Tragic by Robert K. Tanenbaum Read Free Book Online Page A

don’t want you around me anymore, Charlie, that ship has sailed, and I’d rather have a scorpion in my bed than Joey.”
    For a moment rage played across Charlie Vitteli’s face like a stormacross a sea, but then he smiled and nodded. “Sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But to be honest, I wouldn’t have kept you around, either. As long as the financials of my ‘early retirement’ work out, and the Labor Department matter is dropped, I’m good with it. May be time to enjoy my golden years with the old lady and our brats.”
    The rest of the evening went about as well as it could. Charlie was in fine form talking about the early days. “We busted some heads together, huh, Vince,” he said. “Before you went all academic on me. And hey, remember the ‘management meeting’ in Atlantic City? We had a good time then, and if I remember right, there was a cute little dancer who had an eye for you. I got a photo of the four of us put in the latest edition of the Dock. ”
    Vince laughed and told a few stories of his own while the cigars and whiskey made the rounds. At one point he excused himself and called Gorman to tell him how the evening was going. He couldn’t wait, however, to get home and let Antonia in on what had happened. He imagined holding her tight and telling her that everything was going to be fine.
    “I need to get moving,” he said at last, feeling the effects of the last shot of whiskey.
    “So do I,” Charlie agreed. “You parked around the corner. We’ll walk with you.”
    Vince waved Randy McMahon over and sent him to get the car warmed up. “I’ll be right there.”
    “You go with him,” Vitteli told his bodyguard, Sal Amaya.
    Amaya, a huge man who’d had a brief career as an NFL lineman, frowned. “You sure, boss?”
    “Yeah, I want to have a few last words with Vince,” Vitteli said and laughed. “I swear you can be a mother hen sometimes, Sal.”
    “That’s what you pay me for.”
    “Yeah? Well I also pay you to listen to what the fuck I tell you to do, so get going,” he said, frowning.
    As the four remaining men left the pub and rounded the corner to the side street, Vince noticed that the three women were nolonger gathered around the oil drum, which stood black and cold at the alley entrance. They’d just about reached it when Vince spotted the old Delta 88 parked across the street. A man was sitting at the wheel.
    “Hey, that’s the—” he started to say when two men wearing ski masks stepped out of the alley entrance.
    “Give me fucking wallets,” one of the men said in a heavily accented voice as he pointed his gun at Vince.
    In that instant, Vince recognized the voice. He could see the eyes beneath the mask; they were blue and widely spaced. He also knew that this was no ordinary robbery as his hand dove into his coat pocket and found the .380.
    The young robber was slow to recognize the danger. Vince had the gun out of his pocket and had started to move it forward to aim and fire, but then he felt a hand grip his forearm, stopping him. He glanced over and saw Charlie, his face a mask of hate. Vitteli held tight to Carlotta’s arm, trying to wrestle the gun from him.
    “You son of a bitch,” Vince swore.
    “Do it,” Charlie shouted at the gunman.
    Vince looked back just as the first round caught him in the chest, knocking him to the sidewalk as his own gun clattered to the ground. He sat up and tried to reach the .380 but the next shot caught him in the head, killing him instantly.
    The masked gunman and his associate stood still for a moment as if trying to figure out what to do next.
    “Our wallets, you idiot,” Charlie hissed.
    “What? Oh, da ,” the gunman said. “Give me your wallets and your watches!”
    As the others took their wallets out and removed their watches, the second masked man stepped forward to get the loot.
    “Now get the fuck out of here,” Charlie said, aware that people were starting to come out of Marlon’s down the