Two

Deputy U.S. Marshal Clarence Decker contemplated the notion of cold-blooded murder. As he navigated the icy sidewalks in an undisclosed area of Jersey City on that frigid February evening, three individuals crossed his mind. First on the list was Senior Deputy Marshal Harvey, the overseer of their operation. Next was Deputy Marshal Kosnik, the other member of their detail, who was particularly unpleasant. Finally, there was Tommaso Bonadonna, also known as Tommy “Two Toes,” the informant they were tasked with safeguarding.

“Hey, kid,” Harvey had mentioned. “Tommy is asking for more calzone and wine from Spatoro’s.”

“Crap,” Decker muttered, slapping the paperback Elmore Leonard novel resting on his knee. “If I keep going there, someone will catch on and alert Giacopo’s crew, and they’ll start following me.”

“Just try not to draw attention,” Harvey advised.

“Yeah, sure,” Decker replied, exasperated, raising his hands. “Everyone in that joint knows each other. I stand out like a sore thumb, going in to grab food and then leaving. I’m German, and I look it. They’re like Italian Rottweilers; they can smell law enforcement.”

Harvey glanced at a grinning Kosnik and shrugged. “Try to blend in better.”

To fetch the calzone, Decker had to trek five blocks from the Ramada Inn, where Tommy was sequestered, as the office refused to provide a vehicle. They only dispatched a car when Tommy needed to appear in court. Afterward, the U.S. Marshals—likely himself and Kosnik—would whisk Tommy away to an undisclosed location for the remainder of his fat, useless, eight-toed existence. This was the deal for his cooperation against the Giacopo mob.

Food delivery was also out of the question. As the junior marshal responsible for monitoring Bonadonna, Decker always had to fetch the calzone or whatever was needed. The sidewalks of Jersey City were layered with grimy ice, making the ten-block round trip even more hazardous. Decker balanced the calzone in one hand and the requested bottle of Roscato Rosso Dolce in the other.

The challenge lay in delivering the calzone unfrozen and the wine bottle intact. The food inevitably arrived cold, but thankfully, the motel room had a microwave. Conversely, the wine was perfectly chilled. Decker felt certain that every passing car and every shadowy figure on the street was likely one of Giacopo’s enforcers.

Tommy was a made man, a wiseguy, which meant his testimony was tantamount to a death sentence. This applied not only within the five boroughs but anywhere in North America where the Giacopo family could reach. That was, of course, assuming the Federal Witness Protection Program functioned as advertised. Even then, assurances often yielded empty promises.

Tommy had risen through the ranks to become a soldier, transitioning from a street thug to Don Giacopo’s son Angelo’s driver and part-time bodyguard. The family inducted him into their ranks after he executed “Four Fingers” Tony Luchese, a minor numbers runner discovered to be a police informant. His loan collection activities accounted for most of his contributions to the family's illegal enterprises, but he also took on a hit or two when requested.

Tommy “Two Toes” Bona acquired his nickname after losing his little and next-to-little toes on his right foot due to an accidental shotgun blast from a partner. While attempting to intimidate or kill a delinquent client, his accomplice, Billy “One Ear” Mastraccio, squeezed too hard on the trigger of a sawed-off shotgun aimed at Tommy's foot. Tommy recovered but was left with a noticeable limp. Though he was unable to run fast, he had never been particularly quick due to his hefty two-hundred-fifty-pound frame on a five-foot, ten-inch stature. However, this did not hinder him from executing contracts on others with missing body parts.

Tommy’s downfall came when two police officers caught him in the act of eliminating a deadbeat in Philadelphia. Unfortunately for Tommy, Pennsylvania still enforced the death penalty. The District Attorney made it clear he would be convicted and executed unless… unless he decided to cooperate with the Giacopo’s.

Deputy Marshal Decker, with the calzone half-frozen and the wine bottle intact, returned to the motel suite without being tailed. A couple of days later, Tommaso Bonadonna told “da trute and nutin but da trute,” so help him “Gad.” As promised, the Marshal’s Service took him on a circuitous journey to safety. It began in Los Angeles for three months, then Salt Lake City, Houston, back to California—Bakersfield. Ultimately, in late August, they dropped him off in a small town in eastern Oklahoma; a remote location where the vengeful gaze of the Giacopo crime family would likely not reach.

It became Tommy's responsibility to find a permanent residence, a domicile as his U.S. Marshals Service associates termed it. The Feds provided him with a new ID, birth certificate, Social Security card, and name.

On a warm September evening, Deputy Marshals Decker and Kosnik dropped Tommy “Two Toes” in Tsalagee, Oklahoma. He found himself temporarily residing in a hotel connected to the town’s main attraction, the Riverhawk Casino.

Cal settled his lunch debt with his uncle a couple of days after discovering the bloodless body in Tubbeeland. By eleven a.m., the booths and tables at Arlene’s café were nearly filled with men in flannel and denim, starting their day in the early morning darkness. They dined on chicken-fried steak or burgers and fries, adorned with sweat-stained straw hats or billed caps. Conversations revolved around the weather, crop futures, beef prices, hunting, fishing, or sports.

The chatter transcended the small groups at each table, as the men shared news, rumors, or tales with everyone present. That day’s news heightened the buzz, focusing on the deceased found in Tubbeeland; more accurately, the murdered dead man.

Tom Kelly, formerly Tommy “Two Toes” Bonadonna, sat alone at the counter, absorbing the discussions. Well, not entirely alone. Al Forrester occupied the stool to his left, while Junior Waxworth occupied the one on his right. Yet, Tom dined solo. He frequented Arlene’s several times that week, having discovered the home-style cooking far superior to the monotonous buffet offerings of the casino. While most of the food at Arlene’s provided a novel experience for Tom’s Italian palate, it was not disappointing. The meals were rich in starch and gravy, with most meats fried, but still decent grub. He yearned for Italian cuisine, but the menu did not offer any true Italian dishes. Once, Arlene’s had a monthly dinner special called Lasagna, but it was Italian only in name—more cheese than tomato sauce, and it was not particularly popular among the locals.

For lunch that day, he ordered a bacon cheeseburger, fried onion rings, and a beer, and he consumed it alone.

The patrons in the café weren’t unfriendly; they simply regarded Tom as a stranger. The community treated newcomers with caution. The casino attracted many outsiders, but they rarely ventured beyond the gaming area where their greed confined them. Occasionally, one would snap out of their gambling trance and wander into the warmth of Arlene’s, akin to a tourist. That’s how the regulars at Arlene’s perceived them. Most times, they simply ignored the newcomers, reasoning that it was a free country and they likely wouldn’t return the next day.

But Tom was different. He lunched and dined at Arlene’s every day that week. He didn’t appear to skip meals; yet, no one spoke to him. They might glance up as he entered, noting his slight limp. Many gawked as he sat at the counter eating, whispering to their companions. They wondered who he was, what he was doing there, and what he wanted.

On the sixth day, Punch Roundstep broke the ice. The previous day, his lunch companions had designated him to approach the stranger, assigning the least perceptive among them for the task. Tom arrived at 11:05 just as Junior vacated his stool. Punch slid in beside Tom and got straight to the point.

“You an Indin?” he inquired.

Socrates Ninekiller, seated nearest the register, turned to observe the exchange, intrigued, as he suspected Tom was not Indian.

Tom glanced sideways at Punch, squinting. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah,” Punch affirmed, extending his hand. “Name’s Punch. I’ve seen you in here all week. The boys are curious. Strangers are rare around here, especially ones that keep returning.”

Tom regarded the outstretched hand with suspicion. After a prolonged five seconds, he shook it firmly. “Tom,” he replied. “How you doin’?”

“Can’t complain,” Punch said. “Been a bit down in the back, though.”

Tom nodded, shrugging, and stuck out his lower lip.

“So, are ya?” Punch pressed.

“Am I what?”

“Indin.”

Tom took a sip of his beer before responding. “Nah, I ain’t Indian; I’m Irish. But my mother was Italian.”

“Eye-talyun, huh? Well, I’d never have guessed. You look plum Indin. Where you from, Tom?”

Most of the ears in Arlene’s turned toward the lunch counter, as conversation dwindled to whispers. Only a few curious eyes, those whose intrigue outweighed etiquette, focused on Tom. He glanced over his shoulder at the room before returning to his burger. “From the coast,” he replied.

“Whereabouts, Galveston?”

“California.”

“California, no kidding?” Punch exclaimed. “That’d explain the tan.” He slapped Tom’s shoulder like an old friend and laughed, drawing a few chuckles from others. “Eye-talyun, huh? What, you some kind of gangster?” Punch grinned at his audience.

“That’s right,” Tom answered with a hint of a smile. He surveyed the diner crowd before turning back to his plate, biting into an onion ring.

Punch’s smile faded. Leaning closer, he whispered, “For real?”

Tom continued eating without a reply, turning his gaze to Punch and winking.

“So, what brings you to Tsalagee?” Punch asked, tipping up his iced tea glass and crunching ice.

“Health reasons,” Tom stated.

Punch leaned in even closer. “Yeah? What kind of health reasons?”

“Breathing. Doctor advised me to escape the city for cleaner air. So here I am.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the air in California is bad. I’d say the air around here is pretty good—only I’d stay away from Notch Porter’s place, if I were you. He raises pigs.”

Tom nodded, popping another onion ring into his mouth. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“What do you do for a living, Tom?”

“I’m, uh… I used to be in the loan business, but I’m retired now. Not looking to work… due to my health issues. Searching for a house.”

“You looking for somewhere in town or outta town?”

Tom shrugged. “Out, probably. Somewhere quiet, secluded.”

Punch turned to a man at a booth across the diner. “Hey, White,” he called. “Ain’t that Hanson place next to you still for sale?” All conversation halted as the café’s patrons turned to listen.

White Oxley paused his chat with the deputy sheriff and glanced at Punch. “I believe it is, boy. You looking to move out of that trailer?” he asked, despite Punch being no boy in age.

“Aw, hell no.” Punch pointed at Tom. “Tom here says he’s looking for a place.” The lunch crowd's attention shifted to the unfamiliar figure.

“Well, I’d send him to Bobby John,” White advised Punch as if Tom wasn’t present. “That’s his sign stuck in the ditch by the mailbox.”

Punch turned back to Tom. “Bobby John Samuels sells property. His office is a couple blocks from here, Samuel’s Real Estate. He’ll help you out.”

As Tom exited the café after paying, Deputy Cal took a sip of his iced tea. “Looks like Roundstep may have found you a new neighbor,” he remarked to Uncle White.

They met at the property. Bobby John’s pearl white Escalade was parked near the back porch. Tom parked his recently purchased Ford Taurus behind it and greeted the real estate agent. “How you doin’?” he said, surveying the 1970s ranch-style house. Bobby John wasted no time in starting his sales pitch. “This should be just what you’re looking for, Tom. Nice and secluded here.” He gestured toward the land behind the house. “It’s got five acres; a nice little barn too. Good for keeping a horse if you like to ride. You like to ride?”

Tom shook his head.

“Well, you could set it up as a shop or something. It’s in decent shape, has electricity; plenty of possibilities. Maybe even a still.” He grinned at Tom, who was focused on the roof, ignoring him.

“The place is empty.” Bobby John walked to the back door and struggled with the knob. “There we go,” he said, and they stepped inside the kitchen. A dust-covered wooden breakfast table sat in the center, surrounded by a U-shaped counter and cabinets, an oven at one end, and a yellow refrigerator at the other, with a window framing the barn.

Tom opened a cabinet door, finding it stocked with dishes. He opened a drawer—flatware inside, along with several mouse droppings.

“The folks who lived here were killed in a car accident about a year ago. Their son lives in Atlanta. Didn’t want the place, cleared out all the personal items, said to sell it turnkey, furniture included.”

Tom wandered through the remainder of the house while Bobby John chattered on, noting the living room full of furniture, a small bed in one bedroom, and the third bedroom set up as a sewing room. In the master bedroom, Tom asked, “What’s he asking?”

Bobby John checked his leather folder. “With the land and everything, as is, one sixty-seven five. That’s a fair price considering, but like I mentioned, it’s been on the market for a while, I believe he’d accept less.”

Tom nodded, examining the modest master bathroom.

Bobby John closed his folder. “Want to check out the barn?”

“Sure,” Tom replied.

They stood in the barnyard at the fence separating it from the back pasture. Tom rested his forearms on a fence post, studying the land. A row of trees lined the back fence, beyond which he could see rolling hills and meadows extending to the horizon.

After a moment of silence, Bobby John spoke, pushing his five-hundred-dollar Stetson back on his forehead. “That land behind yours belongs to a tribe of Indians known as the Tubbees; Choctaws, I believe. They own a large spread, nearly ten thousand acres. No one knows how many live there; several families scattered about. They keep mostly to themselves and discourage outsiders from entering their land. But they’ll leave you alone as long as you don’t bother them.”

He shifted gears. “The nearest neighbor is about a mile away.” He gestured to his right. “Rancher named White Oxley. Old coot’s a fixture in this town, been here his whole life. Vietnam vet, I think.”

Tom remained silent, so Bobby John continued after a brief pause. “There’s been talk, you could say it’s a local legend, that somewhere on Tubbeeland, there’s a stash of gold.”

This piqued Tom’s interest. “Yeah? What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s said old Amos, the great-grandfather of these Tubbees, the man who acquired the land and initiated it all; it’s said he stumbled upon a significant amount of gold during the Civil War. Ingots, I believe they call them, bars. He hid them out there somewhere.” Bobby John gestured broadly across the land.

Tom turned to Bobby John. “How much gold are we talking about?”

“There are various estimates,” the realtor replied. “Most say anywhere from fifty to seventy-five bars. If they’re the standard four hundred Troy ounces, that could be worth around twenty-five to thirty-five million at today’s prices. I ran the numbers once.”

Tom pushed out his lower lip, nodding.

“But I don’t know,” Bobby John chuckled, shaking his head and looking down. “Like I said, just local legends.”

“Seems to me if those people had gold, they would have done something with it by now,” Tom remarked. “When the head of a family dies, there’s usually a tussle over who takes charge, especially when large sums of money are at stake. That’s been my experience.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Bobby John said, removing his hat and wiping his brow. “As I said, lots of rumors and legends. If it ever was true that old man had gold bars, it’s likely all gone by now. But it makes for friendly conversation down at Arlene’s.”

Bobby John straightened from leaning on the fence, slapping the top of a post. “So, what do you think? Should I make the boy an offer?”

“Yeah,” Tom nodded, pushing out his lower lip. “Yeah. Offer him his asking.”

“Well, all right then. I’ll get the ball rolling.” He turned and headed toward the Escalade. Just then, a distant rifle shot echoed to their left. Tom paused and looked, shading his eyes.

“That’d be your close neighbor, Oxley,” Bobby John remarked, extending an arm as they walked and pointing toward the setting sun. “White’s a grumpy old fart, but not as hostile as the Tubbees. Likes to shoot things, I hear. He owns a lot of guns.”

“When can I move in?” Tom inquired.

“Well, I’ll get everything underway. I’ll call that Hanson boy with your offer. Closing usually takes about a month. Financing tends to be the slowest part. Have you lined up your financing?”

“See if he’ll allow me to rent until we close. I’ll pay cash.”

Bobby John paused for a moment, then resumed walking. “Well, that will speed things up.”

© 2021 by Phil Truman. All rights reserved PTI Publishing Broken Arrow, OK

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events depicted are products of the author's imagination.

Thank you for taking the time to read these chapters. I would greatly appreciate your feedback, whether positive or negative.

Shout outs to: Liam Ireland, Stuart Englander, Phil Rossi, Teresa Kuhl, Amanda Walker, Linda Halladay, Karen Madej, Dr. Mehmet Yildiz, The Garrulous Glaswegian, Bebe Nicholson, Roz Warren, S.W. Lauden, Ulf Wolf, Carol Anne Shaw, Thewriteyard, Carla Woody, Dr. Preeti Singh, Maria Rattray, Simon Dillon, Øivind H. Solheim