The day started out pleasant. I stopped at Mannino’s market to get a loaf of Italian bread. The store was busy, but I wasn’t getting anything from the deli, so I didn’t need a number. I weaved my way through the crowd pointing at the bread so the other customers would know I wasn’t butting in line.
My mood was upbeat, which is how I like to approach the day. But I must have offended an older gentleman because a menacing scowl appeared on his face. His expression gave me a chill. Have you ever had a bad feeling about a person without words being spoken? His face had a rugged appearance like life had been difficult.
I smiled and nodded but his look grew more intense. He dressed well, with a fedora and a tailored overcoat, which seemed too formal in a small town. I could feel his stare until I moved away. Nothing could be done so I shrugged it off, thinking he was having a bad day. With other errands to do, I quickly forgot about our encounter.
Later, at home his image reappeared. I thought Whitey Bulger, the Boston crime boss. He hid in plain sight for many years without being discovered. As my thoughts about the old guy swirled around in my head, the more my imagination blew up. The picture I painted was of a retired mob boss living out the remainder of his life in the small town of Cottleville, Missouri.
A week passed and thoughts of the old guy evaporated. Life goes on, as did mine. The Italian bread at my house was getting low. In my life, there is no better bread than Italian. I’ve eaten it since being a kid. Every couple of weeks our neighbor, Sam would bring us a loaf from ‘The Hill’. A memory of simpler times. So, after stopping at the bank and post office, I popped into Mannino’s.
This time I wanted to get some deli meat, turkey and hard salami, so I pulled a number, grabbed a loaf of bread and waited for my turn. Chatting with a woman I casually mentioned my encounter with the old guy last week. She raised her eyebrows. “Yes. That sounds like Rocco.”
“Hm! Rocco?” I laughed. “Sounds like a hitman’s name.”
“I don’t know his story, but rumors say he had a questionable past.” She lowered her voice. “He’s mysterious and creepy. He scares me, so I do my best to avoid him.”
After my number was called, I collected the deli meat and then checked out. While the cashier rang up my items, I asked her, “Do you know Rocco? A customer who wears an overcoat and fedora?”
“Rocco!” She twitched. “I don’t talk about Rocco.” She handed me the grocery bag. “My advice . . . Don’t ask any more questions.”
Dumbfounded, I took my bag and walked to the exit. So befuddled, I pushed on the wrong door just as another customer was trying to enter. We both pushed until I realized I was keeping him from coming in. I stepped back and waited until he stepped in, then apologized, “I’m so sorry.” When I looked up, there was Rocco.
He walked in and mumbled, “Cafone.”
I left the store and quick stepped to my car, started it up and drove away. But about a half block away I pulled over and turned around. I wanted to see what car he was driving and where he went. I needed to tail him. The thought crossed my mind that if he was a retired mobster tailing him wasn’t a smart move. Smart has never been an adjective that described me. No, not a MENSA candidate, but I am curious.
While parked near the store, I searched the Internet on my phone for the Italian word he used. Maybe cafone was a compliment about the leather jacket I wore. Nope it was not. Loser, he called me a loser.
My wait was short, only five minutes. Rocco left the store and got into a black Lincoln. Of course, I should have guessed. I scooted down in my seat looking through the steering wheel to watch him. When he pulled out of the parking lot, I followed him at a safe distance, at least I hoped. This was the first time I followed anyone, so my experience was restricted to what I learned from TV detective shows.
He turned onto Weiss Road, then made a right turn on a private road. I didn’t follow him. Smart enough to recognize a bad idea. There were quite a few acres with a good-sized house sitting in the back of the property. Home sweet home.
Now I knew where he lived, but that didn’t comfort me. Why would it? With all the acreage he owned, there was room for many bodies. Ground-penetrating radar might reveal something interesting. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Trying to knock these stupid thoughts from my brain. I yelled out loud. “No. No.” Then I slapped myself on the side of my head. I needed to relax. This has happened before, my paranoia is taking over. I always blow things out of proportion and worry about ridiculous scenarios. I slapped myself again. Ouch! That one hurt a little bit.
Before I ended up beating the crap out of myself, I knew it was time for a distraction. So, on my way home I stopped by my neighbor's house. Stan was a retired detective who worked in major crimes. I wanted to find out if he knew of any rumors about crime bosses living quietly in St. Charles County. Stan and I were friendly but not close. This may not seem like the kind of distraction I needed, but it depended on the answer Stan gave me. I laid out the story and asked for his thoughts.
“The police department does a good job keeping track of criminals.” He typed on his computer keyboard and turned the screen toward me. “There are websites that keep track of registered offenders like pedophiles, but retired mafia bosses don’t normally volunteer their locations to the police.”
“Well, of course. I get that, but I’m sure you hear things on the intel from your CI’s.”
“I do, but it’s not always reliable. Can you be more specific about your concern?”
“Have you heard of a guy named Rocco who lives off of Weiss Road?”
Stan nodded. “Yes, he’s a cranky old guy. Barks more than he bites.”
“He gives off a mysterious vibe.” I crossed my arms. “Seems like he might have ties to the underworld.”
“He does in a way.” Stan smiled. “Rocco’s a mystery writer. He has written a number of novels about mafia characters.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I guess his stories have affected his personality traits.”
“No question Rocco is rough around the edges.” Stan explained. “He keeps to himself, very unsocial. He’s a weird guy, but aren’t all writers weird? Or is it because he writes about the underworld?”
I felt the tension fall away. “Thanks Stan, you have been really helpful.” As I turned to leave, I said, “What’s his last name? In case I want to check out some of his books.”
“He goes by the pen name, Tony Gillette.”
I walked over to my house, relieved to learn about Rocco, the writer. After putting the groceries away, I decided I would go to the library to see if they had any copies of Tony Gillette’s novels. The guy still interested me. A retired crime boss living in the area is fascinating, but a secretive mystery novelist is cool as well.
The librarian looked up his name and found that he has written eight novels. All murder mysteries, but they only had three available to check out. I took all three. The titles included, Born into Crime, The House of Evil and Danger is My Middle Name. My wife was out of town visiting her parents for the weekend. So, I spent the rest of the day and well into the night reading. It turns out Rocco was a good writer with a talent for suspense mysteries. His novels were very detailed, and I surmised he was great at research. Of course, that’s a big part of writing.
After reading until 2 a.m., I slept late into the morning. Since my wife was on a mini vacation, so was I. After showering, I drove to Panera’s for breakfast. Simple, easy and ready in minutes. I sat at a small table thinking about nothing at all, just enjoying my coffee and spinach bacon souffle when a middle-aged lady walked by. She picked a table in the same section as mine. I didn’t know her, but something was familiar. I’d probably seen her around town. We are creatures of habit, so a familiar stranger is not uncommon in Cottleville. She only sat for a few seconds when she got up and walked over to my table. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you gave off a strong vibe when I passed by.” She paused for a second. “My name is Claudia.”
“I’m Ben. What do you mean vibe?”
“You have an active aura that surrounds you.” She grimaced. ”Sorry, I don’t usually approach a stranger, but I’m getting a strong feeling that you may be in danger.”
“That’s disturbing. Who are you and what makes you think I want your opinion?”
“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, but it would be wrong of me to not say something.” Without asking she sat down at my table. “I have worked for many police departments on some of their toughest crimes. I’m a reputable psychic.”
“Those two words don’t even go together.”
“Okay, you’re a skeptic. I get it, but all I’m saying is, be careful.” Claudia walked back to her table.
I left feeling uncomfortable, which reinforced my paranoia about all the suspicions I had toward Rocco and now Claudia. There was no solid evidence that either of them would do me any harm, but that didn’t lessen my anxiety. I was prone to believing the worst would always happen. I violently shook my head to clear all the negative thoughts from my brain, which helped to reset my thinking. But those thoughts eventually return, sometimes with more persistence. There’s a lot of work involved to ensure my sanity. Believe it or not, these methods help. Don’t we all have our own ways to dispense with bad juju that comes our way?
No comments:
Post a Comment