Public Enemy Number One.pdf

Public Enemy Number One - An EP Novella by kharizzmatik

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6822405/1/

"I sense someone's tapping into my phones, why do

I got this feeling in my bones I might die soon

The F.B.I might be tryin' to pull my file soon

I might be walking blind fold into a typhoon"

- Eminem "Public Enemy Number One"

Prologue

There are days that are never forgotten, days that stand out in history. People

gauge time by them, their lives nothing but a string of events with a bunch of

mediocrity in between. Most couldn't recall what they were doing on September

5th, 2001, or the 6th, or any other day that week, but they did know what they

were doing on the morning of the 11th. You could ask anyone about it and you'd

be guaranteed to hear a story about how they heard the news of the terrorist

attack in New York. They'd remember the tiniest details, not because they were

significant, but because the day was. Their world had been put on pause, the

moment forever seared in their mind.

However tragic, something had finally broken the monotony.

I was thirty-seven at the time. Esme and I had been in Phoenix and were

supposed to fly out later that night to go back to Chicago, but she was so shaken

she refused to get on the plane. I ended up having to rent a car for her sake and

drive over 1700 miles straight. It was the first and last time I'd ever been late for

a meeting. I told her she was irrational and complicating my life. She told me I

was an asshole.

Maybe she was right.

April 4th, 1968. I was four. I found the lady that worked in our house crying in

the kitchen. I didn't ask her what was wrong, but she took it upon herself to tell

me anyway-Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated in Memphis. That was

the day I learned she was a slave. I was too young to really understand the

concept and told her to just leave if she didn't want to be there. For some reason,

she listened to me. She didn't make it very far.

It was the first time I'd ever seen someone die.

July 21st, 1969. I was five. I sat on the floor in front of the television with my

sister and watched Neil Armstrong take those first few steps on the moon. Jane

said she was going to do it someday, but my mother told her the closest she'd

ever get to outer space was when she went to Heaven.

I begged to differ, because she wouldn't even make it there.

January 28, 1986. I was twenty-three. Esme and I were having lunch together at

a local diner and the television by the counter was broadcasting the latest space

shuttle launch. Everyone cheered at lift-off but were silenced a minute later when

the Challenger exploded live in mid-air. Esme gasped, horrified. I could see her

trembling. People around us cried.

My first thought was that if Jane still wanted to be an astronaut, she'd missed the

perfect mission.

November 22nd, 1963. The day I was born. I'd heard the story of my birth

dozens of times over the years, but that wasn't why the date held significance. It

had nothing to do with me, actually. People remembered it because of John F.

Kennedy's assassination.

My birth certificate listed my time of birth at 12:25 pm, a mere five minutes

before the President was shot. I wasn't breathing when I was born-the cord had

been wrapped around my neck so I was cold and blue. Technically speaking, I'd

been dead, but they managed to revive me as my mother gave birth to Jane. She

came out bright red and screaming. Fitting, really. We came into the world in our

own unique ways.

There were photographs from the hospital of the occasion, but I wasn't in any of

them. Instead of focusing on me and Jane, everyone's attention had been on a

small portable radio sitting off to the side.

The Mafia had ties to Kennedy. My father personally worked to get him votes in

Illinois, and other made men across the country did the same in their territories.

After he was elected, as a way to show his gratitude for the help, he declared war

on the Mafia with the help of his brother Robert, the Attorney General. The

Justice Department indicted over 100 men for organized crime, which, needless

to say, left a lot of Mafiosi unhappy. They were out for blood and when La Cosa

Nostra wanted blood, it got it. Even the President wasn't above the Mafia's wrath.

So whenever someone recalled that day and said that my father's first words

were, "I can't believe we actually did it," I suspected it also had nothing to do

with me. He'd never admit it, but up until the day he died I believed he harbored

secrets worse than the ones I now carried.

I tried to never think of those things, though. They were moments where people

came together and, for a day, united. They shared joy, and pain, and shock. They

cried together. They found common ground. They celebrated. They grieved.

It felt fraudulent.

Because after the day passed, so did everything else. Most people couldn't recall

what they did on September 12th, 2001, or the 13th. They were just days, much

like every other day. Time went on and so did life, but the memory of that one

single afternoon, when their dismal lives received a wake-up call, would haunt

them forever.

04/05/1968. 07/22/1969. 01/29/1986. 11/23/1963. They're nothing but dates.

No personal attachment to them. No significance. No meaning. Just numbers.

Story of my life.

I - Hell in a Handbasket

October 1996

33 years old

Chicago, IL

The deranged knocking echoed through the house, making my head pound. I

staggered down the steps toward the front door, groggy and still half-asleep. I

had told them I was going home because I didn't feel well, so for someone to

interrupt my night took guts. There was never any telling what I'd find on the

other side of the door, but whatever it was had better be important tonight.

And by important, I meant life or death, because if it wasn't I'd likely make it so.

Somehow, as I made it to the foyer, the knocking managed to grow more frantic.

I groaned and ran my hands down my face, trying to clear my head and wake up.

I was agitated and that wasn't a good thing for whoever was standing on my

front step.

"I'm coming," I yelled, shaking my head. All I asked for was one night where my

phone didn't ring. One night where I could relax and spend time with my wife

without interruption. One night where I didn't have to worry about who was doing

what with who and why. One night where people left me alone.

One night where someone didn't come knocking.

Present Day

Chicago, IL

There was a timid knock on the office door, so faint I barely heard it over the

music playing in the club. I ignored the tapping and continued to sort through the

paperwork on my desk. Mafiosi knew they were to carry themselves with

confidence, especially when dealing with the most dangerous of men. I didn't

care if they were staring down Lucifer personally, surrounded by brimstone and

hellfire leading them straight to eternal damnation. They needed to keep their

composure, be prepared to fight and never ever let their fear show. The streets

were ruthless and our rivals wouldn't hesitate to make a move at the first sign of

weakness. Vulnerabilities were exploited, and the worst thing they could do was

come off as uncertain. It didn't matter if they were wrong, they needed to always

appear right. It was the 'fake it until you make it' philosophy. They didn't have to

believe in themselves, they just had to convince everyone else that they did.

And I, most certainly, was not convinced.

There was another knock, still weak. Hesitant. Unsteady. Again, I ignored.

"Boss, there's someone at the-"

I held my hand up to silence Benjamin and he stopped speaking abruptly. He'd

initiated a few months earlier, the son of one of our high ranking Capo's named

Frank Mancini. Benjamin was a smart kid, good with numbers. He could've had a

bright future but instead chose the life of crime, more than likely for the same

reason most of the younger ones did-the money, power and respect.

It was a shame not many of them survived long enough to achieve any of it.

It took awhile for the third knock to come. It was louder, more determined. I

motioned for Benjamin to answer the door and sat back in my chair, glancing at

my Rolex as the boy entered. He was young, early twenties, and relatively fresh

within the organization. He still had the Young Turk mentality, believing

everything was open for negotiation. But, contrary to what he believed, I was the

only one in the room with the power to bend rules. He would learn that soon

enough, or he'd pay for his ignorance with his life.

"It's 9:03," I stated. "I told you 9. You're late."

"But I was here," he said defensively. "I was out in the hall."

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief that he was going to try to argue the matter.

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