Noel by Christopher Leeson now on Kindle

If you carry your own punishment around with you, can you carry your own salvation?

NOEL
by Christopher Leeson
Noel

A hard man like Lee Scarpetta expected to die hard. But he didn't expect to be around afterwards to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman like Noel. Her assignment, she explained, was to be his friend, his mistress, his genie—and Lee could have everything he could wish for. Up to and including eternity—enough time to figure out what he really wanted in the Afterlife.

Copyright 1996
Revised 2014, 2018


Sample

Lee "Dandyman" Scarp studied the fat man across the table like his life depended on it -- and maybe it did. Somebody'd squealed; Guido Gurina, the boss of Kansas City's rackets, had found out that some of Scarp's boys were dealing in joy powder -- and so now here was Gurina's underboss, "Joe Jelly" Madagino, wanting to "talk."

But ever since the obese mobster had opened his mouth, Scarp had mostly just sat and listened. "If you deal, you die," Joe was saying. A simple rule, that; Guido Gurina liked simple rules. Numbers were okay, juice, too. Hijacking, gambling, labor extortion -- that was just business. But drugs made the soldiers too rich too quickly and a man with money in the bank is a man "without respect," as the old guys put it. Worse, too many of the mugs dealing in hocus started using it themselves, which made for even worse problems.

"Your boys who've done this," the fat man said in the patois of the Italian ghetto, "they're as good as dead men, right."

Scarp knew that was a statement, not a question. "Right, Mr. Madagino," the young capo said with a nod, his mien as cold as the ice floating in his water glass. Scarp had an accent, too, but it was the dialect of Kansas City's roughneck neighborhoods, the lingo of the gin joints and pool halls, not Sicily.

"You'll give them up, then? Just like that? No lip, no trouble?" Joe Jelly was asking, his watery eyes slitted and suspicious.

"They knew the rule."

Joe nodded. "You are being reasonable. Good. You will take care of it yourself."

Again, Joe wasn't asking, he was telling. "I always take care of my own business," Scarp promised. "You can count on it."

"Benny, he is your cousin, I know. It is hard to kill family."

Scarp bit his thumb, an Old World gesture that the old Eyties still used. "If he's done wrong, if he's broken the rules, I'll kill him myself."

"You are one mean son of a bitch, Dandyman," Madagino laughed, his soft, repulsive body jiggling as he mimicked the clipped speech of the younger men.

Scarp would have promised the underboss anything just then, but his mind was already racing ahead. These worn-out geezers with their worn out ideas were beginning to crowd his style. The day was fast coming when he would have to take out the fat man, and Guido, too -- just like Luciano had done in New York. Even before this crisis, the don had only been waiting for the right moment to ice them. Earlier on, it might have been tricky finding enough hard men with the motivation to do it, but not now. The old guys had just supplied all the motivation that anyone would need. Cousin Benny and his pals in the dope trade would be glad to handle the job; they'd better be, if they wanted to live.

"Ughh!" grunted the fat man, gripping his spare tire with both hands.

"Indigestion, sir?" Scarp asked politely.

"Si!" laughed Joe Jelly, "I feel like I've been poisoned. Maybe we should hit Strollo!"

Scarp laughed, too. "That would be a shame. The old man makes the best ravioli in Kansas City."

Madagino heaved his gelatinous bulk up from his bench. "I got to take a crap!" he muttered. "I will be right back."

Scarp was left sitting alone at the table; he glanced absently across the room. The Christmas decorations were up -- big phony candy canes and rubber holly. Of more interest to the gangster was the cute number sitting at a corner table holding hands with a pasty faced accountant-type. Normally Scarp would have been over there in a flash, pushing the maggot out the door and muscling in on the frail, but this was no time for fun and games. There were funerals to think about.

He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. Lee Scarp, born Leon Scarpatto, was an up and comer in Midwestern crime; everyone knew it, and all the smart guys were watching him. He'd been giving Guido a case of the creeps -- and that was why the old man was riding him so hard lately. No soldier since Bugsy Siegel had risen to capo as quickly as Scarp. And why not? Scarp was at the top of his game, quick to see the smart dodges -- like the murder for hire he'd gotten into, like the narcotics. It was just too bad if Guido Gurina had rules that got in the way, because Scarp had rules of his own, and Rule Number One was that you don't get into Scarp's way with any of your rules. Not even a Guido Gurina got a pass from the up and coming future boss of Kansas City -- not for long, anyway.

The mobster idly studied the ruby sparkle in his wine glass, under the tacky chandelier reminded him of a cheap stage version of the Star of Bethlehem. He took that for a lucky sign, an omen that he was following his own star. He had ambition, Scarp did, and he'd been cutting deals big, sweet, under-the-table deals with the top bosses in some of the most powerful families as far away as Detroit. If he took out Guido and his lieutenant now, the other gangs would do squat. The Kansas City territory would fall into his lap like a bunch of grapes. It wouldn't be war; this was 1947, not 1929.



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This story is 1008 words long.