The Clown Don

Raindrops caressed the surface of the earth with a consoling pat, joining together to mourn the loss of a great man. They covered the grass, breaking into smaller teardrops on each blade. It was a gray, rainy afternoon, the perfect backdrop for a funeral if perfection had a dark lining. The velvet floors of Dingo’s Funeral Home added to the solemnity of the occasion. Solemnity sometimes called for fuzzy purple comfort.

Pallbearers entered the room and waited. They were dressed in gray, a favorite color of the deceased yet not what he was currently wearing. The men stoically folded their hands over their laps. They couldn’t begin their grim lift-and-shift without first getting the nod of approval from the Boss. Nothing official would happen without the arrival of that special mourner.

The deceased was named Angelo Sorriso and his significance in life was twofold. He was everything to his wife and two children, each of whom carried their sorrow with heavy hearts and muffled anger. They bore it as silently as the pallbearers would bear the casket, but their burden was heavier still, loaded with the rocks of profound loss. And they could never put it down.

Many things were often said about Angelo, but the description he was proudest of was “family man.” In his world, that meant two things. He was a Consigliere in a Mob family. It was the biggest, most influential criminal organization in the history of Metronia. Some would call that city the new capital of the world. The enterprise to which Angelo belonged was the Clowneone Family, so-called for its namesake leader.

Mourners were to pay their respects in just one day rather than spread over the course of two or three. The usual schedule for a Catholic wake was a three-hour viewing, followed by a break, followed by another three-hour viewing. But this was not the itinerary for Angelo.

Dingo’s was a Mob funerary establishment, and Mr. and Mrs. Dingo, the funeral director and mortician respectively, would keep the place open as long as was requested by their lofty benefactors. From the first mob-affiliated funeral onward, they knew they’d have to oblige favors in exchange for the money and protection they valued. This wasn’t the first time they’d done things out of the ordinary. Ordinary was only the front. The business, as always, was in the back.

After eight hours of viewing, beginning at eight am, the wake was over. Three solemn men walked into the funeral home. They were impeccably dressed. They had on white gloves. The gentleman in the middle was stout and dense but did not give the impression of being overweight. He wore a gray suit with shiny black shoes, a toned-down lavender shirt and skinny black tie.

The sewn-in patch on his left breast pocket below the lapel was a small black Jolly Roger: a skull and crossbones with a red clown nose and a jester’s cap on it that was instantly recognizable as the logo for Jolly Clothiers. It was a very popular brand globally but was also a favorite of this particular family. Angelo himself was a recurring patron. The Jolly suit jacket he was currently wearing would be his last.

The two men at each side of the stout man were also slightly behind him. They were bulkier, carrying more obvious heft. The middle man walked toward the coffin. It was polished walnut, like the interior of Angelo’s favorite American luxury car. The mourner thought a sad and often clichéd truth bore repeating: you can’t take it with you. And so it remains.

The man in the middle began to do the sign of the cross and the two others followed in lockstep. He leaned over and folded his hands together, praying for the soul of his friend. He looked him over as he prayed, from feet to head. The deceased had somewhat oversized but elegant shoes, deep purple pants, pressed, a white button-down housed in a dapper plaid jacket, and a stylish brown plaid fedora on his head.

Angelo’s face was calm, serene, sublime. He was not only at rest; he was also comfy and cozy. That’s what the plush pillow and upholstered interior were for, after all. His face was painted white, per his usual appearance, except that his nose and lipstick were immaculate, and there were large, black “X’s” over his eyes to indicate he was dead. This was a Clown custom. Clowns are nothing if not suited to ritual.

“Close it up,” the mourner whispered, standing to his feet, eyes trickling and smearing some of his own makeup.

The full detail of pallbearers silently strode to the coffin, bowed their heads and shut the lid, removing the light from Angelo’s face forever.

The ride to the cemetery was quiet as Enzo rode alone in his limousine, chauffeured by some pimple-faced kid who otherwise might be hustling and bustling on the city streets. The usual chauffeur was out of town. Many of Enzo’s men weren’t present. It wasn’t necessarily safe for them. It wasn’t safe for Enzo either, but there was no way he could miss the funeral in good conscience. Angelo was always there for him and the family.

Sometimes paying back favors had to happen post-mortem.

Angelo wasn’t eulogized by friends or family. Most mobsters weren’t; it was disrespectful to eulogize a person without being honest, and it was impossible to be honest without speaking darkly about this breed of dead men. Instead, it was decided that he be remembered in the brightest strokes, no shaded tones, no blemished hues.

The priest, who hardly knew him, would give the eulogy near the burial plot on a mound of freshly dug earth.

Father Turiddu, formerly an exclusive mob clergyman, wore black and green vestments. He was the only one to speak at Angelo’s memorial, ensuring that the eulogy would be taken as a blessing and not as common discourse. There would be no blunted force or fault-finding. Only respectful deference.

Stepping up to the small podium, he was concise without being trite. That is a gift that only priests and those with a limited vocabulary are blessed with.

“Before we are born into this world, we are ashes blowing and settling in the wind. Just blowing and settling. We are given the chance to live and breathe and experience the world which formed us through the life God gave us, to bear witness to His glory, and His alone. Then we return to our natural state, as we say: from ashes back to ashes and dust unto dust.

“We are alive for decades but we are dust for millennia. Even so, this short time that we have sometimes seems even shorter. Blink and you’re here. Blink again and you’re gone. We don’t often think about it. What brings our minds back to the idea is often something big, like the death of a great man. Our friend Angelo Sorriso.

“He was loved by all who knew him, and we were all the better for his presence in our lives. His presence is the greatest gift Angelo gave us. His time. His laughter. His tears and his joys. And as Angelo has now given up this life and has returned back to the world, so we all are forced to give up our time with him, but not our memories.

“He lives on because we do. Ashes ourselves, but not yet. Now we are embers glowing brightly, owners and stewards of his memory, and the memories of all who are gone but not forgotten. Amen.”

As the casket was lowered down by a hydraulic crank, church singers professed soulful hymns, guiding the body of the man to its final resting place with the appropriate soundtrack. Should his spirit have taken its sweet time in rising from the body, it would have had to leave soon before the heavy compacted earth was thrust upon it, crushing it like the yawning wood.

“Don Clowneone, I am very sorry for your loss,” a large gruff man growled without much sentiment. The man was a lieutenant in a rival Mob family, the Jugglers. Enzo shook the hand he was offered and looked into the man’s almost scowling eyes.

The Juggler wore a standard purple suit with four golden bowling pins emblazoned on his left breast pocket. It was a classic Juggler get-up, replete with bowler hat. It wasn’t a bad way of dressing, simply a common one. It was a daily suit, not a suit of mourning.

“Thank you.” Enzo sat across from the slowly descending coffin, in the front row. He was always in a place of prominence. Except that this was undoubtedly Angelo’s day. Enzo would not have traded places for all the money in the world.

People threw a handful of dirt and a flower onto the coffin on their way to granting Enzo their condolences. There was a short lull in the grieves-making after the man in the bowler hat passed through. “How dare he show his face?” the person to Enzo’s right whispered. “A Juggler, here.”

Enzo leaned over to his second-in-command. “Boffo, nobody here knows the circumstances of Angelo’s death but us. This Juggler’s from Chicago; he’s only loosely affiliated to the Juggler family in Metronia. We did some business back in the day, so he came to pay his respects to me.”

A stunning Clown woman dressed in black with half-sphere white polka dots stomped her way up to Enzo. She had two small children in tow. She was blond with blue eyes and wore inked-on black circles around them as a sign of grief. Her boys looked a lot like her. They had her big blue eyes and their father’s darker hair. Enzo stood up and slightly bowed his head to her. It may have been a subconscious deference to her importance.

“Rainy, I—” he began, but was interrupted with a hard open-palmed slap to the face.

“This is your fault. Your fault! I’m his wife. You didn’t even tell me how he died, but I know he was killed or else you wouldn’t have buried him so quickly. How dare you? How in the hell dare you?”

Enzo’s eyes watered slightly. Only those that knew him noticed. He softened, was for the moment no longer the impervious Don, but a man who can be pierced by sharp words.

“How dare I what, Rainy? I didn’t do this.” He put his hand on her arm and squeezed gently as a sign of commiseration. They were both full of grief. She let him hug her for a moment and found her own eyes well up. Then she assertively pushed him aside.

“You kept him with you. He was older than you, Enzo. He wanted out. He deserved to spend time with his children. A man his age has grandkids. We have two young boys, damn it. Angelo was going to retire. But you asked him to stick around a little while longer. He told me that he was working on some kind of project for you. And he loved you so goddamn much that in the end he chose you over me. And them.”

She wiped her eyes, smearing her black circles. No matter how fervently she wiped, they would not be dried.

“And then you throw the funeral, you take care of his final expenses, the flowers, and the schedule. Because you’re the ‘boss.’ Do any of these people gathered here right now understand just how much of a shadow you are of your former self? Or do they still follow the memory of the Great Don Clowneone? Looks like you got them all fooled. People come here and they give their condolences to you, you, the man who got him killed by being greedy with his time. Not me, his wife, the mother of his children.”

Enzo tried again. He paused, giving her the chance to say anything else that she needed to get off her ample chest, but she simply looked at him. He knew that look. He’d given that look before. It was disappointment tinged with betrayal, with a hint of righteousness for effect.

He spoke in a low whisper, looking around to make sure no one was intruding on the private conversation. “Rainette, I promise that I’ll take care of you and your kids for the rest of your lives. Angelo deserved that; he would have wanted me to. It’s the absolute least that I can do. You won’t need for anything.”

She wiped a tear but three more came to its funeral. “Except a husband and father. How can you, of all people, not understand? My children will grow up their entire lives without him. When they graduate, when they play sports, when they get married. He won’t be there! Just like Emma wasn’t there for your son. And both times, it was your fault. You killed your wife, who was my best friend. And now you killed my husband, who was also my best friend. I want nothing from you, or for you. Come on.”

She tugged at her boys, wearing expressions that Enzo also knew well: confused grief and planet-shattering sadness.

Rainette Sorriso walked back down the hill, dragging her sons behind her, never turning around. She was walking toward a younger man who was dressed like a shadow and who reached his hand to her cheek. She pushed that man aside, not accepting any condolences at this time.

Her back was to Enzo both literally and metaphorically. On her way down the small hill, she also walked past a woman in a red sundress with yellow flowers printed on it. The woman wore a wide-brimmed red hat with a hanging black veil. Enzo didn’t remember her name, but he knew exactly who she was. Angelo’s mistress. Enzo nodded at her and took back his seat next to Boffo.

He turned to his Underboss. “I wanted to wait until after the funeral to do this, but call together an emergency meeting in the War Room tonight at eight. Every captain and lieutenant comes to the meeting. Every available soldier bunks in the compound. Move them in as quick as you can. We have to plan for every eventuality. This could just be the start of something big.”

Boffo nodded his head slowly. He knew the writing on the wall, that the Don wanted practically the entire Family with him in his gated compound in Arcane City. It meant war, or close to it. Either way, it was serious. “What about before eight? Do you want me to cancel your meetings?”

“No. Until then it’s business as usual. I got a couple of loose ends to tie up before we deal with this Angelo situation.” He looked over the hill to his substitute driver swaying aimlessly while playing sentinel in front of the black limo. “What happened to Laffy again?”

Boffo scratched his head. “Jimmie says he asked for vacation time a while ago. He’s been in Aspen with his family. Skiing or some shit. Laffy offered to come back but Jimmie told him to take the time off. He hasn’t had a vacation in twenty years.”

“Call him back east. There’s no such thing as a vacation.”

The Clown Family and all the other Carnival Mob families had a similar organizational structure. At the head was the Don - the Boss, the Head. The part of the fish that stinks the most, according to an Italian proverb. In the Clown family, this was Enzo Clowneone. He was the General, the Big Cheese, Head Honcho, BMOC, etc.

This position was like being President, Emperor or Chairman of the Board. It was where the chain of command terminated.

Below him was the Underboss, in this case Boffo Bofoni. An Underboss was like a Vice President or CEO who did the bidding of the chairman, the only official to outrank him. Usually this person also served functionally as a Director of Operations, overseeing daily business activities.

Below the Underboss was the Consigliere, or Counselor. Angelo was Enzo’s Counselor before his untimely demise. He was third-in-command and third in line to the seat of power, like the Speaker of the House. The Consigliere also performed duties much like the Secretary of State, a chief diplomat of sorts.

The three comprised the Executive branch of the Family. Sometimes there were more people in the inner circle, like a Treasurer or a second Underboss, but that often made things complicated. The more people in the executive branch, the greater likelihood of someone whacking their way up the ladder at some point.

Each of the executives had their own battalion of “soldiers” or footmen. They largely served as protection for their capos. A capo was similar to a director, or the head of a department. Reporting to the Boss directly were all the captains: Jimmie, Vinny and Rondo.

They were capos that led battalions and were like mini-bosses in their own right. Noblemen with fiefdoms ultimately in league with the throne. They acted independently for the most part, and had lieutenants and sergeants serving under them. They executed their various operating activities, both legal and illegal, with impunity.

Armed guards were always posted at the front gate and around the perimeter of Enzo’s compound. Arcane City was a suburb and satellite sister-city of Metronia. It was once a ghost town but in the last decade had seen a resurgence of economic activity. Enzo now owned most of it, either directly or through subsidiaries.

The compound itself was affectionately called “The Fortress” or less often “The Gray Fortress,” and including the grounds it spanned the equivalent size of ten square city blocks. It was enormous, with thick-chained fence and barbed wire all around, not to mention electrified sections that didn’t have any warning signs. If you were foolish enough to try breaking in with some dark purpose, then you deserved to get lit up.

The Clown Don sat at his desk. It was immaculate and empty, except for an open manila folder that he was leafing through. There would normally be family photos surrounding him when he stayed there alone. But when there were meetings to be had, he put them away in his desk drawers.

Sentimentality was a sign of weakness.

Across from him was a nervous man with dark eyes and hair but extremely light makeup and a light gray suit. His hands were folded, waiting for his Don to finish doing whatever it was that he was doing with the folder. The nervous man was curious as to the purpose of the meeting, but he knew better than to speak before Clowneone did.

The room looked regal, with gold trim everywhere and fancy red velour lining the floor and guest couch. Yet it was distinctly an office, the only trappings of which were the oak desk and silver-plated bookshelf behind the desk. It was somewhat disorienting for a guest sitting across from Enzo.

That was on purpose.

“Buddy Rangel. So you used to work for Angelo. A soldier in his private battalion.” He stated it as a fact, not a question, yet he waited for a reply. He fancied himself a master of control, and nothing in his experience had ever proven him wrong.

In arguments, in diplomacy or in any other kind of discussion, he employed the Clownian tactic of Sciarrare, which was a unique way of getting your point across without saying too much. Maintaining control through brevity. It was mastering a conversation through intricate manipulation.

“Yes,” the antsy gentleman said.

“He was a good man.” The Don paused a short while after making the statement, and just when he saw his guest open his mouth to agree, he continued.

“Now, I hear that you have girl troubles. Is that right?” He didn’t wait for a response this time. He looked down at a piece of paper which in reality was blank. The safest place to keep information, he found, was in his head.

“A Miss Annie Mae Bambolina. She was your girlfriend. I heard that she’s been giving you a little bit of trouble lately, and I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

Buddy looked even paler than the makeup lightly caked on his face. “Can I have a glass of water, Don Clowneone?” He was parched from anxiety.

The Don spent no time considering the request. He tapped the tips of his fingers together.

“No. What happened?” He leaned forward. Enzo was not the tallest man, 5’9” or 5’10”, but he gave the impression of being taller. He had considerable heft, most of which was obvious muscle. Aside from the formidable office which he occupied, his physical and mental stature were just as imposing.

Buddy wrung his hands and wiped his face, taking sweat along with white face paint. “She made a fool out of me, Don Enzo. We dated for almost two years. One day I went to her apartment and found her cheating on me with some mook. I just saw red. In a moment of rage, I—I killed her side piece. I could not abide the disrespect. Surely you could understand what I mean about respect.”

There was another pause. Clowneone’s face didn’t change at all, but he folded his hands in a prayerful way. Enzo didn’t think so much as calculate.

The lower-level Clown seemed to be afflicted with some gastrointestinal discomfort. He made a gassy expression and shifted in his seat.

“But, but don’t worry, Don Enzo. Please don’t worry. I took precautions with the body. No one will ever find any part of it, I promise. This will not get back to you in any way. I lost my temper is all. But betrayal, betrayal is the worst thing in the world, Boss.” His makeup started to run all by itself.

When he finally spoke after Buddy’s dithering, Don Enzo’s voice was a full octave lower than it had been in asking the question. “Yes. Yes, betrayal is a terrible thing. And by doing this, you have betrayed me. Not only have you betrayed me, but you have lied to me.”

Forgetting himself, Rangel stood up to plead his case. “No, that’s not true, Don—”

“SIT DOWN!” He sat down immediately.

“Because here’s what I know. This Annie Mae girl, who is a very sweet person, has tried very hard to break up with you since Year One, but you wouldn’t take the hint. You were infatuated with Annie and couldn’t accept ‘no’ for an answer. Even though you had your own side piece, or should I say pieces. According to your logic, your extracurricular girlfriends are also worthy of murder, then? I can make that happen if that’s the case.”

Enzo leaned back in his chair to await his guest’s verdict.

Buddy hadn’t really given a crap about them either. He was trying to figure out what answer his Boss wanted. “Well, I don’t—I mean, I guess you should probably, kill them...”

Enzo swatted away Buddy’s flubbering. “You saw Annie with her new boyfriend, not a lover on the side, and your pathetic little-dick ego couldn’t take it.”

Rangel dared not protest, not according to the tone of Enzo’s voice. Enzo had grown up in Metronia, and once grown dropped any hint of a neighborhood accent.

“You didn’t think about her. And what’s worse, Buddy, you didn’t think about me. We have a rule in this Family, Mr. Rangel. Unless it’s self-defense, you don’t kill anyone without permission. Anyone. You did not have permission. This is betrayal, from my point of view. And in case you need a refresher, my point of view matters more than yours.”

Buddy bowed his head as a sign of subjugation; he made an attempt to mitigate his punishment by appearing quite pathetic. The “pathetic” defense mechanism existed in nature to convince the dominant animal that gnashing and clawing was just not worth the energy. The submissive was just too much of a shit to ruin his day.

“There is no such thing as a perfect murder. There’s always something you leave behind or forget. I can’t allow that kind of mistake from you. Ever again.”

“N-no, p-please...” Rangel found himself trembling in a cold sweat. Whenever Enzo wanted to intimidate anyone in his office, he would either make it too hot or too cold, or he would set up the thermostat to oscillate between the two extremes. He himself was a master of his own internal temperature.

“No what?” Enzo sounded annoyed. Every expression, every pause and mannerism, was all part of leading a crime family. Theatricality was the greatest asset of an effective leader. And a measure of excellence in the art of Sciarrare.

“I’m not going to have you killed, Buddy. But I will have to do something.” He took the blank papers and closed the manila folder over them. “Angelo was going to do something too. He was going to discipline you himself over this transgression. But in a sudden and unexpected turn of events, he died. He was murdered.”

“Murdered?!” Rangel exclaimed, completely breaking protocol at this point. “How did—I thought—”

Calmly, Enzo asked, “Did you kill your capo, Buddy? In fear of the punishment he was about to deliver to you?”

Rangel shook his head fervently. “No, I had no idea that he was even murdered. Honestly, I—”

Enzo raised his hand and bellowed loudly. “Enough sniveling. You make me sick. You’re too stupid to have killed him and too much of a coward to try. I see that. But now that Angelo is gone, I’ve decided your punishment. Over the next five years, you will pay out a sum total of one million dollars to Annie Mae.”

Buddy exhaled reactively what appeared to be a sigh of relief.

“Over the same five years, you will pay out a sum total of one million dollars to the family of the man you killed. And you will pay out, on top of your normal tribute, one million dollars to me. That will take care of everyone that you have disrespected with your actions.”

“But I don’t even make that much—”

“I’m not finished. If at the end of five years, you have failed to make a full payment to any of us, you’re fish food. And in case you consider running, I’ll find you in the remote corners of the Sahara Desert. There’s no rock you could live under where I won’t find you, so you might as well kill yourself if you don’t come up with the money.

“I suggest you mortgage your house, sell your cars, and maybe paint some houses on the side. I bet Tanya Barbossa would love to have a guy like you dancing on tables for her at her nightclub. Something to think about.”

Enzo motioned to the doorway, which had just opened. “These two large gentlemen to each side of you will now escort you to our medical facility on campus.”

Buddy turned to see two Clown Redwood trees at either side of him, in black pinstripe suits with purple ties. He knew he had no right to ask, but what more could he lose at that point?

“I’m sorry, Don Enzo, why am I going to the medical facility?”

Enzo filed away the manila folder into the trash and smiled at Buddy as if they were just talking baseball. “Three reasons, Buddy. One: Annie Mae is there. You’re going to apologize to her for everything, and it better sound sincere. Two: we can’t trust you not to kill again without my approval, so Dr. Reingold is going to surgically break each of your fingers in a way that you’d never be able to hold a gun again in either hand. Probably won’t be able to text either.”

He continued speaking above Buddy’s very loud screaming.

“And three: every single time that you had sex with that woman against her will was, by definition, a case of rape. I’m no moralist, but dammit I hate rape. Dr. Reingold is going to make sure you can never do that again, either.”

As forty-two-year-old Buddy Rangel reverted back to a three-year-old toddler being dragged away by the Redwoods kicking and screaming, Enzo added, “Oh, by the way. Everyone from Angelo’s battalion has now been incorporated into Jimmie’s. He will be your capo now. You should count yourself lucky that he doesn’t know about this. He would have left you tied up in a desert somewhere with a steak hanging around your neck and your eyes scooped out. Thank your angels that I’m a bit more benevolent.”

Enzo pushed a call button on the minimally decorated desk. “Send in my next appointment, Doris.”

“Yes, sir,” Doris replied cheerfully.

A few minutes later, a smiley older man with heavy face paint walked into the office. He brought with him a tin of jellied almonds, a favorite of Enzo’s. They were roasted almonds encased within a soft jelly bean shell. As all jelly beans do, jellied almonds came in a variety of flavors.

Older Clowns tended to look more carnivalistic than younger ones. Rather than dress in elegant English or American cut simplicity, a lot of old-timers stuck to loud colors and exaggerated proportions. Clown-cut suits had disproportionately large lapels and collars.

This particular ancient Clown was wearing a black and red pinstriped suit, with thicker red stripes than black, and a yellow string tie over an orange button-down shirt. His white loafers were three sizes too big.

Although it was a noisy way to dress, it was still rather expensive. He wore a Black Label suit from Arlecchino, the most high-end Clown fashion brand in the world. Even casual clothing from the retailer was expensive. Arlecchino Chinos ran upward of two hundred dollars for a pair, yet consistently flew off of store shelves.

“Don Gino.” Enzo took his hand and shook it firmly.

A firm handshake conveyed many things: warmth, confidence, and proof of two hundred pounds per square inch of grip strength.

“Don” was a term that could be used in different ways. It was always a sign of respect, and simply meant “Sir” in Italian. Carnivalia, the European country where Clowns and all of the Carnival ethnicities came from, was sandwiched between southern France and Italy.

Carnivalians borrowed many words from the Italian language over the years, although English was still the official tongue as the region was long ago part of the British Empire.

“Don Enzo.” Gino responded in kind, but without the vice-like grip. Enzo motioned for him to sit down. Gino was around long enough to know the proper decorum, and didn’t find his seat until his host offered it to him.

“I want to give you my condolences for Angelo directly, since I wasn’t at the funeral. He was such a good man. I’m very sorry that he passed so suddenly. But tell me, how did he die? Was it a heart attack?”

Older Clowns tended toward gossip.

Clowneone nodded in a way that could easily be misunderstood for a “yes”. Or it could easily have meant that he wished to avoid answering.

“There was nothing the doctors could do, Gino.” That was true enough, given the state of the corpse when it was found.

Clowneone turned his attention to the liquor cabinet hanging on the wall to his left. It was a very ornate polished wooden piece, shaped into a large circle. The hemisphere doors opened outward and the different signs of the Zodiac were etched neatly in each of twelve pizza-type slices set around the center.

“You want some Peppermint Gigglefruit Liquore, neat? Aged twenty-five years.”

Gino beamed at him. It was a top shelf item sold at only the finest libationary establishments. “Yes, thank you. I’ve never had any gigglefruit liquor aged more than fifteen years. It must be very expensive,” he began to say, before remembering who he was talking to.

Enzo walked over to the cabinet and opened it with some pride. “It is. We sell these for four hundred dollars a bottle. I have a few aged fifty years and a couple one hundred years that my grandfather vinted himself. I keep them downstairs in my private collection.”

He slowly took two crystal glasses with the bottle and brought them over to his desk, where he meticulously poured the liquor into them. Enzo was a man who was on no one else’s schedule but his own.

He served his guest and they clinked their lavish glasses together. “To Angelo,” Gino told him, taking a full swallow. “Mm, wow. This reminds me of the old country,” Don Gino reminisced and smacked his lips.

“The peppermint and the gigglefruit go so well together.” He smacked his lips again and began to laugh. “Peppermint. Peppermint, peppermint. Do you still own The Peppermint Hotel and Casino? That was a fun place to go on weekends.”

Enzo sipped his liquor, savoring it. “The one in Mont’ Alban, yes. Not the one in the Red District in Metronia, not anymore.” Mont’ Alban was a semi-autonomous island off the coast of Clownia, which was the southernmost tip of Carnivalia.

It was home to the world’s most lucrative casinos, and to multi-million-dollar summer homes of the rich and famous. The island boasted the world’s highest average net worth per resident. As such, the casino cost a fortune to operate and often only broke even.

Don Gino inspected the clear, green-tea colored fluid. Again he began to crack up. It was as if the glass had just told him a knock-knock joke. Or that Clown classic, “What’s a dentist’s favorite state? Fluorida.” The joke was usually followed by the honking of a portable horn.

“This is some strong stuff. They let you sell this in the States?”

Enzo didn’t mind the interview. Gino was an older man, so he had more leeway than most others.

Don Enzo finished off his portion, but didn’t laugh. “We used to sell it on the black market through the Magicians or on special order at import/export. Sally’s place. But then we got together a pretty strong lobby with Congress, and spent a lot of money doing research at Chuckleton University. They allowed us a limited ‘discovery phase’ for testing purposes.

“We proved the value of the item as a raw material, highlighted the superfood benefits and underlined the very few health risks. Eventually, Congress lifted the ban on most gigglefruit products. Apparently extracts from the fruit can be used for all kinds of things: anti-inflammatory, painkiller, anti-seizure, and there are trials underway right now to see if it might cure cancer. Chuckleton is leading the way globally in gigglefruit pharmaceutical research. On my dime of course.

“The only thing you can’t do is isolate the giggle compound into a really concentrated form, like a drug.” But enterprising mob Clowns did, utilizing the fields and refineries in Clownia to source and manufacture “Big H”, or “The Big Ha”, a mood-lightening drug that could cause hallucinations, uncontrollable mischief and laughter for up to twelve hours. It was a popular drug sold by Jimmie Pagliacci’s battalion and which was also re-sold by the Mimes in the Art Town section of Metronia.

Gigglefruits grew primarily on short bushes in the semi-tropical fields of Clownia, and to a lesser extent in Mont’ Alban. They were berry-like with a soft, fleshy green peel which was also edible, and on the inside a juicy red ball that tasted a lot like lychee sat in a small pod.

There was a chemical in the peel and the flesh that caused a heightened sense of euphoria along with uncontrollable giddiness. During the Carnivalian Standoff in the 1960s, it was feared by President Johnson that these compounds might eventually become weaponized. Both gigglefruits and chucklefruits, which was a larger fruit that was orange on the outside and red on the inside, comprised the cornerstone of Clownian agricultural exports.

They were both used to make or flavor wine, liquors, and beer. Or they were sold directly in the produce sections of supermarkets. During Prohibition, their consumption was outlawed, especially as alcoholic beverages. In the 1970s they were again outlawed in any form due to their drug-like properties, but this ban was repealed in 2005 thanks to the growing Clown political establishment.

Far more people were injured or dead from perfectly legal tobacco and alcohol, it was successfully argued in front of the Supreme Court. SCOTUS bought it, which led some television pundits to claim that someone bought them.

Enzo continued to remain unsmiling but he began to munch on items from the tin. He’d learned to hold his liquor, and his laughter, a long time ago.

“You’ve brought me jellied almonds. I like jellied almonds. I appreciate that you took your time to learn my likes and dislikes. They go great with a fine spirit like this, and they also cost an arm and a leg, much like the liquor. This, to me, is a sign of your friendship. So now that you’re all jollied up, Gino, tell me, what can I do for you?” he asked, pretending that he didn’t already know.

Don Gino put aside his drink and tried to re-compose himself. “Don Clowneone, it’s my son Vito. He’s gotten himself into a little bit of trouble, and I’m coming to you for help in getting him back on track. The boy has lost his way, is all, and what he needs is better guidance, not time in jail. He’s not like us, Don Clowneone. He is not strong; he’s a man of today. Strong is something he has never had to be before. He couldn’t spend one more day in jail.”

“Well, that depends. What was his crime? What did he do?”

Gino put up his hands and faced his palms toward Enzo. It was a hear-me-out motion. “Well, the cops that arrested him said that he was driving drunk. But Vito wasn’t drunk; his blood alcohol level was within the limits of the law. He just got into a little accident on the highway.”

Gino saw no reaction, so he dug deeper. “And what it is, is that they wanted a scapegoat, I think. This country has been biased against Clowns from the beginning. You know this. Our people continue to fight for our basic human rights and our dignity. They arrested him and impounded his car. He has a court date tomorrow with the judge. He could get up to fifteen years, Don Enzo.”

Enzo ate a few more jellied almonds. They had a gooey texture at first, followed by a satisfying crunch, punctuated by more goo.

Speaking with his mouth full, another sign of control as it was tempered rudeness, he said, “This country has been very good to me. Our people benefit by eating the fruits of this great nation of ours, to which we all belong. We either contribute to it, or we take away from it. The face of America is the composite face of all its various people. You, me and everyone else. It is ugly if we are ugly. It is beautiful if we are beautiful. We must not become a blemish or a wrinkle if we expect that face to be perfect. What is it that you think I can do, then? If the judge finds him guilty, that’s it. How much power do you think I have?”

In a sign of old-country groveling, Gino took Enzo’s hand and kissed it. Enzo usually appreciated tradition, but not in every instance. For example, not this time.

“Please, Don Clowneone. They say that you have a lot of influence with the police and the courts in Metronia. I beg of you to pull some strings and get a ‘not guilty’ verdict. Do whatever you have to, I do not wish to know the method. I would forever be in your debt.”

Enzo took his own glass and his guest’s glass, which was not yet empty, and brought them over to the mini bar below the Zodiac liquor cabinet. Now standing, he told his guest, “The way I understand it, fifteen years is a long time for a minor moving infraction. The way I understand it, he didn’t fit the criteria for intoxication, but he was definitely under the influence. He was also driving about a hundred miles an hour with his cousin, a minor, in the car. He’s charged with driving under the influence, three counts of reckless driving, one count of endangering the welfare of a child, and attempting to flee the scene of an accident. He caused a six-car pileup that could have been deadly.”

Gino, who always wore traditional white gloves, raised a gloved pointer finger, “But it wasn’t deadly. No one got seriously injured, D—”

“Please, Gino. Don’t interrupt.” Enzo poured only himself another glass and returned to his desk, still standing while his guest sat. Standing showed dominance, sitting showed submission. He left Gino’s not-empty glass on the mini bar without refilling it.

“It’s that kind of thinking that you can just sweep things under the rug that got him into this mess. That he’s invincible, entitled to do whatever he wants. You’re right: he’s a man of today. He has the brash impulsivity of today’s youth coupled with a sense of entitlement that comes from a very vivid imagination.”

He scratched the crystal glass and took a small swig. “He wasn’t driving intoxicated, but he was driving like an asshole. And he could have killed somebody. If he was someone else driving like that, and if that person had killed your wife, for example, you would have come to me seeking justice. And I would have given it to you.

“You don’t get a free pass just because it’s your son, just because you’re a Made Man. But because you’re made, I won’t interfere with the justice system either. I won’t punish him further than that, because my personal inclination is to pull strings to add ten more years onto his sentence. I despise when people act like they can do whatever they want.

“But whatever the judge’s verdict, he must abide by that. And if he ever does anything this foolish again, I will shoot him through the heel of his right foot myself. Maybe this threat will give you an incentive as a parent, Don Gino. Put him back on that track you spoke about earlier. You and I, we did time in prison. It made us stronger and just a tiny bit more humble. We are not brash and impulsive. We are men of respect, thanks in part to the hard lessons we learned. Good day, Don Gino.”

He walked to the door and opened it. Gino slowly got up and walked out. He knew that saying anything at all could be used against him in a court of law.

Passing the doorway, Gino stopped. He suddenly looked older, Enzo thought. Eons worn. He had a hateful look on his face, the look of a dangerous animal angry at being caught, writhing and spitting at his captors. Enzo knew it well; he saw that look of loathing on his colleagues over the years during many an FBI raid. In those moments, Enzo never resisted. He knew he had done what he was accused of doing. He also knew that very little would ever stick in court. So he’d put his hands up. “You got me.”

Gino had been “made” a long time ago. This meant different things to different families. In this case, he was a retired gangster who still commanded respect, status and protection from the family, not unlike a retirement plan. And like a retirement plan, he still received some kickbacks through profit sharing. It was the best pension in the city.

Enzo motioned to his assistant just outside the door. “Doris, send in the last appointment, please.” He looked at his gold Lentile watch. It was large and ornate with a circular red face and black arrow hands. Six thirty. This small loose end to tie. Then to the War Room. He walked back to his desk and sat down. Appearances were everything.

In came a female Clown in her mid-forties. She wasn’t affiliated with the Family or anyone in it. She’d just heard that the Don did a lot of favors. This was true, unless of course the person asking for them was tainted in a way he didn’t appreciate.

To Enzo, she looked nervous, but tried to hide it. Her head was stooped, her eyes were wide and restless, and she played with a hangnail on her right index finger. Reading people was very important when playing puppet master. She had dark, almost Juggler-like makeup, and wore a white fur coat. Underneath was a solid red dress with a plunging neckline, framing her cleavage on glorious display.

He was unimpressed and finished his liquor. “Hello, I’m Enzo.” He shook her hand with a mild grip. The rules were slightly different for women or children. “How can I help you, Ms.—?”

“Tartar. Louise Tartar. Very nice to meet you, Don Enzo.” She had a toothy grin with a gap between her front two teeth. This time, she was the one pausing and therefore controlling the conversation. Enzo wouldn’t have that.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Ms. Tartar?” he pondered aloud.

Her discomfort leaked through as she scratched her neck. She pulled out a business card, clipped her white leather pocketbook shut and stood up without being dismissed.

“No, not at all, Mister Clowneone. I just wanted you to know that in light of your loss, you and your family...I mean your ‘Family’, can eat at my restaurant for free any time. Here is my card. We’re a Clown gastropub in the Candelabra District called ‘Tartar’s’. In Metronia. We’re closed for a few weeks for renovations, but once we reopen, you’re all welcome to dine on the house.”

She began to turn toward the door. Usually Enzo would see red when someone turned their back without being given permission to leave.

“Wait,” Enzo said calmly. “Please sit down, Ms. Tartar. I do my homework, so I know why you’re here. You were shut down by the Health Department and you want me to use my influence with the city to change your health inspection grade, which is a ‘D-’. Why didn’t you just say that?”

She returned to her seat slowly and plopped into it. “Am I allowed to be frank?”

Enzo folded his hands, twiddling his thumbs. He really was bored, but also amused. “You can be Frank, Bobby or Jill, either one. Just be honest.”

“Well, I’ve seen the last two appointments you had leaving this room...um...unhappy, let’s just say. So I definitely didn’t want to get on your bad side.”

“Hence that dress,” Enzo laughed. Maybe that gigglefruit had some effect after all. “I want you to know that I have a fondness for women and children. And I can tell that you’re a good person. You’re just, perhaps, a bad businesswoman. However, I won’t fudge your inspection results to reopen your restaurant. That’s irresponsible. I don’t want anyone to die from eating a bad burger, because then it would be my fault, and I can’t have that on my conscience. Not on top of everything else that’s already on my conscience, as you might imagine.”

He reached into the bottom left drawer and took out three string-tied wads of cash. He threw them on the table.

“That being said, I will give you a fifteen-thousand-dollar loan. It’s not enough to skip town and move to Mexico, but it is enough to hire a cleaning crew, an exterminator, and pay for a new inspection in a month. If you’re up to code, then you don’t have to pay me back. It’s my gift to you, and all I can do to help out a fellow Clownian. If you were somehow unable to get your place in order by a month’s time, then I will expect eighteen thousand dollars from you in exactly five weeks. And I will follow up. I don’t forget anything, Ms. Tartar. Do we have a deal?”

She reached her hand toward him and they shook on it. She took her cash and left quickly, presumably before he changed his mind.

As the door slowly swung closed against an air pocket, Enzo sat and sighed. He went back to the mini-bar and filled his glass with Tangerello. He looked at his watch again and saw that only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he checked. He had an hour to think hard about what to do.

Tangerello was a creamy, orange-colored tangerine liqueur usually consumed chilled and typically made in the ethnic melting pot of mid-Carnivalia. It was Angelo’s favorite pre-dinner drink.

“Here’s to you, my friend,” he declared as he raised his glass up to the ceiling. “Soon we’re gonna do right by you.” As he moved the glass to his lips, Boffo barged in huffing and puffing.

“Enzo!” Huff-puff. Huff-puff. Wheeze. “Someone leaked about Angelo. It’s all over the news. Now everyone knows that he was murdered, and how. Must have been some rookie cop to leak it and some newb reporter to put it out there against the Family’s will. And now with the damn internet, there’s no way to control the information from spreading like a friggin’ STD.”

“What are they saying?” Enzo had the drink anyway. It was better to not be too sober during the upcoming meeting.

“They’re predicting a war. Blood in the streets between the Clown Family and their allies versus the Mimes and Jugglers and their allies. A reckoning like there hasn’t been in years. They interviewed some cops that aren’t on our payroll and some dumb captain went on record to say that they’re going to put every available blue-shirt out there to make sure peace is kept.”

Mimes and Jugglers were always thick as thieves, even in the old country. They had a Hatfield-McCoy relationship with the Clowns. Each side had actively loathed the other for centuries.

Enzo moseyed back to his desk and chuckled. “The Clown Family and their allies. Who are our allies, exactly?”

Boffo waddled over and put his hand on his boss’s shoulder. “Hey. I’m serious, Enzo. This is a big problem.”

The Don turned around and looked his right hand man in the eye, unflinching. “So am I, Boffo. Who are our allies?”