An Angel With a Broken Wing

Mickey “Iceman” Monchelli was a hitman by trade, but most in the rundown Bronx neighborhood knew him as Mickey the florist.

Icky Taborinni walked into his shop wearing a cheap suit and his hair slicked back by a handful of hair jell which was his trademark along with a scar that ran from his throat to his jaw. It made his face, that was once perfectly asymmetrical, a mass of facial scars that included a creepy, crooked smile. 

“Why are you here?” Mickey closed his eyes and put both his hands on the counter.

“Big Gino is needing your services.” Icky put an envelope on the counter in front of Mickey. Mickey looked at the plain envelope before picking it up with his large meaty hands.

“I would like to retire.” Mickey pursed his lips and tapped the envelope on the glass counter.

“Big Gino could have that arranged, you know.” Icky smiled, if that’s what you call it.

“I’ve been putting some dough away, you know. I could just vanish one day.” Mickey tilted his massive head. He had no neck and his chest pushed against all the buttons of his sports coat.

“Big Gino can make that happen.” Icky rubbed his neck, “He wants this stiff gone. He wants it to be a done deal by the end of the week.”

“How come?” Mickey rubbed his eyes.

“This hit is going to put Harry Malone out of business.” He glared at Mickey.

“Sounds complicated.” He put the envelope in his jacket pocket.

“It’s a big deal.” Icky emphasizing “big.”

“Yeah, whasso big’bout-it?” Mickey shrugged as he lit a cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

“We get rid of Malone and we run over fifty percent of the business on the east side is ours. We are the big kids on the block. This will make Gino smile.” Icky shook his head.

“Smile?” Mickey chuckled.

“Yeah, I know, Gino don’t smile.” Icky took a step toward the door, fingering a couple of tulips as he made his departure.

“Always figured his face was frozen that way.” Mickey mumbled as Icky chuckled. The bell on the door sounded as it closed behind Icky.

Alone now, Mickey pulled the envelope out of his jacket pocket and using a stiletto, opened it with a quick swipe of his wrist.  

The contents fell out on the counter. Included with his orders from Gino was a picture of the target.

It was a picture of a young girl, dressed in a knee length dress, smiling under layers of golden locks.

“I don’t do children.” Mickey shook his head, “Especially little girls.” 

Sitting in Piccalo Mano with a waiter who had a strong aroma of garlic that followed him everywhere, Mickey was waiting for Gino to walk through the door as planned. 

“Manicotti.” Mickey closed the greasy menu and handed it to the waiter who took it as he nodded. Just as he left, Gino walked in with four goons surrounding him.

“Iceman.” He hugged Mickey.

“Gino, long time, no see.” Mickey said as his boss sat in the chair opposite him. Two of the goons sat in the vacant chairs that were placed around the circular table covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth.

“So this is Sal.” The goon to Mickey’s right tipped his fedora and nodded. Mickey noted Sal also reeked of garlic. “And this is Mario.” 

“Pleasure.” Nodded the hulking man with one eyebrow and a New Jersey accent. 

“So I hear that you want to turn down this hit.” Gino said in almost a whisper.

“Boss, you know since Day One, I don’t do kids.” Mickey was careful to keep his voice low as he saw the waiter approach with his pad.

“Shame…shame.” He shook his head. The waiter handed three menus to the new customers dressed in some of the finest haberdashery he had seen in a while. “Three veal parmesans.”

“Va bene.” The waiter collected the three unopened menus and turned on his heel.

“Now the boys here need a raise, see.” He started as he put one of favorite Cuban cigars in his mouth, “If we can get to Malone and put him outta business, I can afford the raises. Now this girl is Angel. She’s the eleven year old daughter of Donna Rittolli, Malone’s main squeeze.” 

“Why not take her out?” Mickey asked.

“I thought you did not do women, either.” Gino closed one eye as he spoke.

“I don’t, but I’ve been a soldier for almost twenty years since I got off the boat and I have followed every order I have ever gotten.” Mickey explained. 

Gino reached out and pinched Mickey’s cheek with his hand as a loving father might do, but then applied pressure that a hitman would do to a hit just before he pulled the trigger. “I have a lot of respect for you, Iceman, but you gotta pull this one.” 

“I’m just asking for clemency.” He tried to speak with the grip Gino had on his cheek.

“Clemency.” Sal laughed as if Mickey had told a joke.

“Get this guy? Thinks he’s a Vaudeville stand-up, eh?” He let go of Mickey’s cheek. “No. No clemency.” 

“Gino, I have never once asked, but now I’m asking.” He said as the waiter appeared with a tray he carried above his head to avoid anything that might get in the way in the cramped dining room. 

“I got four men holding a heater pointed toward your skull. One nod from me and you can kiss your cranium goodbye.” He laughed as the waiter put a covered plate in front of him. “Smells wonderful.” 

“Buon appetito.” He bowed, setting the other three covered dishes in front of the customers.

“Un po ‘di vino?” Gino asked. 

“Si.” The waiter bowed and left. 

It was a long cab ride home after dinner with his boss. He was left with no choice on this matter. Clemency was usually granted and the job would be given to another soldier. If a soldier asked for clemency too many times, he was usually retired and deposited in the river. Mickey had never asked for clemency, but in this matter he felt he was owed clemency.  

He had a daughter. She had graduated from Columbia University as a licensed psychiatrist thanks to the money he piped into her education and his ex-wife insistence that Mona do her best in school. By her junior year in high school, Mona had a fistful of scholarships to whatever college she wanted to go to.

But he still thought of her as the little girl she was just before his divorce to Theresa. Mona and he would wander Central Park before sundown. She loved the swings and he would oblige her. She did call him regularly and tell him what was happening in her life while he sat in his easy chair and smiled. He never once told her about what he was doing and she never asked. He often wondered if she knew or just pretended to know. It didn’t matter.

He knew that if messed up this hit, they would track her down and put a hit on Mona. He could not handle that.

She lived in a brownstone on the lower east side of Manhattan in a pretty nice place that Malone could easily afford. She would be picked up by a driver sent over by Malone and taken to a nearby elementary school. His surveillance of the girl would take the usual four days, before he would find a place where she would be alone for a few minutes and he would sit on a bench with his sniper rifle taped to his leg under his trench coat. If she was nice, he would try to gain her trust, but if she was cautious, he would move with stealth and cunning, making sure not to draw any unwanted attention. He had a reputation of being the best in the business earning his nickname, “Iceman.” 

His nickname was a compliment since the business required the hitman to have nerves of steel and steady, sure hand. He had never missed in his entire career. Iceman would be coming, just like Eugene O'Neill had foretold in his Broadway production. 

Malone’s driver dropped her off at the school and drove away, leaving Angel to enter the school grounds on her own. It turned out to be half a block hike and it appeared the driver was not too conscious. He could have done the job and be halfway out of the state before anyone knew she was dead. There were only about four or five nuns supervising the playground before the first bell. Wearing their bulky habits, there would be no way they could see him when he hit his target.

As he sat on the bench watching the playground traffic, he was startled when he heard a small voice say, “Hello.” 

Turning his head, he saw Angel standing there in her coat and jumper carrying her school books in her arms.

“Hello.” He said back as his eyes grew wide.

“My name is Angel, what’s yours?” She asked with her head tilted ever so slightly.

“I am Mr. Monchelli, but you can call me Mickey.” His voice was shaky, but she did not sense his distress with her unexpected presence.

“I don’t like this school.” She sat next to him on the bench.

“Why not?” He asked. Her outgoing manner was engaging to him and she seemed quite comfortable talking to him, a complete stranger.

“The nuns are mean. I write with my left hand and when they see me, they hit my left hand with a wooden ruler. They tell me the left hand is the hand of the devil.” 

“That’s horrible.” He scowled.

“Tell me about it.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. A halo of golden hair swirled all about her head. “The boys call me names, too.” 

“Really?” He nearly gasped.

“Yup, like Angel Cake or Angel with a Broken Wing.” She crossed her arms across her chest. 

“They shouldn’t do that. It’s mean.” He could not conceal a sneaky smile. “Why do they call you Angel with a Broken Wing?”

“My mother’s boyfriend got mad at me one time and he broke my arm by accident.” She looked at him. It was no accident. Mickey had heard Malone was as much a brute as Gino was. You did not make it far in this business unless you were ruthless. He heard Malone had kicked a dog to death who had wandered into the yard at his summer home. Malone was not someone to be trifled with, that was for sure. Suddenly she stood up and announced, “It’s time for me to go to my classroom. Have a wonderful day, Mr. Monchelli..”

“You too, Angel.” He smiled as she turned and waved goodbye to him.  

“So whadda think?” Gino asked Mickey during a chat over the phone.

“Pretty risky. She’s well guarded.” Mickey lied after taking some aspirin powders that left him lying on his couch.

“Figured, but Iceman, you are the best I got. If anyone can get to her, you are the one.” Gino laughed, but this was not a jovial laugh in the least. 

“Don’t worry, boss, I got this.” He concluded, hanging up the phone.

When Angel came to school the next day with a black eye, Mickey was concerned. She told him that Malone had hit her for not finishing the food on her plate. 

No one should treat a child like this, he thought as he listened to her tale of woe. It was raining which made her sad story even sadder to him.

In two days, I have to shoot this child, he thought. No matter how this animal hurts her, I am the one who has been tasked to take her out of this world. He heard the church bell ring as he watched her run into the play yard to go to school. 

Following the sound of the bell, Mickey plodded into the church with the gargoyles staring down at him from above. In the stained glass windows were depictions of angels surrounding Jesus. Angels driving Adam and Eve out of the Garden. Angels with children’s faces surrounding the saints and apostles.

“Hello sir, I am Father O’Brien.” A middle aged priest approached Mickey who sat in the first pew with rosary beads dangling from his large hands.

“Father, I am Mr. Monchelli.” He did not even look up.

“Are you troubled?” The priest asked as an expression of concern crossed his face.

“Indeed.” He answered.

“Jesus will listen. Have heart.” The priest put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and said something in Latin that Mickey assumed was a blessing.

Even Jesus could not bless what he was bound to do.

Judas Iscariot was a saint compared to what he had to do.

There was a voice. Mickey had no idea where this voice originated from.

About five years ago, one of his closest friends, Alphonse, who was a soldier too, decided to move down to Miami. Alphonse had grown weary and tired of the long cold New York winters and decided he’d go somewhere nice. Alphonse had written him some letters about how wonderful it was in Miami, but then Alphonse was found drowned in his own bathtub. He knew Gino had arranged the hit 

He knew if he did the same, Gino would put the hit out immediately. He knew his time would be limited, but if he took Angel, he could make sure she stayed hidden from the vultures that were preying on her. He might even send her to Havana where she could remain safe from the crime syndicates of New York.  

There were rumors that President Franklin Roosevelt was pushing Congress to repeal the twenty-first amendment ending prohibition. If that happened, all of the bootleggers would have to look for another vocation. In Cuba, gambling and liquor were legal. He had a lot of money he had saved up over the years.

He hailed a cab after he heard the voice of Jesus speak to him and went to the bank to withdraw his money from his account. Mr. Allison, the bank manager, was quite upset to lose that lucrative account.

“So what’s new, Iceman?.” Gino’s voice was full of frost and chill.

“Not much boss.” He looked at the money he had in the envelope on his end table.

“When you gonna hit her?” He asked.

“Tomorrow seems like a good day.” He sniffed.

“Yes, tomorrow would be good.” Gino concurred. 

“Got it all set up.” He nodded.

“Great, call me when you ice her.” Gino hung up.

“No problem.” He smiled as he picked up the envelope. 

The driver dropped Angel off in the usual place and sped away. Mickey figured he had some numbers to put money on, leaving the girl on her own as he had done for the three days Mickey had been watching.

This time he noticed that Angel did not stop by the bench for their usual chat. Instead she went straight to the playground.

Her left arm was in a sling.

A broken wing.  

That brute had done it to her again. 

He rose from the bench and walked onto the school grounds.

“Angel!” He called after her, but she did not turn.

“Who are you, sir?” One of the nuns stopped him as she ran into the school.

“I am her father.” He lied.

“In that case there is a policeman who wishes to talk to you.” The nun said, “Follow me.” 

“There must be some mistake.” Mickey hesitated.

“I certainly hope so.” She scowled at him.

He followed her inside as two cars pulled up with Gino’s men inside. 

Once inside, he saw Angel inside a classroom.

“Angel.” He walked over to her. Her arm was in a sling for sure.

Tears welled up in her eyes, “He did this to me, because he told me you were a bad man who was going to kill me.” 

“No, no, that’s a lie.” Mickey knelt next to the child and put his hands on her shoulders, “I could never hurt you.” 

“Hands over your head!” A uniformed policeman entered the classroom with his gun drawn. Looking up, Mickey raised his hands when he saw the officer’s gun.

“This is a mistake.” He looked at the cop with wide eyes. 

“No sir, no mistake.” He pulled Mickey’s arms behind him as he put the handcuffs on.

Jesus, this is not the way you told me it would be, his mind screamed out. 

One his way to the back of the patrol car, Mickey saw two men in suits enter the school. He knew they were Gino’s men, but he could not stop them now. When the policeman picked up his radio, Mickey kicked the door as hard as he could. It gave way and before the policeman could react, he was racing inside the school. 

One of them had Angel by the arm and she was screaming, but there were two others holding back the nuns and administrators with machine guns drawn.  

The man holding Angel by her uninjured arm never saw Mickey’s shoe meeting him squarely in the chin, but the sound of the mandible shattering was unmistakable. His partner turned quickly, but not quickly enough as Mickey delivered his second kick with the same amount of force and results.

Wrenching his arms in front of him, he grabbed one of the guns and shot both of the men holding machine guns. 

“Come with me.” He told her.

They managed to get a cab which took them to the airport. As police swarmed the school, Angel and Mickey were on their way to Havana. He would call Mona once they had landed in Havana and finally tell her the truth.

“Are you my guardian angel?” Angel asked him after they had taken off.