“'He had more money than God and more secrets than the devil,’ were some of the words chosen by state prosecutor Jim Horrisey this morning when asked for comment on the arrest of suspected killer, and racketeer Mason Dame. Known for his public persona as a philanthropist and art collector in some of the most elite circles on the east coast, Dame has been apprehended for the alleged murder of five people, alongside the orchestration of several dozen more killings. The result of a several year investigation carried out by the FBI, these charges are paired with hundreds more encapsulating a wide range of illegal activities from money laundering, to drug smuggling.
Here with us outside the courthouse, we are joined by independent investigative journalist, Harry Milson, who is one of the nation’s foremost reporters on organized crime. Mr. Milson, you have criticized the recent arrest on the basis of concerns for public safety, do you wish to expound on these concerns for listeners?
‘Yes, thank-you, Ms. Kelcy. For those of us observing the ponds in which Mr. Dame has been swimming for the last decade, these developments are of little surprise, as I am sure they are for many listeners at home. In the court of public opinion, it has been known that Mr. Dame, if not sat directly at the head of the table, has been heavily involved in running one the largest criminal organizations this nation has ever seen. The pile of bodies atop which his throne sits, is surely much larger than just those reported on by authorities, and his resources may even rival that of the state which intends to prosecute him. They have a battle on their hands, even with the amount of evidence they have managed to accumulate.’’
‘Why then, do you criticize the move to take this dangerous man into custody? Is it not in the public’s interest to have him off the streets?’
‘My concerns lie in the nature of those that Mr. Dame buried beneath our beloved concrete jungle. Among the dead are criminals, gangsters, and those who stalk one another in the undergrowth of this city. Even if he is not the head of the Simion family in title, his absence as de facto leader will undoubtedly create a power vacuum, which will likely be filled with a replacement that has significantly less regard for remaining within those bounds.’
‘So you are concerned about what will come of these nefarious organizations in Mr. Dame’s absence?’
‘Yes, undoubtedly. More so, I am concerned that Mr. Dame’s respect for those boundaries will degrade. I am worried about the hell this man will bring with him back onto our streets when he is undoubtedly released. He just does not play by the same rules as our justice system. I have met Mason on several occasions over the years, and I do not hyperbolize when I state that he is certainly more demon than man. The DOJ does not have the ability to contain the disaster they have now set in motion.’”
The radio seemed to trail off, as more and more people entered the bar, "Another hard work day completed for the masses,” a man muttered to himself as he downed the last of his drink.
“Ever thought of getting a job yourself, Adam?” The bartender responded.
“Another whiskey please, Wilson,” Adam said, “double. Now that you mention it, my savings are running a bit low.”
“No wonder, you spend more than my weekly pay here on a daily basis.”
“I just love your company,” Adam glanced at the radio, and slammed back the golden liquid a moment after the bartender set it down on the bar, “Seems I am in luck, I recently heard about an open position.”
—------------
Later, in a dark smoke filled room at the top of a tower in Manhattan, a dozen men in suits sat around a boardroom table and screamed down one another’s throats. It was here that battles were truly fought. Those that perished on doorsteps, and at the wheel of their cars were not casualties of battle, but the cleanup that happened afterwards.
“He must have told you something!” one of them hurled his words at the head of the table.
“Silence,” a large man with an adornment of golden rings and a shiny bald head shot back to the room. A moment after his command was obeyed, he proceeded with his thought, “Mason didn’t tell me anything. We have no leverage. All of our strategy, all of our black-mail, everything we have on this city resides in his head, and his head alone.”
“We’re so fucked,” one of the suits muttered.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” The bald man said, “we all know he won’t remain behind bars for long. We just need to stay afloat until such a time comes as he can sit next to me once again. We might have lost everything, but those in this room are the only ones that know this to be true. More immediate is the need to find the rat that led to his arrest. That same disgusting creature risks leaking that which only we know.”
At this, a composed man in a tailcoat strode towards the door, and locked it, before removing a bottle of wine from the nearby bar. He began to fill the glasses of those at the table, before taking his place behind the right shoulder of the head, who continued, “we will remain here until we discover a plan for sniffing out our rat.”
The following hour was filled with baseless theories, and finger pointing. The men discussed subordinates, outsiders, and enemies, but ultimately the only motif that repeatedly appeared was the undeniable fact that only someone sat in that room would have the information to inform on Mr. Dame. Eventually, this devolved into the twelve men standing around that mahogany table, pointing weapons at one another. The one at the head remained seated, tapping his finger on the wood in worry, the servant behind him, as still as a statue. The yelling had returned.
Then, suddenly one of the men collapsed onto the table. The suit across from him fired off a shot, startled by the sudden movement, embedding a bullet in the adjacent wall. All guns turned to the one that fired.
“Why did you shoot him?” the bald man demanded.
“I didn’t!” The shooter stammered, “I fired after he collapsed. I swear. Check.”
One of the other men pushed the body to the side, which slid off its chair onto the floor, “he’s telling the truth. He’s dead, but the bullet missed.”
“May I speak?” The servant now asked the head of the table.
“Do you have something to do with this?”
“Oh yes,” Adam replied, “I poisoned his wine. It took a little longer to work than I expected, I must admit.”
All guns once again shifted focus.
“Permission to explain, sir? Before you all fire?”
“Very well,” The big man said.
“Mr. Brims there,” Adam said, pointing to the dead man as he shed the tailcoat, “is your rat. I have exterminated him for you. In exchange for a favour of course.”
“What proof do you have? He was my son-in-law for God’s sake.”
“I’m so glad you asked. Look under your seat.”
All those standing around the table leaned in to get a closer look, as the boss removed two objects that were taped to the bottom of his seat. One was a beige envelope, the other was an IED, “what is this?” he demanded.
“The proof. Inside that envelope resides a set of photos of your deceased colleague meeting with FBI investigators, timestamped across the last three years. The other thing, well, let's just call that insurance. I will disarm it remotely after I have left your lovely offices.”
The big man slid his hand in the envelope and removed a set of photographs. He quickly slid them back inside. Alongside these, he also removed a smaller, thick white envelope, “very well. What favour did you have in mind?”
“I heard you have an open position within your organization.”
“You are referring to Mr. Dame, I presume?”
“I am.”
“I am afraid not just anyone can fill that position. Do you have any idea what Mason Dame did for us here?”
“Oh, Mr. Simion, I am not just anyone. Please open the other envelope you found.”
Once again, the sound of baited breath and tearing paper filled the room, Don Simion’s hand reached into the envelope and removed a thin black book, a passport. He opened it and gasped.
“What is it?” one of the men breached the conversation. Mr. Simion threw it on the table for everyone to see. It contained a photo of Mason Dame, but with an alternative name.
“Who the fuck is Samuel Dryfus?” One of the men voiced.
“I believe he was your advisor, Mr. Simion.” Adam said, a smirk brightening his face.
“Sir, this is authentic,” one of the men said, holding the passport in his hand.
“How do you have this?” The Don inquired.
“Before he was your advisor, Samuel, or as you know him, Mason, was my apprentice, among other things. He actually got this job through my referral.”
The bald man’s face froze. The memory of a nearly forgotten phone call passed through his mind. The words that were uttered to him on that distant night still brought fear to his eyes even now. The voice on the other end reverberated through his mind, the same voice as he now heard from this stranger.
Adam, seeing the recognition in the man’s face continued, “of course, if I were to die here today, all of those things we talked about would be released by a confidant of mine. Even if there was a man willing to die alongside me, would he be willing to tarnish that beautiful legacy of his, I wonder?”
“Very well. Tell us what to do.”
—-----------------------------------------
Counter to the prediction of journalists across the country, the period following Mr. Dame’s arrest was beyond peaceful for the general public. Months passed, and bodies accumulated, without a single civilian caught in the crossfire. Eventually, the sheer monopoly that the Simion family possessed removed the need for violent crime almost entirely.
Meanwhile, in a jail cell, Mason Dame seethed. It wasn’t due to the state of his case of course. That was going exactly as expected. Jurors went missing, judges bought fancy new cars. He spent his months sitting quietly, listening to the tales of those newly booked. Listening had always been his talent. He had expected bloodshed, and instead heard of peace. He expected everything to fall apart in his absence. Had his ego made him believe that his invisible throne held more power than it had? In that case, he resolved, the entire kingdom would need to burn down.
One Tuesday, a lawyer approached the bars, and the door opened. It began shortly after. First foot soldiers, and then their commanders, bodies once again began to fall. Eventually, security be damned, another meeting was held in that smoky boardroom. The same characters in a far different arrangement. Mason pushed the large doors open with a trail of corpses in his wake. Sat around the table were thirteen chairs, each housing the remnants of a man. A clean hole in each one of their skulls.
Mason grit his teeth, another thing stolen, he thought.
“It seems we’re both out of a job,” a voice spoke out from behind him.
“Adam.”
“Samuel.”
A smile crept across Samuel’s face, “I am going to contact HR.”
Adam kicked one of the dead in the hallway, splattering blood across the wall, “I think you’ve killed HR.”
“Then I’ll need to speak to the CEO.”
Adam smiled too, then, “which one of us would that be.”
At that, their guns raised into a kiss, the two barrels pressed to one another, “I could be,” Samuel said.
Adam lowered his gun, and looked around, “you could be. It would be relaxing, I'm sure, to be a leader of none.” His eyes locked with Samuel’s, “or perhaps, now that I've tied all loose ends, you could return to being a lover of one.”
“Is that what this is?”
“You said it was work that was the problem.”
“You said it was work, actually. You were ready for retirement,” Samuel rebuked.
“Aren’t you, now?”
“You’ve given me little choice.”
“Isn’t that how we’ve always played.”
“And you think you’ve won? Do you know why I wasn’t ready to give it up?”
“Because you loved the carnage more than you loved me,” Adam trailed off.
“Incorrect. Because I wasn’t yet your equal. That’s no way to build a healthy relationship, Adam.”
“And here, I’ve stolen the chance for it from you, how ironic.”
“You think so?” Samuel reached into his pocket, and removed a cellphone. He dialed a few numbers and put it to his ear, “yes, please come up now.” A few moments later the elevator ding went off, and the doors opened. Adam looked over his shoulder and watched two familiar figures looking at him from within.
“Mr. Horrisey, “ Adam said, addressing the state prosecutor, “and Wilson. Nice to see you both. In Sam’s pocket the whole time, I see.”
The lawyer, and the bartender simply smiled in return, as Adam returned his attention to an old love.
“As you said, now that I’ve removed all loose ends, perhaps retirement is in order,” Samuel grinned.
“Not quite all.” At that, two shots went off, as Samuel, and Adam fired into the elevator, and two men fell dead, “you played me.”
“Absolutely.”
They would go on to kiss one another there, the dead at their feet simply a reminder of what brought them back together. They would go on to find a more conventional ambience for future dates. Even so, many years later, on a fridge in a humble bungalow in upstate New York, a polaroid picture is taped. It depicts two men smiling, one of them throwing up bunny ears behind the head of their prop, a corpse in the shape of a large bald mob boss. A Halloween party from many years ago, they would say.