Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1963535-The-Royal-Kidnapping
by aicat
Rated: E · Chapter · Mystery · #1963535
In 1952, Queen Elizabeth's son, Price Reginald, is kidnapped.
1. September 11, 2001

         Benoit promised himself one thing: he would never again meet members of the mob at the airport. Right before him approached Lou and Frank, two so-called businessmen operating a small construction company in New York and trying to start one in the Province of Quebec. His latest burden was to accompany them on a flight to Los Angeles to deal with yet another mob member. Just a few more days, he thought, and I’ll be rid of these people.
After dealing with the airline duty check-in counter at Logan International Airport in Boston, Benoit, Frank, and Lou were just about ready to move towards the entrance leading to the waiting area, but something caught their attention. They noticed a small group of passengers talking to each other in what sounded like a Middle East language. One of them appeared to be having an agitated conversation with the counter clerk but that eventually ended, and the clerk waved them through. When they entered the waiting room, they sat in the row of seats just across from Benoit and his two companions.
“I have to admit,” said Frank quietly, “every time I hear one of those languages coming out of the mouths of those people, I become suspicious.”
“Take it easy Frank; nothing’s going to happen,” said Frank’s brother Lou.
Three hours of flight, thought Benoit. Hope he wasn’t going to be bored out of his mind. On the other hand, he would have to put up with Frank and Lou’s conversation. Maybe boredom wasn’t such a bad alternative. He tried to relax and felt a bit uncomfortable. At first, he thought it was Frank and Lou’s presence that was triggering this, but after a while, realized it was those Middle East people who were causing it. Benoit looked at one of them and for a brief moment, got a quick glance back from that person. Oh well . . . maybe his early morning rise at 4:30 AM was behind it.
When an announcement was heard over the loud-speaker indicating that flight 11 was ready to board, Frank said, “Okay, let’s go.” They finally boarded the plane and took their seats.
“Let me go next to the window, if you don’t mind,” said a pushy Frank.
Not the most well-mannered person in the world, Lou passed in front of Benoit and said, “Mind if I sit beside Frank?” Benoit shrugged his shoulders and let Lou go by.
After taxiing itself out to the runway, the airplane took off at 7:59 AM with no unusual events. As the airplane settled into its cruising altitude, Benoit began to relax. First, he went through the checklist of the things he had brought along to read on the long flight to Los Angeles. After doing that, he opened his briefcase and said, “Might as well look at this agreement your boss wants you to check.” He removed it and handed it to Frank to scrutinize. Frank took his spectacles out and was just about to say something to Benoit but. . .
Something interrupted their conversation, some noise and shuffling from the first-class area. A woman in front of him who had a better view of it yelled, “Oh my God, an attendant has just been stabbed.” All chattering immediately stopped as the passengers focused on what was happening.
“What the hell is going on?” said Frank under his breath. Since Benoit was in the aisle seat, he bravely got out of it and approached the first-class area. One of those Middle East people he had noticed in that line up immediately told him to go back to his seat. He froze and noticed it was that same guy who had given him a quick look back in the waiting area. . . Benoit cautiously walked back to his seat.
“Look,” Frank pointed to something as Benoit sat down.
One of the Middle East people had briefly walked out of the first-class area and had what appeared to be cylinders attached to his torso with red and yellow wires. He was also holding a bottle with a spraying mechanism. It looked intimidating. Every passenger who saw that was terrified. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this person was willing to commit suicide.
A few minutes later, an announcement was made over the loudspeaker at about 8:25 AM. The person speaking had a foreign accent and everyone realized it couldn’t possibly be the original pilot. “We have some planes. Just stay quiet and you'll be okay. We're returning to the airport.”
About fifteen seconds later, the same person came back on, “Nobody move. Everything will be okay. If you try to make any moves, you'll endanger yourself and the airplane. Just stay quiet.” There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was hijacking the airplane.
In the next few minutes, Benoit could hear scuffling noise in the front. He stretched his neck to peer down the aisle and tried to view into that compartment. The next thing he saw was a stream of passengers from the first-class area proceeding towards some empty back seats. The hijackers had told them to go and sit in coach.
“What’s going on?” Benoit asked one of them.
A chatty old lady said, “There was a struggle, and two flight attendants have been stabbed and as far as I can tell, one passenger has had his throat slit. And that guy wearing those cylinders? He says it’s a bomb, and he will set it off unless we cooperate.” Needless to say, the passengers who heard that were horrified.
A chill went down Benoit’s back; then he felt a shift in the airplane’s momentum.
“Do you guys feel what I’m feeling, as if we’re shifting direction?” said Benoit.
Frank responded, “The announcer did say he was returning to the airport didn’t he.”
They were all talking like a bunch of first day school kids intimidated by the teacher but ultimately hoping that everything would turn out okay.
“Should we rush up there and gang up on them?” said Lou.
Frank ignored Lou, turned to Benoit and said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m calling Lisa, my wife.”
“Do you think that cell phone will work up here?”
“I guess I’m about to find out . . . it’s ringing, but no one’s answering. Let me try again.”
Benoit pressed the redial key and waited again.

The phone rang and rang. Finally, Benoit’s wife Lisa woke up and just as her daughter Theresa walked into her bedroom telling her the phone was ringing, she answered it; it had cut off. Who could be calling her at this hour? The time was 8:35 AM.
“Who was that?” said Theresa.
When Lisa checked the caller-id, she noticed there had already been two other calls that she must have slept through. Oops! It was Benoit, her husband.
“It’s Dad. Why would he call me now? -- knowing I usually sleep in late on Monday?”
Lisa worked in the Montreal area as a clerk for the Parti Québécois (separatist party for the province of Québec), and on some days she worked late and usually slept in the next day. She was a petit little blonde-haired woman but at forty-seven years old, was starting to show her age even if she still had her trim figure.
Better call him right away to see if there’s any emergency, she thought. When Lisa attempted to dial, the line was busy. She placed the phone back on the hook and headed straight for the bathroom. Before getting too involved, the phone rang again. It was exactly 8:37 AM.
She walked over to it, “Hello.”
“Lisa, it’s me,” whispered Benoit. “The plane I’m on has been hijacked.”
“Christ!” said Lisa.
“I’m pretty sure the hijackers are flying the plane, ‘cause as far as I know both pilots are dead, and a flight attendant has been stabbed.”
“Who’s on that plane Ben?”
“A couple of associates are with me. The passengers are pretty average along with some kids. We’re thinking of storming the cockpit and taking control of the aircraft. From what the attendants tell me, no one has had any training in dealing with suicidal hijackers.”
Suicidal? At this point, Lisa was nervous as hell and speechless; then the phone cut off.

Over the next few minutes, Frank noticed something as he looked out the window. “Hey guys, looks like we’re getting lower.”
“Let me see,” said Lou. He leaned across Frank’s lap to look out the window.
“Shit, I can see the water, what the fuck’s going on here.”
Even though Benoit was two seats away from the window, it was obvious that even he could see buildings and the water. Was there an airport near here?
Then they all noticed something; it was the statue of liberty.
Frank was the first to say something, “We’re approaching Manhattan from the south. There’re no fuckin’ airports around here.”
No kidding, thought Benoit.
He glanced towards the front and noticed a gun toting hijacker walking into the coach area where he was. Benoit yelled at him, “You’re going to crash this airplane aren’t you?”
Benoit’s outburst astonished Frank and Lou. They were speechless, wondering what was going to happen next. The hijacker gawked at Benoit with an angry look on his face.
He walked over and said, “Get up . . . this way.” As the hijacker pointed to the back of the plane with his gun, Benoit thought this would be the end of him. Why the hell did I say that? Maybe this hijacker will kill me, thought Benoit. When they got to the washroom, he noticed a utility room right next to it. The hijacker pointed to the room and said, “Go in and get down on your knees.”
A feeling of doom came over him. A sensation to panic caused him to probe all over the room desperately looking for a solution that could save him. Maybe something that would distract the hijacker and give him an edge to dart out of the way; then he could pick something up and possibly hit the hijacker with it. This was of course Benoit’s imagination working at full but not necessarily rational tilt.
When Benoit entered the room, he thought about falling on his knees and then surprise the hijacker by bouncing up and trying to tackle him. Better than just dying without any attempt to save himself, he thought.
Just before that would have happened, Benoit heard someone yelling. It sounded like the usual Middle East language they spoke, and it was obviously directed at this hijacker. The hijacker mumbled something under his breath indicating he was upset at being called.
Next thing you know the hijacker said, “Stay in this utility room.” Could he possibly return later to deal with Benoit?
There was light in the utility room, and Benoit notice a stainless steel cart used for moving goods around the airplane. Being in an intensive paranoid mood, Benoit thought he could just crawl into that cart. Would that really help him? Who knows, but when one is desperate, one does desperate things.
After he crawled in, Benoit recalled the events leading up to today’s flight including that phone call he got from his boss yesterday afternoon.

He yanked his vibrating cell phone out of his shirt pocket, “Hello.”
“Hey Benoit, it’s George. Listen, I got a little favour to ask you. I was supposed to meet with Tony in a couple of days, but he happens to be stuck in a court room in L.A., and there’s no way I can make it. So I need you to go instead.”
“Me? What could I possibly contribute meeting with the big guys? I know bugger all about that shit.”
“Na na Ben, no worries. All I want you to do is to deliver an agreement. Tony doesn’t want them faxed or anything like that since he’s got to sign them. This is a municipal document and his signature is required right away.”
This was really out of Benoit’s way, and he wasn’t happy about it.
“Ah right, ah right. What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll come over to your place first thing in the morning and give you an envelope with all this stuff. Then I’ll drive you over to the airport and instead of me boarding it, you will board it and go down to Boston and grab the plane to L.A. along with Frank and his brother Lou, and then let them see the agreement only when you’ve left the ground; got it?”
“Okay George, whatever you say. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Nothing unusual here; George was always a bit quirky, and Benoit had given up a long time ago trying to figure him out. Why not just give the agreement to them right away before boarding the plane, and come to think of it, why couldn’t he go and meet with Tony himself or let Frank and Lou do it by themselves?
George Armatoe was the president of the Montreal based Lucois Construction Company, which specialized in road and bridge construction, and repair. His company’s success was due to ‘learned’ connections to important people in the Québec provincial and municipal governments, as well as links to key people in the ‘families’ of New York City of which Tony Illpatchi, Frank and Lou Pocini, were members. Its success was also because of the way George handled people. At sixty-five, George was pushing retirement and rather than mellowing with age, had become more devious and nasty.
Benoit didn’t like this, but what could he do? He was in too deep having worked for George for over thirty years. Fortunately, he had never been too intimately involved with their big ‘operations’ but knew enough to make it dangerous for him to walk out. Sometimes things were not all that cordial between George and Benoit. When illegal things had to be done, Benoit would try as much as possible to avoid these requests and did them only when he concluded that things could get nasty if he didn’t.
Benoit was always on the edge so to speak. That is to say, he knew too much for them to fire him but wasn’t uncooperative enough to be as we say . . . ‘eliminated’. His loyalty was always questioned.
He had a dream though and that was to get away from these people who employed him. It had been a big mistake coming to work for George that long ago. At that point in his life, he was desperate for a job, and George had more or less treated him well. George was a good friend of his stepfather Gilles and lived down the street from them. George was one of those people who lived in a French-speaking neighbourhood but didn’t speak French. This didn’t bother Gilles. When Benoit became ten years old, he considered it an opportunity to bring his son over and practice English. This was Benoit’s first contact with an English speaking person and everyone noticed his natural ability to learn the language. Everyone thought this linguistic ability was due to the friendship he had developed with this good neighbour, but there was something else everyone seemed to notice, and that was a natural ability to learn new languages, especially English.
One day, when Benoit was eighteen years of age, he heard a knock on the front door of the family home. It was the police. After they had confirmed he was Benoit Mareaux, they told him that his father had been murdered, and they weren’t aware of whom did it. He had been shot point blank in the back of his head at his place of work. This eighteen-year-old kid, now living by himself, was shocked by the horror.
That same afternoon, George appeared and offered his condolences. Benoit appreciated the effort. A few days after the funeral, as Benoit sat alone in his newly inherited house, he felt desperate. He was out of work and out of money. Maybe George could help out. After all, he did feel genuine sympathy for his father’s death on the day he was killed.
When Benoit called George to get advice, he was invited to visit him at his place of work. George was not the type of person who stood out in a crowd and had a forever-bureaucratic look. On this day however, George seemed friendly and sympathetic.
After listening to Benoit’s desperation, he offered him a job and told him right at the beginning that loyalty was the most important quality he looked for in an employee. Getting this job at this time was a major relief for this distressed young man, who now had a smattering of security.
As the years passed, Benoit eventually figured out that in George’s business, loyalty was everything just as he said it would be. What did he mean by loyalty? In other words, when things were not necessarily conducive to rule of law, you would never go to the police to report it, which is to say that many of these construction organizations were run by organized criminals. From that moment on, Benoit knew this was not what he wanted and constantly looked for an opportunity to get out.
A characteristic of working for the Lucois Construction Company was their unique bookkeeping methods that emphasized the cash method of distributing money with little record keeping. Eventually Benoit found out that it was mostly coming from municipalities, and smaller amounts from certain organized crime families. Some of this cash was also donated to politicians and their parties. After about five years, he wanted out. That’s when he discovered that you could never be completely out. He knew too much, and knew he would always have links to these people. One of the factors that kept him connected was the fact that he occasionally participated in these illegal activities and was aware that he could be in trouble with the law . . . which meant he would be dragged in as well as George . . . an unhealthy situation, he thought.
The five years turned into ten, then twenty, and eventually thirty.
The next morning the alarm clock woke Benoit up at 4:30 AM. He knew George was coming and had to be ready. What a drag to have to wake up so early in the morning; it was hell. After pushing himself out of bed, he dressed as quietly as he could, to not disturb his wife Lisa. He looked out the window and saw a car pull into the driveway, headlights on, lighting up the front of his house. That had the effect of waking her up anyway.
“Who’s that?” said Lisa in French.
“What do you think?”
“Oh ya. . . George.”
“I better get going.” With that, he leaned over the bed and kissed his little wife good-bye. “See you in a few days sweetie.”
Benoit hurried downstairs before George could make any noise knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell.
Benoit hopped into the car as George said, “So Ben, how soon are you expected back in Montreal?”
“Right away George; my daughter Theresa is getting married in two weeks, so there’s a lot of work to do.”
“Fantastic Ben, I wish her the best.” They chatted about his daughter and the wedding all the way to the airport. George drove over to the drop-off area.
“Here’re the agreements. Give Frank my best.” George gave him an envelope.
“Sure George, sure,” said Benoit as he got out of the car.
George was chuckling away and was only too happy not to have to meet with Tony’s right-hand man and cousin, Frank Pocini. Frank had a reputation as a bully and being related to Tony, was deeply loyal to him.
Benoit Mareaux closed the door to the car with a bit of reluctance. He felt slightly nervous as he walked away from George’s car. Even though he considered himself a minor player in the construction shenanigans, he occasionally had to meet Frank. It was always an unpleasant moment and rather discomforting.
Benoit thought this was the real reason George wanted to avoid going to Los Angeles. Not only was it out of his way, but he wouldn’t have to put up with Frank. He was an annoying person and very protective of his territory, deals, and projects.
The flight to Boston was to last slightly over an hour. By the time Benoit was seated and buckled in, he was still sleepy from having woken so early. He closed his eyes trying to relax as the airplane took off. The continuous steady humming noises from all the airplane’s vibrations caused his mind to drift away . . . he could see his father.
Gilles was quiet this morning at the breakfast table. Benoit knew that on certain occasions he shouldn’t talk to his dad. Benoit was an only son, a stepson in fact; his mother had passed away a few years ago. As a child Benoit remembered having many pleasant memories even if they were confusing. But wasn’t that normal for most kids. Memories firmed up as you got older. Entry into kindergarten was when most memories for Benoit had roots. Before that, nothing was quite clear; only confusion and always seeming to meet a lot of people. His best memories were always about his loving mother. She simply adored him and tended to spoil him. She told him once that his real dad had passed away when he was born, and then she married Gilles. That’s when he found out he wasn’t biologically related, but no matter, Gilles and Benoit were close. It was a devoted and loving family.
This morning at the breakfast table there were only two people, Benoit and his moody stepfather. His stepfather was sitting over his bowl of cereal, not eating it -- just staring at it. Benoit heard a knock on the front door and saw his father get up and answer it. Just as his father was leaving, he looked at his son and said, “You stay home all day until I get back. Understand?”
You did not ever disobey this father when he was in this mood.
Later in the evening, there was a knock on the front door. It was the police . . .
Benoit suddenly woke up . . . the airplane noises returned, and flight attendants were walking up and down the aisles reminding people to buckle up. They were about ready to land.
When he landed at Logan International Airport in Boston, he went directly to the flight 11 gate. Maybe if he got lucky they wouldn’t be there. Unfortunately, he saw Frank and his brother Lou waiting for him, so he walked right up to them.
“So Benoit, wha da you guys do up there in Kabec besides eating putin with maple syrup all over it.” Frank Pocini liked Benoit -- on the rare occasions he met him -- for the simple fact that he was usually deferential in the presence of all this power, and that meant he could needle or tease him at will. Benoit did look slightly comical. His small stature always made him look up when meeting people of average height, and Frank was about six feet. Benoit’s forehead was overcrowded with wrinkles. He had to forcefully keep his eyebrows high most of the time to stop looking like he disapproved of everything. The teasing he had to endure from these two guys was also par for the course back at the office. It had a limit though; for some strange reason George highly disapproved of it . . . to Benoit’s favour.
The other member of this threesome was Lou Pocini, Frank’s chubby, bald-headed, gum-chewing brother, always laughing at everything having the slightest hint of silliness. Naturally, he roared with laughter at Frank’s comments about Benoit.
“I know what they do with this stuff Frank. They use that recipe as brick mortar for the exclusive buildings in Québec we provide them with.” That allowed Lou one big laugh at Benoit’s expense; Frank chuckled along. Poor old Benoit, uncomfortable in their presence but nevertheless, smiling with those laughing partners.
“Remember Ben, when you get back to Montreal, tell George that he mustn’t quote on that toll highway until he checks with us. If he does, he could destroy another deal we’ve got going. Understand?” Frank tried to appear intimidating when talking down to Benoit.
Ya ya ya, thought Benoit; how many times is he going to repeat these requests over and over again. This toll highway had been in the works for a long time and seemed to be Frank’s obsession. Benoit figured that he must have some personal stake in it himself. “Sure Frank; don’t worry, I’ll tell him; I’ve already told you over and over that I will convince him not to quote on this job.”
“It’s more than convince Ben, it's guarantee. I wanna guarantee that he won’t do anything and if he doesn’t, then we won’t do anything; Simple.” Frank had his arms out and his palms up with a big smile on his face and George knew exactly what all this body language meant. If things didn’t work out Frank’s way then things could get . . . complicated . . . or perhaps troublesome . . . and of course the best word to use . . . malicious -- e.g., an allergic reaction to a baseball bat or something like that.

Reality suddenly came back as Benoit managed to squeeze himself in the stainless steel cart and keep the door closed. He wasn’t a big person -- about 5 feet 7 inches and weighing around 140 pounds. Maybe when the hijacker returned to finish him off, he might think that Benoit had escaped the room and would go looking for him around the airplane and not in that room. Benoit had never been a religious man even if he was raised in a French-Canadian Roman Catholic family. He considered saying a prayer, but then . . . felt a movement. . .
. . . It was a severe movement that jammed the stainless steel cart against one of the walls and made his whole body squish against the side. . .
. . . Hellish and tormenting. . .
He was only conscious for the next two seconds.
The first half second he felt severe pain across his legs and part of his arms.
. . . The next half second was burning skin that began near that tormented leg and progressed upward toward his face. . .
. . . The next complete second was an incredible agonizing twist of every nerve he could feel. . .
. . . Then suddenly -- nothing, no sensations, no pain . . . What was the difference between being unconscious or dead? At this time, on this day, Benoit was not the one to decide.

“Mom . . . mom come here and look at the TV.” Lisa rushed into the living room in her bathrobe, still a little wet after leaving the bathroom, and was startled at what she saw. One of the twin towers of the world trade centre in Manhattan was burning.
“Oh my God . . . could that be . . . oh no,” at this point tears were flowing down Lisa’s eyes, and she dropped whatever she was holding in her hand on the floor.
“Mom, what’s going on? Why are you crying?”
The TV announcer said, “An airplane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Centre. From what we can tell the airplane is completely destroyed and is burning away.”
Deep down inside Lisa knew it was Benoit: no need to wait for confirmation from the TV announcer. On the surface, she was visibly traumatized and shaken. Her hands were partially covering her face, and tears poured out from her eyes as her daughter tried to console her.
“Mom, how do you know dad is on there?”
“Your dad just finished talking to me on the phone and told me his airplane had been hijacked.”
“Oh. . .” Theresa was practically breathless.
Despite Lisa’s visible outward appearance, part of her was resolute and could still operate on a rational level. All this time she was putting a plan together to go down to Manhattan as soon as possible -- after a real confirmation of what plane Benoit was on and whether his was the one that crashed into the tower. Within an hour, the TV announcer confirmed all that information, and she began to prepare her voyage.
“Theresa, I’m packing up and going down there right away.”
“Do you want me to come with you mom?”
“No, you stay here and look after the place. I’ve got to be there.”
Lisa was always a person who knew what she wanted. She was the one who proposed marriage to Benoit, who wanted to have a child right away, and as a staunch member of the separatist party, wanted to have an independent Québec.
There have been traumatic times in her life before. Her father was killed under suspicious circumstances when he was fired upon on a visit to Buffalo NY. When she was five years of age, he was driving the family car with her mother sitting in the front seat while she was sitting in the back. The car hit something on a deserted industrial roadway he was using for a shortcut.
“Looks like we might have a flat tire,” she remembered him saying. When he opened the door to get out there suddenly appeared two people holding guns.
“We want all your money or we’ll shoot.” They were obviously teenagers and appeared slightly nervous. Her father, having a reputation as a stubborn person, sat back in the driver’s seat and slammed the door.
“Fuck you guys,” he yelled. Then he turned to his wife and said in French, “Those two kids won’t shoot. Look at them; they’re nervous as hell.”
He was right; they took off into some rocks and woods along the road.
“Looks like they’re gone. Let me look after that flat tire,” he said defiantly.
“Can’t we wait for someone to come along and help?” said her mother. He just glared at her for half a second and went ahead with fixing the tire. By the time he got to the trunk, they heard a shot. Lisa stood up in the back seat and saw her father looking directly at her. There was blood oozing down his forehead, quite a lot of it as a matter of fact. She screamed as loud as she ever had in her life and fell on the floor of the car into a little round ball, yelling and screaming.
The next thing she knew, she woke up in a hospital bed. Her aunt was there staring at her. Her parents were not. They had both been killed.
. . . Today, she was determined to find her husband.

Other people viewed this major turn of events differently. George Armatoe phoned one of his most important customers, Joseph Consoveau, the mayor of Evelcore, a suburb of Montreal.
“Joe did you hear the news?” said George.
“What news?”
“About the crash in the World Trade Centre in Manhattan,” said George.
“What are you talking about; I’ve not heard of this, is it on TV?”
“Turn it on and you’ll see.”
A few seconds later, “Unbelievable . . . it’s devastating.”
“Joe, you’ll never believe who was on that plane.”
“Frank and Lou Pocini, that’s who.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly serious if you’ll pardon the pun.”
Joe stared at the TV. “How sure are you they were on the plane?”
“I am one hundred per cent sure that it was flight 11 they were on, and it has been confirmed, just keep listening to the reports and it’ll come up.”
As sad as the disaster was, from Joe and George’s point of view, there was a benefit that resulted from this.
“Maybe this will kill this unwanted agreement.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. There’s also something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Benoit was with them.”
“Holy shit . . . heh heh heh . . . how lucky can you get.”
“As bad as this disaster is, at least there’s some good fortune for us. Now we don’t have to worry about Frank and Lou manipulating things with that bogus construction company they were trying to set up. Tony is busy in a courtroom in L.A., and I’ll never have to worry about Ben squealing on us.”
“OK Joe, I’ll keep in touch with you. Talk to ya later,” and with that they hung up.

In New York and Los Angeles, the situation was different. Over the next few days as things began to unravel, Tony and some of Frank and Lou’s associates were sadden with the loss of their colleague’s lives, but it didn’t prevent the plan of setting up a new construction company in Québec. That went ahead, and the person who was now going to handle the matter was Tony Illpatchi’s wife.
As much as George disliked Frank and Lou (thank God they were gone), Tony was more dislikeable and one of the worst people he ever had to deal with. At 55 years old, he was an imposing figure at 6 feet 2 inches, close to 300 lbs., heavy eyebrows, hair combed backwards with a slight receding hairline, married to a gorgeous blond, and oh that Noo Yawk accent of his. You had to pay close attention every time he spoke, and maybe you’d understand about 75% of his words and deduce the rest of them.
When Tony wonded sometin’, youse betta give in unless youse were desperate for a pair of concrete shoes.
An experience ‘entrepreneur’, as he liked to refer to himself; he was even more determined to succeed in memory of Frank and Lou. After a certain period of mourning, he planned to go to Montreal to kick-start the whole operation after his situation with the L.A. courtroom ended. He knew it would take time to make inroads up there, but he was patient.
He also understood the existing infrastructure in getting contracts. He, Frank, and Lou were experienced in having worked among the New York families for many years. He’d get his share; he had no doubts about that.
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