Entered in the Winter Wonderland series
WHO SHOT FATHER CHRISTMAS? A FESTIVE FARCE
Manny Bertoni was suffering from a heavy head cold and his glowing mercury-red nose was becoming very sore and tender to the touch from his continual wiping with an increasingly wet and rough cotton handkerchief. He hated winter weather with a vengeance, a word which was entirely appropriate when one considered his stock-in trade. As far as Manny was concerned his heavily-built body was ideally designed for a Mediterranean climate. However, Florida, where he lived and based his operation dealing efficiently with what he termed as out-sourced personnel displacement, it was presently unseasonably cool for the second week of December and he clearly wasn't at all happy about the effects that the weather was having on him.
He had sent his dumpy amply-stacked secretary Cherry off home early to her bed half an hour ago as she was starting to sneeze and cough as well. Besides, her unpredictable mini-explosions were starting to disturb Manny's intense concentration. Planning hits, sorry, that should be displacement of redundant staff, former associates, business rivals or troublesome acquaintances and other halves, took the maximum focus of his attention. Usually you only got a single chance of success and he had a reputation of particular efficiency unrivalled in his chosen field, in receipt of numerous accolades from within his exclusive guild that he was anxious to maintain. The old maxim of being just as good as your last job was one Manny felt acutely obliged to adhere to. He had just put the last job on his books to bed and arranged the right facilitator to carry it through to its eventual conclusion. The invoice can wait until tomorrow, he thought, not that it was an actual document that would ever be printed out; the client had already paid up front the baseline costs, he just hadn't been sure what the reasonable out-of-pocket expenses element of the operation would add up to until now.
It was getting late in the afternoon and he thought he might as well call it a day himself soon, there was nothing else that needed his rapidly ebbing attention span. A nearby bar and a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels beckoned to provide his prescription of choice for the evening and he was more than ready for some early overmedication.
The "ding" of the outer office door sounded, echoing loudly in the quiet sparsely-furnished suite of offices. The whole building was pretty well run down anyway in this seedy quarter of the city and sparingly occupied at any time of the day. In fact all six floors were guaranteed to be empty by this late in the afternoon. Manny preferred premises that didn't draw attention to his business, or the nefarious comings and goings of his shy and retiring clientele, he had not once and never would advertise in Yellow Pages.
The tinkling toll of the tiny bell declared the presence of a visitor, possibly a customer. Business was slow this time of year, the season of goodwill to all mankind not exactly conducive to keeping Manny in the full employment he was most definitely accustomed to. He wondered who it was dropping by to see him so late in the day. Most visitors called in ahead in plenty of time for an appointment if only to avoid clashes with other ... clients and ensure they maintained their essential anonymity.
Manny recalled that he had already settled his protection - make that insurance - account for this month just a couple of days ago, so it wasn't them calling on him again so soon. Manny didn't mind paying the going rate for protection provided it was reasonable, even distant cousins have to make a living and if he ever decided to pay his taxes, he reasoned that insurances would have been deductible.
Manny lifted his heavy-set body from his creaking chair and edged around his ancient desk. By the time he got to the door leading to his outer office his door was already being pushed open from the other side and Manny met his latest visitor face to face. He too, was built on the large side, but had run - make that wholesale helter-skeltered - towards fat rather than the basic muscle and bone which constituted the bulk of Manny's er ... bulk. The newcomer was a much older man, too, as ancient as Manny's desk, he guessed, which had probably been incarcerated in this room since the building was erected in the early 1920s. He looked as though he must have been at least twice Manny's age of 45.
The ancient newcomer was dressed in a smart, well-cut and snugly-fitted dark blue suit, white shirt and striped tie, his unbuttoned Burberry rain coat had a few drops of rain beading on the shoulders, evidencing the inclement weather outside. Manny felt a compunction to shiver, just thinking of the cold and damp. Florida was never meant to be this cold and miserable at any time of the year, it must all be down to the after effects of Superstorm Sandy.
The most striking facial feature of the potential client, other than his overly-rounded face, was his thick long and bushy white beard, which complemented his dense white hair. What parts of his face not obscured by beard, hair and the bushiest white eyebrows Manny had ever seen, was ruddy-complexioned, with beady but lively intelligent eyes, his vision aided by tiny steel-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of a thick nose which was several shades redder than the rest of his face. The newcomer's rotundity was also remarkable in that he must have been at least as deep and wide as he was high, reminiscent of a human spinning top. It seemed to Manny impossible for him to have fitted through either of his office doorways. He looked as though he was at least twice as wide as each of the narrow openings, but clearly he must have entered through those very portals, because here he was. Larger than life itself.
"Hi, Mac," drawled Manny, putting out a hand which was gripped firmly with a warm dry hand, "What can I do fer youse?" He waved him to an antique seat, set in front of Manny's desk, hoping it would withstand the strain of his visitor's mass and undoubted weight.
His guest viewed the insubstantial chair with a degree of suspicion without making any positive progress towards sitting in it.
"I believe I'll stand, thank you, Manfredo," he said on a deep voice, with a precise, cultured accent, possibly New England old money or even British, thought Manny.
Manny snorted and withdrew from his pocket his wringing wet handkerchief for his running nose, and dabbed at the flow ineffectively while he considered what the stranger had just said. Nobody had dared call him Manfredo without enduring pain or worse, except his dear late departed Momma. Manny decided the potential of paid work at this slow time of year was more important than the preservation of his preferred nomenclature and so he decided to dismiss the remark and slowly moved behind his desk, although he determined that he would remain standing too, like his guest.
"Your name, sir?" Manny enquired.
"No full names no pack drill," the white-haired man said, firmly in even well-enunciated syllables, "But you can call me ... Nick for now. All you need to know is who the mark is, where he will be and when to do what you do best, am I right?"
"I dunno. To be honest, Mister Nick, I don't know who youse is or what youse is talkin' about. Look Bud, is youse a cop or is youse wearin' a wire?"
"You may not know me but I know you very well, Manfredo Ludovico Bertoni. I know precisely what you do for a living and I know exactly what you require in order to do for me what you do so well for other clients. You are probably the best ever at what you do. In a nutshell, I want to take out a contract for a hit. As for your question, I can assure you that I am neither a policeman nor am I wearing any transmitting or recording device about my person.
"I came to you, Manfredo, because you have been at the very top of the Naughty List sixteen times in the last thirty-five years. Quite frankly no-one else can touch you at what you do. If we can come to an agreement, I believe we can do business."
"So what is it youse think I want in exchange, er ... for this business youse needs takin' care of, huh, Mister Nick?"
Nick, as he called himself, leaned across the desk, well just about as far as his enormous stomach would allow him to lean, and whispered, "Come closer and I'll tell you."
Manny leaned in conspiratorially and Nick very quietly said, "G.I. Joe, Submariner edition from early 1980s. In its original box, with a spare set of flippers. This offering could be gift-wrapped in fancy paper and left under your tree as a gift from Santa, if you want, or it could be delivered by the US Mail under plain brown wrapper. Plus your standard hit fee and reasonable out-of-pocket expenses, naturally."
Manny was shocked. Nobody knew that he'd always wanted a G.I. Joe and the submariner version was, well as far as he was concerned the ultimate G.I. Joe youse could ever wish for. Mmmm, spare flippers, too, they was always the first accessories from this set that was lost even in normal play, apparently, he'd been led to believe, not having any play experience of the toy himself. Because no self-respecting macho male from an Italian Mafioso family ever had a doll, which is exactly what it could be interpreted as for crying out loud, so he never got one, even though it was his favourite unrequited toy. Manny recalled listing this wish in his letter for Santa every year for, well ... years. His letters and wish were never granted or even offered ... until now. He made a quick decision.
