Tony the Tiger: Omerta

Tony prowled around his cage, watching the two men in the center of the room. One of them smoked a fat cigar and held an air of arrogance about him nearly as strong as his cologne. The other sat tied to a chair, nose bloody, chin resting against his chest. A fire crackled in the hearth, flanked by two dangerous looking men holding rifles.

The one holding the cigar screamed at the one in the chair in a strange language. The one in the chair spat in his face.

This proved to be a mistake. The one with the cigar cocked back an arm to strike, then thought better of it. With another strange phrase, he snapped his fingers. One of the men by the fireplace walked over to the cage and raised his rifle. The man in the chair began to scream, before–BANG–the world went dark.

Tony woke up in a cold sweat and didn't fall back asleep for nearly an hour.

April 1957

"And every time, he walks over to the cage and shoots me right in the fuckin head!"
Fat Lou sat across the table, chewing his sandwich while he listened. "I dunno Tony, you really think you're..." He searched for a word, mouth full of capicola. "...having visions of your own death?"

"I can see it clear as day, Lou. I don't know what I'm doing in that cage but that's how I'm going down." The lunch crowd around them bustled, completely unaware of the existential crisis taking place at their table. Soft rain pattered against the window.

Fat Lou took another huge bite and shrugged. "I don't see no cage right now. Besides," with great effort, he heaved himself up from the booth. "We gotta go see Angelo in half an hour."

The two of them rode through the rain in moody silence. Fat Lou's nephew was due to arrive from his meeting in New York that afternoon, and there would be plenty of business to discuss. Tensions with the New York families had been growing and so had the volume of whispers speculating on an impending war. Angelo was Tony's last ditch effort to prevent them from getting drawn into it.

New York had always looked down on Tony, but in a pesky-little-brother sort of way. There had been an understanding. He and his crew would stay on their side of the river and pay their tribute; in return, he could run his business as he saw fit. Not much of a deal, some would say, but Tony knew all too well what might happen if he refused to play nice.

The problem now, was that New York was asking too much. They wanted twenty points on every car he moved to Philly, plus they took issue with his forays into a certain white powder that had begun making its way into the ports. It was low level stuff, they said, beneath their dignity, but not so far that they didn't demand Tony's backing when the Bonannos butted in on their bookmaking business. Enough was enough, and Tony hoped that Angelo had been able to make them see reason.

Rain began pounding the windshield as they pulled into the motel where they'd agreed to meet. Their car was the only one in the parking lot.

“How the horses doing?” Lou asked.

“They’ve been winning,” Tony replied with a grin. His Arabian had been doing well lately. A few more weekends like he’d been having at the racetrack and Christmas might come early.

“Good. That’s good.”

Fat Lou fidgeted in the driver's seat as they waited, shifting his massive weight back and forth, and the car along with it.

"You got something you want to say?" Tony asked, irritated.

Fat Lou paused before blurting out, "Tony, are we going to war? People have been talking, you gotta know this. Word is they want a bigger piece of Atlantic City and there just ain't that many ways to cut the pie."

"We'll see what Angelo says," Tony said, moodily staring out the window. "We're not doing shit til we hear what happened on his trip."

They continued to wait as the wind picked up around them.

Thirty minutes passed, then sixty, then ninety. Both of them wondered when Angelo would show up–he wasn't one to be late to a meeting.

Out of the mist, suddenly came a black car behind them, but it wasn't Angelo's. Tony glanced back in the side mirror so they wouldn't see him looking. They weren't slowing down.

Gravel was sprayed into mud as the black car skidded to a halt behind them and a window rolled down. A man whose face was obscured by the mist threw a package at the passenger door and the black car sped off.

"What the fuck," Tony growled, grabbing his .38 and stepping out of the car into the downpour. He tried to shield his eyes from the rain to catch their license plate, but all he could make out was the dark background that told him it came from across the river. He cursed to himself and glanced down at the package.

It was wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with twine. The rain was quickly soaking through, and he noticed–no, it couldn't be blood. Fat Lou had reached halfway across the front seat and watched through the passenger's window. He didn't want to open it, but he leaned down anyway, half knowing and half fearing what he'd find.

Tony opened the package. Inside was Angelo's head. Fat Lou poured out of the passenger's door, straight into a mud puddle, wrecking his circus tent of a suit. He began to vomit at the sight.

"Guess we got our answer," Tony muttered to himself. The rain continued to fall.

Seven months later

The men were hurting and Tony knew it. The war with New York had taken a toll on them, not to mention the state in which it left his own mind.

Four weeks earlier, they'd buried Little Vinny after his card game had been shot up. Two weeks before that, Ralph lost an eye after an attempt on his life. Johnny, Giorgio, and Nicky Three Piece had been murdered before that. As cold winds blew into New Jersey, so did the violence.

Luckily, Tony had planned for this. New York had turned up their nose on the drug trade at first, but it was paying off for him in a big way. Wars cost money as well as blood, and he was secretly very pleased with himself for dipping into narcotics ahead of his rivals. It didn't hurt that it paid for a shitload of bullets, either.

Death haunted him in a way he wasn’t used to. His temper grew worse than usual. He'd even taken to fainting at times when his anger glowed too hot–none of the capos knew this, of course. It was going to be a long winter.

Tony and Fat Lou sat in the deli with Frankie, a young, loyal soldier who had risen through the ranks out of necessity in recent months. He’d taken over Little Vinny’s books, and a few more good ideas might see him take on even more responsibilities.

"We need a new way to move the shit, Tony. There's too much of it, not that I'm complaining or nothin." Fat Lou continued to stuff his face with fresh mozzarella and peppers as he spoke. "The meat trucks have been busted twice now, we gotta figure out something new."

Tony took a bite of his own sandwich, turning the problem over in his head.

Frankie spoke up. “Fella down at the warehouse told me there’s a new customer you might want to talk to. Guy’s from Michigan, runs a cereal company or some shit. Got at least two or three trucks a day coming in and out, supposed to be twice that in a couple months.”

Tony became incensed, slamming both heavy paws on the table. “Someone’s coming through my warehouse and I don’t know?”

“I’m just the messenger, T.” Frankie turned his attention back to the prosciutto in front of him. “I only mention it cause I thought you might want to convince him to help. New customer tax and all that.”

“He’s from where, Michigan you said?”

Frankie nodded.

Gears began to turn in Tony’s brain. They did need support for the war with New York, and he’d been trying to get on Detroit’s good side for close to a decade.

“Lou, let’s you and me pay him a visit tonight.”

“I can’t, T. I’m heading up to New York in the morning, remember? Genovese called a meeting with all the bosses and you told me to be there.”

Tony paused, thinking. “That’s right. Frankie, you come along with me since you know the warehouse. You happen to know what kind of loads this guy is bringing through?”

Frankie looked up from his plate of cold cuts, mouth full. “Health foods or some shit. My guy said it was some kind of cereal. Corn flakes.”

As night began to fall, the two sat in Frankie’s car outside the hotel where their mark was staying. They'd been waiting nearly an hour when they finally spotted him - a short, spectacled man, exiting a town car and walking toward the entrance. Tony nodded quietly and they followed him inside to his room.

Frankie knocked on the door. "Room service," he called out in an unconvincing impression of a maid.

Confused, the man responded from inside, "I didn't–" but never finished. As the door opened, Frankie and Tony barged in, knocking his meek frame back several steps.

"What's going on here? Who are you?" he protested.

Tony laughed. "Relax, we're here to give you an award. Why don't you have a seat and we can talk." It wasn't a request, and the man complied.

"You're the guy who makes the corn flakes, right?" Tony asked, peering at him intently.

"Why yes, that's me. My grandfather started the company to serve the Western Health Reform Institute in–"

"And you sell a lot of em, right?" Tony interrupted.

The man looked frightened. "Yes, we're pretty successful."

"Good," Tony replied. "Now we have a little business proposition for you. My associate and I have been looking for a way to send packages from here to Detroit in a very...let's say discrete manner. We happen to know you’re using our warehouse in Paterson, and we thought you might be able to bring a few shipments back home when you go. If it's not too much trouble, that is," he added with a wink.

"Hang on just a minute, who are you?" the man sat stunned.

Frankie got in his face. “He’s the guy who says what goes in and out of that warehouse, and right now he's sayin what's gonna go out of it." He’d always had a bit of a temper; Tony put a hand on his shoulder to calm him.

"What kind of packages–"

"Important ones,” Tony said. “Important cargo that we can't just send in the mail. We need some extra packaging so they don't get, uh...damaged. I've seen those cereal boxes you have in the stores and I think they might just be perfect for what we need."

"I could go to prison if I say yes," the man said cautiously. He tilted his head, still sizing up the two men standing over him.

"Guess what'll happen if you say no," Tony replied coolly. "Mister, what was it, Williamson? I heard somewhere you're into horses. Arabians, right? I got a few myself I like to race. Horses, I mean. So I can imagine how expensive they are to keep. Must be tough when the investment don't pay off and one of em gets sick or something happens to him. Not to mention tragic. Beautiful animals."

Williamson’s eyes grew wide. He gulped hard. "You obviously know where the warehouse is. I'll be there in three days if you wanted to stop by to, um, check to see whether our packaging will be suitable to your needs. First thing in the morning."

Tony smiled wide. “Grrreat.” He clapped Williamson on the arm cheerfully, and as he turned, his tail brushed the executive across his cheek.

Williamson whimpered as the two of them left.

Three days later

As the air began to turn pink with dawn sunlight, Tony and Frankie had already been at the warehouse for half an hour.

“Where the fuck is he?” Frankie muttered, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

Tony pulled his jacket tighter and said nothing.

Another thirty minutes passed before a car pulled in behind them. Williamson got out and Frankie opened the driver side door to meet him. “You said first thing,” he spat.

Williamson recoiled slightly, muttering what sounded like an apology.

By now, Tony was out and the sun was almost completely over the horizon. “Let’s see the packages,” he said, striding toward the loading bay.

It was still early; the industrial park was mostly deserted save for the three of them. As Williamson pulled up the sliding door on the bay, a clatter resounded off the buildings around them.

“This is it,” he said, gesturing at hundreds of palettes stacked with boxes.
Tony smiled. He’d heard the cornflake business was good, but this was far more stock than he’d expected.

He walked over to the nearest palette and opened the top box with a switchblade, pulling out a carton of cereal to inspect. His grin stretched wider as he measured it with his eyes.

“This’ll work. This’ll work just grrreat.”

Frankie pulled a small brick of heroin from inside his jacket. “Let’s see how it fits in there.”

As the three of them stood in the maze of cargo, an engine revved outside. Tony’s ears perked up.

Moving with catlike speed, he had Williamson by the collar.

“I told you to come alone! What are you, trying to make an asshole out of me?”
Williamson cowered. “I did! I don’t know who that is, I swear!”

Tony released the coward and left him choking on the ground. A car door slammed. Frankie handed him the brick, and with a claw, he sliced it open, dumping its contents into the cereal box he’d left on top of the stack. Footsteps. He closed it as best he could, tucking the small cardboard flap in on itself.

He glared at Williamson, who was finally getting to his feet and brushing himself off. “Not a fuckin word,” Tony growled.

“Hello?” a voice rattled through the stacks. “Anyone in there?”

No one responded. They all held their breath.

The footsteps drew closer, and Tony’s grip on the cereal box grew tighter. “Hello?” the voice called out again.

From around the corner appeared a black patent leather shoe, and as the rest of the figure followed, Tony nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation. It really couldn’t have been much worse.

“Tony,” the officer smiled. “I was hoping I’d find you here.” It was Lieutenant Corrigan, one of the few cops in town Tony hadn’t been able to buy.

“Lieutenant,” Tony greeted him. “How you doin?”

Corrigan stepped forward and looked around, marveling at the palettes of cornflakes around him, making a real show of it. “Just patrolling the area, thought I’d stop in and see if you were free to chat,” he said. His voice carried a whiff of smugness, and Tony could tell he was just waiting for someone to guess at why he’d really come.
Frankie and Williamson stood to the side as Tony and Corrigan stared each other down.

“Well I guess you found me. Just talking with Mr. Williamson here about an exciting new business opportunity.”

“I’ll bet you are,” Corrigan replied. “Well hey, I’ll cut right to the chase. Anyone in your family up in Apalachin, New York, on business this week?”

Tony froze, his overly friendly smile locking his cheeks upward. How did Corrigan know about Fat Lou’s trip?

“What, do I gotta keep tabs on everyone I ever shook hands with?” He’d play dumb and see how things developed.

Corrigan smirked. “Okay. Thought you might want to know the state troopers pinched Lou LaRasso running through the woods thereabouts late last night. Cracking down on a big get together up at Joe Barbara’s estate.”

If Tony’s smile was locked on before, his facial muscles were paralyzed now. To Frankie and Williamson, it looked more like a menacing snarl.

“Really,” he finally said. “Well, I wouldn’t know nothin about that.”

Fat Lou had been attending the meeting as a representative of the family. Ever since Vito Genovese took over, Tony’s wasn’t the only family at war. The meeting was a final attempt by bosses from not only all over the country, but all over the world, to try and split the pie evenly and put old disputes to bed once and for all. A bust would mean…what would it mean? But Tony kissed any hope of peace in the near future goodbye.

“Yep,” Corrigan continued, savoring the obvious discomfort. “Caught him and about sixty other fellas. Got em all in custody now. The world’s finally gonna see how folks like you really operate.” He added a threatening emphasis on folks like you.

Tony restrained himself. “Who? Local businessmen?”

Corrigan actually laughed this time. “Yeah. Right.” He turned on his heel, facing back toward the door. “Anyway, I should have guessed this would come as a total surprise to you,” he said sarcastically. “Just figured you might want to know they’re all upstate squealing like little rats in a cage.”

Tony’s breath grew short and his head foggy. Rats. In a cage.

Memories of the dream flooded his mind. The bars around him. The shadows on the wall. The gun pointed in at him. The scream and the blackness. He reached backward for the edge of the crates but he couldn’t find it. His paw swiped air and he stumbled, the box of cereal dropping to the floor and spilling open.

Corrigan turned back around at the sound. Frankie rushed over to catch his boss before he hit the ground.

“Jesus, you done here?” he asked Corrigan.

Tony braced himself on the concrete floor. “I’m all right, it’s my blood pressure,” he lied.

Corrigan looked genuinely concerned for a moment, before he saw the cereal spilled across the floor. Toasty yellow flakes mixed with…something white, almost like frost on all the front lawns this time of year.

He bent down to get a closer look. “What do we got here?”

Tony regained his composure and climbed back to his feet, shooing Frankie away. He shot Williamson a glance.

“It’s, uh, a prototype. New product we’re trying out in select markets. I was, um, looking for some testers,” Williamson stammered. For a salesman he sure was a lousy liar.

Tony and Frankie nodded in agreement as Corrigan lifted a single flake to his nose and sniffed.

“Testers, huh?” he asked. “Then you don’t mind if I have a taste?”

Williamson raised an arm to protest, but Tony interrupted. “Be our guest,” he said cordially.

Corrigan popped the frosted flake into his mouth and crunched down, chewing. He grabbed a handful more from the concrete floor, eyes never leaving Tony’s.

Tony maintained a friendly smile. “Pretty good, right?”

Corrigan swallowed. “Good?” Tony, Frankie, and Williamson stood rooted to the warehouse floor. “They’re not just good. They’re great!”

A collective sigh blew like wind through the stacked crates. Corrigan grabbed another handful off the floor and began popping them into his mouth.

“No seriously, when are these-” but he couldn’t continue. His eyes began to droop and he fell forward. At first he caught himself, but his arms gave out. His face hit the concrete like a bat connecting with a home run - he was clearly out cold.
Tony exhaled deeply, before pulling a .38 from his jacket and swiftly shooting the unconscious lieutenant in the head.

By the time the gunshot’s echo had faded, only Williamson’s frantic screaming remained. Frankie grabbed him by the shoulders, yelling “Shut! The fuck! Up!” before slamming his back into a nearby palette. Williamson melted into a puddle on the floor, weeping.

“Well that couldn’t have gone any worse,” Frankie quipped.

Tony brushed a paw over his forehead and began pacing. The cage. The bust. The war. He needed time to think, time he just didn’t have.

After a few minutes, he broke the silence. “Frankie, you get rid of this,” he pointed at the dead cop. “And meet us back here tonight with a few more pounds.”
Williamson was still crying when Tony picked him up. “Are…are you going to kill me?” he blubbered.

Tony glanced over his shoulder at the blood, pooling up now and snaking its way toward the white dusted cornflakes. “No,” he said. “I got a better idea.”