looked at anything without taking every last detail in. Banjo eventually introduced them.
“Miss Holly, this is Detective Tinsley. Our resident expert in mafia-related activities. Unofficial, might I add.”
She nodded, not looking away from the detective in question. She liked him already. “Evening, detective. I apologize for calling so late.”
He rested a long finger under the frame of his glasses, nudging them up along his nose to give her a closer look. “It’s alright.”
The chief opened his mouth yet again. “Miss Horsley is-”
“I’d like to have a word with you, detective,” she said, speaking for herself. “In private.”
Tinsley sat back, revealing more than one side of his face now. He looked about thirty, although his thick head of hair gave him a boyish edge. He was handsome, not strikingly so, but in a pleasantly distinctful way. He waved a gentle hand at the seats in front of him. He had nice hands, neat and long-fingered, and a watch was fixed around his wrist with a leather strap. “Sure.”
She gave the chief a pointed look. He sheepishly departed. She took the right of the two seats and placed her bag on the floor and crossed her legs and smoothed down her skirt. Tinsley watched her with open interest, his brows raised, patient. She debated a smile, but decided against it. Business had to be discussed.
“My name is Holly Horsley. I’m from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” She allowed a pause for the usual but you’re a woman spiel. It didn’t come. She gladly continued. “I’ve heard that you’re very interested in the mafia and their current dealings.”
He nodded. “I am.”
“That’s good. That’s very good.” She linked her hands over her knee. “Would you mind telling me what you know?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. “I suppose I know a lot, Miss Horsley. I’m not too sure where to start.”
“I am.” She watched his face. “What is the basic structure of the mafia as of now?”
Tinsley arched an eyebrow at the sudden question. “Is this an examination of some sort?”
“It would seem so.”
The detective nodded at this, seemingly appreciative that she didn’t sugarcoat it. “Alright. Well, there’s the boss. Or the Don. Then there’s the underboss, usually next in line for the throne, so to speak. Runs the day-to-day activities of the family and oversees its… ventures. The consigliere is the Don’s right-hand man. A close friend, an advisor, a mediator, a representative. Under him are the capos, and they’re in charge of a crew of soldats and associates. Usually ten to twenty soldats, and then an undetermined amount of associates.” He spoke with light familiarity, like they were just chatting over lunch. “All of them have to be some part Italian, apart from the associates. But the associates can still wield just as much power as the rest.” Then he smiled. “Do I pass?”
“That question, yes.” She seemed impressed, although not by much. “And do you know their current activities?”
“I know Prohibition is finally over and they’ve all made their millions.”
“And they’ll want to make millions more.”
“I’m sure.”
She watched him closely with slate-grey eyes. “What do you think their next focuses will be?”
He looked aside at this, thoughtful. “Nothing will make them as much money as Prohibition did.”
“And what do you think they’ll do instead.”
He scratched at his stubbled jaw, still pensive. Then he looked back at her. “I’m not sure.”
After a few long seconds she smiled. “That’s the correct answer, detective.” She picked up her bag and got to her feet. “There’s going to be an onslaught of experimenting by the families. They’ll try their luck in anything that could get them close to the level of cash they were getting during Prohibition - extortion, money-laundering, casinos, prostitution, you name it. So we’re recruiting for the war, so to speak.” She placed her bag on the desk between them and opened it, taking out a thick file. She handed it over without reluctance. “We’re assigning teams to different families. If you agree to help us, you’ll be assigned to this one.”
He stared at the file for a long few seconds. Then he stood up, revealing himself to be of quite an intimidating height, and took the file from her hand. He opened it to the first of many pages. “The Garafalos. I haven’t heard of them before.”
She smiled dryly. “They’re fondly referred to as the Goldsworths, every pun intended.”
Ah. He had heard of them. They were pretty notorious around this side of the city. He drew out the list of names, the main family, the mother and father and son and daughter. Lorenzo, Lucía, Ricardo, and Isabella.
“They’re tight-knit,” said Holly, watching his reaction from where she stood. “Lorenzo is the boss, and his wife is his consigliere. I know, it’s rare, but she is, and she’s not to be trifled with. His son is next in line, and his time is coming soon.”
Tinsley looked at her from under his brows. “Meaning?”
“We have word Lorenzo is on his last legs,” said Holly. “Mere months left.”
He lowered his gaze back to the name. Ricardo. “And the son. What’s he like?”
“Vicious, but not stupid. Unfortunately. But you’ll learn more about him if you accept this offer.” She raised her eyebrows as he looked at her. “Perhaps you’d like to sleep on it?”
He nodded, seeming a bit dumbstruck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll have an answer by tomorrow.”
“Perfect. My home and office numbers are on the back of the last page.” She smiled at him, warm. “I hope you grab this opportunity while it’s being dangled in front of you, detective. From what I’ve heard, I think you could go far.”
He sat back down when she left, legs crossed, the open file resting on his knee as he flipped through it. He was looking for a certain list. Mafia families were frequently honorable, more honorable than your everyday man, and this was a weakness in Tinsley’s eyes. There was no list made up, so he ended up staying in his office until midnight, picking apart the suspected activities of the family, their dynamics with each other, what blood had been spilled for what prices. The ethnicity was clearly a factor; all of the main members were Italian by their father’s lineage. Omertà was quite clear in the lack of cooperation with authorities. Tinsley ticked the murders of family members off against each other; some had retaliations, some didn’t, and those which had retaliations didn’t seem to have retaliations in return. He knew that murders within families usually required permission from the head of the family. So there was a code, without a doubt. Tinsley sat back and took off his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. He debated whether or not to take on the case, but he supposed he’d taken it on already.
He checked his watch. It was pushing midnight. He supposed he should go home.
It was quite easy to realize whether or not Ricky Goldsworth was in a bad mood. The clearest sign of a bad spell was the absence of a bright smile on his face. Instead there would be a hardness to his eyes and an almost visible storm cloud over his head, sparking lightning. Another clear sign was whether or not he conducted business in his office. Such as now. He was conducting business in the dining room, and he was not enjoying it in any regard. But, as his mother had taught him, he just had to suffer through it. His mother also said he had a temper, and lord, did Ricky Goldsworth have a temper. It was rare, but so were earthquakes. And fire tornadoes. And mega tsunamis. He sat and he listened to what was being said to him.
“Your father is sick.”
Ricky’s gaze didn’t even flicker. He stayed sitting, the fingers of one hand slowly rubbing off his thumb in circles. “I’m aware.”
The capo kept his chin up. “He’s dying.”
“I’m sure you’ll get to the point some time today, yes?”
The capo shared a look with the other two before looking back at Ricky. He took a few breaths to try and steady his voice. It didn’t quite work. “We can’t have a man like you leading us.”
Ricky’s head tilted aside at this, his dark eyes flashing. He got to his feet, casual, moving to the dark wood drinks cabinet beside them. He unscrewed the top of the grappa and poured a small shot. “Elaborate, il mio amico.”
There was an anxious shuffling of feet. “Your unnatural tendencies. They aren’t acceptable.”
Ricky lifted the shot, examining the clear liquid closely. Then he threw it back, smooth, before dropping the small glass back onto the cabinet. “That is a pity. I see we’re stuck in a stalemate. Because, you see, you don’t want a man like me leading you, but I don’t want to be leading men like you.” He suddenly laughed, a sharp sound. “Life is full of ironies, isn’t it, caro amico.”
He lifted the bottle of grappa again and poured another shot. This time, he didn’t stop pouring it. He poured until the entire bottle was empty, until the liquid was splashing to the wooden floor and the bottle was glugging loudly. He tossed the empty bottle lightly in his hand, watching it with curious eyes. Then he turned and struck the capo hard across the head with it. By the time the man had fallen to the floor Ricky had smashed the end of the bottle off the wall and was back at him, sitting across his chest and driving the jagged end down into the man’s throat, over and over, and he wasn’t sure if the capo died from losing his blood or from drowning in it. There was a lot of choking and spluttering. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he died, and his scum words died with him.
Ricky sat back when he was done, panting for breath. He tossed the bloodied bottle aside before wiping his stained hands relatively clean on the man’s shirt. He could feel some droplets warm on his face, but he decided to leave them there for now. He got to his feet, straightening out his tie with a self-satisfied smile. Then he turned on his heel, graceful, to face the other capos.
“Well, gentlemen. Does anyone else have any objections to a man like me leading you.”
They shook their heads, numb.
“Good. That’s very good.” Ricky moved towards them, and despite being the shortest person in the room, he was still the largest figure. “I know my tendencies are not a well-known subject. So let me tell you something right now.” He lowered his voice to a borderline growl. “If I hear anyone, anyone, talking about me, or laughing about me, or gossiping about me over fucking lunch, I’ll know it came from one of you two. And I’ll find out which one of you two it was. And then I’ll take you apart, slowly.” He suddenly smiled, mischievous. “Who knows? Maybe I’d kill both of you anyway.” His smile dropped again to be replaced by a very serious look altogether. “Now clean this up and get out of my house.”
He paused as he passed by the body, crouching down and taking out the man’s wallet. He took the cash out of it, giving the watching capos a wink. “He owes me a new bottle of grappa, don’t you think.”
He left with a skip to his step, going to the nearest bathroom - there were five in the house - and washing his face and hands thoroughly. He changed out of his shirt and into a fresh one, rolling the sleeves up around his elbows, leaving the collar open a comfortable amount, as he was inclined to do. He turned the signet ring around a few times on his little finger, watching it from under his lashes. It was relatively new, as signet rings went. Only a few decades old. Then again, their family had been nothing when it first arrived in America. They hadn’t had need for a crest back then.
He took the ring off, looking closely as the bull’s head pressed into the gold. His grandfather had chosen a bull for a few reasons; it symbolized strength, perseverance, and fertility. Male fertility. Their line was strong. Ricky gritted his teeth, not looking away from it. He knew he wouldn’t have children. Ever. But he had nieces and nephews and he’d pass it all to them when the time came. But what are you going to tell everyone? his sister would ask. I’ll tell them the truth, he’d reply, and God help them if they don’t like it.
He slipped the ring back on and gave himself one last look in the mirror before going back outside. He went to the back garden, where he could hear splashing by the pool and children laughing. His sister was over with her kids, twin girls and a boy, five and seven respectively. They shrieked in delight when they saw him coming.
“Zio Ricky!”
He grinned at them, crouching down as they got closer. They swamped him instantly, giggling and laughing and hanging on as he straightened back up, one around each leg and the boy around his neck. He didn’t care that they were in their little swimsuits and soaked from the pool. He stumbled dramatically.
“Oh you’re too strong! I can’t go on!” He teetered near the pool, plucking his nephew from around his neck and holding him out at arm’s length. “But if I fall, you fall with me!”
He tossed him into the pool, and the child laughed as children do whenever they’re chucked around with abandon. He went to grab one of his nieces, and they fled, and he was still bent over when his sister appeared beside him and shoved him fully-clothed into the pool, crying dramatically about saving her children from this monster. Ricky spluttered to the surface, pushing his dark hair back off his face as he laughed.
“Izzy, you idiot.” He let his nephew paddle over to hold onto him in the deep water. “You come to my house and I give you shelter and I give you food and this is how you treat me?”
She grinned, picking up one of her dark-haired daughters. The whole family had dark hair and dark eyes and were a bit on the shorter side. They also had a flaring temper, but his sister seemed to have avoided this gene. He swam over to the edge of the pool, folding his arms on it.
“How’s the old man?”
She pulled a face. “Still going downhill.”
“Mom’s still with him?”
“Yeah.” She encouraged her daughters to go and play in the pool, waiting for Ricky to climb out before continuing. “It’d be good for her to get away from his bedside. She’s wasting away in there.”
He plucked at his wet shirt, his face pensive. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. And I know you’re busy, with dad being out of action, but I don’t know what to do with her.” She waved her hands freely as she talked. “She doesn’t want to go shopping. She doesn’t want to come over for dinner. She doesn’t want to do this or do that and I’m a bit stuck, you understand?”
He pushed a hand through his wet hair, thinking about it. “Let me go dry off and then we’ll talk about it, yeah?”
“Sure.”
He had just gotten changed for the third time that evening when he was caught in the hallway by another capo, a woman he was certain was to be his consigliere when the time came. He raised a dark eyebrow at her face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I have some news.” Fran nodded towards his office, hidden away under the curved sweeping stairs. “Got a few minutes?”
He nodded, leading the way. He closed the door behind her, and she was sitting and had a cigarette lit by the time he’d opened the windows to air the place out. He liked her, he always had. She was quick to the point and didn’t get involved in sugar-coating things. He sat down in his high-backed leather chair, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette of his own. He spoke on the exhale.
“Well, what’s the latest?”
“From the Feds,” she said. “Apparently they’re stocking up. Got eyes on us.”
“And the other families?”
“Got eyes on them too, but what’s important is us.” She tapped her cigarette into the glass ashtray between them. “They’re making up a team, so we’ve been told. Few of the usual, but a new guy too.”
Ricky gave her a level look. “And how certain are you that this is true.”
“The canary sang it straight to me, boss.”
His gaze flickered back to her, sharp. “Don’t go using that term too soon. My old man’s not dead yet.”
He got to his feet, moving to the drinks. He raised his eyebrows at her, gesturing with the bottle. She nodded. He poured two small glasses of liquor before topping it with soda. The bubbles made a pleasant fizzing noise. He dropped two cubes of ice into each, watching them split on impact.
“What of the usual are on the team.”
“Banjo himself. Holly. And a new guy, Tinsley.”
“Right. And what do you have on him.”
She shrugged, turning the gold bracelet on her wrist; it shone against her black skin. “Nothing much. I had a guy follow him for a few blocks earlier but he didn’t really… do anything. Pretty quiet and just keeps to himself.”
“Those are the ones to look out for.” Ricky placed her drink in front of her before sitting back down, taking a long drag on his cigarette in a very wise manner altogether. “Do you know why he was recruited?”
“Bit of a mafia fanatic, so I was told. Knows the ins-and-outs.”
Ricky pursed his lips, his gaze lowered, thoughtful. “Find out as much about him as you can - home life, personal life, social life, all of it. Any friends and family, any pets. How liable he is to… negotiate. Come back this time tomorrow.”
She nodded, swallowing the rest of her drink in one before getting to her feet and stubbing out her cigarette. “I'll tail him home.” She paused, hands in her pockets down at her tilted hips. “How’s your dad?”
He looked up at her from under his brows, then looked away. “Not good. I’m going to go see him tomorrow, but mainly just to get my mother away from the bedside. Izzy said she hasn’t left it for the past week or so.”
“Baffling.”
“I know. But love is blind, and all that.”
She pressed her lips in a sympathetic smile before saying: “Ciao, Ricky.”
“Ciao.”
He sat in his office for a while then, finishing his drink, slow and steady. He swilled it around in its glass, watching the pale golden liquid as it moved smooth. His eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. He lit another cigarette, puffing away until it was half gone before he picked up the phone and dialed the number the potential new associate had given them. It rang a few times before the man answered in his gravelly old voice.
“Jesse Fear, BankAtlantic.”
Ricky exhaled the smoke from his mouth, letting his words roll out with it. “It’s me.”
“Oh. Oh, I-”
“There’s a car outside waiting for you. Dark red Benz. Get in it.”
He hung up. He finished his cigarette before going to check that the body had been cleaned away sufficiently. Then he went back out to the pool for some time with his family before the new associate got here. There was simply no rest for the wicked, it seemed.
Tinsley hid the file in his top drawer and locked it. He took his coat from the back of the door and draped it over his arm. He put his bag over his shoulder and left his office and left the station and said a quick hello in passing to the editor of the newspaper across the street before catching a late train home. It was just him and an old woman with a dog that could’ve passed for a particularly hairy rat, and a black woman a carriage down that he could see through the doors. The closer he got to his stop, the more his hands fidgeted. He picked at his thumbnail, watching with his gaze low. He reluctantly got off at his stop. He stood outside the station and lit a cigarette, alone. He smoked it before continuing on. It was a short walk from there to his house, but he always made it the longest, meandering around, kicking a stone along in front of him. He brightened a bit when he saw the lights weren’t on.
The house was empty, which was a relief. He hung his coat up on the rack and put his bag down on the table and set about making dinner. The peace only lasted for a few minutes. He closed his eyes when he heard the key rattling in the door. It rattled for a long time before it managed to do its job. Tinsley gripped the edge of the counter, leaning against it, head hanging. He heard the keys fall to the floor and heard a bit of stumbling. Then his wife came in. She was drunk. She was very drunk. He gave her a long hard look.
“Where were you tonight.”
She shrugged, sloppy, and gave the same answer as always. “Out.”
“How much did you spend this time.”
“Dunno.”
He folded his arms across his chest, watching her plonk herself down in the nearest seat. She almost missed. “You can’t keep doing this. You’re going to have us broke.”
“Well since you love your job so much, even more than your wife , I’m sure you’ll get the money," she sneered. “And maybe your wife wouldn’t have to drink every night if her husband could even touch her in bed, hm?”
He reddened, but decided not to entertain that subject. Not tonight. “That doesn’t mean you can spend all my money. My money. That I earn every day.”
“I’m a woman, I can’t-”
“Oh don’t give me that shit. Every wife on this block has a damn job.”
She pouted, and it wasn’t very cute at all. “I don’t want a job.”
“Yeah, I’m very fucking aware of that.” He glared at her. “I’ll cut you off. I will. If you keep-”
“Then I’ll tell everyone about you,” she slurred. “I’ll tell everyone about you. You’ll lose everything.”
He leaned back against the counter, running his weary hands down his face, letting his fingers rest over his mouth. It was the same conversation. The same conversation they had any time they were in the same room, which was a rare enough occurrence. He turned off the stove. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore. He tugged his tie off over his head, moving towards the sitting room.
“I’m sleeping on the couch.”
But before that, he went to the phone and picked it up. He drew Holly’s number out from his head, frowning a tad as he sifted through today’s memories. He spun it in. It was answered within a few rings. She was still awake.
“This is Horsley speaking.”
“Yeah, it’s me. Tinsley.”
“Fantastic. Do you have an answer?”
“Yeah. Yeah, count me in.”
She seemed satisfied with this, and said she’d see him on the morrow. He went to the window to draw the curtains. There was a figure standing across the street, smoke rising from a cigarette, grey against the black night. He stood in the window, a hand on either curtain, watching the figure, and he knew without a doubt that it was watching him back. Goosebumps flooded his skin. Then the cigarette was chucked to the ground, sparks tumbling, and was promptly stood out. The figure wandered off. He waited until they were out of sight. Then he drew the curtains.