The Painter
A Novella Based on True Stories
Chapter 1
The Murder
It was a typical hot, humid June day in the tristate area. Gio was in a perfect position to take the shot. The air conditioner was blowing at full force. Carmine Balducci, aka “The Fork,” was leaning back comfortably in the front passenger seat. He was an underboss in the Patriarca Family and a well-known killer, suspected of having at least a dozen bodies on him, including the murder of Frankie Carbone, who he killed by repeatedly pounding a kitchen fork into Carbone’s neck. The problem was, half of the killings weren’t authorized, and it was very bad for business.
Carmine had gone on all morning about all the electronic features in his new Lincoln Continental, dark black with red leather seats. He used the lever on the side of the seat to lean back as far as he could go. Then he went back and forth a few times to the low hum of the electric motor, explaining that the battery had to be on to use all the gadgets. He settled in the lowest position.
They were listening to Sinatra on the radio. They all got a kick out of Frank singing “New York, New York,” as they were getting ready to drive to The City for a meeting with Dominic Galleta, aka, “The Genius.” He was another underboss in the Family, based in Hartford, with a taste for the fancy life, including an apartment on the west side of Manhattan. Balducci was looking forward to explaining to Galleta why his crew was no longer entitled to a 10% interest in truck routes that ran from Jersey, through Providence on the way to The Cape.
As planned, Lenny, “The Driver,” had pulled into a rest stop on the Hutchinson Parkway in Westchester County to fuel up. Lenny was always the driver on the big jobs and was always ready to provide backup, or cleanup if things got messy. He also specialized in disposal services and had placed several packages over the years in locations known only to himself. Unfortunately, he would slip up with “The Fork,” and the body would later be found in the Connecticut River in Hartford.
He reminded people of the professional wrestler, Bruno Sammartino. The younger guys said he looked like “The Rock.” Lenny was 5’7” tall and 220 pounds of mostly muscle, barrel chested, huge arms, and tree trunk legs with a light coating of hair over his chest and upper back. He was always on call. He spent his mornings lifting in a local gym and his afternoons at the range, practicing shooting his Glocks with both hands.
He knew to take his time until Gio signaled for him to get back in the car.
The Fork was comfortable. His head was close enough that Gio could see the flakes of dandruff that were always snowing onto Carmine’s shoulders. He had notoriously bad hygiene habits, but nobody had the balls to say anything to him about it. He was essentially a fat slob, 5’6” and 250 pounds of sweaty, stinking greaseball. He was mostly bald with a bad combover of oily black hair (thanks to For Men Only) he kept sprouting from the back of his skull. He was crazy and a huge liability.
On the way down I-95 from Providence, Gio had taken out his .22 snub-nose revolver and had already screwed the silencer in place as they listened to Frank on the radio. Frank was singing, “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere …” and The Fork started laughing.
“Ha-ha-ha, yeah, but that fat faggot genius won’t be making that ten percent anymore.” And as Gio began to position his pistol near the base of Carmine’s neck, the sun broke free from behind the low-lying clouds. The warmth of its rays spread across his right cheek, and he saw himself as a 5-year-old boy in the vineyards in Sicily, feeling the warmth of the sun on his neck. He thought about how people supposedly see their lives pass before their eyes before they die and wondered if the same thing applied to those about to kill someone; then the soft recoil of the pistol and the muffled sound of the round focused his attention to Carmine’s head which fell forward after absorbing the shot. Gio saw the small bullet hole in the center just below the ears and gently pulled The Fork’s body back, so that he looked like he was sleeping. There was very little blood, just like the old guys had told him. They also told him that if he placed his other hand on the side of the head you could feel the impact of the bullet spinning around inside the skull. They knew it was his first kill, and he thought they were just playing with him. The truth is he was scared to death. He was afraid of going to hell.
Ray Lopez, evangelist, writer, ordained minister, ministering to the hardcore, one at a time. 