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Full Nelson – Part 2 May 31, 2011

Posted by vsap in Blogroll, Uncategorized.
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Rocco Milluci was an impatient man. He could tolerate his wives, all four, at various times, because of the sex. At five-six, he was stocky, balding, and looked every bit his 60 years except his attitude. He possessed the attitude of a 25-year-old wise guy. He felt indestructible. He felt fit. And his boss, and legion of enemies, knew he could handle a gun. Many types of guns simultaneously, or so it would appear. Or, so the legend would have it.

Milluci had an affinity for brass knuckles. The damage he could do with them was less well-known but the pleasure he had doling out punishment with them pushed his adrenaline needle to the max.

So, here he was, waiting. Something that he did not like to do. And he especially did not like it at 5 in the morning. He could late-night alley cat with the best, but once asleep he would rather pass on the early morning jobs. That, he believed, was for the young guys who had something to prove. Yet, here he was, waiting, because the payday was too good.

He moved restlessly inside his Chrysler 300, trying to find a comfortable position. Dark tinted glass on all the 300’s windows would not let anyone know he was there, unless he moved around too much. He knew he was doing that now, but the wait was going on two hours and the target had yet to be seen.

His orders were simple: kill Arthur Roberts and be sure he will never be found. Sitting under the L on Van Buren facing west looking at Dearborn, running as a one-way north, he could barely catch a glimpse of the NYC Bar, which sat between Van Buren and Congress on Dearborn. At this time in the morning, he wouldn’t be looking for Roberts as a stray or left over from the night before, coming out of the bar. He was looking for Roberts to go in, to meet someone to do business Mullici’s boss did not want to see done.

Mullici never questioned his various bosses through the years. The less he knew, the better, he believed. No emotional entanglement. No mercy if any was pleaded for by his victim. He didn’t need to know why they needed to be punished or dead, he simply needed to know the payday. He could weigh the value and decide “yes” or “no” to the job. If he said no, it was a clear signal to his boss that risk-value proposition was too far out of whack to even consider.

Mulicci knew his bosses had over-reached from time to time. He would decline a job because he didn’t like the vibe. Then the bosses sent in the twenty-somethings, usually two when the job clearly needed only one, and then it became a blood-bath or worse, everyone survived. Then the chirping would begin and Mulicci was called to clean up the mess. Often he could and would for the right price, but even some were too hot for him. “I told you about this one,” was his tag line and his bosses knew it and expected it, “You think this is Romper Room? You get everybody dead. It’s stupid and it will cost you.”

The money never seemed to be the object for his bosses. “Shut up and get the job done. Half now, the balance when you come back. Just do it,” was the courtesy he was extended most frequently. He didn’t take it personal. Similarly, his bosses didn’t take it personal if he said, “I don’t need your money. Get one of your pussy bagmen to do it. Then fuckin’ come back to me when I can do it myself and get you results clean, see?” There was really no question and really no answer for it.

Finally, he saw a shadowy figure pass him on Dearborn walking south toward the NYC Bar. He checked his watch: 5:15 am. That’s pushing it on May 23. The sun may still be an hour from rising, but the city was already waking. The beep-beep-beep of early morning trash collectors already being heard from behind where Mullici was positioned.

He knew it was Roberts. Tall, thin, silver hair, with an athletic build. In great shape for a man in his mid-fifties. Probably still played soccer on the weekends, Mullici thought as he shook his head and began to focus. Mullici would never take him in a foot race so he had to be taken down quick, at the door, where he would stand waiting to be let in. Only he wouldn’t be let in.

The silencer was already on the 9mm in the passenger seat. He dropped the 300 into drive as Roberts approached the door to the NYC Bar. There was no traffic on Van Buren or Dearborn. Mullici pulled the 300 slowly to the left and turned onto Dearborn going south, against the one-way. He depressed the passenger window button and it glided down almost silently. As Roberts had positioned himself to tap on the door with the knuckle of his left index finger, Mullici stopped the 300 and said to Roberts, “Arthur, you’re looking for me.” Momentarily startled, Roberts looked at the door then stepped down to look at the man who summoned him through the 300’s open passenger side window. Mullici popped him twice, once in the forehead, once in the throat. He pressed the trunk release, got out of the car and walked around. Seeing no one come to the door, and certain that Roberts was dead, he dragged him over and lifted him to the lip of the trunk, pushed him in then arranged him in a fetal position and covered him with large blanket. He closed the trunk.

As he turned to make his way back into the driver’s side of the 300, there were two quick pops that came from his left. One hit Mullici clean on the left temple, dropping him immediately. The next hit him in the chest as his body turned away from the 300, like it had to do it. then he began to a slide down the trunk. He got off one shot but it wasn’t aimed and he would never know who had been watching him. A tall woman, with black gloves, searched Mullici’s pockets for the keys to the 300. Finding none, she went to the driver’s side door, which was still open, and saw the keys still hanging from the ignition. She got in and dropped it into drive. She heard Mulicci’s lifeless body slide off the car and hit the street. She slowly made her way to Congress, where she turned right to make her way to the Kennedy or Dan Ryan. She looked at her Gucci watch, it was 5:25am.

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