What can make good after the bad that's been done?
Writing this on my iPod now, so some things might be a little fucked or whatever, but hey.
Yeah so this chapters a bit random really ,but I thought it was semi-acceptable.
Also, you might be like 'lorna why the fuck are you including the IRA here' but hey since Suzy is so goddamned convinced I'm in it, I figured what the hell...
First Of The Gang To Die
November Spawned a Monster
"Are you nervous?" Gerard asked Frank, fixing the younger's tie. His skilled fingers knotted it along his conspicuous collarbone.
"Kinda," he admitted, trying not to gaze into the deep green lamps. "How will it go?"
"Well, you and I shall be seated at the head of the table along with my consigliere and my underboss." The informed words were foreign to Frank. "Then we're gonna talk for a little while-"
"In English or Italian?"
Gerard chuckled while he moved his hand to Frank's neck. "Why?" His fingers stroked the delicate skin. "Does Italian scare you?"
"No! I just..." He was at a loss again, getting lost in Gerard's deep orbs. He faltered slightly and the boss saw it, smiling widely and in clear vindictive pleasure. "I want to know what you're talking about."
"Today we're gonna be talkign to another gang, baby. Gonna form a little coalition with them." He lit up another cigar and lifted it to his lips. Smoke billowed elegantly from his mouth in collective clouds. "You know what that is?"
Frank shook his head.
"A coalition," the Don murmured, tracing Frank's jawline, "is when two parties form to make a reform in Government or in constitution. Comes from co and ally meaning to merge together with associates." His smirk extended and he stroked his thumb along Frank's mouth. "We use it in gang termage, obviously. My family tends to merge with a number of gangs around Los Angeles; maybe three or four per year. Maybe with the Spanish Playboys, or perhaps Dead Men Incorporated."
"Who are they?" The boy asked, transfixed, as Gerard reached for his nearby Magnum, lying inconspicuously on the bedside table. "Those names sound silly."
"Well, honey, gangs have undercover names, you know what I'm saying? We can't just call things gangs or say killing; people come up with names and secret codes-like taking someone out. So people don't know what you're talking about." He loaded the weapon with rubber-tipped bullets and cocked the hair-trigger. "Like if you kill a man, you send their family a dead fish to show that they're now sleeping with the fishes. Sicilian tradition," he said with a shrug.
Frank exhaled sharply. "Creepy."
"It is, isn't it?" Gerard said as he turned his back to Frank.
"Who are you merging with?" Frank asked quietly, very interested.
The IRA were never directly involved in America but there are Republican groups in Hibernia-Americana areas like Boston and New York.
"The PIRA," was the soft whisper,and Frank wondered why he spoke so quietly. The Don didn't seem so keen on making conversation about his upcoming allies.
"Are they Italian too?" He asked eagarly, the older man laughing at his zeal. "Or the Spanish guys you just mentioned?"
"No. They're Irish." He breathed in deeply and tightened his trouser braces. "They're not very big in LA and are more prominent on the East Coast, like Masachusettes and New York. They're not big in numbers but they ship in more weapons every year than the rest of us combined." He chuckled grimly, deeply; it rumbled in his ribcage. "They aren't fans of the Romano's either."
"Oh." Frank was momentarily surprised. He had heard briefly of some Irish terrorist group when James had talked about them, mainly derogative. He regarded them as scum, as he was a wealthy Anglo-American gangster who benefitted from fixed horse races and unpaid racket fees. "Why don't they like them?"
"Because the Romano's, despite the Italian name, are from England. They like to think of themselves as the United Kingdom's answer to the Mafia. English men and Irish men are going through civil troubles currently." He wore Frank's favorite crooked grin. "Their nationality's enough for them to shoot someone in the head."
The boy copped the conversation that had occurred a matter of days ago. "That's what Alicia was talking about, wasn't it?"
"Mmm," he replied, glancing at his pocketwatch. Frank laid eyes on the beautiful piece of jewellery; glittering gold with black Roman numerals adorning the face of the clock. "We must head off. Stay close to me, baby. Try not to look people directly in the eye. Gangs are always full of crafty fuckers." Gerard picked up a hat and a pair of dark sunglasses to avoid recogination.
They set off down the long,winding corridor of the hotel they had awoken so early to travel to, Gerard's hand resting amiably on Frank's shoulder. It didn't scream of dominance but spoke of adored submission. Gerard wore the familiar red and black suit, trim and proper, glancing at his watch occasionally and muttering greetings to familiar faces along the way. Way was payed salutes and curteous names; Gerard simply would smile.
It shocked Frank when he found out the meeting would be held in a five-star hotel, just outside the outskirts of Upper Los Angeles. He had expected some dingy abandoned warehouse located in some barren watseland unknown to the authorities. That Gerard would talk in a nasal, thick voice and be referred to as 'the Godfather', like in the movies.
Although none of this is really like it is in the movies,is it?
No; certainly not. The sugar coat the media had poured on the Mafia was certainly nothing but a flimsy facade.
When they entered the meeting room-the largest one, room number sixty seven-it struck Frank how formal it all was. Every single one of them in suits, with their wives in smooth black cocktail dresses, sitting around a rounded table made of glass. There was a large black chair at either arc of the table, a throne in a killer's world. The hall was filled with polite, rather reserved chat and small-talk. Everyone immediately shut up and got to their feet when Gerard entered the room.
"Come," Gerard murmured, steering Frank in another direction. "We sit up here."
He saw the familiar man with the alarming hair, Raymond, with a dainty-looking girl with light brown hair, smiling up at him, hands knitted in a ladylike fashion in her lap. Ray's arm was draped around her shoulder and they looked a very savoury couple, easy on the eye. Michael was not there, but Alicia was, chatting to Christa and from what Frank could tell, admiring her dress. The last guy Frank didn't recognize, a rather chubby man with sandy hair and a large rifle tucked behind his arm. His frightening, intimidating demeanor morphed into a large smile and he raised a hand to Frank. He nudged the woman next to him, presumably his wife, a woman in her early thirties with dark hair and more muscular frame than most womem here.
Frank was directed next to the large seat, where Gerard took his place, and he was seated next to Alicia. She greeted him again by kissing his cheek, her fiery red lipstick brushing against his skin. Frank judged by Gerard's laidback lack of a reaction that he didn't see women as threats to his relationship.
Frank felt very grateful to be sitting next to his future sister-in-law. At least if these mysterious Irish men started shooting at him Alicia could probably rugby tackle them to the ground while Gerard made them wish they were never born.
Now, however, Frank's attention was drawn to the door opening. The rest of the Way mafia jerked their vision abruptly.
Around thirty men, all dressed in half-open waistcoats (an obscene fashion statement by men in those days) tattered trousers and caps, entered the drawing room. They slowly made their way to the opposite area of the table, taking their seats and clearing their throats. The tension became just an inch thicker.
First Frank didn't think they looked very scary. They looked like farmers, land laborers. One was even chewing some tobacco in the most attractive fashion. They didn't have the intimidating, menacing elegance and class the other family did.
That thought quickly disappeared when around forty rifles were drawn from jackets and holsters, and slid across the table. Frank's eyes widened and his mouth seemed a little too dry for his liking. The sight of so many weapons at once made his stomach writhe and twist uncomfortably. The Italians didn't even seem slightly fazed from the sudden event.
"Relax, "Gerard had muttered, resting his hand on Frank's leg, just above the knee. It made the younger one calm down signifigantly. "They won't hurt you, honey. Gotcha right here by me."
The tallest of them, a scrawnly looking man with black hair and a missing finger, stood up and addressed to Gerard in a thick reptillic accent.
"Way." Gerard also stood, slowly unfurling himself. "Long time no see."
"Much too long," was the smooth, cheerful reply from Gerard. "How goes things in the struggle for independance?"
A shrug. The man was not smiling. "They outnumber us greatly; but eh, what can we do?" He paused. "And yourself?"
Gerard slipped his hand on Frank's shoulder. "Wonderful," he grinned.
The other man nodded and sank back into his seat, dour and stony-faced. He began to talk urgently in the ear of his main henchman, seated next to him. Gerard remained standing,and began to fish within his waistcoat. He seemed to be searching for something.
"Decommission," was the bark from the Irish side. "Take out your fuckin arms. That includes concealed weaponry."
Frank has assumed he was talking to the Italians,and so was surprised when the Irish began to click and unload their weapons. They plopped down them down on the table, sliding them to join the other amount of guns and brass knuckles heaped up. Around one hundred magazines were removed from the guns and also slid back to the middle.
"Thank you," Gerard said softly. He then looked to his own comrades and nodded. "You heard him. Strip yourself of your arms."
The men simultaneously stood up and began to remove their dress jackets, stripping down to bare shirts and trousers, holsters slung across their waists. Wives and girlfriends also rose and pulled out handguns and pocketkinves from purses and belts. A few of them even had them caught in garters. Each man and woman then turned to each other and began to pat each other down, showing the other side they were weapon-free.
Laughing erupted from the hall, shared by both nationalities. Some people smirked knowingly, as if knowing a secret. Others blushed and stared at the floor. Women continued to work at the holsters and weaponry belts of their husbands, mimicking the night Gerard had shot James and asked Frank to do so.
Frank copped on, and rose to his feet. Gerard held his arms out and spread his legs apart, smirking. Frank could feel his laugh rumbling in his chest. Gerard pulled him closer, hands in the small of his back.
"You're absolutely loving this,aren't you?"
The Don laughed. "Like you don't even know."
Frank began to work at the belt, clicking and shifting the belt, minding not to cut himself on knives. He blushed when his hips bumped lightly against the other's, but the gangster hardly noticed, or at least pretended not to. Gerard laughed in his ear and kissed him on the cheek.
"Thank you, Frank." Gerard sat down again, resting hia hand of jewellery precariously on the armrest.
He, along with everyone else, threw the belt into the center of the table. Frank then turned to Alicia, who had sat whilst the procedure had been going on. In accordance with strict Italian culture, she had requested one of her girlfriends decommision her. It would be seen as outrageous and dispicable to let another man touch her.
"What...what was that?" The boy put to her.
"What?" She replied lightly, lighting up a cigarette.
"That." He waved his hand vaguely. "Gerard got me to do it for him the first night."
She smirked. "Decommissioning?"
She shrugged. "It shows commitment, sexuality I guess." She smiled. "It's like foreplay for mobsters. PDA is frowned upon so we make do with what we have."
"Now," Gerard boomed presently, "shall we press forward?"
"Yes," the Irish man replied in his gruff growl. "We have the motions."
"Please, go ahead."
Gerard sat down and replaced his hand on Frank's knee, his jeweled fingers clicking as he did. He relaxed back into the plush chair, obviously entertained as to what was to come.
"First we would like to extend our thanks to Missus Alicia Simmons-Way." His eyes flickered toward the black haired girl, and he cleared his throat abruptly. "Missus Simmons-Way, Don Way's sister-in-law, took out six Romano footsoldiers men last Monday night with three bullets. Our thanks. Los Angeles is six men safer tonight."
Clapping rang within the hall. Gerard leaned across Frank and murmured something in Italian to his brother's wife. Alicia smiled and blushed slightly, flapping her hand as if to say 'oh, you.'
"Our second motion is to congratulate Mister Way on the killing of one James Stephen Romano last week." Impressed, shocked gasps alerted Frank the assasination had been kept reasonably quiet. "He also carried out straight taking of three associates afterwards." His eyes flicked upward and his voice cracked slightly. "Very impressive."
Applause accompanied the statement, with looks from both Italians and Irish towards Gerard, who smiled faintly, raising Frank's knuckles to brush his lips against them. Iero felt his breath hitch as the gangster's warm breath roll against his skin.
The Irish man cleared his throat to signal his wish to speak.
"Our third motion, which is supported by six of the eight other gangland groups in LA, is the proposal of an ambush at the funeral of the aforementioned James Romano." The hangdog, dull face glanced up briefly. "If you agree, Don Way, that we carry out a joint attack on the day of the Wake."
Mixed reactions greeted this, both impressed and disapproving mumbles erupting. Several footsoldiers of both Irish and Italian origin narrowed eyes to slits and opened their mouths to protest; to disrespect someone's grave or to belittle the dead was the height of dsigrace in gangland culture.
This was, however, the grave of James Romano.
One Italian stood up, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I dunno, I mean that's a bit harsh, no?" The question ended in an intimidated squeak. "Romano is dead now, that was what we asked for in the first place. I don't think it's totally neccesary to intrude on his-"
"Mario!" Gerard's consigliere, Robert Bryar, screeched in a fit of incredulous indignance. "You fucking pussy!"
"Hey, Bryar," another shot back with venom. "Don't you go round branding people pussies, remember the drug raid of thirty one-"
An Irishman rose, a fat finger raised.
"I say we take em out there and then." Frantic chattering bubbled around the table. "Fucking pump em full a lead while we got em."
"That's all well and good, Johnny-boy, but you're forgetting the Romano's ain't gonna be fucking sitting ducks here. They're a fucking gang too, ya plank."
"Murphy's right," an Italian groaned. "We'll get fuckin caught, they probably got security-"
"SILENCE," Gerard roared. The statement causing it's desired effect; silence filled the room like gas. The Don's voice was as powerful and curt as a bullet from a gun.
"This is bullshit. Two of the most notorious and infamous gangland syndicates worrying about security?" He was leaning on the table now, palms pressed against the surface, fingers spread out. His cigar was shortening between his index and middle. "Gentlemen; you must ask yourself questions. Are we going to stand idly by and let our enemies slip through our fingers while we have the chance?"
Gnagsters, scared into sacred submission, squeaked and whimpered under the made man's stern and enforcing glare.
"Let them walk free for the killing and harming of our allies? For the slayings of our friends and family members?" Venom laced his voice. "Let that fucking cunt rest in piece after what he's done?" His eyes flickered to Frank momentarily. "Let the Romano family think they own Los Angeles?" Gerard, quick as a wink, brought the cigar to his lips and stole a hasty puff. "Gentlemen...I think the choice is obvious."
Gerard wore a victorious smile and sank back into his chair. His fingers knitted with Frank's once more.
"Very well," O' Sullivan nodded shakily. "Our informants tell us the funeral will take place on the thirty first of October, at five in the evening. I think I speak for myself when I say that all members should be involved." His brow furrowed slightly. "Where is Michael Way?"
Gerard's jaw clenched and clicked. He was not fond of his impressive authority being challenged.
The coldness in his tone told the Irish to mind their own business. O'Sullivan received the message fairly quickly.
"I...I see," he stuttered. Then he collected himself. "Are we all agreed?"
"Yes," Gerard confirmed. "Are we done here?"
"Not quite," the man smiled. "We would also like to congratulate Mister Way on his forthcoming wedding." Gerard laughed quietly, caressing the inside of Frank's wrist. "Well done."
"Thank you very much." His eyes flickered to Frank, now doing a good job of resembling a beetroot, and he chuckled again. The Don met the boy's eyes and he laughed harder. "Thank you."
"Now, if we're all finished here," said the Irishman, "we have places to go and people to seriously injure."
"As do we," Gerard said, standing back up, "thank you for your attendance, gentlemen. Much obliged."
Weapons were scraped off the table. Chairs fell back.
Frank found Gerard's holster easily-the largest and most diabolical of all,of course-and returned to him, beginning to unfasten and clip the latches.
"Alicia told me about this."
"Did she now?" A light laugh. He was in a very good mood, Frank noted. "And what do you think?" Gerard began to plant soft kisses down Frank's neck as his belt was fastened, pressing his body close to the other's.
"It's kinda weird," he said, earning an approving, crooked smile, "but I like it."
The hall slowly drained of it's temporary occupants. Frank suddenly came to a blatant revelation;
James' funeral and subsequent ambush was on his twenty-third birthday.