"Clear skys and eighty degre..." Satisfied, Shorty turned the radio off. "Hey, Thumbs, get the car... we're goin' to the track for the meet!"

Sun, palm trees, humidity, dog tracks and "Shorty" were synonomous to Miami. One did not place a bet, borrow money, nor pull a hiest in South Florida with out Shorty's approval. Though a ranking member of the Genovese Crime Family in Miami and Hallendale, Florida, Shorty was actually a diplomat to the many national crime families whom did business in the open territory of South Florida. You could usually find him at one of the dog or horse tracks during the season, hobnobing with some of the most prominent members of the ruling mob families. He was happy the weather called for clear skys, though no April shower were going to call off the meet between Meyer and the Big Guys from The City! With Castro in full power in Cuba, most of the top ranking members of the mob had lost tremendous amounts of cash and property. Plans were being made to topple Castro and to increase the lucrative smuggling of Cuban business men and their liquid assets to the shores of Miami. Shorty was buckeling his gold watch to his wrist when the phone rang.

"Hey Boss, it's your brother." A voice called from the kitchen.

"I'll take it in the study..." Shorty replied as he swaggered into an opulent room. Picking up a gold gilded phone, Shorty sat upon a leather couch, his feet smoothing the snowy white carpet he was famous for . "Yea, what's goin' on?" he asked into the handset as he viewed the blue sky and ocean through the wall to wall glass doors.

"Shorty, Pauly passed away! That #$%$#& dropped $%&^%$ dead. The Ham is roast pig!!"

"Yea... and?"

"Well, you know dat dose guyz don hav a leg ta stan' on!"

"You know, if ya kept that mouth of yours shut, we would not be in this $%#^%^& predictament. I'm tired of your big mouth... you got that? Just because your my brother dose not mean I'm going to keep bailing you out! You understand me?"

"Well, I was just thinking about your reputation!"

"My %^&$%^* reputation! You listen to me, you may be my brother, but your a punk! You keep putting foot in your mouth. Those guys were right in smacking you around! The only thing was that you are my brother! You just keep that trap shut and I'll take care of the situation!!!" Bang, he slammed the phone down and strutted through the apartment with a retinue of gophers scurrying to catch up...

Later that night in New York City, neon lights, announcing Joe's Bar and Grill in bright, glowering red, greeted Joe-Pep as he pulled up to the curb and exited his car. Entering the front door he was greeted with respect by an aging Antonio Feranzi and Tony Black. They led him towards a booth in the back where a group of wise guys were seated; among them, Francis "Franky" DiCanio and his side kick Chico.

"He did so! That's what the word is! I'm gonna clip him if it's the last hi..." Franky, seeing Joe approaching the table, abruptly ended his conversation in midstream. The whole group became awkwardly silent. Joe sensed something amiss...

"What's going on, seems like a funeral or something! Why are you guys so morose?"

At that point, Franky got up and briskly brushed by Joe. Stomping through the crowded bar, he slammed through the door and into the street. Joe watched the whole occurrence with curiosity.

"What the hells wrong with Franky?" He inquired.

Chico was the first to speak." Hey, Joe, it sounds crazy, but Franky has it that your father was tied with Fatso... You remember.... Fat Freddy? He says his father was set up or something."

"That's bull, where did he get an idea like that?" Joe asked.

"Don't worry about it, he's just upset about Easter with his father dying in bed. Your married to his niece, your part of his family, don't you worry about nothing, I'll find out what's goin on." Feranzi said, chuckling to himself at the evil sweeping the air.

Joe looked around at the group seated at the table trying to read behind the pasted, poker-faced looks he was receiving.

"Well, I guess I'll be going... have to drop by the joint, got a big crowd expected. If you guys get hungry later, stop by." With that, Joe turned and slowly walked out of the bar.

Driving the short distance to his place, Joe's mind was in turmoil. He wanted desperately to believe his sudden haunting feeling was just that... a feeling. Though questions of duplicity and betrayal concerning many members of the various families occasionally arose, this was one of his fathers respect -- therefore his. But, these were his in-laws, his fathers friends, his children's great grandfather.... Desperately he desired to stop the car at the nearest phone booth and place some calls, but the fact that his father couldn't remember the color of the shirt he was wearing pointed to the hopelessness of the situation. Any way, it might spread more street gossip. He decided to keep the interest down and see how the cards fell.

An efficient killing machine, consisting of three, evil, mortal beings and a black, non-descript, '62 Ford, had become immortal in the eyes of its master, who, upon the slightest whim, would set into motion a chain of events effecting not only the lives of those chosen for death, but the very fabric of their lives. The Boss had made his decision: "Hit Em!" Right or wrong, the two up-and-coming racketeers whom were targeted for death would have no appeal; their sentence was to be carried out with an emphasis on sending a message -- rather than revenge or pay-back...

On a wet, foggy, dreary night, Guiseppi's Fine Italian Food And Spirits resembled a wake. The usual laughter and cheerful enthusiasm which greeted each patron in the form of one tall Robert Mitchum look-alike was missing. Always joking and carrying on, he would normally show each customer to the "best table in the house" where his inseparable brother, the ever present "Professor"-- slight of build, wearing simple, round spectacles -- would complete the magic that kept the till brimming and made it hard to find an empty seat. But, like the fog that tenaciously hugged the cold, wet, city of New York, tension permeated the establishment. As if death were the main entree, a solemn, priestly waiter, dressed in black, seemed to anoint rather then greet each patron...

"See youse gize lata..." Tony Black grumbled as he escorted the "Abbot and Costello" looking Donatelli brothers through the ornate glass and mortised oak doors, "...it's just the flu or somethin'." Then, turning on the heels of his "pointy-toed Italian fence climbers", he grasped the hand-set of the desk phone with his right hand and dialed a number with a diamond-clad-pinkie-ringed left hand.

As he waited for the party he called to pick up, Tony toyed with his ring of respect, his pride and joy, polishing it by breathing loudly upon it's surface and rubbing it against his black tux jacket until a brilliant, blue-white reflection, danced a rhythm of sparkling star bursts against the dark and gloomy interior ceiling.

"Yea. Who's calling..." A distinctive voice inquired.

"Tony Black... Listen, tell da guy dat I'm closing da joint early, I'll see im at three... Oh, and yea, Pauly Ham passed away."

"O.K." Click...

He hung the phone up and sauntered to the bar to count his meager tips.

Standing under the wood trellis that draped a newly installed and cluttered bar, Tony turned the tip glass over. The loose change that jingled to the bar was as devoid of substance as the dusty plastic vines that drooped and dripped from the "Italian garden looking contraption" above his head. For Tony, the entire past week was devoid. The only thing that even resembled normalcy were the patrons that had sampled the pasta, and even they showed their dissatisfaction for the absence of ambiance that usually ran rough-shod, trampling all in its intoxicating, invigorating way. The pieces-of-eight that flooded the joint and lined Tony's pockets were slow in coming. As Tony would say..."Da tips waz as slim as fleas on a goldfish!"

A close friend, Tony Black had two jobs: protecting the brothers, Joe-Pep and Carmine, and tending bar. The past two days he had taken on the additional responsibility of maitre'de and was looking forward to a day off. He was supposed to stay until the brothers left, but tonight he had asked for permission to leave early.

Preparing to exit the establishment he yelled towards the swinging doors of the kitchen, "Hey, Carm...Yo, I'm leaving...Do ya hear me?" Only silence greeted him. Turning on his heels he headed for the front doors shouting: "I'll lock da joint on da way out. See youse gize Monday."

Stepping through the doorway and into a realm of pervasive darkness, he turned and closed the massive doors with a hefty thump. Sealing the castle's keep from the beast of the city rather then the cold and wet misery of the season, Tony placed a heavy steal bar across them and locked it in place with a ponderous padlock. Turning once to scan the streets, he briskly walked to his parked Caddy.

As if Tony's departure provoked demons to suddenly play a loud and boisterous chess game upon the spoiled and sauce stained--as stained as death's own signature-- red and white checkered table cloths, the clamor of a heated argument in the kitchen ricocheted through the dining room, abruptly lifting the eerie cloak of silence...

"Let's just leave town... go to Ohio or something!" The Professor shouted forcefully as he nervously cleaned the sparkling, clear lenses of his gold, wire framed glasses.

"It's still on the table...we're safe until we get called on the carpet." Joe-Pep cut in. "Let's just finish up and get home... It's eleven thirty, you're the one that has to drive all the way to Hicksville and back, not me. I'll see you tomorrow at the house after church. We'll talk then... Monday I will call Joe Pag -- get a sit-down, O.K.?"

"O.K., but I just got this feeling... we should just lie low until this thing blows ov..." "Come on, I know what I'm talking about. There's nothing to worry about!" Joe shouted back with assurance -- not showing the fear he felt. "The heck with those jerks... I could give a damn!"

Inauspicious, the shadow of death, steady in its stealthy pursuit of game, rounded the bleak, dimly lit corner. It stopped at the curbside in front of the shuttered restaurant -- allowing its contents to spill upon the sidewalk. There it remained, engine idling, a man-made carnivore of hopes and dreams, ready to pounce on all unsuspecting quarry...

The brothers, unaware of death's grim reapers lurking just outside their door, continued to argue.

"Why don't you ride with me to Long Island?" The Professor asked, not reassured by his brother's comments. "We can call Jean, let her kno..."

"Listen, I'm tired of this bull...Its been thirty years... We shouldn't be responsible for what..."

Suddenly, a familiar and sinister hit crew, one tall, one short, with finely-tuned precision, smashed in the front door.

The brothers pivoted as one to face this sudden intrusion of fate...

A hail of deadly hot lead greeted them, each projectile finding more than just flesh and bone in which to bury -- deeply, mortally, these bearers of death silenced forever their dreams, hopes and feelings...

The diabolical chariot of death, sleek in its shroud of pitch black midnight, with only a thud in the night, disgorged upon the wet, slimy pavement, two cold and silent passengers. Then, with cold and calculated determination, it zoomed off for its next intended victim in a never ending quest to satisfy an acquired taste for blood and power.