LOW-CALIBRE

“Hey kid… you ever read Hamlet?”

The sentence rebounded within Jo-Jo’s skull as he looked down at the inert body of his uncle Joey. Joseph Francesco (or Joey Frank to all that knew him) lay unmoving in his hospital bed, surrounded by a phalanx of life-sustaining machinery. Only the regular cadence of beeps accompanied by various flashing lights and computerised read-outs interrupted the sterile silence in the stark-white room. Jo-Jo absently fingered the I.V. tube which wound its way eventually to a needle inserted into Joey’s muscular arm, while his uncle’s friend Rocco stood behind Jo-Jo in silent reverie.

Jo-Jo regarded the large frame of his uncle with worry - a worry borne not from any concern for Joey, but for his own personal regard. Jo-Jo ran his bony fingers through his wavy, jet-black hair as he silently mused upon the incident over a week ago which had brought both him and Joey to this potentially deadly impasse…

* * *

Joey Frank was flanked by his wiry nephew Jo-Jo DeCicco and another man - Joseph’s husky, longtime associate known as Ricky “Fingers” Falconne. An excited Jo-Jo was loudly jabbering away to the two older men about the evening’s score, and Joey sighed in resignation as he pondered upon his nephew’s inability to keep his impulsive thoughts to himself. He loved his sister’s kid and had taken a firm hand with educating him in ‘the business’ over the years. However at twenty-nine, Jo-Jo still displayed an incessant need to talk which was only overshadowed by his constant impulsiveness and immaturity.

“Hey kid, you ever read Hamlet?” Joey inquired gruffly, briefly casting a steely gaze at Jo-Jo.

“What? That Shakespeare shit?” Commented Jo-Jo with a dismissive air. “What do I look like? Some Ivy-league finocch?”. Joey shook his head in resignation before continuing.

“Va’ fanculo!” The muscular man cursed in Italian, rolling his heavy-lidded, brown eyes. “Listen, kid. In the book, some guy asks Hamlet what he’d been reading. And Hamlet says back to him: ‘Words, words, words’.”

“The fuck that gotta do with anything, Joey?”. Joey stopped briefly, regarding Jo-Jo with an air of exasperation and a pointed finger.

“It means that words are essentially meaningless, Jo-Jo. So my advice to you is to learn to shut the fuck up and keep your thoughts to yourself. You talk too-fuckin’-much. Just let me handle business and keep quiet, stunad!”. Joey shook his head, but patted his nephews shoulder with firm affection. “You give too much away, Jo-Jo. How many times I gotta’ tell you? Keep your cards close to your vest. The less people know, the better advantage you have, capisce?” And he gently slapped his nephew’s cheek before resuming the walk toward the warehouse which lay ahead of the trio.

“Sorry Joey.” Offered Jo-Jo as he followed close behind. “I’m just excited by this score. These Russian cocksuckers are desperate to offload this merchandise. If we play this right, it’ll make a nice earner for all of us.”. Joey Frank and Ricky Fingers said nothing in way of reply as they opened the door and entered the warehouse - a single fluorescent light flickering above them in the cold, Long-Beach night as they passed beneath.

Jo-Jo’s nose crinkled as the overpowering scent of fish invaded his nostrils. The West Marina warehouse seemed to be devoid of anyone - almost oppressive with it’s silence and lack of activity. However, it was difficult to escape the heady smell that permeated the Marina located near Bayside Drive.

Ricky Fingers - overweight but impossibly light on his feet - clutched the black carry-all with his fleshy hands, covered in an array of gold rings which twinkled in the meager reflected light.

“Where are these Communist fucks hiding, Jo-Jo?”. Fingers swung his pudding-like head around, searching for movement within the building. “I don’t trust these Russian fucks at the best of times. Not with a-hundred large in my mitts.”

“Dmitri should be here already.” Assured Jo-Jo, looking at the gold Rolex on his almost skeletal wrist. “I told him we’d be here at two-A.M. sharp. He’s desperate to offload these ten-keys tonight.”. Joey raised a bushy eyebrow on his ruggedly handsome face - his right hand checking for the handgun tucked into the small of his back.

“I know his old man.” Mused Joey darkly, as he also scanned the warehouse with his eyes. “Pappa Yakovich is a bloodthirsty son-of-a-bitch. But he’s a straight-shooter, Jo-Jo. If you say his boy is on the level then it should all go like clockwork.”

“Dmitri is solid”. Jo-Jo opened his hands for emphasis. “I’ve done business with him and his crew of Russians before, uncle. This should be ‘wham-bam, thank you ma’am’. At ten-large per key, we can’t lose out on this deal.”

“If it goes down the way you say.” Fingers interjected. “Seems too good to be true, Jo-Jo. You know, me and your uncle don’t usually fuck with powders.”

“But at this price,” cut in Joey “you’re right, kid. We can’t lose. You did good lining this up, Jo-Jo.”. He smiled at his skinny nephew - his teeth gleaming in the scant light within the warehouse. That same instant, the three men noticed movement from the rear of the sprawling emptiness. Two lean figures dressed in jogger-suits emerged from the darkness - both clutching carry-bags similar to the one Fingers held.

“Dobryy vecher!” Called out one of the men as he neared the trio. “Glad you made it on time Jo-Jo.”. Dmitri gave a crooked smile from his angular features, his words thick with his native accent. “I see you brought your uncle. This is very good. Now we can do business, da?”. Something about the two Russians made Joey uneasy. They seemed too relaxed, and Joey silently tensed as some gut instinct warned him of danger. However, he confidently stepped toward Dmitri and his silent companion, wondering how this young Russian upstart knew it was him escorting Fingers and his young protege.

“Never you mind me, comrade.” Commanded Joey brusquely. “Let’s see the marching-powder.”. Dmitri was still leering at Joey, but proceeded to kneel down and unzip his black carry-all, speaking to his off-sider in Russian before his friend began doing likewise. It was at this very moment that Jo-Jo suddenly sprang with cat-like reflexes behind Joey and pulled out a small black handgun, promptly shooting his uncle in the back of his head.

“You motherless fuck!” Cried Fingers in an angry bellow as Jo-Jo deftly wheeled around to his uncle’s trusted sidekick - swiftly firing three more shots into Ricky Fingers’ furious visage. The overweight Fingers toppled to the ground - blood pouring from his perforated skull. The two Russians barely flinched however, and stood up as they appraised the scene before them.

“Very good, Jo-Jo.” Smiled Dmitri as he eyed off the prostrate bodies still bleeding scarlet rivulets onto the warehouse floor. “I was wondering if you would have the balls to go through with this. Killing your own uncle - a Mafia big-shot! You have big balls, Jo-Jo.”

“Yeah, Dmitri. Big balls!” And Jo-Jo instantly raised the gun to Dmitri, aiming directly between his ice-blue eyes before firing - blood exploding in a crimson mist around Dmitri’s head as he collapsed. As the second young Russian began to hastily reach for his weapon, Jo-Jo fired off the last round remaining in his twenty-two police special - catching his target in the forehead. “Big balls and big brains, you fuckin’ cosmonauts!”.

Jo-Jo felt a powerful surge run through his wiry frame. Everything had gone down exactly as he had planned. His uncle - God rest his soul - had been blocking Jo-Jo’s progress with becoming a ‘Made-Man’ in the infamous Brooklyn crew for far too long. Too many lectures and disapproving tirades. Too many times Jo-Jo had done as ordered, with little satisfaction and even less to show for it. Hell, Jo-Jo had endured years of verbal abuse - all the while doing what Joey commanded. At the same time, Jo-Jo had listened to countless diatribes on how unfit he was to become a full-fledged member of the Brooklyn borgata. Shit - Jo-Jo had even clipped a few wise-ass wannabe gangsters over the years on his uncle’s orders. And for what? To kick up the lion’s-share of every score Jo-Jo had ever made to Joey Frank and his superiors. All the while, impatiently waiting for the day to get his ‘pin’.

Well, now it was done. Jo-Jo quickly placed his spent twenty-two in Dmitri’s empty hand before grabbing the two bags of cocaine, along with the heavy sack of money that Fingers had dropped. Jo-Jo then grabbed the gun from the other dead Russian and proceeded to depart from the warehouse and the carnage that he had wrought. He planned to take the money to the crew’s capo - a Brooklyn legend known as Tony Delacroce - and tell the boss his version of events. A version that would relate how Jo-Jo’s uncle and Ricky Fingers had been ambushed by the Russian duo who had no cocaine to sell - just a dastardly plot to swindle the gangsters out of their money. Luckily, the two mobsters were swiftly avenged by the wary and quick-thinking Jo-Jo who - as a token of his loyalty to Tony Delacroce - returned every cent of the hundred-grand to the Brooklyn capo. Meanwhile, Jo-Jo would have the ten kilos of Colombian flake to quietly sell-off for a nice bundle and at the same time, finally earn his stripes and be accepted as a ‘Made-Man’ in the deadly Cosa Nostra.

Of course, there would be bad blood between Pappa Yakovich and the Brooklyn borgata. But there was always mistrust and occasional violence between the Italians and their temperamental Russian counterparts. This new beef would be an inevitable result that could not be avoided with this scheme. And one that Jo-Jo was more than content to live with.

Jo-Jo smiled with inward glee as he loaded the three bags into the boot of his uncle’s midnight-black Lincoln. His path was assured now. Although he felt a twinge of regret for killing his own uncle, his conscience troubled him little as his mind weaved fantasies of his future - the spoils of his new life already accumulating in his greedy imagination. And as the webs of future fortune wrapped around his thirsty soul, Jo-Jo DeCicco sped off - leaving Long Island in the direction of Brooklyn. Little did he realise that fate had an interesting twist which would threaten his grand schemes…

* * *

As Jo-Jo silently cursed at the unconscious figure of his uncle Joey, Rocco DeDomizzio - another of his uncle’s associates from the Brooklyn borgata - rested a meaty hand on Jo-Jo’s shoulder affectionately.

“Lucky those Russian fucks used a twenty-two on your uncle, kid.”. Rocco sighed audibly as he consoled his friends nephew. “That low-calibre slug ricocheted in his melon without killing him. Fuckin’ Joey… he’s as strong as an ox.”.

Jo-Jo nodded dumbly as he considered his current situation. Although the Brooklyn capo Tony Delacroce had been understandingly appreciative for his heroic actions at the Long-Island warehouse, Jo-Jo felt a gnawing apprehension within his gut. If his uncle gained consciousness, Jo-Jo could kiss his ass goodbye. On the other hand, he had made sure Joey did not see who had shot him - giving Jo-Jo’s story a good chance of holding up to scrutiny. But the young wise-guy now had severe doubts about where his betrayal would leave him. Perhaps Joey would be brain-damaged, or better yet - succumb to further complications. Visions of smothering his uncle with a pillow were clouded by the fact that Rocco rarely left Joey’s side in this hospital room.

Only time would tell if Jo-Jo would get a reprieve...

* * *

It was two more months before Jo-Jo received the call he had been waiting a lifetime for.

In that time, Joey Frank had miraculously regained consciousness. However, he was slow in recovering from the head trauma caused by the low-calibre slug. His speech was understandably slow and his memory of the fateful night was vague and cloudy at best. Jo-Jo continued to visit his uncle, who was uncharacteristically grateful for Jo-Jo’s quick-thinking. On one occasion only a week previously, Joey even took his nephew’s slender hand in his own and smiled at Jo-Jo thankfully, telling his nephew “You’ve earned your button, kid.” before succumbing to a morphine-induced slumber.

Jo-Jo breathed a massive sigh of relief that day and had finally gotten the first decent sleep that night in over seven paranoid-filled weeks.

Now, Jo-Jo was listening intently to the receiver as Rocco quickly spoke in his heavy Brooklyn drawl.

“Listen, kid. Time to get dressed. I’ll pick you up in an hour. The boss wants a word.”. Jo-Jo could feel his pulse quicken as excitement threatened to overwhelm.

“Is this what I think it is, Rocco?”

“I don’t know nothin’ kid. Just get suited up and meet me out front. And don’t ask no more questions, capisce?”. With that, Rocco hung up. Jo-Jo gave an exultant cheer as he rushed to get changed - visions of a votive card being burnt and his finger being ceremoniously bled featured in his fevered mind’s-eye. This was it - his star was ascending. He would be a ‘Made-Man’ - an honorary mafioso. His life’s ambition made flesh. Jo-Jo’s calculating ambition and ruthlessness had finally paid off. And to top it off, his uncle had managed to live, without any repercussions to deal with.

Exultant and bereft of guilt, Jo-Jo found his best Versace suit - beautifully tailored and of course, stolen from a garment truck heist years ago. Jo-Jo dressed and prepared himself for his appointment with destiny…

* * *

Rocco DeDomizzio and Jo-Jo pulled up outside of an old yet attractive two-story brick home in the suburb or Bensonhurst. Rocco had been silent for most of the journey, but could not completely hide the fatherly smile that kept creeping upon his weathered features.

“Rocco, I’ve been waiting so long for my button!!” Exclaimed Jo-Jo enthusiastically. “I can’t believe that today is the day!”

“Hey, kid. I’m not saying nothing.” Rocco stated quietly, but with a good-natured expression as he focused on parking his silver Lexus sedan. “Just remember - keep your yapper shut and let the boss do the talking. Your uncle used to always say you talked too much. You’ve impressed the right people and shown the proper respect.”. Jo-Jo nodded in silent assent, trying to suppress his excitement as Rocco switched off the ignition. “Now, enough chatter. Let’s get inside and see what Mister Delacroce wants, kid.”

“Okay Rocco.”. The pair exited the vehicle, briefly assessing the neighborhood.

“And kid?”

“Yeah Rocco?” Jo-Jo inquired as he joined the older mobster in walking towards the house.

“We’re all proud of you, Jo-Jo. Your uncle especially. Keep it up, kid.”

“Thanks Rocco.” Grinned Jo-Jo sheepishly as they made their way inside.

The house was tidy but nondescript. No photographs or personal items of any sort could be seen, save for a few religious prints framed upon the walls. The scent of roasting peppers and stewing tomatoes wafted through the air, and Jo-Jo began imagining the feast that awaited after the upcoming ceremony.

“The boss is in the den downstairs.” Whispered Rocco as he led the way to a wooden stairwell which led downward. “Follow me, kid. And remember to keep quiet unless spoken to.”

“Got it, Rocco.” Agreed Jo-Jo quietly as he slowly sauntered behind his companion - his heart hammering in anticipation. It seemed to take an eternity before they made it down the flight of steps to an austere wooden door which Rocco quietly opened. Following him in, Jo-Jo could make out the stout, silent personage of Tony Delacroce who was seated at a sparse, oak table. As Jo-Jo meekly entered the room, he was stunned as he saw the imposing, well-dressed figure of a man he recognised but failed to identity for the first few moments.

Then it hit him.

Here was the scowling apparition of Oleg Yakovich - known as ‘Pappa’ by the New York underworld - and father of the recently deceased Dmitri. It was then that the cold steel of a gun barrel nestled against the back of Jo-Jo’s head.

Before the inevitable click of the hammer announced itself, Jo-Jo heard a familiar, gravelly voice behind him - now much slower, but nonetheless as menacing as it ever had been.

“Hey kid… you ever read Hamlet?”