Authors note: The title of this chapter is a verse from the song Coma White by Marilyn Mason
Sitting in the holding cell, Frederick Parker sighed. If he was back in San Francisco, the mobster would have woken up next to his mistress living in the famed Haight-Asbury district. Instead he woke up in a cold cell of the police station he assaulted. A vain attempt to get his son out, when the legal maneuvers employed earlier failed to bear fruit.
If Frederick Parker was still back in San Francisco, he would be taking breakfast at his tavern/club a few blocks from the famed Fisherman’s Wharf. Dining on a rich breakfast of fresh caught seafood with poached eggs and toast; his preferred version of eggs Benedict. Instead, breakfast consisted of cold scrambled eggs, soggy toast and instant coffee that isn’t fit to be called coffee.
His day after breakfast would of gone along the lines of meeting his trusted business associates; making plans and smoothing over a few deals with a few rivals. On occasion the odd hands on situation of physically roughing up a rather difficult client. Never going so far as to kill the person; a split lip and a few broken bones was more than enough for Freddy the Shark. If the man needed to be dealt with in a more permanent solution, Frederick had options; options that are currently now unavailable to him.
Stuck in the holding cell, Frederick can’t help but lament on enjoying the freedom he had strutting down Fisherman’s Wharf. Inhaling the salt breeze air as he surveyed his prime territory; having operations in and around the tech city, Frederick preferred the more touristy location. Perhaps it was his time as leg breaker, busting unions that wouldn’t work with his father, or maybe it was the days he used to rough up shop owners when they failed to pay their protection fees. Whatever the reason, Frederick was sure missing his West Coast home.
“Frederick Parker! Dinner time.”
Frederick looks up as his name was called; seeing a court officer looking at him through the cell bars and hand him a plastic wrapped item. A sad looking tuna sandwich on whole wheat. Being at the court house for the entire day as he had a back and forth argument with the judge as to who would represent him. Claiming that no one he knew would take up the case, Frederick demanded a court appointed attorney. The judge claiming that the man had the wealth and means to afford a high priced lawyer. Frederick glared as he was forced to swallow his pride and state that whatever money he had stashed for emergencies, was gone; how or why he couldn’t explain. Claiming to be indigent, Frederick made it clear that thanks to the constitution, he was entitled to legal representation and the state had to pay for it. Going so far as to refuse to participate in the proceedings even further; that was around noon and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“This is it,” Frederick looking at the court officer; “a pathetic sandwich to eat? Do you not realize that this can be argued as cruel and inhumane treatment?”
“Tell it to your lawyer,” the court officer not caring; “your lucky to be even getting a sandwich. Most people under arrest and being arraigned don’t even rate a meal.”
“I’ve been here since breakfast,” Frederick barking; “I was never provided a lunch!”
“Your own fault for dragging the proceedings,” the court officer again not caring for Frederick; “if you had of entered your plea and kept your mouth shut afterwards, you would have been back to the police jail cell or in a FBI SUV on your way to Seattle.”
“The judge,” Frederick fumed; “was the one who asked why I had no one with me. He started the whole mess,” Frederick shouting; throwing the sandwich back at the court officer. “Now get me something proper to eat!”
The court officer looks at Frederick and just walks away. Out of Frederick’s field of vision and not responding to the fallen mobster’s latest gambit. Frederick swears as he looks at the dismal tuna sandwich now spread out on the floor beyond his cell. His hunger making him regret his moment of pique as he slinks back to the steel bench to ponder his next move; thoughts of escape and revenge out the window as his stomach rumble loudly and violently.
“Now even that was stupid,” Frederick mumbling to himself; “I highly doubt the sheriff or his flunkies are going to have anything for me when they send me back to the jail.”
*******
Jose looked out from the bushes and trees; directly in view of the back entrance of the court house. Jose theorized that this was the entrance used to ferry prisoners back and forth from the Sheriff’s building. Thankful that the town’s founders designed Moon Lake to radiate outwards in a wheel and spoke pattern. With thick forested areas spaced between the blocks, Jose had no clue that this was designed to benefit the town’s were population. With Moon Lake home to the largest were population, a group of people capable of shifting into an anthropomorphize animal at will; slipping into a dense wooded area after dark when furry, were’s took advantage of this unless the town was under a were-alert. Which it was at the moment.
For Jose, the dense wooded area behind the court house was his cover for the deed he was hired to perform. Looking at his phone and making sure he responded to a message Jack Crawford sent him. The reply was just as vague as the message sent; ensuring that no one but either would understand its meaning. While Jack Crawford assumed Jose was spying on either Benton Knight or Tachibana; Jose knew he was nothing more than a fall guy incase things went wrong. The outfit giving him the contract to eliminate Frederick Parker; they feared the man could flip and start talking about crimes and shady deals in an effort to get a light sentence or witness protection. The outfit wasn’t taking any chances.
For Jose, this was the opportunity for him to move up in the criminal underworld. Taking inspiration from the hitman of the thirties and forties; Jose enjoyed reading up the stories of the famed organization called Murder Inc . Ran by infamous mobster Albert Anastasia; an Italian American that Jose respected and admired. Saddened that the man was assassinated decades before he was born, Jose was never able to meet the man in person. Still he read up on every news article there was; memorizing all the hits, confirmed and alleged. Jose was hoping that this job would give him the influence he needed to create and organization similar to Murder Inc. Jose was certain the outfit would benefit from it greatly.
Pulling out the sniper rifle; a custom made M1 Grande that can be dismantled in seconds, Jose adds the silencer to the end of the rifle barrel and waits.
******
He watched as a custodian cleaned up the sandwich he tossed earlier; his empty stomach refusing to be ignored as Frederick’s mouth watered uncontrollably as he watched the remains of the tuna sandwich are unceremoniously tossed into the mobile waste bin. Sighing as the janitor moves off without so much a word; Frederick looks forlorn as he is once again alone in his holding cell.
“Guess what,” the same court officer Frederick had a futile argument earlier retuning; “it’s time for you to go back to jail. Do not pass…”
“Save it,” Frederick getting up and assuming the position by the cell door, allowing the officer to cuff his hands behind his back. “I heard it before,” Frederick sneering; “and from someone whose personality didn’t imply they were a door mat. Unlike you,” Frederick adding the exclamation point with his insult.
“Cute,” the court officer responding as he opened the cell door to let Frederick out. Escorting the man to the rear entrance where there was an awaiting deputy to take custody of the prisoner.
******
Jose checked his sights as he saw the rear door open; taking a shooting position, one knee on the ground as he propped up the rifle to his shoulder. Jose takes aim as he watches a deputy leave through the door first; Jose holds his breath as he see his target in handcuffs followed behind, a court officer walking behind making sure Frederick decided not to try and run away.
Frederick would not get the chance to entertain the thought as Jose pulled back the bolt; a bullet sliding into the chamber of his rifle as he waited for a clear view of Frederick. Slowly exhaling, Jose squeezes the trigger and a dull thud from his rifle could be heard as the bullet rockets through the barrel and rips violently through the air to its target.
*******
Moments before he arrives at the cruiser; Frederick feels a heavy thud hit him violently; his knees buckling before him as he crumples to the ground. Stunned in disbelief at first, Frederick looks at his abdomen as his clothes rapidly turn crimson. Realizing that he was just shot, Frederick couldn’t help but smile as he remarks; “glad I didn’t eat that sandwich after all. Gut wounds are a painful way to die on a full stomach.”
For Frederick everything felt like it was in slow motion; the court officer also on the ground, lifeless as the same bullet that tore through Frederick hit the man behind him and unknowingly piercing the officer’s heart as the bullet ricocheted off of Frederick’s spine. If Frederick survived the assignation attempt; the mobster will soon find out the he is now paralyzed from the chest down. The deputy taking cover; a were-dog that could hear the rifle shot despite the silencer used, shouting in his radio for immediate back up and medical assistant.
*******
Jose swore as his bullet misses; hitting Frederick in the gut instead of the man’s heart. With no time to get a second shot off, Jose takes his rifle and makes a dash to his waiting vehicle. Not liking the call he is going to have to make to the Outfit that the hit failed and that there is a chance Frederick would live. Jose panics as he drops his rifle as he runs through the woods. Desperate to get out of town and lay low; Jose knew he had to get out fast. As he gets to his car and starts up the engine; the would be assassin swears as he notices his rifle missing. With no time to go back and retrieve it, Jose looks at his burner phone. Calming himself down as he sends a cryptic text to Jack Crawford; Jose then tosses the phone on the ground as he drives off. Certain that the police will find it and look to the rich Seattle man as the one who ordered Frederick’s hit.