Roger Dodd rumbled down the stairs, into the kitchen, and planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Good morning, dear,” he greeted her, almost robotically. The portly man, who stood substantially shorter than six-foot and likely tipped the scales at two hundo, grabbed the awaiting cup of steaming Joe off the kitchen counter and buried his face into The Times-Picayune’s Sport section. A deep sigh soon escaped his lips; the god damn Hornets had lost again. It seemed that each and every time he had money on their games, Chris Paul and company completely shit the bed.

“Fuckin’ Hornets,” he muttered under his breath, but audible enough his spouse heard.

She uncrossed her arms from in front of her gown, walked behind him, and began massaging his shoulders. “It’s just sports, Rog. Not like the Hornets losing is life or death, so just relax.” She grinned, pressing her lips against his balding head.

Roger reached behind the chair and rubbed his wife’s exposed legs. “Still, would it hurt them to when a damn game?” he complained.

She playfully slapped Roger on the shoulder. “And, how about watching your language? Your son is going to be downstairs any minute. I’d rather he not get suspended for cussing at school.” She snuck her head around her husband’s, giving him peck on the cheek before walking over to the sink.

“Sure, sure,” he responded, but without much meaning. He always swore, everybody fucking swears. That’s the main channel of communication nowadays. People swear in business meetings and, shit, even at church. Nick was sixteen for God sakes, he ought to be swearing. Can you even be respect without tossing in an expletive every now and again? Roger pondered the question, his mind completely occupied.

“Roger!” came the stinging voice of his wife, not thrilled with being ignored the first time.

The second calling snapped him from his in-brain tangent and whirled his head around. “W-what?” he answered.

“I said you need to take Nick to school today,” she replied with an agitated tone.

Christ she’s annoying, Roger silently thought to himself. No, no, she’s not. The Hornets are annoying, taxes are annoying, and bookies are annoying. Ain’t life a bitch, Roger again decided to no one but himself. One ballgame and my day is shot. What a crock of shit. The one-sided conversation with himself soon took backseat upon seeing the glare his wife was directing toward him.

“Nick, school … I got it,” he confirmed his morning duty, allowing his wife to shake her head and return to the dishes. Roger stood from his chair, took one last gulp of coffee, and walked over to the kitchen entry. “Nick!” he called out, “time to roll, big guy. The cavalry is moving out.”

Thundering, rapid footsteps soon followed. Emerging from the stairwell was Nick, dressed in school uniform with a touch of gel holding his brown locks into place. He flipped his book bag from the floor onto his shoulder and greeted his dad with a grin.

“I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Breakfast?” Roger inquired with raised eyebrows.

“Nah, I’m cool,” Nick answered, waving him off.

Roger shrugged, turned from his soon, and grabbed the briefcase resting against the wall. Kids apparently don’t eat breakfast anymore. He plopped another kiss on his wife’s cheek and headed toward the front door. “Oh, and honey, I might be a little late getting home … errands and such.” He scowled toward the end, truly not excited about his post-work activities for this day.

And with that, father and son were out the door.

II. PRECIOUS WOOL

“Hey, hey. If it ain’t last night’s big winner!”

Mickey Scalese’s toothy grin and sarcastic taunting was about as annoying as one could get. Scalese looked and dressed like a greaseball. If anybody should ever be labeled a guido, it was this prick. Scalese ran the books for Sal Esposito, the major crime boss in New Orleans. Well, nobody ever confirmed that, but it was widely believed to be true. Esposito was a ticking time bomb of a man, fitting every Italian mobster stereotype in existence. When you got on Esposito’s bad side, you ended up dead. Quick.

Roger Dodd visited him with much dismay, and being on the bad end of the stick made it even worse. A conversation he’d expected to resolve his problems had not gone according to script, leaving him stuck between a rock and a hard place. He’d spent all day at working dreading this moment, but it had to get settled sooner or later.

“So, forty Gs, buddy,” Scalese announced, Roger was surprised he wasn’t frothing at the mouth.

Dodd took a deep breath, his eyes locked onto Scalese’s. “I run into a bit of trouble, Mick. It’s gonna be a week or two before I can get you the money,” Dodd explained with hairs standing tall on his arms and an uneasy grin.

To Roger’s surprise, Mickey stood calm, nodding along with his words. “Roger, Roger,” Scalese started, looking down at the floor and then back up, “you betting with money that you ain’t got? I always figured you was smarter than that. Yanno, working at that fancy accounting firm and all.”

“That’s not it, I swear,” Roger protested, only to be cut off by Scalese’s raised hand.

“Tsk, tsk.” Mickey stared into Roger, wheels spinning and, to be honest, that scared the hell out of Roger. “You got a week to come up with the cash,” Scalese informed Roger, that toothy grin reemerging, “if you don’t have it by then, I don’t think I need to explain the consequences.”

Roger wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Thanks, Mickey.” He hated kissing ass to a piece of shit like Scalese, but when you’re fucked, you’re fucked. This was a whole different world, their world. No lawyers, judges, or courts. The mafia handled their own problems in their own unique ways. Roger spun around and headed toward the exit, happy as hell to be leaving in one piece.

“Oh, and Roger, throw in an extra five for my troubles.”

Greedy fucking guido.

Roger turned back toward Mickey and nodded his head before backing his way out the door. Things had gotten a bit more complicated than Roger had hoped, but trouble like this could disappear just as easily as it came.

iii. The DEN

Tits and ass, that’s why people came to Big Sally’s. Well, that and who wouldn’t want to hang out at a club owned by a well-known crime boss. Bunch of white collared stiffs who get their rocks off by being in the mere presence of a powerfully, violent man like Sal Esposito. They’d come down to the club, and maybe, just maybe impress some broad by shaking hands with Esposito. And Sal didn’t mind shaking a few hands, especially if he could build his clientele while doing so.

On this night, Sal was done socializing with the commoners; he had business to discuss, important business. His VIP table in the back looked straight from King Arthur and Knights of the Roundtable. Around the table sat Esposito’s most loyal and trusted men. Capos like Dom DeNucci, Johnny Quicks, and Genero Lazzari. Sal’s brother, Vincent Esposito, flanked him to the right and to his left, his close friend and advisor, Ricardo “Richie” Rizzo. Any organized crime unit would have given a nut to sit amongst this crowd, but none were so fortunate. The Esposito Family were tighter than a nun’s cunt and seemingly impenetrable.

“Everybody shaddup,” Sal ordered, and when Sal spoke people listened. Sal was an imposing man, tall and thick, slick black hair, and eyes darker than coal. He commanded a room just as you’d expect a mob boss to do. “Ever since Katrina, these spic Cubans and Russian fucks have been pushin’ on New Orleans. Like sharks in the water, they’re circlin’ us, thinkin’ we’re still weak, and picking off whatever meat they can from our plates.”

Sal’s words caused a rumbling to erupt from the table, mostly racist remarks about Cubans and Russians. Truly, they were a lovely bunch of individuals.

The Boss held up a hand to silence the men. “Enough is enough, and now is the time to take this town back. Now, how do you fellas think we should handle such a task? Do we go to war with both sides?” Sal looked around the table, and received a shake of the head from each man there, even Johnny Quicks, who was notorious for his bad temper and quick strike mentality. “War with both the Russians and Cubans is out of the question. This city just got through one disaster and she ain’t ready for a full scale war.”

Again, all the men agreed.

“So, we pit ‘em against each other. Let ‘em tear one another down then, and only then, do we act. We cut off the snake’s head and the body dies.” The intensity in Sal Esposito’s eyes flared up and his voice lowered to a rumble.

Dom DeNucci took a sip of his bourbon and then quipped, “Yeah, that’s science. Everybody knows that.” His comment got laughs all around. Dom was the jokester of the crew; the guy would be popping off jokes even if he was beating your kneecaps with a baseball bat. It was his style and it worked for the overweight capo.

Sal chuckled lightly at Dom. “But that’s the deal, boys. Figured I’d let you know before heads started rolling, don’t want you getting squeamish at the sight of blood,” Sal delivered, casting an eye on Genero Lazzari, the soft spoken capo originally from Brooklyn.

The whole table broke into laughter.

“That all you got for us, Sal?” Johnny Quicks asked from across the table.

“That’s the long and skinny of it, boys.” He scanned the entire table, making eye contact with each man there. “I’m done with ya, Quicks … you can go do whatever you got planned. Thursday night, so bangin’ strippers, eh?” Sal slapped his brother Vincent on the shoulder.

Vincent quipped in, “Thursday night? That’s every night.”

A table full of mobsters and not one of them could keep a straight-face.

Not one except Dom DeNucci, who adjusted his tie, and glanced between Sal and Johnny Quicks. “Not every night, fellas. Fridays, Quicks puts kittens in a gunny sack and t’rows ‘em into the Mississippi,” Dom cut in, throwing a wink at Johnny Quicks, who with a wide grin, shook his head and flipped his fingers off his chin in Dom’s direction.

“Fuck ya,” Quicks murmured, standing from his chair and stomping off.

His reaction only got more laughs from the crew that remained, but soon they began to clear out as well. Three men – Sal, his brother Vincent, and his advisor Ricardo Rizzo – stayed behind. This trio was the brain trust of the Esposito Family – making moves, ordering hits, and keeping the capos as well as every other made man, henchman, or street thug in line. A considerable amount of pressure rested on their shoulders, mostly Sal’s, but the other men also. So when Tommy C (Campanelli) approached the table, the three could only imagine what they had to deal with.

“Mr. Esposito, got a minute?” Tommy C requested an audience from a distance.

Sal ran his fingers down his face, giving his eyes a quick rub. “Sure, Tommy. I got a minute.”

Tommy removed his hands from his pockets and closer to Sal, close enough to keep his voice low. “I just stopped by Mickey Scalese’s joint for pickup. He’s light, real light.”

“How much?”

“Forty large.”

“What’s the scoop?”

Tommy C’s index finger scratched the side of his nose before he answered, “Some accountant fuck didn’t have the money. Scalese gave ‘im a week, but a week turned into three. The guy skipped town, or something. Ain’t answerin’ no phone calls, ain’t at home – he definitely cut and run.”

“And?” Sal asked, hands held out in agitation. The story was slow, too slow.

The young, well relatively young mobster, realized his boss’ annoyance and pushed on. “Scalese had an idea on how he wanted to handle it, but he wanted to run it by you. Forty is a pretty penny.”

Sal nodded, as both Rizzo and his brother looked on. “Tell Mickey that he knows how to handle himself, and he shouldn’t have to fucking check with me every time he wants to take a piss. I don’t want nothin’ to do with this, and next time pass this information to me through Ricardo or Vincent.”

Tommy C nodded and turned to leave.

“Hold up,” Sal said, halting Tommy in his tracks, “what’s this guy’s name?” Tommy opened his mouth to answer, but quickly found his response being waved off. “Nevermind, kid. I rather not,” and with that, Tommy nodded again, turned, and disappeared amongst the paying customers.

iv. BO PEEP AND THE MISSING SHEEP

Stepping foot into the New Orleans PD District Eight headquarters was the drastic measure Caroline Dodd had not wanted to make. With her sister-in-law, Denise Sizemore, by her side, she hesitantly approached the front desk.

“Hello, ma’am. How may I help you?” the heavy set man behind the counter inquired. An eye-catching silver tag on his uniform read ‘McGrath’. McGrath was an older gentleman with kind, blue eyes and a warm smile.

Caroline cleared her throat, looked down at the floor, and then felt her sister-in-law’s hand softly clutching her bicep. “Yes, umm,” she struggled to find her words. She sniffled. “I’d like to file a Missing Persons Report … my husband … my husband is missing.” The emotion release from finally saying what she’d been afraid to say was draining, and Caroline buried her face into her sister-in-law’s shoulder.

Glancing back and forth between women, McGrath, wearing much sympathy, walked away, pulled a white sheet from a file cabinet, and returned to hand the sheet with a clipboard to Denise. “I need you to fill that out, ma’am, and we’ll have an officer come right by to take a statement.”

Denise nodded at the kind man, who with a heavy blink, returned the gesture. She led her brother’s wife away from the desk toward the waiting area, a three-quarter square of cushioned seats with tables in the corners. They sat down in the secluded area and Denise began filling out the form; Caroline merely looked on in shock. Shocked her husband was missing, shocked at the curveball life had tossed.

She whimpered once, and then fell silent.

Five minutes passed, and then five more. Finally, a middle-aged man, in his 40s perhaps, rounded the corner and confidently strode up toward the two ladies. He was the polar opposite of McGrath; a suit replaced the bland NOPD uniform and he carried a certain confidence, a swagger that was most noticeable.

“Ladies, if you would follow me.”

He moved with a response as Denise and Caroline hustled behind him. Into a fairly small room he led them, waiting at the door and then closing it behind the pair as they entered. He motioned for them to grab a seat, which they did, and then took a seat adjacent from them.

“My name is Detective Landry. I understand you’re filing a Missing Persons Report,” Landry auto-piloted through the opening, reaching out to obtain the proper forms from Mrs. Sizemore. “And your husband,” his eyes darted back and forth between the two women before Denise pointed to Caroline, “has been missing for nearly two weeks now?”

Caroline nodded, her eyes finally drifting up to Detective Landry.

“May I ask why it took two weeks to come down to the station?” Landry questioned, leaning forward in anticipation.

Caroline looked at Denise, and then back to the detective. “Roger said he was going on a business trip. He didn’t call or answer his phone for a few days and I got worried. Called his work, they had no clue about any business trips.”

“Not ordinary behavior for your husband to lie to you?”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, not at all.”

It was now that Landry produced a notepad and pen. “So outside the sudden trip, was your husband acting differently? Showing any signs of stress?” he asked, rhythmically tapping the pen against the table’s edge.

Another ‘no’.

Landry sighed. Talk about worthless information, or lack of information. If this was all they could tell him, he might as well crumple up their report and toss it in the garbage. “Is there anything either of you can tell me?” he asked, or nearly pleaded with an emphasis on ‘anything’.

Caroline again shook her head, and started to sob uncontrollably.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ almighty was all Landry could think at that moment. He understood the grief of the situation, but coming into a police station to blubber like a baby wasn’t helping anything. It was somewhere between scorning Mrs. Caroline Dodd and deciding he was done with these two that he saw “it”. A flash of guilt, maybe embarrassment, from the relatively collected tag along, Sizemore.

“Roger,” she started, but quickly stopped. Landry’s arched eyebrows urged her farther and she responded with a nervous gulp. “He asked me for money before he went missing,” she finally spit out, immediately glancing over to see Caroline’s head turning toward her.

“How much money and did he mention what for?” Landry’s interest was peaked now.

“Forty,” she stopped, clearing her throat, “forty thousand dollars.”

Caroline Dodd was wide-eyed and Detective Landry was busy scribbling in his notepad.

“What for?” Landry asked again, this time cutting Caroline Dodd off just as she opened her mouth. Her eyes were still fixed on her sister-in-law. Obviously, Denise had decided to withhold a certain amount of information from her brother’s wife.

“Sports,” Denise replied concisely.

“Gambling?”

Denise nodded, her eyes looking apologetically at Caroline.

Gambling – figures.

A plain Jane missing person had suddenly gotten much more interesting. Every cop on the NOPD knew that the big boss, Sal Esposito, ran the largest gambling ring in New Orleans. It was assumed he had illegal casinos on top of the highly profitable sports betting ring he ran. It wasn’t the gambling that had truly interested Landry. No, it was the opportunity to take another run at Esposito.

Sally boy, looks like my promise to you is starting to look more and more authentic.

v. ASTRAY FROM THE FLOCK

The stale smell of the rented room and the muffled sounds of an old, small television wore Roger thin, and the paranoia that coursed throughout him worked in similar fashion. He had been staying in the rank complex, if you could call it that, in the Magnolia Housing Project for over two weeks. The Magnolia district was dangerous, at least dangerous enough for Roger to never have any desire to visit. Of course, desperate times call for desperate measures, and owing the mob classified. Better to hide somewhere like Magnolia than a ritzy hotel, where any thug could get lucky and spot him.

Roger ran an unsteady hand over the dirty, and sparse, hair that he still had. Forget about showering in this dump; it was better suited for rats than a human, much less an accountant. His white tee clung tightly to his greasy skin, yellow stains forming at the armpits. A hot shower would be utopia, but no sense in dying over hygiene. Lay low for awhile, let the heat dissipate, and pay them their money. It’ll all work out, he thought to himself for the thousandth time.

A gasp, brought on by a shadow passing by the only window, escaped his lips.

Each passerby caused a stir of fear, but none brought trouble. Only the homeless, Roger figured. Gangbangers or prostitutes, something filthy and revolting he was sure. Through the thin sheetrock walls, Roger had heard more than one pair of men and women come through. They’d use the room for an hour or two, then they were gone; only, new ones would replace them in revolving door fashion. Roger was sickened by these people; even in his grimy state, he was better than the scum and filth around him.

Crooks like Mickey Scalese and … Sal Esposito.

The very name sent a chill down his spine. He did his damndest to avoid thinking about what that monster had done and what more he was capable of. The thought instantly resulted in images of his family dancing around in his head. Oh, God, did he hope they were safe and sound. His mistakes had put his entire family in danger, but yet here he was, hiding in a hotel room without knowledge of his family’s wellbeing. Out of fear, he hadn’t talked to his wife or Nick in two weeks. It was too dangerous, what if they tracked the phone calls?

“They’re fine,” he whispered softly, his head lowering into his hands.

VI. A HUNGRY WOLF’S HUNT

Another man, also in the Magnolia Housing Project, waited in a black Mercedes as the sun dipped below the horizon. He was dressed in all black, even the Beretta 92FS resting his lap was black. He waited patiently as he always did. His job was handling matters for the boss and if Scalese came to him saying somebody owed the boss big, then by God he would collect, one way or another. They were just another face, another name after all.

A flurry of knocks on the passenger side window broke his focus from the shambled building. He leaned over and unlocked the door, which allowed the young Italian outside the car to slip in.

“I see you found the place,” said the youngster, pointing out the obvious.

The man, his eyes reverting back to his original point of focus, replied with a grumble and a slight nod.

“Has he come out yet?”

The man took a deep breath and shook his head ‘no’.

“These fuckin’ crack addicts are the perfect fuckin’ snitches. Ya know they fuckin’ see everything that goes on down here. Ya offer ‘em fifty bucks and they’d scour the whole goddamn city to find somebody. Ya figure this suit would know better than to come down here … he sticks out like a sore fuckin’ thumb.”

“Listen, kid,” he drew in another deep breath, “put a fuckin’ lid on it. I’m trying to watch for this bum and I can’t focus with you yappin’ in my ear. So just be quiet and keep an eye out.”

Finally, a little peace and quiet.

The kid sat back in his seat, slightly embarrassed that he’d been put in his place. He nervously fiddled with his fingers as he repositioned himself over and over in the passenger seat. His nervous energy didn’t go unnoticed as soon he had the driver’s undivided attention.

“You some kind of retard?” he asked harshly.

“Nah, I’m uhh … just nervous.”

“You’re makin’ me nervous with your twitching, and I ain’t never nervous,” the older man replied, repositioning himself in his seat. “Fuck this, I ain’t sittin’ here with you no more,” he finally burst, eyeing the youngster with contempt as he picked the Beretta off his lap.

“What should I do?” the kid inquired.

“You stay right goddamn here. It don’t take two guys to ice some accountant prick,” he answered as he stepped outside the car. He leaned back down as he started to close the door, “I’ll be back in a flash, kid.”

Taking a glance around the parking lot ahead of him, he tucked the Beretta into his leather jacket’s side pocket. The coast appeared to be clear as he moved forward across the lot and toward the shitty motel. What room did he say this fuck was in … 6 or 9 … shit … it was 9, definitely 9. His eyes scanned down the motel’s front and this time he noticed a man, also dressed in black, slouched against the wall between rooms 5 and 6.

“Crackheads,” he muttered, shaking his head in disgust.

He stepped past the slouched figure, and his closer look revealed the man to be wearing a fedora down over his face. He wasn’t moving, however, and was probably so strung out that even gunshots wouldn’t wake him. Doors 6, 7, and 8 all stood still as he moved by them toward lucky door number 9. As he crept by the window, his footsteps slowed and he reached his right hand into his pocket to retrieve his debt collector.

With a quick tug, he chambered a round.

The round that would end Roger Dodd’s life.

He squared up with the door and took a step back. Kick the door down and shoot this suit, done deal. As he drew his leg back, his attention was grabbed by the most ordinary of questions in the thickest of accents.

“Hey dar chief, ya gotta light?”