Dante's Fire

Chapter One: Big Jack

Chapter One

BIG JACK

When the last shipment came in, Jack Maeto, was at the stash house, waiting. He was in his work clothes: a limp pair of black overalls, a yellow scarf tied loosely round his neck, knotted at his nape, old work boots at his feet. Besides the ring he received as a gift from his wife at the altar, Big Jack wore no jewelry. Even though she was long gone and it was lusterless silver, near tarnishing, it was adornment enough for him. It would always be. 

A man whose notoriety had earned him the moniker, Big Jack, he was as the name suggested. Thickset, thick arms, thick voice. All around him, workers in similar apparel swarmed, moving boxes to the far end of the room, trying to make space for the new shipment. It came, and the store's single door was dragged aside to accommodate the van, its tires screeching its displeasure as it went. The truck rolled in. 

Big Jack knew all his drivers by name. He had to, considering the fragile nature of his shipment. You did not hand just anybody a sealed bag of narcotics, talk more of a vanful. They had to be people he could trust. And if there was anything that Big Jack had learnt from working with Raymond Bianchi for years, this was it: Know your enemies well, your friends even better. When you knew a man well enough, he could not easily surprise you. It was less demanding to trust a man who could not sneak surprises on you. 

Among those he had chosen to transport his product, there was Marty, an coal-coloured woman who wore her braids how RWDs wore their black and golds—perpetually—and who, with her eyes, dared you to make fun of her name. Marty lived downtown and had two kids, an older boy and a little girl still in diapers. Big Jack made sure she knew he knew.  Know your friends well. There was Quadir. Reticent as a dead possum until you paid him a dollar short of what he was owed. He had no family, but he went to church on Sundays, and in the photographs, you could see in his face that the church was his family. If anything went wrong with the shipment, a lot would go wrong at the church and to its patrons. It was an unspoken understanding. There was Twenty. He got his name from his money, the fact that he liked it in twenty-dollar bills. Blonde hair, pastel skin given colour by the numerous tattoos that graced it. He had his mother, who lived in a home, and a girlfriend, who lived in one of the tall,  rented redbrick buildings at the residential parts of the city. Then there was Justice who was behind the wheel now, whose name was quite ironic if one contemplated what he now did for a living. Even more ironic was how jittery the man was. His eyes darted from side to side, searchingly. You could tell he was up to no good at first glance. If the Mafia did not have the police so deep in their pockets, Justice would have had them busted twenty times over by now. 

Needless to say, Big Jack did not like the man a single bit. He was a man who thrived on unobtrusiveness. The way Justice behaved, it was as though he believed he was sure to die behind the wheel, during a drop off.  The sentiment was one that  Jack Maeto did not care for. Incessantly contemplating one's mortality was not exactly what he would have defined as living. Yet when he approached the white van, he did so with a wide smile as Raymond would have. Never let a man know what you think of him, it was another lesson he had learned from Raymond, his boss and best friend. 

'How are you doing, J-boy?' He smiled up at the man. 

'I am grand.' The man lied. He smelled like men did before they died, like he always did at a drop-off. He smelled of fear. Though in Big Jack's experience, men in the process of expiration also smelled of urine. 

Raymond who had been directing the storehouse's reorganization was now striding towards them. The heavy timberlands on his feet made thudding sounds on the smooth floor. Hanging down his neck was a crucifix which swung on a chain of silver links. It caught the glint of the fluorescent. 

'Justice, about damn time you showed up.' He said. He stood next to Big Jack. 'I was beginning to worry something had you held up.'

'No, not at all. Everything went smoothly. The shipment's all in there, boss.' Justice said, cackling nervously. 

'Yeah? Alright. Get it in.' He stepped back, out of  the van's path, and slapped its side as though it were a horse. 

Justice drove further into the storehouse, the van's engine humming loudly. 

'Unload her.' Said Raymond to the workers. They were all in suits similar to Big Jack's overalls, and they gathered around, waiting patiently for the van to make its stop. Here and there, there were splashes of black and gold, aureate studs in ears, charcoal bandanas tying back sweeping hair into a bun.  They were all RWDs, all soldiers of the Mafia—Big Jack and Ray did not trust anyone else, but their own, to do the job. 

The shipment had come in last minute. It was all coke. Finely ground white powder. First time Big Jack saw it was at a park. A corner-boy was selling it in small quantities. He was dark, wore his hair in thick tapering cornrows; his hands stayed permanently in his pocket from which the small parcels appeared every once in a while.  He was, in simple terms, what Big Jack's parents would have called a thug. Dangerous. To be avoided at all times. But they were not there. And so Big Jack walked up to him and asked, 'What is it you are selling? What's in those bags?'

The boy stared at Big Jack, who was then still little Jack. Finally, he said, 'Snow.'

Snow—a word that best described the stimulant. None other was good enough. The need for 'snow', had risen in the last month, and even though they were still stocked on other delightfuls, Ray argued it would be wise to get another shipment. Money needed to be made. How did they think this empire was built? he asked when The Council advised prudence. 

So they were there, emptying the van of craters full of packed and bagged snow, when the first of the gunshots rang out outside the storehouse's doors. Loud. Crackling through the night, echoing hollow death. 

Then the sound of a crash. 

Big Jack knew the sound of a man falling to his death as intimately as he knew what fear smelled like. He knew that it had to be one of the sentinel RWDs stationed outside on the look out. The reaction was immediate. The unloading was forgotten. Guns left their hiding places: breast pockets, spines, tucked into the crotches of waistbands. Big Jack whipped his weapon out in a flash, on instinct. The pistol fit right into his palm. Every RMD soldier stood, waiting. Their fingers were tense on their guns. Heavy, painful breathing could be heard. Ray had armed himself with an Uzi, and he held the automatic with an ease that bespoke familiarity.  

Outside, for a good part of a minute, there was perfect silence. Big Jack could hear Justice whimpering. Perhaps, he was right in his belief. Perhaps he was destined to die on the job. 

Rendezvous With Destiny was unarguably the largest faction of New York's mafia underworld, and it extended to all boroughs of the province. Queens, Brookyln, the Bronx, Manhattan. Ray, his mad schemes and fearlessness had made sure of that. And because of that, they had gainer notoriety and respect all at once. There were not many who would dare to attack the Mafia out in the open streets. In fact, there was only one group Big Jack could think of. 

'Black Disciples.' He snarled. 

The roar of an assault rifle rattled off again. Gunfire tore through the night. Something thumped to the ground. Another man. Then another. They could only hear the carnage, but they could not see. The storehouse's metal sliding doors shielded them from whatever hell was being unleashed outside. 

Ray's eyes were stunned. 'How did they find us?'

Big Jack grabbed him, taking a fistful of his collar in his hand. 'It doesn't matter how. You need to get out of here right now. We are too few to fight. Use the backd—'

A rumble like the world breaking was heard, and suddenly the metal door blew inwards in a blast. Sweet Brooklyn breeze rushed into the space, and with it came men garbed in combat clothes. They wore army fatigues and carried assault rifles. Killing machines. But these men were no soldiers. At least not the government's. Black Disciples were often quite easy to recognize, and now Big Jack recognized them. Someone had given out the location of their stash house. A thousand questions swirled round his mind. 

Who had betrayed them? Why? How many were they? Was this it, the day he died? Would he see Jackie, his daughter, ever again? Would he ever get to say he was sorry? 

He did not have the answers. So instead, Big Jack did the one thing he knew how to: he grabbed Raymond Bianchi, RWD boss and his best friend and shoved him directly behind his frame. He was not called Big Jack for nothing. 

'Get to the exit!' He yelled. 'Go! Go! Go!'

Justice's whimpering had become a wild wail. The shooting had begun. So had the dying.