Restless and upset, Castillo talked to his underboss, Francesco, in a quiet fury. The slam of his hand on their table confirmed Bruno’s assessment.
Clearing his throat, his underboss motioned for everybody to be quiet. “Come over here. What do you think we called you guys here for, a goddamn slumber party?” Francesco sneered.
Dead silence fell over the room.
One by one, everyone hustled up to the meeting table and took their seats, acknowledging each other with poker faces and distrustful eyes. Everybody but Castillo’s son in the crew was present, that boy could get away with murder. Bruno, Frank, Blade, Albert, John, Carlo, Francesco, Joe, Billy bones, Antonio, Marco and King Kong of this shit Castillo himself. Twelve men assembled from all over San Diego. Twelve men, as deadly as they were criminal.
Over the past six months, these men had become like Bruno’s family. Fearless motherfuckers who trusted nobody and very few of their own, did they really trust. Bruno had taken a criminal oath to work under this man and with these people. His underboss, Francesco, was only twenty-seven.
Half a dozen newspapers littered the table, as did three copies of the Coronado Times which lay face down in front of Castillo, who stood at the head of the table.
Castillo coughed and everyone snapped their heads in his direction. Hanging his head, his eyes stayed on the ground for a while, like he was thinking about how to say what needed to be said. Clearly troubled, he raised a palm to his head to hold it over his eyes and half his head as he rubbed his temples. When his head came up, and his hand dropped, he sighed furiously. “Death, took my son last night,” Castillo announced in his usual cut-the-bullshit-get-to-the-point style.
For a moment, silence reigned in the room, not even interrupted by a single cough or the wheezing of the two leather lungs Billy and Tom… everyone held their breath.
A knot formed in Bruno’s throat and he swallowed hard trying to dislodge it. They knew who the killer was, right? For Castillo’s sake and sanity, Bruno hoped so.
Castillo plopped into his chair, a man broken. Who knew so much love could be wrapped up in a man so dark and heartless.
“Do we know who’s responsible?” Bruno asked.
Francesco shook his head. “They’re not mafia, we suspect that much.” He went on to explain that his body had been found on Castillo’s gravel drive. “It’s already in this morning’s papers.”
Castillo slid the three-morning papers across the desk. One to Bruno, one to Marco, one to Joe.
Struck with disbelief, Joe tactlessly blurted, “Fucking hell!” He shut his eyes pressing his palms up over his face and the top of his bald head. He lifted the paper in the air, letting all the boys see. Everyone was riveted to the bold black lettering of the morning headline: MOB BOSS’ SON MURDERED!
At Francesco’s nod, Bruno read the story aloud. It explained Bobby Castillo was killed in a shoot-and-run between ten and eleven pm last night. He was taking out the garbage at his home when someone pulled up in a Camry and shot him. There was a witness who said it was silver with a bashed up rear bumper, but that was all they knew. His bullet riddled body was found by the side of the road.
When Bruno was done reading, he tossed the newspaper to the side and shook his head at every fucking word. The utter lack of respect for the deceased and his family irked him to the core.
“The boss had been in Tijuana after a stir with some good for nothing Mexicans,” Francesco added “Didn’t get back till eleven or twelve thirty. Then, on his drive home, he passed his son’s house and decided to stop. That’s when he found him. And he wasn’t the first one. Cops were everywhere.”
Bruno almost drew his gun and marched right out of there to find the man, then decided against it. Castillo would get the man with his own bullet, Bruno was sure of it. It shouldn’t take long.
Slowly, Castillo rose to his feet again. “Bobby, he was a winner,” Castillo declared. “Woulda’ been the youngest mob boss the world’s ever known. A man more powerful than anybody ever knew!” he bellowed, louder and louder, with force. Like he was as determined to convince himself of this as well as his men, body shaking as he spoke.
Everybody nodded.
Although nobody meant it.
It was a sad truth but Castillo’s boy had a chicken-shit’s life of jello, a heart of marshmallow and balls of cotton candy.
Inwardly, Bruno scoffed. More like a goddamn labradoodle than a scorpion-like his father. Soft. Shaggy. Cute and cuddly. Under average build, he’d weighed maybe 140 lbs. He had soft, aesthetic features, and his skin was pale and splattered with freckles. More pretty than a man should be. With a mop of lemon-blonde hair on his head. His voice a high alto, he spoke as effeminate as he acted. His almond eyes as soft as a baby deer’s. Innocent, almost childish. You get the picture.
Bruno would keep his mouth shut, he’d rally round Castillo and tell him what he wanted to hear like everybody else, but deep down, something about his son’s death made no sense to him. What the hell could they want with Bobby? De Luca was sure he’d never know. He knew one thing for sure, Bobby was too much of a nice guy for anyone to want to hurt him. And yet, he’d become the youngest member ever to be shot down.
Reassuringly, Francesco patted the boss’ shoulder, then took him by the elbow and sat him back down.
Bruno watched his brother’s faces. Castillo’s uneasiness was making everyone edgy.
Bruno stiffened with anger. He was desperate to say something but knew he couldn’t. They couldn’t let their emotions win but that’s what they were doing, following the boss’ lead. It was fucking sad, Castillo wouldn’t get his son back. It wasn’t fair, his death didn’t even make much sense, but that’s the way it was. If they moped over the loss, got too angry or too emotional, everything they’d worked too fucking hard for could turn to dust. Emotions were like quitting in this game, and winners never quit.
Only time would tell who he would choose to exact his revenge on his son’s killers. Even the cops would kill for Castillo. Give them twenty thousand dollars in a brown paper bag and they’d take care of it by the end of the week.
Bruno glanced at Francesco. He looked down at a black toolbox that he set on the bar and stood up. “Fellas, before you leave, Joe and I hijacked a truck last night and we got hold of a shitload of guns. Everybody here gets two to keep.”
Everyone fell silent as Joe paced slowly around the table holding each gun to his face and checking to make sure they were unloaded with the safety on before placing them down in front of the guys. Dispirited, ‘thank yous’ came from each man.
