Saturday, July 31, 2021

It's All About the Ice Cream by Mark Farenbaugh

 







It Is All About the Ice Cream


By


Mark Farenbaugh



Lt Col George Smith was a mess.  Exhausted by the frequent long days working his many programs, projects, and operations that the military has to work within the wildly complicated South American country of Colombia. It was the toughest assignment he had ever had.  Also, the most rewarding.  

Everything was complicated by violence in Colombia.  The people of the cities struggled with poverty and lack of education. There was heavy crime throughout.  It was common for the ‘midnight express’ to occur.  Anyone walking on the sidewalk or departing their offices and not paying attention to their surroundings was prey for the criminal vultures plucking them off the streets and forcing them to withdraw money from the ATMs, and then holding them until midnight to withdraw the maximum amount, again.  The scared victims were usually released in the worst areas of the city, where walking there at night was equal to the dark streets of East Chicago. 

Outside the cities was another violent story.  The citizen struggled with survival and the ever threatening Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia.  The FARC, a revolutionary group of quasi-political leadership had infiltrated nearly every level of the government, police, military, banks, and schools.  They were everywhere and were aggressively hostile against anyone who opposed them.  Somewhere in the past, they lost their true political mission against the government and, just like any revolutionary group, somewhat abandoned their political cause for the need to gather money and fund the arming of their ‘soldiers.’ For the FARC, that included explosives.  Eventually, extortion, ransom, and moving drugs were their main money gathering vehicles, while gorging on the violence they loved.  Besides the cities, they nearly owned the jungle where they operated without much resistance.  They spread into small towns like the many rats that own the streets of New York.  Those who resisted, were tossed to the jungle after a quick decision to strip the town of their precious children.  The young girls to be allocated to the FARC resistance fighters and young boys moved to training camps to be beaten into submission and armed to fight for the revolution.  The protesting or sorrowful screams of the adults were crushed by bullets.  Only the remaining few testified to anyone who came to hear them, and that was hardly worth a trip.  It happened everywhere.

Colombia, a country slightly larger than Texas plus California, has a large portion of flat land called Los Llanos, the plaines east of the Andean mountains ridge which slopes down to the jungles of the Amazon rainforest. It is home to not only the FARC, but also hundreds of drug lords producing the best cocaine in the world. So potent, it can be cut several times to multiply profits. The hot and humid climate of the jungle combined with the rich soil is perfect for growing the coca plant, as if they were weeds.  

The Amazon jungle is replete with natural protection, that of poisonous snakes, spiders whose bit can melt skin, diseases like dengue and malaria, fast moving predatory animals, and heat.  Lots of heat. To go into the jungle is to risk life. The only way to survive is to cut down anything that is green and hope the nighttime doesn’t attract four-legged hungry animals. For the FARC or narcotrafficker, the main means of movement were the hundreds of clandestine dirt runways they built near their plantations and ten thousand miles of uncontrolled rivers.  


Col White, US Army, was the commander of all the military assigned to Colombia and one of the best seen by the embassy.  The military who served under him were equally impressed.  Everyone loved him for his treatment of others and his quick assessments and ability to handle nearly every situation.  He became an instant mentor to many.  

He was in charge of the Military Group, commonly referred to as the MILGROUP, which had three sections, the Air Force, the Army, and the Navy.  Most of those offices were imbedded in the office areas of the Colombian military.  Logical, because the greater mission of the MILGP was to enhance the host nation’s military ability to perform better and safer.  The only part of the MILGROUP’s mission that was not safer for some was all about countering the drug cultivation and movement of products to the United States. The MILGROUP, with strong support from the ambassador and State department, had the mission to deny the narco-trafficker access and use of the skies, rivers, and land.

The Air Force part of the MILGP was led by Lt Col Smith.  His responsibilities were to manage millions of dollars of military assistance funds to rebuild or replace the Colombian military’s aging aircraft or runways in their fight against the narco system.  That, of course, did not include any assistance to the Colombians in their fight against Terrorism, even though narcotics, trafficking, and terrorism are all fully interlinked. That job belonged to the CIA.  

Smith’s other responsibility while assigned to Colombia was to “clean” out whatever narcos he could.  He didn’t pull any trigger, but he was nearly a wizard at the use of airpower to position fighter aircraft to shoot down a narco airplane carrying drugs or money, or to destroy it on the ground.  He was a busy man.  He also had to respond to anything involving aircraft and runways that the US military were going to use.  That included airfield protection materials like fencing, bird bash programs to limit the many birds from affecting the aircraft, and airfield support.


Col White was up early, as usual.  The phone rang.

Lt Col Smith answered, “Hello, Lt Col Smith.”

“Good morning George, how are you doing?”  said his boss, Col White.

“Great sir, good morning.” Colonels don’t call to say good morning, so Smith knew a tasker would follow.  

Col White continued, “There is a guy that wants to see me this morning.  I don’t know how he got on my schedule, but my secretary put your name next to his.  Do you know who Mr. Malek is and what he wants?  The topic written in parenthesis is Airfield Operations.”   

Lt Col Smith remember him, “Sir, he came by to ask if I needed any operational support at the airfield down in Apiay.  I told him that I had plenty of support and didn’t need any.  Then, he asked about the digging going on, there, and asked if I knew where he could help with that effort.  I told him that I only deal with the operational side of aircraft positioned there and that at that place, airfield force protection issues belonged to the Army command in Puerto Rico.  Remember that I wanted to position a C-130 down there, but security was an issue?  Anyway, I thought Mr. Malek had returned to the states.”  

Col White, “Well, he is going to be escorted to my office for a 1200 meeting.  Are you available to be here at the same time?”    

“Yes sir.  I’ll be there.”  

Smith gave his exec a call. “Pedro, can you tell me anything about a Mr. Malek who stopped by a couple days ago?”  

Captain Pedro Gonzalo answered, “Not much sir. But, besides his motoring on about how much he knows about the MILGROUP’s building up of Apiay, I did hear him pitching his own company’s ability to supply chain link fence, barbed wire, poles and gates.  Didn’t he bring that up in his meeting with you?”   

Lt Col Smith, “No, he did not.”


By 0850 that morning, Smith was in front of Col White’s office, trying to squeeze in a word before a 0900 meeting.  As White motioned for Smith to enter the office, Smith closed the door, keeping his hand on the doorknob.  He didn’t want anyone outside to hear what he had to say. 

“Sir, just a couple seconds to make a recommendation to cancel the noon meeting with Mr. Malek.  I think he is just here to tell you about his own company’s ability to sell security hardware.  Possibly for Apiay…..”  

Col White raised his hand. “George, normally one benefits from meetings.  See you at noon.”  

“Yes, sir.” Lt Col Smith opened the door and departed.


Smith was back in his office as his operations officer entered.  

“Sir, you are needed up in operations,” said Lt Col Manny Garcia his operations officer.  

George, “Another track of interest?” 

Manny, “No sir, an established track, low altitude.  We have launched the CIA’s Citation and they have acquired a fast-moving twin-engine aircraft entering from Brazil. We have already notified the Colombians and they are launching their fighter aircraft and one Fantasma.”  

The Fantasma, “The Ghost,” was originally one of the thousands of DC-3s that were sold all over the world.  The Air Force mission had sent a few of them up to the US to be refitted with larger fuel tanks, a new cockpit designed for night vision goggles, flare tubes for night operations, a Forward Looking Infra-Red (FLIR) camera, recording systems, and a pair of gun mounts for the twin gatling guns that the Israelis sold to Colombia.  The air frame was re-skinned to remove the large rivets from the 1940s designs and the radial piston engines were replaced with turbines and synthetic props.  It returned to Colombia as an AC-47, an attack aircraft that flew faster, could see at night, and could stay in the air for 12 hours.  It was used to destroy aircraft on the ground.

Both Garcia and Smith headed up to the fifth floor of their building where the Colombian general and his operations center were located.  The operation would take a couple hours to evolve until the order was given to shoot the narco aircraft down.  It happened so frequently, the one-star general used first names with Smith and Garcia.  When the endgame neared, the pilots of the attack A-37s called out, “hongo” for mushroom cloud, to let everyone know the narco aircraft had exploded.  Aircraft recording devices were turn off and everyone could return to base. 

General Benavides turned his head toward the colonels and started departing, “Gracias Jorge, gracias Manny, nos vemos.”  Thanks, see you later.


It was five minutes before noon, and Lt Col Smith was waiting outside Col White’s office.   “Hello Mr. Malek.  How are you?” Smith said to Malek as he was escorted into the office area.  “Just fine, but a little tired,” responded Malek. “I’m still not used to the altitude in Bogota.”  

The door open and out walked a couple of officers.  

Col White looked up from his notes and schedule.  He stood up to greet Mr. Malek and motioned for both of them to take a seat.  

“How do you like Bogota, Mr. Malek?” the Colonel’s voice had the subtle tone of command, but he smiled. 

“I have always loved Colombia and its beautiful and peaceful cities.  Especially the tropical areas east of the mountains,” replied Malek. 

Col White glanced at Smith. 

“What is your favorite area East of Bogota?” the Colonel asked, knowing well that Apiay lie east of Bogota, but some five thousand feet lower in altitude.  

Malek leaned forward in his chair.  “Well, that is why I’m here.  I hope to help you with Apiay.  I know it is a challenging place to work and the company I work for, CommTech, has the ability to build some communications networks that can help with operations.”  

At that point, Col White started narrating the long history of how the cities were populated in the low areas of the los llanos and how the small towns were protected by both the military and police units of the Colombians.  

Minutes passed.  The story was truly boring, but Mr. Malek dared not interrupt.  At a certain point, Mr. Malek’s eyelids slowed their descent in the blinking process to lubricate the eyes.  Col White had skillfully hypnotized Mr. Malek into a drift. 

Then, the came the question. “So, how can you help with that?” said Col White. 

The answer wasn’t very good, but the used car salesman emerged from Malek’s response with statements on Apiay’s need for protective materials.  

     Now fully recovered, Mr. Malek revealed that he also had a personal company that could provide chain link fence and gates, if needed, and he dropped his card on the colonel’s desk.

     Another short glance came from Col White to Smith.  

     Col White said, “The Army general in Puerto Rico is basing his next star on force protection at Apiay and fortunately has provided all the possible equipment he can move there.  I’m guessing we have enough.”  

     At that point the Colonel stood up and stretched out his hand to say goodbye.  

     Smith directed the nervous Mr. Malek to the sergeant who had escorted him into the embassy. Then, he turned back toward Col White’s office.  

Col White was walking toward him.  “Let’s go to the cafeteria.”   

Both walked in silence.  Smith didn’t need to say, “I told you so.”  

When they got there, Smith was thinking to get a coffee, when Col White pointed downward and said, “Which one do you want?” 

Looking down into the ice cream freezer, Smith picked his favorite and Colonel White paid for it.  

A small reward for being right. Lt Col Smith stayed in the cafeteria to enjoy his chocolate covered ice cream. Col White returned to his office.


It was a long week. George was returning home from the embassy and decided to pick up dinner on the way home.  His driver knew better to ask how the day went.  He could see that the Lt Colonel was exhausted.  So was he, as he had to wait all day for him to depart the embassy. 


The moment for sleep came quickly once Smith was in his house.

The cell phone rang for a while before Smith was awakened.  He shook his head realizing he had been in a deep sleep.  It was near midnight.  A phone call at this hour meant something went wrong.  He was thinking, shit, another trooper was in trouble for a fist fight. Perhaps a stabbing.  Or, another event where scopolamine was used by a hot-looking Colombiana to rob an apartment, drugging one of his guys into lose their will. Maybe another car bomb exploded.  

     “Lt Col Smith,” he answered.

     “Sir, this is Sgt Fernandez in operations.  A Colombian aircraft has gone down and we want your permission to scramble a helicopter from Apiay to go see if they are alive and pull them out.”  

     “Where?”

     “Near Tres Esquinas, sir, and near the river,” was the reply.

     Tres Esquinas was the Colombian airfield closest the Ecuador. It was in the middle of cocaine growing areas, surrounded by triple canopy jungle.  The river running along the border with Ecuador was close, and where the military unit stationed at Tres Esquinas could launch boats to patrol on the river, bath in it, or fish.  The river was wide and navigable and like a jungle freeway. Large tracks of cocaine were close to the airfield. In an aircraft, during the approach to the short runway, you could see coca plants growing.  It looked like hundreds of acres of fica plants. Clearly, no one entered that well-protected area.  The triple canopy areas next to the coca plants were thick with narco or FARC encampments, and jungle creatures looking for food. Large rats were as numerous as ants.  

     “When did this happen and how did it happen?”  were the next questions.  “Have the Colombians asked for assistance?”

     “No sir, not yet. And we are pretty sure the heavy rains caused it to go down a couple minutes ago.”  


     The Fantasma stationed there was not operational.  It’s FLIR needed repair, but it could fly.  The Colombian command in Bogota had a mission the next day, where the Fantasma was an integral part.  No Fantasma, no mission.  Their decision was to fly in the parts and crew chiefs to fix it before dawn.  That was a mistake.  A Casa 225 was a good aircraft for nearly any nighttime mission except that Tres Esquinas had no precision landing equipment. Not even a good beacon to know where the aircraft was in relation to the field.  The pilot would have to be very good at lining up with the runway, at night, using GPS.  Had the pilots known how bad the climate was with heavy rain and low visibility, they probably wouldn’t have chanced it. 

     Three attempts were made before the pilot miss-aligned his aircraft with the narrow runway and hit a tree.  The right engine was hit, which forced the aircraft into a tight left-hand turn in an attempt to go around.  But without enough power for the weight it carried, the aircraft was in a slow descent.  The pilots only two choices were a controlled crash into triple canopy or the river.  He chose the jungle.  With the remaining time of flight, he leveled out the wings, lowered the flaps.  The CASA hit the tops of the trees and was torn apart.  After that, it was a miracle collision with earth, ending with all nine passengers onboard screaming, but without any broken bones. It was very dark. The kind of darkness that nightmares are made of.


     “Sgt Fernandez, who have you reported this to?” George asked.  

     “No one sir, only yourself.  Can we have a helicopter?” Fernandez asked again.  

     George responded, “No.  Not yet.  This is what we will do. Keep monitoring the situation.  There is a Counterdrug platoon that we trained at Tres Esquinas.  Are they preparing to walk to the crash site? It should be within a couple miles of the runway.”  

     “No sir, the Colombians said they won’t deploy anyone until the morning due to extraordinary heavy rain. But I just overheard them say that they are launching the Fantazma to try to make contact with the aircraft.”

     Of course, George thought.  Don’t go into the dark jungle unless you absolutely have to or be prepared to stay.  

     “Check, hourly, if the Colombians have changed their minds.  And, if there is any radio contact with the Casa, let me know.  Otherwise, I am going to let Col White know early in the morning.  There is nothing a helicopter can do in this kind of weather, at night, even if they locate the Casa.”  

     Smith kept thinking back at all the other rescue missions he had overseen.  Risking another asset to the situation might just add another crash landing to it.  And then he reflected on the need for Col White to get some well-needed sleep. The Colonel had to be more exhausted than he was.  

     It was a gamble.  A big one.  Colonels don’t like surprises.  But then, he rationalized, the Colonel was Army and always with ground troops, where George was Air Force and had more experience in air rescue. Shit.


      Within thirty minutes the phone rang again.  

“Hello,” said George.  

     “Sir, the Fantasma has made contact with the crew of the Casa.  There are nine passengers and all of them are okay!” screamed Sgt Fernandez. 

     “Great news.  Okay, stick with the plan.  Stay on top of this.  If anything changes, give me a call.  Otherwise, at zero six hundred, give me an update.”  Smith then let exhaustion overtake him, thinking, “I hope this works.”  

     The remaining hours to 0600 passed quickly.


     “Col White, good morning, sir.” Said Smith. 

“How are you, George?” 

     “Fine, sir,” Smith paused, “The Colombians tried to reach Tres Esquinas last night at midnight.  Their Casa 235 missed the runway and crashed into the jungle about 2 miles West of the runway. All nine passengers are alive and waiting for rescue.”

    “How do you know they are alive?”

“The Fantasma is flying in the area and made contact.”

     “And the counterdrug battalion?”

“They didn’t want to risk it until daylight.”  Smith could hear the commander thinking, and added, “I asked the CIA ops officer to launch his Citation an hour ago. It is flying at twenty thousand feet, monitoring.  They can hear the Larandia helicopters pre-flighting radio transmission.  I think we will need them.”  


     The helicopters stationed at Larandia belonged to the Narcotic Affairs Section. The small operation was 30 minutes flying time closer to Tres Esquinas than was Apiay.  However, the US ambassador was determined that they not be used for any other mission.  Rescue was another type of mission.

     Everyone had heard the story.  One time the ambassador let the FARC slaughter some Colombian ground troops rather than give permission to use a nearby flight of US funded counternarcotic UH-60s that could have evacuated them.  The reason was simple.  Use counter-terrorist-funded helicopters for FARC attacks, not those funded by the US for counter-narcotics missions. The ambassador didn’t want to endure the wrath of Wash D.C.  But he did hear heated words from his Colombian counterparts.


     “I’ll take it from here, George. We can debrief in my office, afterwards.” Col White continued, “Why didn’t you call me?”

     “Sir, the operational options were limited. Heavy rain. The risk was too great to put another aircraft in the air.  I choose to let you sleep.”

     “Next time, give me a call.”

Smith had surprised him.

     “Yes, sir.” 

They hung up.


     That morning, the jungle was alive with activity. The FARC had their own river boats and knew there was a crash during the night.  They sped along the river, trying to see if there was any way they could find the aircraft and kidnap the occupants.  Sequestering is a billion-dollar business in Colombia.  The families will pay dearly for their relatives.

     As daylight was breaking, the Larandia helicopters diverted to Tres Esquinas by Col White were landing. Somehow, he had gotten permission. The helicopter pilots were briefed up on what was needed. They let a couple of armed counterdrug battalion soldiers climb aboard and took off, heading to the crash site.  

     Two combat river boats of the same Tres Esquinas battalion proceeded into the river to get to the shore nearest the downed Casa.  They didn’t get too far, when they noticed the FARC river boat. The gatling guns on the US sponsored boats cut them in pieces, killing a top leader of the FARC.


     Lt Col Smith arrived at his office to get a quick briefing from his operations officer. The aircrew was safe, and the site secured. He then headed out the door.  

     His exec blurted out a quick question, “Sir, where are you going?”

    Smith kept walking, but turn his head back toward him and said, “To see if there is any ice cream in the embassy.”  

Friday, July 30, 2021

Sister Maria Salvatore Nuns With Guns (Work in Progress) David Molina










SISTER MARY SALVATORE


NUNS WITH GUNS





The Last Confession



“Blessed me Father, for I have sinned.  My last confession was two weeks ago…”


Sister Maria Salvatore at least told the truth on that score.  The rest of it was pure fiction. 


Father Mulcahey, on his part,  dreaded “Nun Duty,” as he called it.  Every two weeks his assignment was to hear the confessions of the parish nuns who lived in the convent adjoining the school.  It was a dreary matter to forgive them their petty quarrels, their laundry lists of jealousies, disobediences, and peeves.  But Sister Maria Salvatore - that was the highpoint of Nun Duty.


“Father, I broke out of the convent two nights ago after midnight.  There was a huge rock of a diamond necklace in the front window of Searling’s downtown, and I just had to have it in time for my ten year anniversary…”


Father Mulcahey relaxed when he recognized her voice.  “And which anniversary would this be, Sister?”


“Ten years since I broke out of the Pen.”


“Sing Sing, I recall…”


“No Father,  Attica State.  I busted out of Sing Sing on my twelfth birthday, that was years before.”


“Go on.”


She went on.  About her failed attempt at cat burglary: about the submarine and the Russian spy, and about her latest crime novel making the bestseller list.


“Sister, be honest with me… don’t you think you are exaggerating just a wee bit?”


“If that is a sin, then yes Father Mulcahey, I am a sinner. “


“And a non-repentant one at that, my dear Sister.”


“Yes, so there is little need of going on with this.  How about you Father?  Do you have anything you’d like to get off your chest?”


“I do confess that if you knew how dreadful my job has been lately you would be glad you are a nun, very glad.”


“What now, Father?”


“Everything and nothing.  It is the Primacy of the Pettiness of it all.  I could tell you a story about bingo night, would you like that.”


“Well, we don’t have all day Father, so make it quick.”


“After bingo, this man comes up and tells me that I better make sure Donna Serafina wins big next week.  Something about it being her birthday.”


“Well Father in my book it would not be unwise to allow a little miracle to happen.  Donna Serafina is - well, how should I say this - well-connected.”


Father Mulcahey sighed.  “Yes, Sister you are probably right.”


“For your penance, two scoops of chocolate ice cream Father.”


“Oh my Sister, I am hardly sorry….”







The Scene of the Crime



Sam Giulani, for all his years in the department, had never seen anything like this.  He got the call after midnight.  He rolled out of bed  unshaven, unshowered, and smelling of whiskey.  He rifled through the closet for a pair of trousers, choosing the least wrinkled of the pair he owned. He lost his balance when he tried to step into them, fell over and hit his face on the bedpost.  


“Shit.” 


The Lieutenant had been there for half an hour when Sam stumbled into the Rectory.


Sam looked at the blood spattered walls, and the bloody mess lying in the priest’s bed.


The Lieutenant unscrewed  a thermos jug  and poured  his investigator a cup of hot coffee.  He handed it to Sam, “What a fucking mess…”


Sam nodded.  “Shit.”


“I was referring to you, Sam. Jesus, were you hit by a train?”


Sam caught a glimpse of himself in the priest’s blood splattered mirror,  He had a horrendous black eye.


“Shit.”









The Convent



Mother Superior was awakened by the sounds of sirens and the flashing red lights.  She hurried down the staircase of the convent and went out the door to the edge of the curb, peering at the chaotic scene.  Fire trucks, ambulance, police cars were parked down the street in front of the Rectory.  She crossed herself, and fled back up the stairs.  She roused the sisters, knocking on their doors.  They gathered in the small chapel and began praying the Rosary.  She led them, starting each decade of the five Sorrowful Mysteries.  In a state of shock, no one noticed that Sister Maria was absent.


Sister Maria had been dreaming of her old neighborhood.  She was at a huge family gathering, with relatives surrounding a table, feasting on a sumptuous meal of pasta, sausages, cheeses, fruits, and wine.  Her family was celebrating the Feast of San Gennaro.  She looked around the table and noticed there were many people she did not immediately recognize sitting with her father.  They looked familiar, yet she could not place them.  The men were handsome, distinguished and dressed in well -cut suits.  Their wives sat apart from their men, dressed elegantly with jewelry sparkling.  Laughter and wine mingled together.  In an instant Maria recognized the strangers They were her ancestors, spanning back generations, yet all seeming to be of the same age.


At the head of the table was a  statue of San Gennaro, bedecked with strings of colorful flowers. But as she looked closely, she began to notice the statue was actually not a statue.  San Gennaro, martyr and patron saint of Naples, was alive.  At the exact instant Maria came to this realization a loud series of gunshots rang out and the saint crumpled to the ground, bleeding.


The gunshots awoke Sister Maria.  She lie in bed, now wide awake.  Her pulse was racing.  In a short while she heard the sirens, and eventually the sound of Mother Superior knocking on her door, telling her to meet in the chapel for prayers.  But she lie still in bed.  As the adrenaline from her dream wore off, her pulse gradually resumed its normal rate.  She was thinking.  Thinking it through.


Now she could hear the ebb and flow of the sisters voices, a calming rise and fall as they chanted the rosary downstairs.  Sister arose, put on her robe and left her room.  But she did not jo downstairs to the chapel.  She went upstairs to the attic, holding the key to the ancient trunk which had not been opened for years.







Mama’s Boy



“Gino, where did you put my purse?  Bring me my purse Gino!”


“Which purse, Mama?”


“You know. The one I like.”


“Yes Mama.”


Gino Balderucci and his mother Serafina Tornatore Balderucci lived in a  grand old mansion built in the last century.  Like his mother, it was solidly built, and in its long ago youth was the talk of the town.  The surrounding neighborhood was home to Chicago’s notables: patricians, politicians, tycoons.  The big bosses.  Most of the bosses were bosses of other bosses, as was Gino.  But Gino’s mama was the big boss.


He switched on the light in the bedroom closet. Serafina had as many purses as she had pairs of shoes.  He had no clue which one his mama could be referring to.  So he grabbed an armful and brought the purses downstairs to his mother.


“Gino I told you I wanted my purse, not the whole closet!”


He looked down at his feet.


“Give them to me,” she snarled in the impatient tone he knew so well. 


Donna Serafina rummaged through the half dozen bags, searching and muttering about what a disappointment her only son Gino had always been.  Finally, exasperated, she pushed the button that rang the bell that brought the bodyguard to the room.


“Yes Donna Serafina?”


“A cigar: bring me a cigar!” 


Paolo had been working for the family for many years. he knew better than to guess which cigar would please his boss.  He glanced sideways to Gino, who met his gaze with a barely perceptible nod. 


Paola quickly returned with a large teak cigar box.  It had one of every brand of cigar made in Cuba during the preceding decade.  He smoothly flipped the lid open, offering it to Donna Serafina.  He looked past the woman to see behind her Gino giving him half a wink, which Paola took as an approval


After rummaging through the cigar selection for no less than ten minutes Donna Serafina chose a cigar.  As Paola held the lighter to cigar.  She took a couple of puffs.  The cigar she chose was a Cortina of highest quality and higher price.  But she abruptly hissed out a final stream of hot smoke between her clenched teeth, and ground the end of the cigar into the ashtray.


She turned to Gino, and slapped him across the face.  “When I ask for a cigar, I want a cigar.”  Gino looked downwards.


“I am sorry Mama..” Gino looked at his shoes.


“Yes you are sorry.  A sorry son, that is what you are and have always been….”


Paolo inconspicuously turned to leave, as quietly as he was able.


Donna Serafina spun around and  snarled “Make sure you dump that box in the garbage pail.”


“Yes Donna Serafina, as you wish.”







  


The Office of Inspector Sam Giuliani


Sam stumbled into his office at 8 am Monday morning.  He was dog-tired and could barely keeps his eyes open.  He had spent six hours at the crime scene  and had a fat steno notebook filled with notes and drawings.  He took a look at himself in the mirror and groaned.


He scrubbed his faced with a cold washcloth, taking care to avoid the purple, swollen rim of his half shut eye.  His head throbbed.


His office was the simulacrum of his life - papers scattered, cheap thrift store furniture adrift on a threadbare coffee-stained rug, dishes precariously stacked in the sink below an open and bare cupboard which hung at an angle due to a broken hinge.  


He pulled down the foldaway bed which dated from a decade before the Depression, and clambered onto the bare mattress.  The rusty bedsprings groaned, complained, and creaked with the slightest movement.  But in less than a minute he was fast asleep, a deep exhausted slumber. Neither the bedsprings nor the intermittent rumble and clatter of the elevated train which passed his window every five minutes would interrupt his catatonic dreamless state.


* * * * *


At that moment, across town the Lieutenant was sitting with his Captain back at headquarters.  The Captain listened to the Lieutenant’s description of the previous night’s horror.  During his long career he had seen it all, but nothing quite like the cold-blooded, senseless murder of a well-known and respected churchman.  He shook his head.


“Lieutenant, I want you to throw everything we’ve got into solving this one.  The Mayor sees this crime as a blight on this city’s reputation. - and his reputation as well. As you know he is up for re-election this year, and his “tough on crime” campaign pledge is looking a little thin if this doesn’t get cleared up, and fast.”


“Yes sir. I understand,  Captain.”  


His Lieutenant could have said more but chose to bite his tongue.  This, the Lieutenant thought to himself,  is the same Mayor who cut his detective budget to the bone over the past decade.


“We are working on this as we speak.  I have personally assigned the case to Detective Sam Giuliani, Chicago’s finest…”  


 He allowed the sentence to drift off into the air. He sensed that fortunately the irony was more subtle than his Captain.  






The Trunk in the Attic



Sister Maria Salvatore opened the door to the attic. She breathed the thick musty, stale still air.  Attics all have a peculiar and unique smell. The moment she opened the door, the long forgotten smell  immediately brought her back to a long-forgotten past.  In the dense silence, amid the long stagnant air of the place, she felt a sudden storm of feelings within.  Memories swirled in her heart that she had long kept under lock and key.  


The day she received the news that her mother was gone, she was four years old.  She could not understand who all these people were, and looked desperately to find her. 


The day her father was buried she was seven years old.  She remembered the black dress she wore, the women weeping. Her small hand grasped an aunt’s hands so hard that her fingers were numb.


The day she walked through the creaking, rusty gate of the boarding school she was greeted by an ancient woman, grey eyes glistening with kindness.  Sister Genevieve was frail, and tiny.  The many decades of her vocation had marked her. Her head leaned forward at an angle,, her  back and shoulders permanently bent in the attitude of prayer.



All these memories washed over her like a huge wave.  She sat down on the trunk, her face now in her hands, overwhelmed.  Quietly sobbing, she prayed.  But the memories kept coming.


The day Monsignor Callaghan said goodbye, sending her off to the convent for her novitiate , he blessed her, and prayed for her vocation . Afterwards he told her that he had something for her, a parting gift of sorts.


He handed her a metal box, about the size of a shoebox.  It had a padlock. The Monsignor was very old, and Maria well-remembered the tremors of his warm hands as he wrapped his hands around hers, as he proffered her the key.  Maria had no idea that his Parkinson’s disease would finish him in a few years and this would be the last time she would see him.


“I have thought and prayed a long time about this,” he began.  “And I came to the conclusion that I should give this to you.  I have know idea what is in the box, I will tell you that right now. How I came by it, is a long tale,  But suffice it to say, this belongs to you.”


“Seeking the counsel of the Holy Spirit, I prayed fervently.  It is my conviction, and my advice to you, that you do not open this.  My sense is this is Pandora’s box.  I considered burying it and saving you from any danger, but at the same time realized that it was not my property, it is yours.


“Is it a blessing or a curse?  This is the eternal question, as you will find out.  This question applies to all things, because both things are both things.  It is your choice.”


He blessed her, and the box.  


“I pray that the Holy Spirit guide you,  and may God the Father provide for you;, and may Jesus and his blessed Mother always walk with you and keep you safe.”



Sister Maria pulled out a handkerchief out of the sleeve of her robe and dried her tears.  She took out the key to her trunk and opened it.  The remnants of her life before the convent were sparse., but dear to her.  A stuffed animal, Tonino, with long floppy ears who comforted her since her earliest memories, had outlived both her parents.  Maria hugged it to herself, feeling her heart swell with the sweetness of Tonino’s constancy and loyalty.  It had been many years since they were together.  Tonino was relegated  to the trunk by a Superior who insisted that Maria rid herself of distractions and attachments..  Maria actually rescued him from the trash dumpster under a midnight moon, an operation which would not have ended well had her Superior found out.  Poor Tonino had been locked away ever since.  


Their reunion was sweet comfort.  But very quickly the din of wailing sirens from the catastrophe on the street below intruded into her consciousness.  In the far corner of the trunk lie the metal box Fr. Callaghan had given her.  Never had it been opened.  Maria gently lifted the box out, and took up the key which was under the box.  She had already decided her course of action.


She lifted the box on to her lap.  She shifted the box, testing it.  It was quite heavy, and there were no sounds. She made the sign of the cross, andput the key into the lock.   She turned it until with a click the lock sprung open.
















Writer's Choice - Rick Thues

  Little Gidding (getting it done) What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. The end is where ...