Somewhere, Over the Landfill

by Gary Clifton

Bugs snarled, “C’mon, Carmine, gimme a break. You told me to do Charlie Large, and I did. His fat ass is in a triple plastic garbage bag in the city landfill. Soon as them goons covered him up some with another layer of garbage, the rats had him for one a’ them gormaine breakfasts.”

Benjamin Sticcio was angry. Big, ugly, with eyes that faded to a carnivorous yellow when he lost his temper — which was often — had earned him the name “Bugs Bennie” from the South Philly mob crowd. His acquaintances in that tough bunch couldn’t be called friends, because Bugs had no friends.

Carmine Alamondi, slender and laconic, sipped at his martini, his slicked-down, jet-black hair glistening with what Bugs thought might be axle grease. As mean and crazy as Bugs was, Carmine still outranked him several pegs on the mob pecking ladder; Bugs wasn’t quite crazy enough to comment about greasy hair, a mistake that could easily put him in the landfill.

“You mean gourmet breakfast? Bugs, have a seat. Feel free to do a line off my desk, there. Have a glass of Chianti. Chill, man.”

Bugs slumped on a padded chair opposite Carmine’s desk and lit a long cigar. He studied the pile of white powder on the desk, then leaned forward, scraped up a line and sucked it up his nose with a straw from the jar on the desktop. “Dammit, Carmine, how many guys I did for you a’ready? You gonna start tellin’ me how to do my freakin’ job now?”

Carmine sighed. “Bugsy, old sport, it ain’t tellin’ you how to do your job exactly. It’s jes’ that you shoulda warned me you was gonna dump that mope Charlie Large in the landfill. What happened to the always reliable Delaware River? One o’ them dummies in the landfill misfires with a grader blade and Charlie could pop right outa that sack into DEA’s ‘Screw Carmine’ jail cell. How’d you do him?”

“Carmine, there you go again. You know... the more you know thing.”

“How, Bugs?”

Bugs drew on his cigar, smoke wafting up into his elaborate comb-over. “Hammered an iron pipe up his ass. He’s deader than Neopolitan.”

“You mean Napoleon?”

“No, I mean Ol’ Charlie.” Bugs snorted. “Them rats in that landfill eat better than I did when I was in the joint. Some as big as rabbits and mean as my last ol’ lady’s poodle. Ol’ Charlie Large gonna be plenty small by now.”

“Landfill be damned, Bugs, the Delaware woulda carried that sack clear to the Atlantic by now.”

“Yeah, if it didn’t snag on a jetty or foul some mope’s boat propeller.”

“Never been a problem before, Bugs.” Carmine shook his head and tossed an envelope on the desk. “There’s ten large there,” he chuckled. “Ten large for doin’ Large. He put up much of a fight?”

“Naw, he was a whoosh. Cried and begged. Crapped his pants. You know, the usual. You’d think some punk that skimmed as much cash off you as he did would know his ass needed killin’.”

The door opened and Carlo “Boxcar” Bocardo walked in. As big as Bugs, his black hair was parted down the middle. A deep scar crossed his face from above the left eye through the crown of his nose, trailing under his right ear. Boxcar was Carmine’s “heavy,” a constant companion and bodyguard.

Bugs gave the newcomer an up-and-down. Boxcar was below Bugs in the criminal hierarchy. Bugs figured he could take the thick-headed bodyguard in thirty seconds.

Boxcar leaned two sets of hairy knuckles on Carmine’s desk. “Got the info you wanted on that jackass Goldstein, boss.” He tossed a scrap of paper on the desk.

Bugs smelled action. He caught Carmine’s eyes, then looked up at Boxcar but remained quiet. Bugs Benny Sticcio was tough enough not to ask dumb questions.

Carmine stubbed out his filter tip and returned Bug’s gaze. “Yeah, I got one more for you. My bookkeeper seems to have helped Charlie Large in loadin’ up my cash for a rainy day. He’s gotta go. No way he’s figured out Charlie Large ain’t around no more if you do him tonight, Bugsy.”

“Okay to use the landfill again?”

Carmine’s eyes were dead cold. “Yeah, but I gotta send somebody with you, Bugs. Call his helper in here, Boxcar.” He gestured toward the door.

The blonde that strode in was tall, ravishing, and smelled of the perfume counter at Goldfarb’s. Bugs was instantly taken with her dark, penetrating eyes. She stopped behind Carmine’s desk and stood without comment.

“Carmine?” Bugs raised both hands. “I ain’t wantin’ witnesses.”

“Gotta be this way, Bugs.” Carmine lit another filter tip. “She’s spent time with Goldstein. He’s holed up down on the South side. Trixie is the only person knows how to find him. ’Sides, he ain’t gonna open the door for anyone but her. You kick in the door, he’ll either let the air outa you or the load a’ cops that show up will do it for him.”

“C’mon, Carmine. Can’t this chick jes’ gimme directions?”

“Another ten large, Bugs, but you gotta do what I say.”

“Chick?” Trixie mouthed softly, the only sound she’d made.

* * *

As the office door closed behind the Bugsy-Trixie parade, Carmine motioned Boxcar to a chair. “Box, you ever find any truth to the rumors about that goofy mope, Bugs?”

“Boss, it’s hard to verify that kinda crap. He’s supposedly got a younger sister somewhere, but nobody seems to know squat about him. I hadda bust a couple of fingers, but everybody back in his old neighborhood swears his mama was a genuine practicing vampire. I can’t help thinking she was jes’ a whore with kinks and quirts.”

“Quirks,” Carmine corrected. “I think the dude ain’t fully human someway. Good God, look what he does to people. We need to get shed of him.”

“Maybe you can drive a stake in his heart.”

“I’d kinda like to. Got no use for that sucker. But relax, Box, I gotta plan in place a’ready.”

“I knowed you’d handle it, boss.”

* * *

Trixie’s perfume loaded up the interior of Bugs’ Mercedes as they wound their way through South Philly. She never uttered a sound beyond a necessary “Left here” or similar directions. In minutes, Bugs was so enraptured with the dolled-up specimen, he was having trouble focusing on the darkened streets.

The place was on the second floor of a run-down walkup not far from the Delaware River. True to Carmine’s theory, the pudgy little accountant opened up on Trixie’s first knock. In fifteen seconds, before Goldstein could even whimper, Bugs had him gagged and mummified with duct tape. Bugs hoisted him over a shoulder and was down the stairs for insertion in the Mercedes trunk in another minute. As he slammed the trunk, he realized that the voluptuous Trixie had followed him back to the car.

“Whoa, Queenie. I’ll call you a cab. You ain’t goin—”

“Bugs, I’d heard you were all man. I thought maybe after you dispose of nit-switch there in the trunk, we could—”

Bugs motioned her into the passenger seat and began the forty-five-minute trek to the landfill. Wading through pitch blackness and garbage, he turned to Trixie. “Sweetheart, you’re gonna hafta hold my cell light. Jes’ turn your pretty head and try not to listen.” In the unbearable stench of the garbage dump, he could discern her perfume.

Big and powerfully built, he lugged Goldstein to a remote location and dispatched him with a box knife he carried in his pants pocket. Tossing camouflage debris over the body, he turned to leave. The high pitched shrill of rats by the thousands quickly drew near.

For the first time, he was surprised to see that the totally feminine, conscripted assistant, Trixie, was still close, holding the light. Impulsively, he squeezed her close and planted a lingering kiss. Despite the beautiful face and “come see me” countenance, something wasn’t quite right.

He screamed as she jammed the large hypodermic into his neck. His shriek, already beyond hearing in the vast dump, quickly faded to a soft moan as he collapsed into the mounds of refuse. In sinking horror, he realized he could not move. He could feel the garbage pressing against his back but was totally paralyzed.

The tall blonde leaned down, illuminating Bugs with the cell light. “Bugsy, old fellow,” she said, “Carmine didn’t have the heart to tell you I was your replacement.”

Through tears, Bugs gasped, “Who—?”

She pulled off the blonde wig. “God, big brother, what a downer. You even kissed me. You ain’t any smarter than you ever was. I’m your sister, Teresa, dude. Mama’s favorite. Mama the vampire jes’ like them toads in the old neighborhood always gossiped about. I slit a couple of ’um’s throats and left, thinkin’ you’d square up the rest. Guess you went to work for the mob instead.”

Trixie turned to leave. “Ta, big bro.”

The screech of rats was deafening. As the hungry rodents began tearing at his flesh, his scream just wouldn’t make it.