The White Powder of the Devil

By Ben Garfinkel

Five minutes and Gilopian hadn’t delivered the goods. I stared at my watch as it ticked along, leaving 1:05 a.m. in the past. I looked into the New York skyline. From the abandoned construction site, I could see the shimmering lights of downtown. I rubbed my hands together and blew on them in an effort to defrost them. It was to no avail. The only warmth I was receiving was the cigar I was smoking and the Colt .45 resting under my oversized jacket.

I heard a rumbling from below and a car came screeching out of the black. The car was growling and grumbling as boxes of stolen arms were being unloaded. After six cars had been emptied, a man stepped out of the car. He was freshly shaven and had dark brown hair. He wore a black suit, white undershirt, and a black tie. He wore long dark pants with brown loafers; he had a sense of poise and strut about him as if he thought he was too good for this business.

“You’re late Gilopian, it's 1:23. Getchya’ act togetha buddy.”

“Sorry Nico we stopped fo drinks down at the plaza. Com’on, it's Christmas buddy gimme a break!”

I ran my fingers through my short hair, what a pathetic example of a mobster, I thought. “My boss don’t care Gilopian. There’s no time for holidays when you’re a legitimate mobster.”

Offended, Gilopian snarled, “I am a mobster you moron. You still workin’ for that Vito Rizzuto?”

“Ya I am and Vito ain’t paying for those pieces of scrap.” I pulled out my Colt .45 and shot Gilopian in the head. Blood erupted from his head like a fountain, bathing the concrete in a crimson liquid.