The Cabin on Beaver Lake

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Mafia business on a secluded lake in the Poconos.

Submitted: May 03, 2017

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Submitted: May 03, 2017

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Up until this afternoon the protagonist of this story was known out in the world as “Lucky Luca” or just “Boss” to his closest companions. Either way, Luca was neither tonight.

From his precarious position Luca could read the label that seemingly floated upside down before his eyes. It read RUNSHINE DWC-40. Luca’s head was pounding. He was also finding it difficult to breath. ‘And this morning started out so nice.’ he thought.

 

Five thirty a.m. The sun was just peeking over the Poconos and into Luca’s kitchen. He waited on his favorite bar stool for his old percolator to finish. Puccini’s “Tosca” was playing on his mid century Grundig console in the livingroom. Luca didn’t believe a Mr. Coffee belonged in his rustic but comfortable cabin. He poured the black coffee into his yellow Have A Nice Day cup and sang out to the lake “Oh! dolce baci, o languide carezze” ( Oh! sweet kisses, oh, languorous caresses) along with Pavarotti and walked out onto his deck. He always loved this time of the morning at his cabin. Gazing out over the water, he marveled at the infinite particles of light shattered across the face of this blue green liquid island. Luca had an antique adirondack chair that was given to his dad by Joseph Bonanno himself back in ‘67. A prized possession, he sat in it now and continued to look out over Beaver Lake. Sipping his coffee, Luca proclaimed it was gonna be a great day as Luciano ended with “E non ho amato mai tanto la vita!” (And never before have I loved life like this!)

One hundred and forty miles south of Beaver Lake was The Kenmar Motel, just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike, where Salvatore Maranzano III, or Sally The Priest, as he was known behind his back, and his crew were just finishing up their breakfast. The four bigger than life mob muscle and their boss crossed the paved parking lot and exited in a brand new Ford F350 quad-cab with a piece of heavy equipment in tow. They were heading for a private pier on a secluded lake.

Luca skipped his morning run and instead opted for a greasy Pike and eggs breakfast, an indulgence he allowed himself only when staying on the lake. Besides, Petra, his wife of 31 years, would never allow him to cook that “Nasty fish”, she would say, in her house. He had taken his meal out on the deck and was pushing the the last bite of the smelly fish around in the congealing dark yellow yolk when he was startled by the nasty creature that lived under the porch. It had obviously been attracted by the smell of his breakfast. Luca knocked the mangy animal off the railing and into the lake ten feet below. “Fucking cat!” Luca spat. His day wasn’t gonna get any better either.

Sally and his crew arrived at the lake around nine and watched the cabin patiently from a distance.

By a little past ten Luca had finished shredding two file boxes of documents, microwaved three computer hard drives and smoked enough herb to drop a horse. His day was moving along. There was only one thing left he had to do before his spur of the moment vacation could be about relaxation and not Family business. So he got to it.

Sally and his crew were packing up their left-overs, chairs, table cloth, ice chest and wine bottles and glasses. “That was a spectacular meal.” Sally said. “Bamonte's has great mussels!” he chuckled at his own mis quote. “Fat Tony” Rabito wouldn’t mind. Sally’s goons said nothing. They all got into the truck and headed around the lake. It would take them forty minutes to reach the cabin.

Lucky Luca tinkled the ice against the inside of his pre lunch Highball glass as he entered the living room.

“Buongiorno, custode di libri.” (Good morning, Bookkeeper.)

Sally The Priest said.

Luca was startled but not shocked.

“Buongiorno, Pervert.” he replied in a mocking voice.

Luca felt the hot sharp blow to the back of the neck and then nothing. He slumped to the floor, fall across the soft Italian loafers of the man who struck him.

Fifteen minutes later he opened his eyes and took in the scene. It looked as if a tornado had ripped through the cabin. It would seem that the three black masked men in front of him (one holding a phone up. Presumedly video recording) and maybe one standing behind him were the ones responsible. Luca was duct taped not to a chair but to himself. ‘They must’ve used two whole rolls.’ he thought. Sitting on his couch facing him was the thin faced Sicilian capo of the Lucchese Family.

“Where is the money, Luca?” Sally The Priest asked pleasantly.

“You still cruising the junior highs for boys?” Luca returned.

The thin faced capo was not fazed. He repeated his question.

“Luca Cipollini. The money. Where are you hiding it?”

“I fed it to the fish, mio brutto amico” Luca said with a smile.

The Priest smiled back with actual humor.

Lucky saw the mangy cat sneaking up on the couch just as the goon behind him turned his lights out again.

The smell of cat urine was the first thing Luca smelled as he came to. His head was pounding and his vision was a bit blurred. What he didn’t have a problem with was his hearing. The sound of a diesel motor at a high rpm and air rushing by his head. Luca was confused for a moment and then realized he was hanging upside down in the funnel of a massive wood chipper.

The wood chipper was parked on the end of Luca’s concrete pier with a steel pole tripod and pulley system set up over the giant mouth of the machine. One of the goons was staring at the water on the north side of the operation. It seems as though the bits of cat left an oil rainbow on the surface of the water. Two of the men held the rope attached to Luca’s ankles while a third one recorded everything on his phone.

“What is he saying?” Sally yelled at goon number four.

The man just shrugged and looked out into the lake again.

“Lower him a bit more!” Sally yelled again to be heard over the chipper.

Luca struggled to keep his head as far away from the blades as he possibly could. He wasn’t in the best shape he could be in but his flexibility at this moment was damned impressive. The rope lowered again. Luca prayed to a God he never knew as he ruptured a stomach muscle.

Sally stood at the Ford’s tailgate with his back to the operation. He was wrapping some capocollo around Robiola cheese for a bit of a snack. After enjoying a few bites he opened a new bottle of Grenache to wash it down.

“Lower!” Sally yelled again after his glass was empty.

Luca felt the rope lower. He strained harder. His eyes burst from the pressure at the same time he soiled himself. Sally and his goons soon smelled Luca’s evacuating bowls. Lucky Luca couldn’t hold out any longer.

“Drop that bag of shit!” Sally said, giving the “Let it go” hand signal.

Luca let his head go just as the rope did. At first his head seem to float on top of the stainless steel blades, but then they got a bite of his hair. Luca was demasked. His wet skull still sliding on top of the blades for a moment. Luca was still alive. His body was in shock and only the essentials still functioned but then Luca was for one fraction of a second aware as the chipper took his skull, then nothing.

The man’s body sprayed out of the wood chipper like a gory fountain. The smell of shit was strong for a moment. Goon number four watched fascinated as the bookkeeper’s bone fragments sank in the water like a white rain and the little bit of fatty tissue floated on the surface. The rest of the crew slowly made their way over to that side of the pier. Every now and then a fish would rise and get a mouthful of bad Italian.

Luca had been a husband, a father, a collector of paramours and a mob Bookkeeper/ Boss. Now Luca Vincenzo Cipollini was food for the fish below the cabin on Beaver Lake.

 

 


© Copyright 2017 R.Guy Barringer. All rights reserved.

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