Ray Danton’s Judgement

A loud snore wakes Carmine “The Coffin” Carlucci. Realizing he’d been the one snoring, Carmine sits up in his chair, adjusting his silk tie.

He enjoys the perks of his profession, the gourmet meals, trysts with women out of his league, and his expensive, tailored suits. But good clothes, manicures, and daily haircuts can’t disguise the fifty-eight-year-old's thuggish appearance. Carmine is short, squat, and beefy with thick eyebrows, and beady brown eyes. The multiple scars on his face give him the appearance that his looks were created by a cement mixer.

His blurry eyes come into focus. Sitting behind a desk across from him is a handsome, olive-skinned man with a cleft in his chin and vibrant coal-black eyes.

Carmine clears his throat. “Must’a dozed off. Ya got a job for me?”

“Well get to that,” the man says. “'The Coffin.’ Nice nickname.”

“Fits the profession. I would’a preferred “The Caretaker,” but some mook in Milwaukee was already usin’ it.”

The man flashes a cordial, perfect smile. “I see. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Running, I was running. You a cop?”

“No,” the man replies, his voice an authoritative baritone. “So, you were running?”

“Yeah. These two punks, the Gibb brothers, was chasin’ me. I lost ‘em when I jumped from one roof to another. Best jump I made since I was a pole vaulter at Evander and Child High School.”

Carmine squints. “You look familiar. You sure you ain’t a cop?”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s good, but just so ya know, I got my lawyer on speed dial.”

Carmine snaps his fingers. “I got it! You’re that actor I liked so much as a kid. Legs Diamond, yeah, you played Legs Diamond. That was one of my favorite flicks. Ray, somethin’…”

“Danton.”

“That’s it.”

“I’m not him.”

“Yeah, I guess not. He’d be pushin’ ninety by now.”

           Carmine looks around at the office. Besides the thick mahogany desk, the room’s décor includes expensive crystal miniatures, impressive landscape paintings, and plush antique chairs. Classic novels and rare history books line several massive bookshelves, and ornate oriental rugs cover the floor.

“Nice digs. So, why am I here?”

“Let’s talk a little about your past.”

“I ain’t opening up to no stranger. I don’t wanna end up gettin’ a hot shot in my sleep.”

“I promise this isn’t a setup,” the man says reassuringly.

“So, ya wanna pick my brain?”

“You could say that.”

“I usually don’t give away trade secrets for free, but you seem like a square guy. In my profession, ya just don’t blindly trust anybody.”

“Tell me what you did yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“It’s all right. There are no hidden tape recorders in the office, and we’re not being watched.”

“I iced Magglio Torrez, one’a the biggest dealers in the Bronx. He was gettin’ in the way of the Borgia family’s business. It was a beautiful job. I took his kid, then I called him and told him the kid was in the trunk of a car at Hunt’s Point. I said he’d better come up with two million in untraceable bills. I told him if he didn’t, I was gonna give his boy a tour of the slaughterhouse. He understood what that meant. He left the suitcase of cash at the drop point and went to the car. When he opened the trunk – BADA-BOOM! No more Torrez and I got two mill on top of my regular fee for my troubles.”

“And the boy?”

“He’d already taken his tour before I made the call if ya know what I mean. Put up a real good fight for a fourteen-year-old punk. But ya know what kids are like these days. They’re all jacked up on steroids and meth,” Carmine said.

Carmine looks at the man, shaking his head. “Jesus, I got a bad case of blabbermouth today. Ya give me truth serum or somethin’?”

“Confession is good for the soul.”

Carmine jumps up, reaching in his jacket for the gun he carries. It’s not there.

“Confession? You’re with the F.B.I. ain’t you?”

“No. Please, sit down.”

The man’s smooth voice quells Carmine’s apprehension.

“How would you describe what you do?”

“I’m a fixer. I fix the boss's problems when they got a renegade soldier or an enemy they want to make disappear.”

“Are you proud of what you do?”

“I’m the best at what I do. I nicked Nickoli “the Bus” Vasilev. Cops thanked me for doin’ it. The fat crook got too cocky. Vasiley tried to muscle in on the Borgia’s territory in Harlem. The fool used to go to the same restaurant every Wednesday at the same time with just a driver and one bodyguard. I popped all three of ‘em while they were parkin’ the car.”

“Did you know the driver was for hire, that he wasn’t in the gang and didn’t carry a gun, and he had three daughters?”

“What the hell do I care? Ya think he cares I got two kids and a magpie for a wife?”

“Let’s talk about your family. Your son, Salvatore…”

Carmine smiles proudly. “Sal’s a chip off the old block.”

“He’s a hitman too, isn’t he?”

“Tough as nails, even harder than me. I watched him from the car as he made his bones. Iced some gutter trash from Southern Boulevard who was skimmin’ off a Capo’s numbers racket. I taught him how to use a knife so he could gut somebody from their belly button to their heart.”

“Did he show an interest in a less dangerous line of work when he was a child?”

“Yeah, he wanted to be an activist for the poor. I told him it was a waste of time to help some immigrant who was likely to mug him for his roll. I got him to see things more my way when I told him I’d cut him off and he’d be poor too.”

“Weren’t your father and mother immigrants?”

“Yeah, but that was different. They worked for their money. They didn’t expect no handouts.”

“I see. And your daughter?”

“Angelina? She’s gonna marry Tony Luppino, the number two man in the Borgia family.”

“Does she want to?”

“What?”

“Does she love him?”

Carmine laughs. “C’mon. that don’t matter.”

“What does matter to you?”

“Power. The power of life and death. The power of money. And I got both. Now, ya wanna talk business? Who’d ya say ya work for?”

“Let’s just say I work for the biggest family there is.”

“The Benway’s? Sweet.”

“Have you ever regretted what you’ve done with your life?”

“Nah, I provide a service. I rid the streets of scum. I never sent anyone to hell that didn’t deserve it.”

“What about your wife?”

“That cheatin’ puttana? She got what she deserved.”

“She died a slow, painful death. How long was it, ten days?”

“I didn’t use enough poison. She was my guinea pig. I got it right after her. A little extra anti-freeze and…”

Carmine snaps his fingers.

He studies the man.

“How’d ya know about her?”

“She asked you for a second chance.”

“More like a fat chance,” Carmine chuckles.

“So, it was okay for you to cheat on her…”

“I’m the one fillin’ up the checkin’ account when the balance is zero so she can go to spas and redecorate the house every other week.”

“Suppose it was you asking her for another chance or Birdie Ferrone. Didn’t he deserve a second chance?”

“That double-crosser? He was gonna rat out every wise guy in New York. You know, nobody called him Birdie until he took a header out of an eighth-floor window.”

“Sounds like you’re taking credit.”

“Let’s just say I wanted to see if Birdie could fly. P.S. –  he couldn’t.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you think you deserve a second chance?” the man asks.

“At what?”

“Life.”

“I make my own luck.”

“That might be the most insightful thing you’ve said, Mr. Carlucci.”

The man presses a button under the desk.

Two brawny twins in black suits enter the room. One of the blue-eyed, blonde-haired giants beckons Carmine.

“Hey, what is this? You gonna hit the hit man?”

“Just follow Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson,” The man says.

Carmine gives the man a doubtful look.

As Carmine is leaving, the man says, “By the way, that jump you made between the buildings…”

“A thing of beauty,” Carmine says.

“You didn’t make it.”

Puzzled, Carmine follows Mr. Wesson, who leads him out into a hallway.

“…Of course, I made it. I’m here. Wherever here is…”

There are three doors in the hallway. Mr. Wesson points to the third door.

“Who’s in there, the boss? I gotta tell you, boys, you could’a dispensed with all the soul-searchin’ questions if you just told me who you wanna hit and how much you’re willin’ to pay.”

Carmine walks toward the door, opening it.

There is no light inside, nothing but impenetrable darkness.

Carmine turns to Smith and Wesson.

“What the hell is this?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Wesson says, pushing Carmine into the black abyss.

Susan Sussman wakes up, rubbing her eyes. She’s startled to see a handsome olive-skinned man across from her sitting behind a large, well-polished desk.

Although she feels a sense of familiarity, Susan feels insecure and inadequate by comparison. She’s thirty-two but looking at his perfect features makes her feel like an anxious schoolgirl. Susan nervously tugs at her wrinkled white blouse and readjusts her calico knee-length skirt. She pushes her thick glasses back up on her Roman nose so it will look smaller. Running her fingers through her short brown hair, she smiles, careful not to open her mouth wide enough for him to notice her bottom teeth are crooked.

“Are you the psychiatrist Father Mason said I should talk to?”

“You could say that.”

“You look familiar. Have we ever met before?”

“No,” he replies. “But people say I look like Ray Danton.”

“Who?”

“I hear you have been having a rough time of it lately, Susan,” the man says.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I thought you wanted someone to talk to,” the man says in a comforting tone.

“Well, things have been tough because of the pandemic. I was teaching piano and guitar. Kids stopped taking lessons. I used up all of my savings and had to stretch my anxiety medication.”

“But you fought on, didn’t you?”

“Yes.  I tried everything. Phone sales. Home delivery. One day I was feeling lost, looking out of my apartment window. I started singing. I sang for passersby on the street, for my neighbors…”

“And you lifted everyone’s spirits.”

“Well, I tried,” Susan chuckles. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a singer.”

“From what I hear, you did just fine. You entertained your neighborhood almost every night for months.”

“The pandemic was good for one thing. I learned how to cook. I grew to love it. And I gave the extra food to some of the seniors in my building,” Susan says.

“For free…”

“Well, they’re on fixed budgets. It’s not right to charge them.”

“And you took them to church, to the doctor.”

“I have a big van. Since it wasn’t packed with instruments anymore there was plenty of room for people.”

“You’re a teacher, a dedicated volunteer. You’ve led an exemplary life.”

Susan lowers her head, fighting back tears.

“No. I failed my sister, Sunny, and her baby, the two most important people in my life.”

“Everyone thought your sister was beyond hope. Everyone but you.”

“We’re twins. I feel what she feels. I know Sunny felt lost, that she felt like a failure. We shared the same dreams as kids. We were going to be the next Lennon and McCartney. I could play well, but my sister was the genius. Her songs were touching, and entertaining, and when she sang, people stopped whatever they were doing to listen. Then Razor Reynolds came along.”

“The boyfriend.”

“He promised Sunny a recording contract and publishing rights, but only if she went solo.”

“And despite being cut out of the act you still loved and supported her.”

“Sunny deserved to be a star. She had the talent. I was happy teaching kids to play music. But he lied to her. He didn’t know anyone in the music business, but he knew plenty of drug dealers like himself. First, he stole her money, then he robbed her of her sobriety. He turned Sunny into an addict, a street musician playing for her next high.”

“You did all you could,” the man says sympathetically.

“I managed to get her away from him one day, and into a program. She was in there for a week before he found her. Sunny was on her way back to being my talented, beautiful sister. Then he got her pregnant. At least he allowed me to take her to a pediatrician once in a while.”

“And when the baby was born?”

“I offered to take care of Sabrina, her daughter. Sunny had no interest in having a child, no interest in making music. Her only desire was to chase the next great high. When she overdosed and died on Razor’s couch, I decided to raise her child.”

“You could have let your parents care for Sabrina or let Child Services take her.”

“No, my parents have done enough. She was my niece. She was family. I may have failed Sunny, but I wasn’t going to fail Sabrina. At least… At least I thought I wasn’t.”

Susan begins to sob. “I’m sorry. I must look like such a fool. I…I just can’t talk about Sabrina.”

“You can’t move on until you do,” the man says.

Susan drops her head, sobbing. When she looks up, the man is holding a folded, blood-stained blanket.

Susan covers her face, crying uncontrollably. “That was Sabrina’s.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was! I was selfish.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Tell me what happened.”

“Sabrina was always a good sleeper at night, so I thought things would be okay… I had a friend over, a man I was interested in. We had dinner. I checked on Sabrina; she was fine. Then we relaxed, had a few drinks, which led to… I was so lonely. Afterward, I fell asleep on the couch… When I woke up in the morning, Sabrina was dead.”

Susan picks up the blood-stained blanket. Tears stream down her face.

“It was my fault! My fault!”

Reaching across the desk, the man grabs Susan’s arm, getting her to lower the blanket. His warm touch is comforting, calming Susan.

“What was the last thing you remember?”

“EMS trying to save her. There was blood everywhere, blood on Sabrina’s blanket.”

“After that?”

“They gave me a sedative. I also had some of my own in the medicine cabinet in case I needed them.”

“Did you?”

“I did. I took two more. I still couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t get Sabrina out of my mind, so I took more. Then I woke up here.”

“Still feeling guilty,” the man says. “Suppose I told you that Sabrina’s death wasn’t your fault. That it was a crib death, sudden infant death syndrome, and there was nothing you could have done.”

“Sabrina was my responsibility. I was enjoying myself when I should have been looking after her.”

“Do you think you’ve led a good life, Susan?”

“I tried to.”

“Well, I think you did.”

“Thank you, but I still wish I could fix things.”

The man presses a button under his desk. “Maybe you can.”

Two large blonde-haired men enter the room.

“This is Dr. Brothers and Dr. Spock.”

“Self-inflicted?” Dr. Brothers asks.

“Accidental. I know you’re probably feeling a little tired, and a little confused, Miss Sussman. Follow them. I’m sure you’ll feel a little better once you’ve had some rest.”

Susan follows the two men. There are three doors in the hallway. Dr. Brothers gestures toward the first one.

Susan opens the door. A blinding light forces Susan to cover her eyes.

“It’s so bright,” Susan says.

“Your eyes will adjust,” Dr. Brothers says. “Please, step inside.”

Susan wakes up on her bed in her small apartment in Manhattan. The sound of a baby giggling catches her attention.

Susan walks toward the crib. She pulls a brand-new blanket up around Sabrina. Sabrina looks up at her, smiling.