The Conspiracy: Chapter One [Complete]

CHAPTER ONE

Chicago, IL, December 31st 1963

He answered his question: the younger Vincent knew exactly what to fucking do as the car drew to a squelching halt. Overcome by the rancid fumes, he writhed in claustrophobic pain, he was bleeding out. His eyes, red and burdensome, heaved open. Then, with the conclusive slamming of doors behind, heavy uneven footfalls drew closer.  

They popped the trunk. Seized his young shoulders, old head and cast him on the ground below. Vincent spat a mouthful of dirt. They dragged him to the front of the vehicle, he found himself on a narrow patch of grassland tiptoeing on the cusp of the Chicago river, longing to leap in. Peering over the blinding headlamps of the Cadillac, the bulrushes, and across the water, he saw the city as if aflame, burning with all its ferocity in the dead of the night. His kidnappers, members of the IBT, disregarded him and fetched another occupant from the back seat.                               

His cousin Jackie.

They dragged Jackie. They kicked Jackie. They shot Jackie in the back of the head– spitting teeth through his taped mouth he toppled sideways onto the uneven damp earth. Dead.

The contorting Vincent thrashed his legs about, his hands cuffed, unknowingly, adjacent to a three foot grave. His heavy eyes bulged, shoulder spurting blood, and half dead he cursed and he cursed and he cursed. The pair, tall and short, glanced at each other. While shaking vehemently Vincent concealed a snigger. His cousin’s killers wore shades, stingy-brimmed fedoras in the early hours of the New Year. The Union guys vibed a pair of Rat Pack rejects: talk about Bishop and Lawford. Joey Bishop, stout and a wide forehead, the older of the two stood in front; clenching a smoking .38 and a shovel. The genteel Peter Lawford, a sneakier grey fuck, swayed in the breeze. Bishop, inclining the pistol to the tip of Vincent’s head, grimaced.

“Guys, guys, guys… Hold on a sec… Please… I don’t see what’s the issue here.”

“Issue? You mean the problem?” barked Bishop.

“Yeah…” laughed Lawford.

“You and your merry band caused half a mil’ in property damage! You sparked a full blown riot, three arrests, four dead cops, two hospitalized feds and a smashed rear window on Mr Hoffa’s Limousine…”  babbled Bishop in true Bishop style.

Vincent sniggered.

“What’s so funny? shouted the baritone Bishop.

He didn’t answer: his thumbs fiddled with the handcuffs.

“You kill ‘im”

“Why me again?” the now guilt laden Lawford argued.

That brief moment of hesitation saved Vincent his life.

On his knees, sprinting and closing for Joey Bishop in a second. The next Joey knew, his shades and nose had been broken with a head-butt. Down goes Bishop! Out comes Lawford’s .357. Shit. Maybe not so lucky. A faint whistle clipped the cool breeze, then a low thud, and Lawford, knees buckling, sagged into a heap of clothes -  a clear smouldering hole in his jacket  

Vincent, still blinded by the Cadillac – took a few moments to spot his saviour. Then suddenly he traced a clear smoke ring in the dim light above followed by a shooting arrow. Said arrow pierced the clear circle. Then a figure, stepping over Peter Lawford’s corpse, emerged from the darkness puffing a cigar. The man was in his forties, wore a tan three piece, crimson tie, slick black hair and vibed a certain sinister Latino elegance.

The armed mysterious character now eyed him up and down. Regarding Vincent: his shoddy cap, his stolen leather jacket that clung to his heavyset frame and his nose, a boxer’s.

“Your name?” Vincent detected a Spanish accent.

“Vincent.” He said. “Yours?”

“Tiago Perez, you may have heard of me?”

Vincent, alarmed, shook his head.

“Ah, no matter,” he winked before tucking away a suppressed Berretta.

Bishop sat up. Bishop shivered. Bishop begged. Fat chance.

Vincent struck him a glancing blow with his own shovel, toppling him into the grave. He swallowed, admiring the fracture with contempt.

“Is he dead?” he quivered, the adrenaline had filtered away, Perez snatched the shovel.

“Does it matter?” Then, eagerly, he went to work.

***

The scarlet ’57 Brougham rattled like an empty tomb across the outskirts of the city of Chicago. Vincent rubbed his sore wrists: Perez smoked them both out. The needle bumped over sixty now. He had it floored.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

            The tone of his question surprised Perez.

“My instructions did not concern you and your brother.”

“Cousin.”

“Si, su primo, what was his name?”

“Jackie.”

“Like the President?”

“Yeah, he was a good guy.”

“Hm, he was a bit soft on the beard.” Perez snorted.

There was an awkward silence. Surprisingly, Vincent broke it.

“What was the deal back there? With those two guys?”

“My bosses only wanted the riot stopped, nothing… messier”

“Well thanks for helping me.”

“That is OK, I understand your reasons for the protest. Mr Hoffa should have seen it coming.”

“I thought you worked for Hoffa?”

“Jimmy? No, somebody else,”

            Vincent kept his mouth shut for the remainder of the journey: he didn’t want to know. It was only when the Cadillac drew alongside his dilapidated apartment building that Perez turned to him. Holding a raised finger before him, Perez reached under the seat, producing a Colt .45 he threw the weapon in his lap.

“I need you up and ready by ten thirty tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” he asked, staring at the gun.

“Because we are going to put an end to this.”