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1589611071_text Premeditation
Premeditation
a novel by
Albert Da Silva PREMEDITATION
: Copyright ã 2004 by Albert Da Silva. All rights reserved. Printed
in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN: 1-58961-262-0
Published by PageFree Publishing, Inc.
109 South Farmer Street
Otsego, MI 49078
(269) 692-3926
www.pagefreepublishing.com In memory of
Manuel, Berta, Bonnie, Laura
THE FAVOR
Lower Manhattan -1995
T
wilight faded into a cloud shrouded November night as Matt Sasso, in his
old bedroom, comforted by childhood memories, slipped into a deep sleep.
Outside his window, a black late model Buick with two men inside drove up Mulberry
Street. The thick driver, who fit snugly behind the wheel, blew smoke out the window,
while the leaner one next to him screwed a fat silencer onto the muzzle of his full-
weight Colt .45.
A short time later, in the East Village on a street scarred with graffiti and littered
with trash, a long line of rowdy punk-rock fans waited impatiently to get into Lizards,
a popular dance club. The banner strung above the entrance blazoned a special
sundown performance by the band, I Nailed Lucy. There was a roar protesting the
delay, and the line surged forward pressing those up front into the door. The oppressed
pushed back when the door, with a lizards tongue painted on it, swung open, flicking
loud music into the street. A broad-shouldered bouncer appeared in the entryway,
counted the first ten in line and motioned for them to enter. After this group had
been swallowed inside, the door shut, and the pierced, tattooed crowd howled again
in protest. In stark contrast to the denim and leather-clad gathering were the two
hit-men, who walked past, dressed in silk-blend suit jackets and black fedoras.
Avoiding eye contact with the angry queue, they made their way to the narrow alley
where the side entrance to Lizards was located.
The corpulent thug banged on the door. When it opened, he struck the security
guard across the forehead with a hard rubber sap, knocking him to the ground. After
taping the hands, feet, and mouth of the groggy rent-a-cop and stuffing him in a dark
corner behind a jumble of wooden set-pieces, the two thugs inserted earplugs and
followed the loud music to the back of the stage. Hidden in the shadows, they
watched the four members of I Nailed Lucy pound their instruments and scream
their lyrics, inciting the flailing dancers into wilder gyrations.
The club, like a huge breathing organism, fed off the energy of the young bodies
in motion. The walls, ceilings, and floors had their own pulse, and the large space
was thick with a moist mixture of sour sweat and sweet perfume. The drinkers and
posers by the bar moved in place, bumping and grinding, while those on the dance 8
ALBERT DA SILVA
floor worshipped the gods of chaos. They threw themselves at each other, smacking
into and head butting one another, inflicting and receiving pain. Squirming torsos
were raised overhead and passed above the crowd by a sea of arms, then dropped
to the floor and stepped upon. The dancers were urged on to greater pandemonium
by the refrain Nails, the groups leader, and Lucy, the lead guitarist, shrieked at
them. The devotees knew the words well and chanted along.
Punish me, punish me - I need reaction! Punish me, punish me - I need sensation!
Punish me, punish me - I need attention! Punish me, punish me - I need affection!
Dressed in black leather from head to toe, Nails roamed the front edge of the
stage, slamming chords on his electric guitar and spitting at the crowd, who spat
back. It was a pagan ritual with the true believers loving and hating the high priests.
They adored yet wanted to smash their idols: the source of good and evil. Nails
protected his temple from those who stormed the gates and kicked them off the
stage, back down into the roiling mass of worshipers.
But even more sovereign than Nails were the two hit-men, who decided it was
time for real punishment to take place. They stepped forward to Nails amplifier,
alongside the drummer, who was too absorbed in his racket to notice the menacing
pair. The squat thug bent down and yanked the electric cord attached to Nails
guitar, spinning him around. When he spotted the two hit-men and recognized the
danger, Nails wrath turned to fright. He froze all movement, except for his widening
eyes, as the tall sinewy gangster pointed the .45 at his forehead. Nails saw the
blurred projectile burst from the smoking barrel just before the bullet ripped into his
brain.
The force of the single hollow point splattered blood onto the crowd, and Nails
body flew backward off the stage. His corpse was caught by outstretched arms and
passed above the heads of the delirious throng. The dancers reacted to the spurting
blood and exposed gray matter as if they were fake and the martyr act a new
addition to the groups show. The crowd loved it and took part. Some stroked while
others beat at Nails flesh. Even the drummer and bass player believed it was
staged and pumped up the rhythm, abetting the riotous blood orgy. Only Lucy
understood what had happened. Her cries were full of real pain and horror, but no
one noticed the difference in her voice.
In the small bedroom on Mulberry Street, Matt felt Rita pushing his arm, trying
to wake him. But he didnt open his eyes. He didnt want to hear what his sister had
to tell him. He didnt want to know for sure that his life had changed in a most
dangerous way.
When did things turn so bad? When was the last time I was happy and
excited to be alive? The questions drew him back to the cloudless night Laura had
come to dinner. He recalled the simple pleasure of preparing the meal and the
swelling anticipation of her company. Then came the black smoke, and after that,
Thanksgiving Day, when his life careened horribly off course. 9
ALBE
PREMEDITATION
CHAPTER 1
Two days earlier
T
he evening was crisp and clear, and a big moon hung high over the Hudson,
spilling light on an old battered tanker-trailer abandoned by the waterfront.
Silent and foreboding, the grimy hulk sat across the street from Manhattans ripe
Washington Market. An oily ooze leaked from one of its valves, and the syrupy
slime, colored with muck rainbows, collected in a puddle on the cobblestone street.
* * *
A block away up river, in a century-old, red brick storehouse, refurbished with
polished wood and exposed steel beams, Matt Sasso stood in front of his bathroom
mirror and plucked the last gray hair he planned to deal with that evening. Fresh
from a shower and only wearing briefs, he ran a comb through his thick dark hair,
while a visual forecast ran through his head. How many gray hairs will he have in
five years, in the year 2000, when he turns fifty? He didnt have that many yet, but
the few silver sprouts spoke of things to come, like the frailty of old age, which
would one day plunder his powerful chest and arms and cloud his brown eyes.
Matt wondered how he would fare against the inevitable misfortunes he was on
a collision course with. What will be the next great calamity in his life? Or will they
come in bunches and overwhelm him? The toughness he had learned from growing
up on the streets of Lower Manhattan taught him never to be a victim. When someone
or something attacked, he struck back quickly with greater force. But how would he
apply this aggressive technique to a debilitating tragedy. . . say, like impotence? Will
he have new methods of coping or will he rely on old habits and lash his pride with
a whip until it stood erect and performed circus tricks? Matt blanched and turned
away from the mirror, postponing any more grim probabilities.
He knew the river would look spectacular on a moonlit night like this, so he
crossed the bedroom - his bare feet pampered by a plump Persian rug - to a large
bay window facing west. Matt enjoyed watching the wide, black water flow past,
especially at night when he could block out the littered streets and the debris that ALBERT DA SILVA
10
bobbed in the current. In the dark, he only saw the glittering sheen of the moving
water. Besides the mysterious beauty of it, he loved to look at the river because it
reminded him of where he lived and who he was.
Matt had discovered the Tribeca area long before it became geographi