chapter thirty six

word count: 690

The exterior of Malleo's hadn't changed through generations of the family. Father passed it to son and each succeeding generation kept that facade of their life and "business" the same. Bud remembered when he was just a kid standing across the street watching limousines drop off well-heeled "customers." If not them, then dirty skinny degenerate types oozed through the front door like dirty water after a storm, looking over their shoulders in fear with hands trembling. To be succinct, even little Buddy knew something was going on behind those heavy oak doors. Something bad, very bad.

Bud kept those ghostly memories with him as he stepped in Malleo's Ristorante that afternoon. A waitress shot him a startled look and turned her head in alarm to a fellow seated at a table in the corner. He put down his wine and bolted toward the offices in the back.

"I'd like to see Uncle Frank." He stood calmly while nailing the waitress to the floor with his eyes.

"Um...yeah, sure. Tony's seein' about it...Mr. Kramer."

They knew who he was. Not surprising. Everyone in town knew Bud Kramer and his ghastly disposition coupled with astute detective skills. The nightly news had seen to that. They were enamored by his flair, his problem-solving. He always surprised.

"Mr. Kramer..."

Tony escorted him to the back through a darkened hallway. Bud felt thick expensive carpet under his feet. It was too dim to see what color it was. Maybe brown, maybe dark red...like the dried-up blood of Uncle Frank's enemies. A light at the end of the hallway drew them in. A huge man sat hunched over a desk, cigar perched in his fat fingers.

"Mr. Kramer."

"Actually it's Dr. Kramer. I'm a doctor, a pathologist."

"Whatever. Have a seat." He paused, eyeing Bud from top to bottom. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Not many people set Bud's heart to racing, wanting to flee, but Uncle Frank did. The giant man telegraphed a great many bad things. Disdain for others, sinful pride, decadence, blood lust, greed, a rejection of normal values of respect and love for neighbor, replaced with a soldier-like warped view of reality where anyone and everyone else is the enemy and justified to be killed if necessary. He was dirty. Evil. Sick.

"I think we may be looking for the same culprit, the guy who killed your boy Reuben."

"Is that right?"

"Well, I'm looking for him, too."

The big man shifted in his seat, making the overworked old chair squeak. "Don't you think you ought to be looking for your wife?" he asked.

Bud's world came crashing through. Janie! What the hell did this thug know about Jane? Uncle Frank leered back at him, his bulbous face grinning, shooting off sparks of evil glee. Bud lunged at the man; all he could see was black rage. He wanted to kill. But heavy hands held him back. Uncle Frank's minions had popped out of the woodwork.

"You bastard! What do you know about Jane?"

"This." Uncle Frank dangled a photo in front of his eyes. It was a photo of Jane, seated in her wheel chair, ropes wrapped around her, her face contorted by fear.

He pushed against the hands that held him and roared, an unhuman growl. All that he held precious in the world was in the hands of this monster. He had to get her back.

"'Doctor' Kramer, we need to make a deal. Wouldn't you agree?" Uncle Frank took a long puff off his cigar and blew smoke in Bud's face.

Bud looked back. His blood skidding through his veins in a race to parts unknown. His head swirled like he'd stepped into another universe with different colors and thinner air, one where the standard rules certainly no longer apply. Jane! He had to get Jane back! Her face in the photo haunted him. She looked so lost.

"Whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want." And so, Bud Kramer, the last honest man, went down in flames.

"From now on, you're one of my boys, you got that?" Uncle Frank said.