George Costa sat at Stubby's Bar and Grill and mingled loudly with the other patrons. Stubby's was a small dive bar in downtown Kansas City, MO that usually catered to locals. Even though it was called Stubby's Bar and Grill, their menu only consisted of a few sandwiches and nothing else special. The walls had graffiti written all over them and the bathroom reeked of urine, which could be smelled at the front door. The bar lacked the modern day charm and flashy big screen televisions that many of the other popular bars had. This kept the younger crowds away, and the owner was too old fashion to change things.
George sat at the bar and had just ordered his fifth whiskey and sour, which would normally be his limit. Three drinks offered him a good buzz. Seven drinks and he could barely walk home, let alone please his wife, Susan, who was already probably in bed. She wasn't much of a drinker and grew tired of waiting up for his now habitual late night returns from the pub.
Tonight was a special night though. Normally, George drank to drown his fear and agitation. Tonight he drank to celebrate. Tonight his former boss sat in a cold jail cell and in a few months George would be free. In a few months he would no longer have to fear for his life.
George Costa, who was born Paul De Luca formerly worked for Mark Agostinelli. Agostinelli was the leader of an Italian crime syndicate in Chicago, and thanks to George was about to be indicted on thirty-five felony charges. George and his wife, Susan, ran off and joined the Witness Protection Program, but not before snatching two million dollars of Mark Agostinelli's drug money. The feds didn't know this, which was even better for George. After all, he was an accountant and fixing the books had been his job for years.
George Costa or formally Paul De Luca's job was laundering money for Mr. Agostinelli and his drug operation. Over the years George had laundered 65 million dollars for him at a measly one percent. He was stuck working for Mark Agostinelli since he took over for his father, who owed a debt to the mob lord. George's father had a gambling problem and Agostinelli paid off his debt. His father died of cancer before the debt was paid off.
George went to night school and became an accountant just like his father. He began working for Agostinelli against his wishes; laundering money and cheating the IRS for him and his many employees. After college he took over his father's work. He'd gone to Agostinelli and asked for an increase in his take several times, only Agostinelli would simply tell him that he's lucky that he paid him at all. This response did not surprise George.
Most people would be terrified with the thought of facing a person like Mark Agostinelli in a courtroom, but not George. George couldn't wait to see his face in court when he spilled the beans about Agostinelli's life of crime. Even better was the fact that George made away with two million bucks of his drug money, although he would never admit to this.
He was tired of fearing this man. George had worked for him for fifteen years and had developed resentment. All of those years of kissing his ass and watching him hit on his wife, Susan. George didn't believe that Agostinelli was even attracted to her. This was just his way of establishing dominance over George. George didn't like to be dominated and wasn't easily intimidated. Well, we will see whose dominant now, Mr. Agostinelli, Thought George. He smiled to himself as he imagined the feds kicking down Agostinelli's door that very evening. George raised his glass, secretly toasted his dead father, and then sucked down another whiskey sour.
George Costa wasn't particularly fond of his current situation. He hated living in Kansas-too many hillbillies, he thought. The city didn't have the same charm as Chicago either. Kansas was almost an insult to his Italian descent. It's true that they have great barbeque, but there just wasn't enough of "his people" here. He also hated being under constant surveillance by the feds, although this evening he managed to slip out without them noticing. The Federal Agents usually kept their distance and weren't terribly invasive with their presence, however George knew that they were there watching his every move. They littered his neighborhood with their existence as they sat in their government issued Crown Victoria, right in front of his house, as if they were advertising that he was in the Witness Protection Program.
The man sat and watched the Italian laugh and drink heavily with the locals at Stubby's Bar and Grill. For a man with many enemies, Paul De Luca drank like he didn't have a care in the world. It seemed pretty ballsy especially since he didn't have his federal agent buddies watching him this evening. He watched the fat Italian as he told terrible jokes and harassed the pretty blonde waitress, who didn't seem amused by De Luca's Chicago charm. De Luca pinched the waitress' rear as she walked by, which caused her to blush and curse under her breath.
He was disgusted with De Luca and his piggish ways. Normally the man made no emotional connection in his line of work, if you call disgust an emotional connection. Fucking demoralizing idiot. He humiliates this woman and doesn't bother to apologize. I'm not surprised if he enjoyed that, thought the man. The man usually took no pleasure or had no remorse for these people, however he felt like the world could definatly do without a man like Paul De Luca.
The pretty blonde waitress walked over to the man who sat watching De Luca from a table near the front door of the bar. She'd been a very thorough waitress, but there were only a handful of people here this Wednesday night and most of them sat at the bar. "Can I get you another Jamison?" she asked. The man could now see that her name tag said, "Jenny".
"No thank you," he said as he smiled at her. Jenny smiled back but seemed uneasy about him. She didn't recognize him as a local and he didn't seem like your usual tourist. He didn't dress like your typical Kansan. He dressed more like an undertaker and he had a scar on his face that came across what appeared to be a dead right eye. She did however find his Irish accent somewhat charming. "Ok, well let me know if I can get you anything else," she said.
"Thank you," he replied as he laid a twenty on the table. The man stood up and pushed his chair in. He could tell that Jenny seemed uneasy about him, so he would have to wait outside for Mr. De Luca to leave. The man disliked how nosey people were in this small city, which made his job even harder. In cities like New York and Chicago you could have a monkey on your shoulder and people wouldn't even bat an eye at you.
George Costa drained his sixth whiskey sour and slammed his glass on the bar. "Well, I think I better call it a night," George slurred. "How about that tab, Gorgeous." He smiled at Jenny. She crinkled her nose and slid a receipt across the bar. George fumbled with the cash in his coat pocket. He tossed a few crumbled twenties on the bar, only leaving Jenny a measly two dollar tip. "Gee, thanks," She said as she rolled her eyes at him. George stumbled down off of the bar stool and pointed his finger at the other bar patrons and then back at Jenny. "You see this," he giggled. "The girls got some attitude. She'll learn some day that she has to earn her tip if she wants to impress Paul…err..George Costa." George smiled as he stumbled out.
He took a deep breath and inhaled the crisp February air. Kansas winters were cold, but without the stinging wind of Chicago that George was used to. There was no snow on the ground which would make the walk home easier for a fairly drunk George.
The streets were fairly quiet this evening, which George preferred for his long walk home. He wasn't used to the laid back atmosphere that this city had. In Chicago it seemed like nobody slept. It was rare for downtown to be as peaceful as it was here in Kansas City. He passed by the little ma and pa shops and wondered how people could be happy living this way-so content with their measly unimportant lives. George Costa was always striving to get more. He hummed a song he'd heard about Omaha and he chuckled to himself as he inserted the words Kansas City into the song as he strolled down the sidewalk.
This situation with Agostinelli was a mere hiccup in George's life plans. Soon he would be back to his usual self. He'd find a way to start taking again. He'd eventually get to enjoy spending Agostinelli's money. He had to be careful that the feds didn't notice any fiverlous spending. For now, he would just have to settle with playing the good husband and with banging only his wife. That's one thing he missed the most about the mobster lifestyle-the ladies. Oh well, at least he had Stubby's Bar and Grill. It would have to be his only social outlet for now. Luckily at forty two he had no kids to worry about, which was unusual for an Italian man raised in a large family. Even though Susan had wanted kids, George didn't feel like he had the patience for children. He only had his wife and now he no longer had to worry about his worthless sisters who didn't do a damn thing to help bail his father out of his situation. They were back in Chicago and for all he knew they thought he was dead. Maybe Mark Agostinelli would take his two million bucks out on them. Good riddance, George thought as he smiled.
George felt the sudden urge to take a piss. Damn, forgot to go at the bar, he thought. He stopped and looked around. Only an occasional car passing on the nearby street. He couldn't just piss right here on the sidewalk. Kansas City cops are a bit stricter than Chicago cops, he thought. The last thing he needed was to get arrested for public nudity.
George spotted an alley up ahead. He rushed up and darted into the alley fumbling with his zipper. His hands felt ice cold on his member as he urinated on the back of a building. A chill shot up his spine and he had the sudden feeling that he was being watched.
"Hello, Paul." The voice behind him startled him, and George pissed on his leg as he turned around to see a man standing about ten feet behind him.
"Jesus!" De Luca said as he jumped. "Who da fuck do you think you are sneaking up on me like dat?" De Luca put himself away and puffed his chest out. "You made me piss on my pants." De Luca said as he furiously brushed his pant leg off. The man smirked and shrugged his shoulders.
"You're lucky I don't fuckin kill you for dat," De Luca said as he pointed at the man.
"I don't think you can do any harm with that thing," the man said as he nodded toward De Luca's crotch.
De Luca looked at the man curiously. He was sure he had seen him before. Yes, at the bar. He didn't speak with him there, but now he noticed that the man had a heavy Irish accent. He also stood at least a foot taller than Paul, which didn't mean anything since Paul was short at only five foot three. The man's features were hard to make out in this dark alley, but he remembered the man had a creepy dead eye that was nearly white in color.
"Do I know you?" Paul asked the man.
"I'm quite sure you don't Mr. De Luca, but you know my employer" said the man as he pulled a silenced pistol out of his black overcoat.
"Look, my name is George Costa," he insisted. "I don't know or give a fuck about your employer." De Luca put his hands up.
"It's too late for denial. You should have gone drinking with your federal agent buddies tonight, De Luca." The man said as he shot him in the right knee cap with his silenced 9mm Beretta.
De Luca grabbed his knee and fell to the ground. "Fuck!" he cursed the man, "You shot me you Irish Fuck."
The man smiled, "Yes, my employer requested that I put you through a certain amount of pain. Of course, time is of the essence here. I still have to visit your pretty wife tonight."
De Luca held his knee tight as he rolled and the ground. "You'll never get to her. She's guarded by at least three agents outside."
"Only three agents, huh. I doubt they will even know I'm there." The Irish man yawned and toyed with his pistol as if he was already bored by all of this.
Paul De Luca had tears streaming down his face as he said, "You fucking animal. If you're going to kill me then-" Thwack, Thwack. The man shot De Luca twice in the chest with his silenced Pistol. De Luca's body slumped over and blood came out of his mouth.
The man put his pistol away and pulled out a mini flashlight. He skimmed the ground with his light as he picked up his shell casings. He put the casings in his pocket with the intent of disposing of them at another location. The Irish man stepped out of the alley and walked away. He still had to visit De Luca's wife this evening. Three federal agents did not concern the Irishman. He would find a way past them and kill Paul De Luca's wife before the sun came up. Then he could get on a plane and get out of this damn city.