THE RUNNER SCREENPLAY, BRIAN R. LUNDIN [phonics reader .TXT] 📗

JIMMY TORTORENO WHO WAS SHOT TWICE IN THE HEAD AND HAD NUMEROUS, WHAT APPEARED TO BE, BITE MARKS. MR. TORTORENO IS ALSO ALLEGEDLY IS A MEMBER OF THE CHICAGO MOB.”

A chorus of screams ensued but Pauli was surrounded by his admirers and hustled out of the dayroom by two burly Irish officers to his cell. Pauli heard the weeping of a young newly arrived young prisoner in the cell next to his. Pauli sat on his concrete bed and listened to the argument in the now crowded dayroom. “Assholes,” Pauli said aloud to no one.

It was four in the afternoon, chow time. Pauli didn’t like the food served in the mess hall and had bribed the guards to bring him in Italian food from the outside. OFFICER JON BROWN a black correctional officer grew up in Bronzeville and his mother was a writer for Jerome McLemore. Officer Brown slid open the steel security door, stepped inside and carefully laid out Pauli’s dinner of pasta, meatball, and Italian sausages with peppers, and poured him a glass of Chianti. Pauli gave the young guard a $50.00 bill and settled in to enjoy his meal. The rapist, murderers, thieves, drug dealers, con men and the mentally disturbed were screaming, fighting and doing who know what inside their cells. Pauli ignored the disturbances and expertly wrapped a string of spaghetti around his fork and shoved it into his mouth. He cut off a piece of sausage and peppers and swallowed it down. The food wasn’t as good as his cooking he thought as he took a sip of wine. Suddenly, Pauli felt nauseous, his stomach started cramping and he felt faint. Pauli fell off his steel bunk onto the cold concrete floor of his cell. His eyes started to bulge and he couldn’t catch his breath. He tried to call for help but no sound came out. Officer Brown watched outside the cell as Pauli died and then he dialed the Sicilian Olive Oil Company answering service in New York and merely said, “It’s done.”

Sergeant Reginald Lundgrin sat in Commander Richard Hollis office reviewing the 24 Hours report.

REGGIE
What the fuck is going on, first Jimmy Tortoreno, Vito’s main man is found damn near ate up and shot twice, in Vito’s crib of all places and then Pauli Gaza dies while in the federal joint from unknown causes and finally, Vito hasn’t been seen or heard from. Something is up, boss.

HOLLIS
What I hear is that the Commission is tired of Vito’s shit and they were afraid that Pauli might rat them out.

REGGIE
What I can’t figure out is why did they hit Jimmy and not Vito?

HOLLIS
Remember Reggie the Mafia is like a big corporation and when you open up an account with them it is only settled when you are dead. If a subsidiary of a large corporation is causing problems for the parent organization what do they do?

REGGIE
Well they would probably fire or transfer the management team and bring in new blood.


HOLLIS
Correct, so Vito and Pauli were causing problems so the parent company, the New York Crime Commission fired the manager, Pauli. Now the other part of the Chicago management team, Vito is in effect transferred because he’s on the run.

REGGIE
OK, but why kill Jimmy?

HOLLIS
I doubt very seriously if the Mafia was involved in Jimmy’s killing. Jimmy probably was on the hit list, but that would come after they took care of Pauli and Vito, I’ll bet a nickel to a donut it was Vito.

REGGIE
OK, why would Vito kill his main ass-kisser?

HOLLIS
Maybe because Jimmy was going to kill him.

Sergeant Lundgrin looked at his boss and wondered how did he know so much about whatever was happening with the Chicago Outfit? He damn sure wasn’t Sicilian, but he always had inside knowledge. What Sergeant Lundgrin didn’t know was that Alderman Roy Bonito, Commander Hollis good friend and clout was the Mafia political man in Chicago and he kept the Commander well informed.

Vito Paligreno drove carefully as he and Bernideta headed east on the Dan Ryan Expressway, Interstate 94 East, towards Detroit, Michigan. When they reached Interstate 90 East Vito turned to a country and western station on the radio. After paying the toll at the tollbooth for the Indiana Toll Road, Vito noticed a black Lincoln in his rearview mirror pulling up fast.

VITO
Look in the glove box and give me the gun.

Bernideta casually put her marijuana cigarette in the ashtray and retrieved the .45 automatic and handed it to Vito. Vito laid the weapon on the seat and continued watching the black vehicle as it was coming up fast. Vito looked at his speedometer, which showed 70 mph. As the following vehicle closed in, Vito grasped the handle of the weapon. The vehicle pulled around and pasted. Vito, resting the weapon on his lap, looked inside the car. An old man was driving and seated next to him was an older woman that waved and smiled as they passed. Vito let out a sigh of relief.

When they reached the Canadian border, Interstate 94 East became Provincial Route 402 East. It was four in the morning, dark and cold. Large snow-flakes fell without cease. It whispered down the silent mountains, soft, heavy, endless, it hissed down the window of the vehicle as Vito drove carefully around the winding turns of the mountain. Two hours later Vito drove up the winding deserted country road that led to his cabin twenty miles from Algonquin National Park. Vito’s pre-fab log cabin sat on three acres of woodland and crouched below the eastern crest of a 3600-foot, snow-capped mountain. The mountain narrow western face rose up out of a snow covered forested meadow 300 yards behind the cabin that carpeted the landscape 1300 feet below the cabin a muddy swift moving creek worked relentlessly wearing down the ancient rocks in the deep ravine. Down a deep incline a narrow gravel road paralleled the creek and there was an unkept-broken down wooden bridge that crossed the creek, the meadow and road. The cabin was six miles from the closest house or town and was veritable invisible from the gravel road. Vito parked the vehicle on the dewy back lawn and opened the rear door, Keisha bounced out. Bernideta lighted a joint while Vito started unpacking the car. Vito, Bernideta and Keisha entered the cabin though the unlocked rear door. A long hallway divided the cabin in half making it seem larger than its five rooms. The hall led into the dining room and kitchen on the left. Inside the kitchen they were greeted with the loud ticking of an electric clock and the hum of the refrigerator. The kitchen was lit by a reddish night-light over the kitchen sink. The air was stale as Vito opened a window, moved into the living room and flicked on a light. Cords of firewood sat in a woodbin besides a fireplace. Vito hurriedly threw three large logs and rolls of discarded newspapers in the fireplace and lit it. As the fireplace came to life, Vito headed up a wooden stairway with Bernideta follows and Keisha bounding ahead. On the second level of the cabin were two bedrooms along a long hall on the north end of the cabin was the master bedroom.

VITO
This is home for awhile, until I figure some shit out.

Bernideta merely nodded her head as Vito pulled out his penis.

Time for you to go to work.

Bernideta got on her knees and took Vito’s manhood into her mouth.

Jerome McLemore lay in the white sand, the waves slapping gently over his body. He stared up at the blue, cloudless sky. Daylight had come to his private hundred thousand dollar redwood and white stucco villa ten miles from Mexico City. Jerome was well known and well liked in the slight fishing village that surrounded his property. He had funded a free health clinic and contributed to a school fund. Many of the parents of the beautiful Mexican young women had introduced him to their daughters, but he was not really interested. During the three years following the death of his family he had affairs with maybe two women, but he always felt guilty afterwards as though he was cheating on his wife. The women were beautiful and eager to please him in bed but the morning after he wish they wasn’t there, he wish that he were alone. He would have Ted call him and he would make up an excuse to the women that he had an urgent business matter to attend to. He remembered Martha, a very attractive doctor who had never been married and was concerned about her biological clock running she wanted children and hinted how it might help him if he started another family. Then there was Marisa a Spanish beauty that was fantastic in bed, but Jerome just wasn’t interested, he stilled loved his wife and missed her.

There were times that he wished he had died in the vehicle with his family, and was not sure he wanted to live without them. He hoped that time would heal the hurt he felt. The residents of the fishing village called him Senor Mac and he was listed at the American Embassy as a wealthy businessman from Chicago. Jerome McLemore sat in his Villa and though about his family. He needed his wife and his daughters; he missed his mother and brothers and he needed someone or something to fill out his life. He knew that Madame Bourneis was right, if he got out of the game the syndicate would collapse and his people would suffer.
Just before sunup, Jerome walked along the white sand beach and looked at the fishing boats heading out on the blue-green water. In a private dock a gaily painted yacht rocked lazily at its mooring. A short distance from the dock large, expensive lakefront estates doted the landscape. Jerome returned to the villa took at shower as hot as his skin could tolerate, the steam filled his lungs and his breath was caught short in his throat. He then endured the chilling ice-cold spray, hoping the shock of the extremes might clear his head of visions of his family. He came out the bedroom, his terry cloth bathrobe blotting out the residue of the water. The sun was starting to rise and he poured himself a steaming cup of green tea as he sat and looked out the large bay windows. It was time to leave, returned to Chicago and his world. He called Mamie, his maid to come clean up.

Jerome met Ted, Marque and Madame Bourneis at Juanita’s Lounge.

TED
Guess you haven’t heard.

JEROME
Heard what.

TED
Pauli Gaza and Jimmy Tortoreno are dead and Vito is missing.

JEROME
When did all this happen?

TED.
A couple of days ago, according to the newspapers and television another thing, some people from New York want to talk to you.

JEROME
Who and what about?

TED
I don’t know what it is about, but they left a number for you to call. I told them you were out of town on business and they said for you to call the as soon as you got back.

Ted removed a business card from his wallet and gave it to Jerome. The card read “Sicilian Olive Oil Company New York New York.” On the back of the card was a Chicago phone number.
Jerome dialed the number. After two rings a husky heavily accented Italian voice asked, “Jerome McLemore?”