The Last Reflexive Ch. 12

By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.

Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum

Chapter Twelve: Strange Anticipations

With Dirty Harriette behind emergency room doors, the police Chief introduced the Mayor to Dude and the pair shook hands, with little more than polite greetings. The Mayor was preoccupied with himself, and Dude immediately stepped back out of the picture after the introduction. Dude's entire rather gracious demeanor was evasive, meant to help him stay in the shadier areas of awareness.

The mob of reporters had moved outside to escape the gas problem, their number adding to the uniformed police officers and those arriving in need of medical attention. It was a hectic scene and the Chief kept shouting for his men to keep things under control, to keep the street and walkways clear. The Mayor ignored Dude to pull the Chief aside and begin questioning him. The Chief was blunt, blurting out answers that told the Mayor little.

"John, I didn't know what to say, so I told them it was blood," he snarled, finally tired of the same question. The Mayor stopped, placed a hand on the Chief's shoulder, took a deep breath and shook his head, letting the Chief know they needed to tell the voters more because the election was approaching. He looked up to the Chief and pleaded.

"Give me something on the shootings, anything. I have to face the citizens and need something to tell them," he said. Because of the upcoming election, he was growing more impatient and upset with the situation. Elections were in November, just months away.

As the throng continued outside the hospital, the police began dispersing those blocking entrances, and setting up barricades to form perimeters. The reporters had deadlines, and were irked by the lack of information, about ready to call it a day, when a midnight blue limousine pulled up. The limo with tinted windows pulled into a spot reserved for emergency vehicles. Doors opened and six titans in midnight blue suits and ties emerged wearing dark glasses and fedoras. The media knew who this was and pushed the cops out of the way in their attempt to record the emerging figure. They moved as a unit to surround the well-dressed goons, who were protecting a distinguished grey-haired gentleman as he slipped from his enclave, leaving behind a pair of rather well-proportioned giggling blondes. It was George 'Big Balls' Martinelli and the reporters became frenzied. Every camera zoomed in on the bulge in his trousers, which appeared more alive and active than usual.

Questions came as a polite barrage, sprayed at Mr. Martinelli, who stood behind his entourage and surveyed the scene with disdain. Cameras were all over his crotch, and the rest of his body too. Bright lights and microphones battled for position. Everyone knew why he was there. Everyone knew of his promise, or threat, depending on your point of view. He promised to one day bed Harriette and leave her the dizzy bimbo he knew she was, throbbing under the detective's thin veneer of toughness, demanding recognition.

"Riffraff," he murmured under his breath to one of his henchmen. "But they love me and need me, and I love them in my own way," he crowed, standing tall, adjusting his tie. He was an elegant dresser, a gentleman who loved the spotlight and liked seeing his name in print. Finally, he took a fine cigar from his lips, smiled for the cameras, and made to answer one of the reporter's inquiries. At that, silence befell the rabble, as they all knew he was a quiet man, a more than influential figure, and he never repeated himself, publicly.

"I am here because my future acquisition has been wounded," he began in his deep Italian accent, the hand with the cigar animating his words. "As you all know, I consider Harriette my woman, and Saint Nickedemo's is my church." Both were true, at least as far as he was concerned, and few but Harriette contradicted him. One can always find his Rolls Royce parked outside church on Sunday for nine o'clock Mass. In twenty-five years, he'd never missed Mass.

"What's dat meatball doin' here," the Chief hissed. He turned to the Mayor with an unpleasant look, noticing the approaching figure.

"Well, well," the Mayor said. "Georgie's just pulled up, with some heavies. All I need, a scene stealer, and with elections approaching. Why doesn't that goon give up on Harriette," the Mayor said looking to the Chief intently. He moved his face close. "I'll bet you a month's pay check he never gets to first base with Harriette, much less an opportunity of fucking her," he said quietly. "But, damn it! Find out what happened at that church," he demanded, almost shaking with rage.

The Chief glanced at Dude, who was standing to the side, absorbing everything, reelecting nothing, reflexive. He looked around and back to the Mayor. "Let's hear what Georgie's gotta say," Chief said to the Mayor in a low voice, shrugging his shoulders.

Two of George Martinelli's goons entered the hospital first and looked around, followed by their boss, who discarded his cigar before entering. Once again the media flooded in behind him, only to be rebuffed by waiting officers and hospital security staff. Martinelli walked directly to where the Mayor and the Chief stood, his cock pulsating behind the material of its confinement. He shook hands with both, and they all forced a smile to some degree, though the moment stayed tense. Dude studied carefully the spectacle unfurling before him, staying to the shadow. This wasn't his game. It belonged to the Chief and Mayor. His problem was behind a curtain having her wounds tended.

"Mr. Mayor," Martinelli began in his usually elegant way. "How are you..."

"Cut the crap, Georgie. Miss Karson's gonna be okay," the Chief stated bluntly, keeping things real. Before him stood a man he'd been trying to put away for years. And here he was parading around with his prized cock, without a care in the world, a prized peacock strutting his stuff.

"Ah, Chief. How are you my friend? How have you been," Mr. Martinelli solicited as he again adjusted his attire. He was very finicky about his appearance and only the finest things were acceptable to him. Everything about him was expensive, except his reputation, depending on your point of view. This man was a generous philanthropist who spread wealth around, though some claimed it was simply to buy the affection of the masses.

"I'm not your friend and don't be worryin' 'bout my health," the Chief snapped in a guttural tone. The Mayor too, would have liked to see this man behind bars, but tolerated the intrusion with some reservation. Martinelli appeared unruffled by the greeting, as he was accustomed to, as he saw it, being misunderstood. Still, he played the hand dealt him.

"Chief, you offend me," he began in a melancholy voice. "I'm simply concerned with my future conquest. Is that a crime?" The Chief was not amused, but bit his tongue. "I don't want anything happening to that filly until after I've broken her."

"Mr. Martinelli, you are nuts," the Mayor said laughing.

"As I said, everyone knows St. Nickademo's is my church, and that Harriette is my female. And I'm deeply grieved by the loss of our priest and the others of course..." At that he made the sign of the cross.

"You must have the wrong person, you sicko," the Chief said sternly.

"Chief, my dear Chief, you really should learn to be more polite. It would do wonders for your character, not to mention your blood pressure."

"You talkin' to me 'bout character, ya wing-nut," the Chief stated incredulously. He moved close to the mob boss, face to face, careful to stay back from the bulge. Martinelli remained unfazed.

"Chief," the Mayor interjected, "let the good citizen have his say. Besides, Harriette can take care of herself."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor. It's refreshing to find a City official who still practices civility. I was simply wondering if the offenders of this most heinous crime have been apprehended yet. Everyone knows I can't simply sit back and wait, while the perpetuators of this barbaric act are walking around free."

"Ha," the Chief blurted out. Martinelli squinted at the Chief, but kept his cool.

"Chief," the Mayor said in a cautionary voice.

"No, we don't have any suspects yet," replied the Chief, in an irate tone. Martinelli preserved his gracious appearance, smiled continually and fussed with his tie once again. He stood tall and looked down on the Chief.

"I know you are doing your best, of course," he said.

"Mr. Martinelli," the Mayor began. The Mayor was brewed from the same batch of Teflon as the gangster and equally well-oiled. "The entire City bears the burden of this loss. There was no finer priest than Father Castanzo. This case has been given top priority. No one will rest until the guilty have been identified and brought to justice. And, by the way, you ain't got a snowball's chance in Hawaii with Harriette."

"Ahhh, my dear Mayor. If only you understood how I feel, and how persuasive I can be," stated Martinelli with a sad smile.

"I can understand and feel Harriette's pain," the Mayor cut in with a look of determination. "But, this is the City of Brotherly Love and it's my job to see it stays that way." Martinelli, unabashed, continued in his genteel manner, nodding politely.

"Of course it is," he said. He looked at the irate Chief. "And I plan slipping my dear Ms. Harriette a mass of big brotherly love muscle," he said with a wicked smile, holding back laughter.

"Ohhhh, yea, that's so not happenin'," the Chief retorted.

"Please. You're not her father, and she is a big girl," Martinelli started to say.

"I'll let her know you were here blowin' kisses. She'll be sure to like that," the Chief interrupted sarcastically. "Miss Karson's bein' worked on right now. Dis ain't new to her. She never stops doin' her job, even when thwarted by slime-balls like..."

Suddenly McGuire came pushing through the throng, and the Chief was caught momentarily off-balance. He took a step to meet McGuire and spoke with him on Harriette's condition.

Seeing the Chief turn to McGuire, the Mayor turned to Martinelli. "Coffee," he asked the mob boss. The Chief and McGuire walked away to consult with some of his men and find out what had been gleaned from the crime scene. Martinelli leaned toward the Mayor.

"John, I can see the poor Chief is agitated. A rain check on the coffee, but before I leave I need to ask. Who is that fellow over there? I don't believe I've ever seen him before," Martinelli asked, motioning toward Dude. "I understand he was at the scene."

"You hear a lot."

"John. Eyes and ears are everywhere, and more are going up everyday, as if you didn't know," Martinelli said. Martinelli had an eye on Dude since he'd entered the hospital lobby. He found himself impressed with Dude's tailored Marco Azzali suit and Francesco Smalto shirt, which begged his indulgence. Dude could tell what Martinelli wished and sensed the Mayor's momentarily befuddlement. After all, the Mayor had just met him and had no idea who he was, so Dude stepped forward with hand extended and introduced himself.

Martinelli greeted him in Italian and Dude replied in kind, bringing a smile to the elder gentleman thick lips. Dude suggested it was impolite to speak in a language others couldn't understand. Martinelli knew he was correct and realized just how much of a gentleman the stranger was.

"Ha," Martinelli said aloud in English. "I knew you were a gentleman! I can always tell, you know." They measured each other for a moment and it wasn't difficult to ascertain Martinelli's unusual interest in Dude. Martinelli was all smiles and Dude cautious. "Cigar," Martinelli offered.

"Thank you," Dude replied taking one from a small humidor held out to him. "Very fine tobacco," he said as he ran it under his nose before slipping it into an inside jacket pocket.

"I have them made especially for me," Martinelli said softly, as if divulging a great secret. Then he moved his face closer to Dude's and almost inaudibly commented with a wicked smile, "Cuban, of course." His demeanor brought a smirk to Dude's lips. Martinelli smiled and nodded. He slipped his arm over Dude's shoulder like they were old friends and whispered. Dude felt a chill.

"You, dear Sir, are a welcomed diversion from the plebeians with whom I am forced to deal on a daily basis. We really must get together sometime and discuss, er, politics..." The two men were looking at one another with intent. "...Or whatever."

The Mayor had slipped off to the side with the Chief and McGuire and the three murmured to one another as Martinelli and Dude sparred, as only gentlemen do. McGuire finally took off for the emergency room hoping to see Harriette. Dude had little to say at the moment, but felt there was something about Martinelli he needed to understand. Martinelli wanted to befriend him for some reason, and peppered their conversation. He took his arm from Dude and again faced him.

"I notice you have blood on your cuff," Martinelli began and they both looked at the small spot of dark red. "I know a reputable cleaner who does superb work. Her establishment is called Yenchu's, on The Square. Rittenhouse Square. She's a wicked seamstress who can both walk on your back and hand stitch at the same time."

"Why, thank you, I'll be sure to try her," Dude replied with a wry smirk, having spent many hours face down on a bamboo mat with a delicate lotus blossom dancing on his back.

"Tell her Georgie B.B. recommended her. And, she's self-conscious about her small breasts, so give them some attention. She loves it."

"Thank you," Dude said with a tilt of his head

"By the way," Martinelli continued, still trying to penetrate Dude's eloquent defense. "I'm having a small dinner party Friday and was wondering if you and Ms. Harriette, if she's able, would be kind enough to join. I would be honored by your presence." Dude liked the idea, but didn't know if Harriette would speak to him this soon after the church incident much less accompany him to a dinner given by a gangster she loathed. His instinct urged him to accept the invitation and deal with Harriette later.

"Of course, I would be pleased to attend," he assured Martinelli.

"And Ms. Harriette?"

"Sorry I can't answer for her, but I'll see what I can do."

"Very good, my dear Dude. Dinner is at eight," Martinelli said waving his arm and spinning around to the Mayor, ignoring the Chief. "And of course, Mr. Mayor, I would be honored by your presence also."

"Sorry, binding arbitration hearing on the police, er, a contract," the Mayor stuttered, while shooting Dude a troubled glance. Actually he was interviewing a couple candidates for his under-the-desk secretary job that night. The Chief stood to the side fuming, but remained silent.

"Ah, so sad, your Honor. Another time then," Martinelli stated with an air of flamboyance. "I shall take my leave and until next time..." He turned to Dude with short bow, "...Friday, for both you and Ms. Harriette. I bid you adieu." Martinelli and Dude shook hands and the mob boss turned back to the crowd. Everyone watched the colorful gangster leave with his entourage and then the Mayor turned to Dude.

"Why did you accept his invite, Dude?"

"Your Honor," Dude said looking at the man with a bit of whimsy. "Etiquette. You should never decline an invitation so graciously extended." Dude stared at the parting limousine with unusual interest.

"Yeah, well whatever, Dude, whatever. There's no way in this sweet world Harriette will go to any dinner given by that one," the Chief stated in a hiss, "unless it's gonna be his last supper."

"We'll see, Chief," Dude replied curiously.

"Dude, Martinelli plans to one day fuck Harriette's brains out and make her a bimbo," the Chief growled, and Dude laughed, most uncharacteristically, and the Chief, thinking about what he's just said, began laughing himself into tears.