Chapter 2: The Bloody Vermiglio

Chapter 2

The Bloody Vermiglio

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The car accident that will kill Tom Atari is still days away. 
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“You’re a doll, Sandy... an absolute doll.”

She sat across from him at the restaurant, smiling for once in her life, the depth of her beauty finally unfolded. Tom Atari, for a single, flickering moment, was happy.

“I didn’t do anything. I knew you needed a break. And everybody needs a char-broiled hamburger sandwich with some french-fried potatoes... so today you get the best of both worlds. You’re gonna love this food.”

They were in the new hamburger place two blocks from Tom’s office, at that perfect moment when the lunch rush has died and the dinner rush not yet arrived. The place was young enough that everything was clean: glasses that still sparkled. It was quiet. It was safe. Hamburgers were on their way.

Tom looked across the table, deep into Sandy’s ocean eyes, wondering just how much she knew, wondering if fucking her would ruin her grace. This wasn’t the first time he had imagined her body against his, her blond hair swaying across her bare breasts. He wanted to tell her what he learned last night, but it was too early in the day to tell this sweetheart that the government was a lie and her country a fraud. He hadn’t swallowed it all himself. Anyway, being here with Sandy made him feel good- why spoil it? There was something in the air, something almost warm. Almost right.

Sandy took a long sip of her strawberry milkshake. Through her straw.

Tom saw through her dress, into her heart- it was a rooster-shaped weathervane, spinning in the sea breeze- squeaky, fucking rusty on top of it- but surely pointing true north. He had thought about making her his own, getting out of this business. Then what? Retirement. And living life.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He wanted to tell her, was ready to tell her, but the waitress came with the food. Maybe later.

Sandy, cheese on her hamburger, french fry in hand: “Cheers. And if you mention Project Geronimo I’ll break your face.” They bit, eating, and the girl was right: one holy hell of a hamburger sandwich. She smiled, mouth full, “Try it with ketchup.”

Tom spotted him then: across the restaurant, sitting at a table and engrossed in a menu, in his respectable suit. It was Lou Vermiglio- the dirty ex-cop, three hundred pounds of hungry greed. Beside him was a mousy woman- his wife- and two young kids, a little girl and a little boy.

Son of a bitch

“What- who are you looking at? Tom, stop.” She saw the look in his eyes.

But Atari was already standing, already crossing the room. He couldn’t hear Sandy’s pleading: all he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, the sound of anger overtaking. He could feel his face getting red as he got closer.

Rage.

Lou looked up and back down to his menu before looking back up at Atari, eyes going wide. He didn’t speak.

“Sgt. Vermiglio! How nice to see you!”

His wife looked over. So did the kids.

“Are you still a police sergeant? Or were you kicked off the force?”

Lou was frozen, caught in a modified nightmare. “Don’t do this.”

“Do the kids know? Do they understand why you were kicked off the force?”

“Why Daddy?” It was the boy.

“That’s enough, Jackie,” shot Lou.

"Does your wife know about the graft, or why you spend your nights kicking the shit out of private investigators?”

“Who is this man, Lou?” The wife, afraid.

“It’s just Tom Atari. He’s a longtime pal. We used to play cards. But he’ll be leaving now because he would never try to talk to me when I’m having lunch with my wife. And my kids.”

The eyes of the young ones- 9, 10- moved in unison from their father to Atari.

Tom bashed the butt of his gun into Lou Vermiglio’s nose, splintering it, spurting red blood onto his appetizer plate. Sandy was up and on her way.

Mrs. Vermiglio jumped to her feet but Tom kicked her in the chest, shattering her collarbone. Jackie- the boy- leapt in to help his mother but Tom punched the child in his jaw, breaking it and knocking out three teeth: one baby, two permanent.

Lou was on his feet, improbable, reaching for his piece but Tom socked him in his fat belly, letting him reel. Atari took this chance to knuckle Vermiglio’s face, repeatedly, flattening his nose, working his face into an angry pulp of ground chuck.

Vermiglio tried to fight back, but his left eye socket was crushed and he was blinded by the blood from his open forehead. His little girl wept, eyes closed, still seated at the table.

Sandy, hysterical, jumped on Tom’s back, trying to pull him away. When he reached back to peel her off the bloody Vermiglio staggered to the entrance, pulling blind until his hand found the door and he made his way outside.

Lou stuttered down the sidewalk like a robot taking his first steps, looking in vain for an ambulance, policeman, or God. All he could find was a fire hydrant, and he fell to his knees forsaken.

Then Tom was out the door after him, running to the end of the block, bending down to lift Lou’s head up by his hair, smashing the man’s face into the yellow fireplug, over and again, knocking out teeth, missing the sounds of the sirens and the shouting of the officer.

The cop shot Tom in the back, and the piercing of the bullet brought a pain so pure he could no longer see, no longer understand what it was all about...

What was it all about?

Tom fell to the sidewalk, bleeding quiet. Inside the restaurant his hamburger sat lonely in the empty booth.

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