May 21st, 2015

Paul Aniston really wanted to be a button man.

Screw climbing the ranks of pushing drugs, managing girls, handling rackets, collecting from gambling rings. He didn't want to be a slammer, beating up extortion victims, or a bodyguard; he wanted to be a human bullet. His heroes were killers like Machine Gun Jack McGurn, Joseph "The Animal" Barboza, and Richard "The Iceman" Kuklinski.

But you couldn't just go around killing people to climb the ladder; you had to do as you were told and never ask anybody for anything.

Still, the next man up from him was Nicholas Minardos, and Minardos knew Paul was aching to prove himself. Paul expected his first hit order to be knocking off someone who hadn't paid up to Sigler's mafia after three warnings — or maybe two warnings, he didn't really know how it worked but assumed there were some number of warnings.

He'd knock off some debtor, maybe some drug pusher who was late with the money for some reason or other. Someone to make an example of, but not anyone you would have heard of. Not anyone dangerous or anyone important.

The mayor. The frigging mayor. Nick Manardos came up to Paul in a goddamn diner, sat down next to him, and told him over a bacon cheeseburger, "Your big break is here, Paulie. You're going to do Mayor Banikas. Hey, don't freak out. Stop freaking out. I'm going to tell you exactly how to do it, and you're going to get away with it, and then you're going to start the career of a real mafia hitman. You'll be a legend, except for the fact that you'll take this to your grave, the grave of an old fat retired mobster who went in his sleep like Giovanni 'The Pig' Brusca."

"Brusca did life in prison. And he was an informer." Paul spat on the less than immaculate floor tiles and received a dirty look from the boy behind the counter. "And they didn't let him out of the clink even when he gave up everybody whose name he could remember."

"Well, I guess any guys we've heard of were either killed or serving life in prison, but that's the idea. You wanna be like the guys we haven't heard of. The ones who got away with it, for example, whoever did Gus Greenbaum. Be just like him. Although I'm not going to recommend the throat-slitting route, not on your first job."

Paul paled, the reality beginning to sink in; he was going to kill a man, and Nick was talking about it at full volume in a brightly lit, medium-busy burger palace. "What the frig?"

"Jimmy 'the Hat' Lanza," said Nick, "lived to be one hundred and three years old."

Not a week later, Paul was invited into the back room of Daedalus Bar, the first time he had been back there. Usually, a host led him to the gambling room in the basement to take his package and drop off his cash. Upstairs was Mena Sigler's office, which he aspired to one day enter, but this was an accomplishment deserving a cigar, and he was offered a cigar by his good friend Jason Nakos soon as he came in the door.

The back room was like an old speakeasy; you had to speak a password to get in, and everyone spoke easy. It wasn't the rambunctious late-night party spot; it was the room where business was handled, plans were discussed.

Smoke obscured everything like indoor fog; Paul was too young to have ever been in a smoke-filled bar. Four people were seated at a round table toward the back of the back room, and, including Jason, there were six bodyguards. Two hatstands were filled. Paul and Nick added their fedoras to the last pegs and joined the table, taking seats when they were invited to.

Sofia Ioana was the underboss, and she was in charge of this meeting. The other three at the table were Jack Costas, Hugo Zane, and Jennifer Makris. Every one of them smoking a cigar. So many people to discuss the assassination of San Francisco's mayor. Far more ears than Paul would have wanted.

"Thank you for coming," said Ioana. She put subtly manicured nails down on the table in front of her and examined Paul.

He had never been in a room with her before. He didn't expect his appearance to impress. The last few days worried him so bad he was now concerned about premature gray hairs, though so far he had found none; all that worrying, however, and the added stress of going gray due to stress, had drained the color from his face like the flu, and he hadn't slept well, and he hadn't eaten well. The flesh on his face felt hollow, and he knew it looked hollow.

Plus, he was a twenty-two-year-old kid, and sure he pumped metal, but the muscle didn't really make much of a bulge in his sleeves. Even his crew cut now seemed like an immature choice, and Ioana would find him weak and childish.

Good, then maybe he wouldn't be given this hit after all.

Ioana seemed satisfied, though, because she went on. "You know why you're here, kid. We're going to guide you through the plan. You'll see that the plan is bulletproof, kiddy-proof, and idiot-proof. We'll agree on a date to execute the plan."

"With all due respect," Paul said, amazed at his own nerve for not precisely interrupting her but for speaking out of turn and derailing her planned order of business, "I need to get something out of the way first. Why me? I haven't made my bones yet, and as far as I can see, there are others far more equipped to execute your plan."

"The plan is simple," Ioana assured him. "You will be perfectly equipped to execute it."

"Excuse me for arguing, but I have a long list of objections, Capo. That's only the first. I'm an intelligent person, and I hope you'll appreciate that and pardon my bad manners in stating these objections up front. As far as I can see, the most likely probability is that I'm considered an appropriate candidate to fall for this hit. It makes the most sense to me that I've been chosen to be the fall guy."

Ioana regarded Paul with patience that either revealed the truth of his accusation, in that she would be relaxing him into his fall, or perhaps told of a respect for him that he wasn't sure how he had earned it. Those pearly lacquered nails danced on the tabletop and the smile she gave him was kind, which was more terrifying than soothing. "Can you think of anything you have done to wrong Mena Sigler?"

Paul knew better than to hesitate. He shook his head while he said, "No, Ms. Ioana. Of course not."

"Have you demonstrated any weakness in the work that has been assigned to you? Any failures?"

He did think about that question before answering, but his answer was the same. "No, Ms. Ioana. I hope that the work I have done for the family has been satisfactory."

"Do you not think that there is anyone who has wronged Mena Sigler, offended her, or failed to do the duty asked of him or her, someone who would deserve to be incarcerated for this hit more than yourself?"

His answer was going to be bull corn. "I can't see why anyone would wrong Mena Sigler or fail to do their duty to the best of their ability," said Paul. " However, I know that there has been some disloyalty to Ms. Sigler. Some who have betrayed the trust of the family to the Andreous, even to the police. If such a person were suspected of talking to the Andreous or to the authorities, a fitting punishment would be a lifetime sentencing. A more fitting punishment would be a death sentence, but I can see how a cell in a Federal prison might suit the family's purposes better."

"Such a person has been identified," said Ioana. "There is a fall man in place. I hope you will consider that objection rectified since you have worked it out for yourself that there is a more ideal fall man than yourself. Do you have any other objections?"

It was nice of her to welcome more of his questions. Or it could be a test to see whether he would fall in line or whether he would continue to question her intentions. The problem was, his first question had not been answered. "Surely, Ms. Ioana, there is someone more qualified to execute the plan. I don't understand why I've been chosen."

"The person who executes this hit will be owed a great debt by this family; the reward will be great, the gratitude will not be forgotten. You have my assurance that you will not be suspected by the police. You do not need to understand more than that. You still have much to learn. Otherwise, you would not need to ask me why you are chosen; you would know why and know not to ask. Understand, then, that except for Mena Sigler, no one outside this room knows about this hit. No one outside this room will ever be told about this hit. They will hear about the mayor's passing on the news. No one in this room will tell anyone any details about this hit."

That was surprising news to Paul. Sure, more bodies were present than he wanted in the room, but so few of the family were here. Sigler's own daughters and sons were not here. The top gunner, Niki Scolinos, was not here, and neither was Thalia Zane, who everyone expected to climb the ranks among gunners quickly.

Was Ioana suggesting that none of these people could be trusted?

"Although you will pull the trigger," said Ioana, "everyone in this room will play a part in the execution of the hit. Eliminating the target is not a one-man job, although you will pull the trigger. You, not Niki Scolinos." Her eyes were very dark now, pools of expression that prompted him to read her mind as if assuring him, his suspicions were correct. That meant Niki Scolinos was informing to the Andreous. The Andreous, in turn, could inform on the family to the police. The usual order of business involved never telling the authorities anything, never breaking the code of silence. But six weeks ago, Sarah Kasick had been arrested, and Paul had wondered whether some rat had given up the evidence leading to arrest.

It took a couple of deep breaths to get over the frustration that he still didn't know why he had been chosen. That Ioana suggested he could have figured it out for himself if he were smart enough, that she recommended he let it go and trust her if he could not figure it out for himself. He felt eighteen eyes on him as he worked on the problem and gave up. It was the best course of action he could think of to ensure his survival, even though for all he knew, it signed his death certificate to be seen giving up, to miss the answer.

"Tell me what to do, and I will do it," he said.

Thank you for reading Detective Fog. Please leave all your stars, and nobody will get hurt. Except for Mayor Banikas. And Senator Athena Rex. And Paul Aniston and Nick Mindardos. And whoever else crosses the Sigler Mafia.

I am very grateful for all your support and the stars you leave behind. It helps to fuel my writing and my magic world. Be sure to add Detective Fog and the Mission Pigeon to your reading list for new chapter release notifications. If you are looking for more to read, my completed novel Stars Rise is a nice accompaniment to Detective Fog. They are both a part of the Constellations series, which can be read in any order.

As you can probably tell from reading this far, no knowledge from the other books in the series is needed to follow this new book. It is completely stand-alone. I hope you will continue to join me for Detective Fog's adventure as chapters unfold.