Chapter 1 The Adjustor
Mickey Moochellian (‘Da Mooch’ to his friends) was more pissed off than scared.
Who the hell was this asshole? Was that gun even real? God damn it. If there was one thing—one god damn thing he hated more than anything was being under someone’s thumb.
And this rat-faced motherfucker’s thumb was a 9mm handgun. Was that a silencer on the end of it? Oh shit.
Mickey’s hands were up in the air. Just like in the movies, rat-face told him to put his hands in the air.
“You’re Michael Moochellian, right?” the guy said. Did he even move his lips when he spoke?
Mickey didn’t think he should answer truthfully. “Who’s that?” he said. That was pretty smart; judging from the flicker in rat-face’s eyes, a seed of doubt was planted. “I don’t know anybody by that name, man! I’m just trying to get home to my wife and kids!” Which was a total lie. No way was Mickey getting married. With all the prime tail out there in New York City, and with his career, he had his choice of primo pussy. Models, strippers, porn stars, all the way up to fellow Wall Street peeps, Mickey couldn’t keep up with it all.
“Oh shit, man. My mistake,” Rat-Face said. Mickey figured the guy must be an ex-con; his mouth was open just a little, but his lips didn’t move when he talked. With a shrug, Rat-Face glanced around the underground garage. “Damn, and I really thought you were him.” He gestured at the car Mickey was about to get into. “I mean, I know that’s his car…” He ran his eyes over the Jag. “It’s a hell of a ride.”
“Thanks.” Oh shit! Mickey’s eyes flew wide.
“No, thank you.” Rat-Face pulled the trigger.
Mickey took the bullet in his chest. The only noise was a metallic clack of the pistol’s slide ratcheting. Mickey staggered backwards a few feet and fell onto his ass. In a sitting position, he stared down at his chest, mesmerized by the blood pumping out of the hole. He lifted his head.
“You destroyed my fucking life,” Rat-Face said.
Mickey could barely understand this asshole. He lifted his now bloody hand, holding it palm out. “Wait.”
Rat Face snorted without his lips even moving. “That’s all I asked for too. And you know what they said? They said ‘Sorry, but we can’t.’ So sorry, but I can’t.” He stepped up to Mickey and put the next bullet right between his eyes.
Rat Face looked down at the now prone body of Mickey and felt his knees start to shake. He’d thought about this for months, planning it out, getting the gear he needed, and tracking down the man most responsible for the shit storm his life was now. He began to breathe heavily, the adrenalin punch making his heart hammer.
He nodded quickly at his murder victim. Yes, it was murder. When he would finally get caught, he’d be charged with pre-meditated murder; murder in the first. Thank God New York didn’t have a death penalty. Bending down, he pulled his shoulder bag from underneath Mickey’s car and put his gun inside and hoisted the bag’s strap over his shoulder.
As casual as he could, he turned and walked through the parking area, back to the elevator. He got on the elevator and returned to street level. He exited at the main floor, walked past the security desk and out onto Canal Street. He didn’t look left nor right, his face an impassive mask.
He went down the stairs into a subway station, passed through the turnstiles and got on the next uptown train. The next part was the toughest. Killing that son of a bitch was a piece of cake compared to getting away with it. He knew that he had been under video surveillance the entire time; it would take the investigators from New York’s Phoniest a little bit of time to track his movements both coming into the parking lot and also leaving.
He hoped his stupid plan would work.
He got off the subway at Central Park and exited, heading into the park. Stage one.
For a city as crowded and busy as New York at 9:30 at night in May, there were still plenty of spots nobody went to. He had spent what he hoped was enough time to figure this out and lay in his plans.
Entering the park from the south side, he trekked over to the western side. Along the busy street that was Central Park West, the park was bordered by a thick stone wall that was over four feet high on the street side. He headed towards an old elm tree that was only a few feet from the border wall. The area was somewhat wooded, much more than a visitor to New York expected. As he made his way to his destination, he pulled off the flesh colored surgical gloves he had been wearing, tossing them as far away as he could. Wearing them was more to settle his nerves than anything else.
It had taken him a few trips to the park to find this spot. It was far enough from the foot paths that a casual passerby wouldn’t notice him right away. The stone wall prevented anyone walking along Central Park West from seeing him.
At the base of the tree, he scuffed the earth, scattering loose dirt and twigs, revealing a small wooden board. He reached down and pulled on the edge, lifting it. Stage two.
The board was covering a plastic garbage bag he buried there two weeks before. It had taken him two different trips to the park to dig the hole at night. It was only a little over a foot deep and about a foot and a half wide. He pulled out a black plastic garbage bag. He reached in and pulled out a pair of black loafers, a sports bag, a pair of sunglasses and a cream colored trench coat.
He took the Yankees hat he had been wearing and put it into the black plastic bag. One by one, he pulled off his shoes. Those damn things made his feet hurt like hell, but they also made him two inches taller. He pulled on the loafers, his feet thanking him for the relief, and shoved the shoes into the plastic bag. Next he took off his navy blue windbreaker and shoved that into the bag and donned the trench coat.
He removed his pistol from the shoulder bag he had been carrying and removed the silencer, tucking it into his pocket before jamming the gun into his belt at the small of his back. He’d keep the gun for his next Adjustment before dumping it. This was the first of many Adjustments; the cops won’t be comparing calibers or whatever they would do with the bullets and stuff. Yet.
God knows he had enough hardware. He shoved the shoulder bag into the garbage bag.
He looked around carefully, to make sure nobody was around. Okay.
He lifted his hands to the side of his face and pried the latex mask off. It had cost him $400.00 online, but was a perfect replica of a person’s face. He thought the nose was a little too prominent, and the eyes a little too narrow. It looked almost feral. With a sigh he shoved it into the garbage bag.
He stared down at his hidey hole. Damn that was a lot of work setting up. But when he decided that he was actually going to begin making Adjustments he’d never use the same hidey hole twice. He went over to a row of bushes where he had put the dirt he had dug to make the hole. Four plastic shopping bags. He filled the hole back in and shoved the now empty shopping bags into the garbage bag.
Rolling up the garbage bag, he stuffed it into his sports bag. Time to go home.
Not really. His home was lost a year earlier.
