Murder, LLC.

 

I dreamed I was working for Frank Sinatra Jr., learning the ropes as a street level player in his underworld operation. It was my first day on the job, so one of his captains had to lead me to his secret conference room, a warehouse in the heart of Los Angeles' run down industrial district. 

"Make sure you forget what you see here today," Paul Gualiteri, aka Paulie Walnuts, told me. 

He led me down some narrow hallways, taking more than a few unnecessary turns in a maze-like journey through the decrepit old manufacturing facility. There were many closed doors, with untold scenarios of violence and torture taking place behind their walnut veneer. The occasional muffled gunshot and sound of brains splattering against the door, or the thud of a body sliding down the wall to the floor, were the only sounds besides our footsteps to break the oppressive silence. I hurried to keep up with Paulie.

If I was lucky, Paulie told me, I would avoid being on the wrong side of one of these doors, but odds the were not in my favor. Everybody screws up a least once, but no one gets a chance to screw up twice. The blood seeping out from underneath the doorways attested to that.

Mindful of Paulie's advice, I tried to devise a way to both remember the directions to Frank Jr.'s office, while at the same time forgetting them, in case I was ever interrogated by the cops. Paulie's misdirection was too clever, though, and I was truly at a loss to remember the many twists and turns we had taken. I was worried that I'd never be able to find the place again, should I have to come back unescorted.  

Finally, we arrived at the conference room door. There was nothing special about it. It was the same as any of the other impersonal wood laminate doors in the building. There were no monikers or room numbers to indicate that behind this door was the meeting place of the most powerful and ruthless crime boss on the west coast. I took a deep breath and followed Paulie inside.

Frank was sitting behind a cheap particle board desk with the same dark themed walnut finish. The edges were worn ragged, and the substrate was visible in spots. This desk had seen some action, I thought to myself. Probably more than a few skulls had been cracked against it over the years.

There were three or four other people ahead of us, so I sat down next to Paulie in a molded plastic chair with metal legs and waited for our audience with the boss. Frank Jr. addressed the room:

"I'm gonna save you all some time," he said curtly. "Numbers are down. You all need to get out there and produce. Consider yourselves warned."

Paulie handed Frank an envelope, and we exited without incident. If you exited at all, it was without incident. If the envelope was unsatisfactorily light, you might get a reprimand in the form of a .38 slug to your cranium. Or you might have your head bashed repeatedly against the desk until you wished for a bullet, if you still had the capacity to wish for anything. I was glad to be out of there.

Back on the streets, I was alone, riding a bicycle through some rough neighborhoods as I made my collection run. I was responsible for getting the money from streetcorner drug dealers and taking it back to Frank. It was still my first day on the job, so I wasn't commanding the respect my position required. I received mostly jeers from the shoddily attired pushers. 

I was afraid I was going to be jacked for my bike, so I made a quick exit, bunny hopping over a downed power pole, impressing myself with my own stunt work. This was no time to self-congratulate, however, as I needed to collect a certain amount of money by nightfall. The time was drawing near to the hour when I'd be back in Frank's conference room having to present him with an envelope, and this time Paulie wasn't going with me.

Reluctantly, I returned to the warehouse and entered through the glass doors at the front of the building. The lobby was full of new applicants, teens mostly, runaways, hoods and skateboarder types, joking with one another about their prospects in the burgeoning drug market. I wondered if they were aware of the high turnover rate, and the consequences of a less than perfect performance review. 

"Hey, old-timer," one of them jibed at me, "you look lost. You got Alzheimers? Forget where the office is?" I doubted any of them had been to the conference room, and this talk was most likely just bravado.

I ignored them and made my way down the first hallway, vaguely recollecting the directions from my trip with Paulie earlier. I hesitated as I tiptoed past the frightfully quiet doors, expecting to hear a gunshot or a thud. If I made it to the office, I'd most likely get my first and only warning, but failing to show up, I'd probably not even get that. 

I finally found myself at the door to Frank's office. It was open, and he was alone in the room sitting behind the battered desk, an American flag on a small pole the sole decoration in the spartan quarters. He looked up at me with cold, piercing blue eyes.

"What have you got for me, son?"

<Cut to black> 

That's all I remember. Yep, I probably shouldn't have binged watched all six seasons of the Sopranos. I'm having a bit of time digesting all that cannoli and murder.