Mulcher Mike. 1,900 From mobster to farmer in one giant step. (standard:drama, 9032 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 21 2020	Views/Reads: 1233/888	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Mike, a longtime mobster is picked for a strange, apparently honest, task of running a mob farm. On the way there he picks up a runaway child. The local Sheriff can’t find her parents, so Mike uses her to aid his cover.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

girl. “Yeah?  Come on, kid.” Mike headed toward his car, getting in and 
starting it.  “Which way?” 

The girl, muttering curses and staring at the pump jockey, climbed into
the passenger side -- giving the finger to the clerk who was getting 
back to his feet. “Straight ahead, that way,”  she said, pointing to 
the west. 

“What you want with old Mister Anderson?”  she asked, settling back with
bare feet braced on the dashboard. “You gotta pay me, you know?  Ain't 
nothing for free, buddy.” 

Mike didn't answer as she showed him down a series of one-lane farm
roads. 

“Where the hell is this place?” he muttered, bumping over what looked
like an eighteenth-century cattle trail. 

“Whee, you got good springs on this thing, mister.  You know that?  Must
be  ‘round here some place.” 

“You mean you don't know?” 

“At least I'm not lost. It's around here someplace and we'll find it.” 

“One hell of a guide you are.” 

“Never said I was a guide.  Just said I'd show you, Jack. I'm showing
you.” 

“I ain't Jack, I'm Mike.” 

“Josephine. Josephine Murphy, and don't ask me to spell it. Most people
call me Jo or Nuisance. I answer to both.” 

“Let's see here, Nuisance.  This is a Thursday.  Ain't that a school
day?” 

“Damned if I know.  Ask some school kid.” 

“You don't go to school?  That's not legal, is it?  All you kids go to
school. I had to.” 

“All the kids are assholes, and so are you.” 

“Where the hell you get off calling me an asshole ... you asshole?” 

“One asshole calling another asshole an asshole. That's how, asshole.” 

“One asshole to another asshole is how, double asshole.”  Mike was
getting into the game, “triple asshole.” 

“One asshole being a triple asshole calling another asshole an asshole.
What comes after triple, asshole?” 

“Don't know,” Mike had to admit. “Guess you win ... asshole.” 

They both broke out laughing. Then, more seriously, he asked, “Why don't
you go to school?  Don't your parents make you?” 

“Don't have no parents. They stopped for gas one day and just kept
going. Didn't bother coming back.” 

“Didn't anybody call the cops?  The gas station owner or someone?” 

“Na, ain't seen a cop,” she admitted, sliding over toward her window and
sounding serious. “The big guy that owns the place, he tried to get 
into my pants. I smashed him in the face with a wrench and ran. Been 
behind that damned machine ever since."  She gave Mike a big grin.  
"Guess they figured I ran in'ta the field or something.  I could hear 
them looking.” 

Mike stomped on his brakes, almost hitting a tree as the big car slid to
a stop in a cloud of dust. 

“Well, let's us get back there. I'll take care of the bastard.” 

“Hey, screw him. Look, over there?  The Anderson place, I think?”  She
pointed through the trees, where a farmhouse stood about a half-mile 
away. Of course, it was across a field and not on the road they were 
driving. 

“You think?  Don't you know?” 

“How the hell could I?  I ain't from this hick place.” 

Making up his mind to pay a visit to that gas station guy later, Mike
started the car moving and raced down a narrow road which was parallel 
to the one they wanted.  After a half-hour of running back and forth on 
the lonely path and not finding any crossroads -- nothing but wheat 
fields and cattle pasture -- Mike stopped and looked over at the 
elusive farm. It was still there but seemed a million miles away, in 
some other dimension. 

“Now what we going to do? It's getting dark,” he observed. 

“Stupid ass, just cut across the field,” Nuisance spat out. “I would've
a long time ago.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Mike found a gate in the fence, also offering a narrow
culvert over a deep ditch. He waited while Nuisance opened the gate.  
Then he drove through, waited for her to get back in and away they 
went, laughing while bumping their way across the pasture. 

Cattle scattered near the other side as Mike blew his horn -- to the
immense amusement of them both. After a brief search they found another 
gate and drove onto the correct road.  It was full-dark by the time 
they actually made it to the farm. To Mike, no lights at the farmhouse 
was encouraging. Maybe it was the right one?  Also, no cars were parked 
in the driveway. 

“Wait a minute, Mike. You got a flashlight?” she asked. 

“Dunno'.  Maybe. Try the glove compartment.” 

Nuisance found one and, getting out, hurried back to a mailbox.  She
then ran back again, just as quickly. 

"Well?  We at the right place or not?”  he asked. 

“I dunno'. I forgot I can't read too good,” Nuisance admitted. 

He had to reverse down the drive to find out. The mailbox confirmed it
was the Anderson farm. Driving up to the house, they got out and walked 
up squeaking front steps to a large wooden porch containing a well-worn 
porch-swing. 

The door was unlocked and the electricity still worked. Going in, they
found themselves in a typical rural living room. It contained old 
furniture, not too clean, massive, and uncoordinated. A well-used rug 
lay on the floor, pattern worn down from many years of farm-boots 
grinding mud into its surface. An old-fashioned kitchen, with a 
hand-operated water-pump on a counter, was visible through a doorway. A 
corridor led off the kitchen to the back of the house, with a stairway 
visible through another open door.  The place smelled of mildew, sweat, 
and decaying food. 

“Well, guess this is my home for awhile.” Mike looked around, his face a
study in anguish. He had given up a nice apartment in the city, 
rent-controlled, yet. 

“Let's eat!”  Nuisance ran into the kitchen. 

Mike heard the banging of cupboard doors as she searched for food. They
were empty, of course, Anderson taking useful possessions with him. Her 
search did produce a half-dozen unlabeled cans from the back of a 
shelf. 

“Jeez, is this it?”  Nuisance asked. There wasn't even a can opener.
Mike made do with a large pocketknife, kept to threaten many a 
deadbeat. They carefully used bent can lids to scoop out pork-and-beans 
and apple sauce. At least it filled their stomachs. 

“This is cool.  A whole place we can change to the way we like it,
Mike.” 

“Don't get too comfortable.  We gotta find your folks or something,” he
reminded her. “They're probably looking all over for you. That guy at 
the gas station maybe gave them a bum steer.” 

“Na, they didn't want me nohow. Pa's a drunk and my stepmother don't
like me anyways. There's eight of us.  They won't miss one.” She 
sounded convinced. 

“Maybe so, but we gotta see.” He believed the kid, having seen worse
situations than hers. His old man had beaten him daily, and certainly 
wouldn't have given a damn if he had disappeared. When Mike grew large 
enough, he had kicked the shit out of the guy.  He'd tossed the bastard 
out the door, threatening to kill his father if he ever came back. 
Mike's mother hadn't minded as long as she had her daily fix of heroin. 


Nuisance finished her makeshift meal and ran back to the living room. 
“Not even a television,” she called back. 

He could hear her running up the stairs to the second floor. Mike sat at
the table, staring out a darkened window and seeing nothing but years 
of sadness and loneliness ahead. 

“What the hell am I going to do now?”  he muttered to himself, deflated
at the prospect of being stuck out there in the sticks. “Probably have 
to go to church just to meet women.” 

Sighing, he plodded up the stairs to find a place to sleep. Luckily
there were beds and a couple of lumpy, rejected by Anderson, 
mattresses. He found no sheets or blankets, though. Only another 
annoyance, he decided, thinking it to be only the first of many. 
Tearing a cotton curtain from a window, he undressed and, covering 
himself with the makeshift blanket, was soon asleep. 

*** 

Mike felt better after a night's sleep. He woke to the sounds of someone
banging around downstairs. Nuisance was proving her name, trying out 
all the doors, drawers, and cupboards. When he heard the front 
screen-door slam, he got out of bed and dressed. 

Going downstairs, the mobster wandered around, looking the house over.
At least he was promised money to fix it up. He hoped there was a 
furniture store around there somewhere, or even a frickin' town. 

Nuisance ran in and handed him a note. “Here. I found this in the barn.”
It told about chickens being left behind, and where the feed was kept. 
The note mentioned that Mr. Anderson hadn't had time or inclination to 
chase them all down while armed mobsters waited for him to leave, 
instead deciding to leave a little feed for the new owner. 

“Just what I need, chickens. Well, guess it is a farm and I'm a farmer. 
Why not chickens?”  Mike shrugged. “Where the things at?” 

“All over,” she told him. “Don't worry, I fed them already. We have
chickens at my house, and I had to feed them, so I know how.” 

Fine, she's a better farmer than me, he thought. I got me a ten-year-old
to teach me.  He went into the barnyard, then the barn.  It smelled of 
cowshit, piles of cow-pats stacked neatly up against one wall to dry. 

"Who the hell saves shit?" he muttered. The wooden structure seemed
solid, but with holes in the sides where slats were missing. There were 
a number of smaller buildings; most being a mystery to him. 

Mike was still checking the place out when a dirty green pickup truck
came up the driveway. It was driven by a young man with another one 
riding along. 

Going over to the vehicle, Mike asked, “You guys from around here?” 

“Yeah.  We used to work for the old man. Wanted to know if you're
hiring?” One, a large corn-fed brute asked. 

The other sat with an idiotic smile on his face.  "I been a'feedin' a
chickies,"  he told Mike, as though proud of the accomplishment.  The 
guy didn't look too smart to Mike, but then, how intelligent do you 
have to be to plow a straight furrow? 

“Yeah, sure,” Mike told the first one. “Guess I need a lot of help. I
don't know nothing about farming.” 

“Good. Jobs are hard to find around here. You want a beer?” 

“Damned right I do.” He invited them and their beer inside. The mobster
found there was, indeed, a town about ten-miles south. Even a two-lane 
highway, a little ways in that direction, that led eventually to 
civilization. His farm included something like six-hundred acres, with 
his nearest neighbor's house two-miles away. 

The two new hired hands were named Cecil and Eddy, Eddy being the dumber
one. They were brothers, with Cecil having a community college degree 
in farming. 

Mike felt, after talking to Cecil, that he could leave the farming to
the guy and concentrate on other things, such as using his own skills 
to turn a profit from the place. That revelation took a big load off 
Mike's mind. 

“Look, I got the jingle. You just take care of the farm, okay? Look
around and tell me what you need and I'll get the money.” 

“Hot damn.  I'll do a good job, Mister Morello.  You'll see.” Cecil was
almost jumping with joy at the prospect of being the boss, even if his 
brother were the only employee. He gave Mike directions to the town of 
“Happy Valley.” 

Eddy stayed to work, while Cecil turned his truck around and headed back
out of the driveway with Mike's blank check in hand. 

“Come on, Nuisance. We have to go to town.” Mike hustled her into his
Caddy and they took off. 

*** 

“You mean nobody called about a missing kid?  Nobody at all?” Mike asked
Sheriff Edwards. They were in sitting in the sheriff's office in the 
small town of 500 or so souls. There was no city police department, 
only the sheriff and two deputies for the entire county. 

The Town Hall was a one-story brick building with offices for both city
and county officials. All Mike had seen in the place were the sheriff 
in his uniform and one guy in another office wearing bib-overalls -- 
who turned out to be the mayor. 

Mike knew that fact because he was personally introduced to and even had
a drink of homemade whiskey with him. The mayor, known only as Jim, 
also offered to arrange for the continuation of electricity and getting 
a telephone hooked up for Mike's farm.  Jim ran both utility franchises 
as well as farmed. 

Jeeze, what a place, Mike thought. He wondered if anyone had the “coke”
concession there, or if there would even be enough drug users to be 
worth it?  But then, drug sales were pretty intricate and -- as with 
farming -- he knew little about the process. Mike was a leg-breaker at 
heart, which made him think of the gas station owner.  He'd have to 
remember to visit the guy. 

“Nope, Mike. Don't have us any notices for missing kids, and I would be
the first to know. Wait a minute.  I'll call the state patrol, see what 
they have.” The sheriff telephoned the Virginia State Police. There 
were no reports of missing kids in the area, the nearest such being in 
Roanoke and none with Nuisance's description. 

“Well, thanks anyway, Frank. I'm sure we can be friends,” Mike said,
thinking how easy it would be to start something up in his new 
hometown; he only had to decide what.  Maybe Don Vittorio would have an 
idea? 

Mike found a furniture store and arranged for new fixtures to be
delivered. The local food store promised to stock him up after he made 
them a list. They would even deliver, glad for the business. It was a 
real friendly town, Mike observed. 

While they were there, Mike found a pay-phone, one of the few in the
area, and called the Don. He explained what he had found. 

“Yeah, sir. The place is wide open. What you want me to do?  I mean it
could be damn near anything. The hick sheriff is a pussycat, not even 
any local police.” 

“I have my own ideas, Morello. You stay honest and don't start anything
illegal. Get the farm running, is all. I'm glad you found some real 
farmers, but you just lay back and let them work,” the Don instructed 
him. “I'm sending a piece of machinery to you, a real large one. You 
better make room somewhere for it.  It isn't often we get a place like 
that, with no suspicion, and I want to keep it that way. 

"You use your charm and get to be known as a good-old-boy.  I'll do the
rest. Oh, and don't tell anyone back here what you're doing or where 
you are. I don't want you to have no contact with anyone else here, not 
at all.  Not even family.” 

Mike was more than a little confused at the orders, but what could he
say?  Hell, he thought, he had nothing to brag about anyway.  
Shrugging, he went back to the car and a morose Nuisance. 

She was nervous, not knowing what was going on. The girl fully expected
to be taken to a police cell or social agency. She gave Mike a sad 
look. 

“Well? When you gonna throw me away?  I saw a dumpster over there. At
least buy me a last hamburger or something first.  Jail food ain't 
shit.” 

“You been lying to me. You wasn't left like you said.” Mike glared back
at her. “The sheriff ain't got any reports of a missing girl kid.” 

“I told you, that's because they didn't want me anyways.” 

“Well, I found the way to that gas station. If you was lying about that
guy tell me now, before I kick his ass.” Mike jerked the car around, 
into the only cross-street in Happy Valley and headed toward the gas 
station. 

Nuisance sat, looking out a window, as they traveled for a few miles in
silence. 

“Don't do it,” she finally answered, sheepishly, still looking out the
window. 

“Don't do what?” He let up on the gas pedal. 

“Don't kick his ass.  He didn't do nothing.” 

“You were lying ... again?” Mike asked.  He turned to head back toward
the farm. When she still didn't answer him, Mike stopped the car. Going 
around to the passenger side, he grabbed her by the arm, dragging her 
out and slamming the door. 

Getting back in the driver's side, he pushed the door-lock buttons. As
he started to drive slowly away, Nuisance tried to get back in. 

“Let go of that door. I don't like to be lied to,” he called, seeing
tears flowing down her cheeks. 

“I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I won't do it again,” she called through the
closed window, sobbing. 

“You promise? Lie to me again and I'll leave you alongside the road, and
I fucking mean it.” 

“I won't.  I promise.  Please don't leave me here.”  Her wide-eyed face
was pressed into the window glass, jerking back and forth as she tried 
to run alongside the car. 

He let her back in and they rode back toward the farm in silence. 

“Okay, then. Where did you come from?”  he finally asked her. 

"I ran away a long time ago,” she told him in a weak voice. “And I don't
care what you say, I won't tell you any more."  She glared at him, 
continuing, "You can't make me go back.” 

He didn't press it. She would tell him later, he thought.  At least if
it wasn't from around there he wouldn't get in trouble for kidnapping. 

“All right then, forget it. Just don't lie to me anymore, all right?” 
They went back to the farm. 

*** 

Soon after they returned, the food was delivered. Cursing his omission,
Mike took Nuisance back to town with him. He had forgotten the small 
stuff like bedding, cleaning supplies, and kitchen utensils. He picked 
out the utensils and appliances while she found bedding, towels, and 
other cloth articles. 

Mike regretted it when he had to make his bed using sheets with cute
little squirrels and rabbits on them. It turned out that all the 
articles she'd chosen, even towels, had cutesy cartoon pictures. 

The two farmers were gone when they returned. He hoped they hadn't
simply cashed his check and taken off. Mike would have a hard time 
explaining to the Don if they had. Oh, he'd have found them.  Finding 
deadbeats was one of his specialties.  But they would probably be 
broke, in more ways than one, once he did. 

“Hey look!” Nuisance came running into the living room about sundown.
Mike was watching his new television and trying to plan. He looked 
outside, to see a large semi-truck trying to turn into his driveway. 
The vehicle spent at least fifteen minutes backing and twisting, trying 
to get into the narrow lane.   It was the two farmers with a load of 
animals. Some he knew -- he had seen cows before and pictures of goats 
and pigs -- but there were a couple of big white funny-looking things. 

“What the hell are those?” He asked Cecil. 

“Llamas,” was the answer. 

“What the hell are llamas? Aren't they those things they have in South
America or something?” 

“Yeah.  The wool's expensive. We can make a lot from it, and I hear
they're easy to breed and take care of.” 

"I'll take your word for it.” Mike shook his head and went back inside
while the farmers and driver unloaded and put the damned things away. 
He was out of his element and he knew it. 

*** 

“No!  I ain't gonna do it,” she screamed at him. “I tried it before.
Didn't like it then and don't need it now.” 

“You're going to school, whether you like it or not.  I called the
school and the bus'll stop here tomorrow morning about seven. You'll 
get on it if I have to handcuff you to a seat.  Now get in there and 
wash those dishes."  He ignored her glare as he left for the barn, 
calling back, "I'll pick you up when you're done. I have to go in and 
do the paperwork anyways.”  Even from halfway across the yard he could 
hear the girl banging pots and pans around. 

They had been there for three weeks already, and it had cost Mike a
pretty penny for fake papers for her. The Don arranged it, but Mike had 
to pay for them himself. 

“Hey, Morello.  Your girls are your own responsibility,” the Don told
him over the phone. “Ain't no way I'm paying for them.” 

“But it's not a girl. Well it is, but not for entertainment ... and
that's a fact.” Mike argued to no effect. “It'll make me look better 
down here, more of a family kinda guy.  A parent.  PTA and all'a that 
shit.” 

“No! She's all your responsibility. I'll get the papers, but I'm not
getting involved in that sort of thing, especially with an underage 
one. My lawyer would have a shit fit,” the Don told him. 

The next morning, he watched Nuisance sail off on the good craft
“Scholarship,” a look of pure hate on her scrubbed face. Afraid she 
might run away again, he make a point of getting to the school early to 
wait for her to finish. 

*** 

A few months later, another large truck arrived. Mike went out to see
what it was hauling. 

“Where ya' want it, buddy?” The driver called down from the idling
vehicle. 

Mike looked back and saw a huge tarp-covered object almost filling the
huge semi-trailer. He had no idea what it was -- except that it must be 
from Don Vittorio, who had said to expect a large package. 

“Put it out back of the house,” he replied, deciding on the spur of the
moment. “I'll get a couple guys and be back in a few minutes.” 

When he returned with his hired help, Mike saw the machine had already
been uncovered. He still didn't know what it was. 

“Hey, good deal.” Cecil sounded excited. “We can sure use one. Why
didn't you tell me we were getting it, and such a big one at that?”  
Eddy, as usual, simply stood, staring. 

“Yeah? Tell me something. What the hell is it, and what does it do?” the
farmer-cum-mobster asked. 

“It's a mulcher. Makes mulch, ground up leaves, twigs, and other
vegetation. We spread it on the fields.  The stuff makes the crops grow 
better,” Cecil told him. “Looks like this one can take entire trees.  
Damn, but its big, industrial size.” 

“Well, you build some kinda shed over it or something,” Mike instructed
him. “Its too heavy to move and too large for the barn.” 

“It's all right like it is. The weather won't hurt it any.” 

“Build something anyway, to cover or hide it from the road,” Mike
insisted. If the Don sent it, the thing had to be for mob related 
activity. In the last few months he had almost forgotten he was a 
mobster himself, and was there on the job. Mike went downtown to Happy 
Valley and called the Don from the town's lone pay-phone.  The 
existence of Mike's farm was a secret from the rest of the mob and must 
avoid a paper trail, such as phone records. 

“I got your package, sir,” he informed his boss. “What now?” 

“Just wait. You'll know what to do.” Don Vittorio hung up. 

A week later, a Lincoln Continental made its way carefully up the drive
to the house. First, two men got out and looked around, then the Don 
emerged and hurried onto the porch to greet Mike. The other two 
remained outside on the porch swing. 

“I wanted to see the place myself and tell you about that mul ... mutl
... whatever,” the Don told him while sitting at the kitchen table. Don 
Vittorio took a sip of fine wine from a bottle he'd brought with him. 
“I'm going to be sending you special packages.  Things you'll run 
through the damned thing, mixing them with other crap. I was told that 
if you did it twice and put it on the fields, nobody could identify 
nothing. That's what we'll do.” He grinned. “The organization would be 
embarrassed if these objects were found. We figure a place like this, 
not known to the police, and nothing but ground up pieces spread over 
miles will be the perfect solution.” 

“Oh, I get you, sir,” Mike agreed, understanding the implications.
“Nothing to find later, like in ten or twenty years.” 

He showed his boss the farm and the new device under its wooden lean-to
and tin roof. The Don was in a hurry to leave and did so. At last, Mike 
knew his new function was to get rid of embarrassing bodies. 

“Oh, and one last thing,” the Don had told him, taking a manila envelope
out of his coat pocket, “Since we don't want this operation associated 
with our organization, I put the place in your name.  So you better 
make sure you do a good job or it could come back on you." 

It contained a bankbook to a bank in Roanoke along with the farm title
and a post office box address in Chicago. 

Vittorio patted Mike on the back, continuing, "You put any profits in
this account.  Half goes to you to run the place.  Take your expenses 
out.” 

*** 

Mike adjusted well to the life of a well-to-do farmer. He helped out on
the land, learning how the place worked and the terminology. The former 
leg-breaker became a common fixture in the little town, going to PTA 
meetings and gambling in back of the general store on weekends. 

A week or so after Don Vittorio left, Nuisance came running into the
kitchen where Mike was fixing a spaghetti dinner for them and the crew. 


“Mike, someone's coming.” 

They could see a large boxlike truck on the road alongside his corn
field. It had to be coming to their place.  It was a UPS truck. 

The driver opened the back, exposing a wooden box roughly six-by-six
feet square.  Mike brought a tractor and wagon over. It took three men 
to maneuver the object onto the wagon. 

“Sign here, Mike,” the driver told him. They often played poker together
at Happy Valley. 

“What we got, boss?” Eddy asked, curious. 

“Never mind.  I'll take care of it,” Mike told him before driving the
tractor to the mulcher setup. It was his first, so he was a little 
apprehensive. Mike had practiced with scrap wood and had a good-sized 
pile of shavings in one corner of the enclosure, protected from the 
weather by the tin roof. He had already told the farmers to stay the 
hell out of the mulcher enclosure.  That he'd do any mulching. 

"Get out of here and stir the spaghetti sauce,” he ordered Nuisance to
get the curious youngster out of the way. She would have been a real 
nuisance at that task. It took him a while to knock off the wooden 
crate, finding a sealed metal container inside. 

“Now what? How'll I get this damned thing off?” he muttered to himself.
“Maybe I need some kinda can-opener?”  Not knowing how to get into the 
welded container, he covered it again and went back inside to his 
spaghetti dinner. 

The next day, Mike asked Sam, the clerk at the hardware store, and came
back with a funny-looking electrical contrivance. It was made to open 
fifty-five-gallon drums, but worked on the metal box. 

Mike waited until the farmers had left for the day before cutting his
way into the coffin -- which is what it was. 

“Damn!” He had to cough at the stink coming out. “How long has this guy
been dead?  I'm glad this isn't a real building.” Mike pulled the 
putrid remains of a man out of the container. At least it was a small 
guy, wrapped in some kind of plastic. Forcing himself to handle it, he 
carried the body up four steps to the maw of the machine, which stood 
idling with the power on. 

“Here goes,” Mike mumbled as he dumped the body in, then engaged the
cutters. He was hit by a backlash of stinking blood and gore. “Damn 
it.” Mike backed up, turned the device off and tried to wipe his face 
with an equally bloody sleeve. The powerful cutters made short work of 
the body, but it was a nasty and messy process. 

“Gross.” He heard gagging sounds from below. 

Of course it was Nuisance.  She had sneaked in to watch what he was
doing. Mike stared at her, not knowing what to say, how to explain. 

“Uh, Jo -- Jose -- Josephine. This isn't what you think ...  see.  I ...
he ... a new way, he wanted to go back to the earth, sort of....” 

Nuisance came up the steps and looked into the maul of the machine. “You
should do like I did. Put brush in with him, then set the speed thing 
on four.  That way it doesn't spit out goo like that,” she instructed 
him. “Ugh, you're messy.” 

“You did?  Who the hell you been grinding up?”  Confused, Mike searched
his memory for anyone missing in the area. He wouldn't have put it past 
her. 

“Oh, only a couple'a old chickens,” she told him, idly. “I read the
manual and wanted to try it out with different things, you know. 

"See, this thing here swings down, too.  That way the burrs and chips
don't get all over when you push the button.” She showed him a 
Plexiglas panel that could be swung down, covering the input chute. 

“You don't mind bodies ... dead bodies?” 

“Na. Aunt Millie died and I was the one that found her. She stunk worse
than yours.” 

After that, on the promise that she didn't tell anyone -- especially at
school -- Nuisance helped him in the task. She even got to be better 
than him with the new electric can-opener. But, then, a lot of the 
bodies did come in fifty-five-gallon drums. 

*** 

Margaret Simmons was a Margaret. She never answered to Marge, and don't
ever, ever try Maggie. The woman, principal of the only public school 
in Happy Valley, prided herself on being a serious-minded professional. 


One thing she was very dedicated against was hazing. None was allowed on
her watch. At 6' 2" in height, she had felt the cruel brunt of hazing 
in her younger years.  Margaret had been the butt of so damned many 
giant jokes that she kept a constant eye out for those jokers in her 
job, and was ruthless in its suppression. 

She happened to be single, even rumored to be a virgin.  Both were
results of  her abnormal height and attitude.  Margaret had never dated 
like the other girls. Boys didn't like to look straight up at the 
undersides of their date's chin. Although she was average in weight and 
proportion for her size, it was still too impressive for the boys and 
young men of her youth. 

To compensate, Ms. Simmons studied instead, working her way through
college and continuing the effort into her forties. She expected her 
students to do the same -- work hard. Margaret permitted no hanky-panky 
on her watch -- as she was fond of putting it. 

At the moment, Margaret had four such students in her office, lined up
on straight-chairs in front of her desk. Two of them had bloody noses, 
another would be sporting a black eye soon, and the fourth was salving 
sore knuckles with her other hand. The fourth was Nuisance. 

“I can't, I won't, have physical altercations in my school.” Margaret
glared at all of them. “You four will be punished, and your parents 
notified as to the reason for that punishment.” 

“She started it.” Tommy Tucker looked side-wise at Nuisance, afraid to
look at her directly; a point not missed by the principal. 

“Yeah, Jo jumped us for no reason,” Jimmy Jones interjected. “We was
just talking and she jumped all over us.” 

“She did too,” Mary Markins had to have her say. “All we was doing was
talking. Tommy mentioned her name and she hit him in the face.” 

Nuisance sat quietly, gazing out the window at a tree, chewing gum and
appearing uninterested. Mike had taught her not to get excited about 
little things, like beating the crap out of other kids. 

“And you, young lady. Throw that gum in the basket or swallow it. You
know not to chew gum in this school.” Chewing-gum tended to get in 
difficult and annoying places, such as under desks or on floors, and 
was banned in “her school, on her watch.” 

Nuisance glanced at the principal, chin rotating as she continued. 

“I do not care who started it,” Margaret told them, eyes swinging back
to take them all in, “but I doubt she would attack all three of you for 
no reason. You were probably calling her names, making light of her.” 
The principal's hard glance swung from one to the other, seeing young 
eyes looking everywhere but at her. “But, even if she did, that is 
still no reason to fight.” 

“It's her fault.  We didn't do nothing.” Mary Markins started to cry. 

“Wipe your eyes and stop that, young lady. It will not wash with me. Not
on my watch. All four of you are going to stay after school today and 
for the rest of the week, and mop floors together. It will teach you to 
work as a team. You report to Mr. Jabloski after last class, and do not 
be late.” 

"I can't today. Daddy's going to take me to a movie after school,” Mary
objected. 

“You are going to be late for that movie, are you not?” Margaret asked
the girl. “And I am going to call and tell your father why.” She sat 
back, another difficult decision made. “Now all of you return to class 
... except for Josephine. I would like to speak to her.” 

Within seconds the others were gone, leaving Nuisance to face the Dragon
-- as the principal was known. 

The girl looked over at Principal Simmons, seemingly undisturbed. She
was outwardly calm, though shaking internally. Nobody, but nobody, was 
actually calm when facing a dragon. 

“Your chewing gum!” Margaret looked at the girl, equally calmly and also
making a statement. Nuisance's eyes met Margaret's.  Losing to 
authority, she swallowed the gum.  “Look, Josephine.  I know what was 
going on, and I will not allow it on my watch.” Margaret's eyes 
softened, though not the rest of her countenance. “They were making fun 
of you, were they not?”  She could see Nuisance's mouth move, but no 
words came out.  The girl's eyes seemed a little misty though, so 
Margaret knew she was correct. 

The trouble with Josephine, the principal figured, was that she kept to
herself too much, not seeming to require the approval of the other 
children.  It had been the same for her at that age, not seeming to fit 
in. But fighting could not be tolerated on her watch. 

“Go on back to class.  I do not blame you this time, but I am warning
you. Do not do it again or I will consider it to be your fault.” She 
could see the girl visibly relax. “Also, do not even dare to think of 
finding a way to get even. You leave them alone. If they bother you, 
you can come in and talk to me, girl to girl.  All right?” 

Nuisance nodded slightly, stood and walked slowly, if unsteadily, from
the room. 

Sighing, not relishing the task, Margaret picked up her telephone and
began dialing parents. 

*** 

“Mike, I hear the telephone,” Cecil called to him. Mike was busily
painting a corncrib to keep the wood from rotting. He used the remains 
of many old paint cans for the job, not caring what the color turned 
out to be; it was done for utility, not looks. He left his brush in a 
can of turpentine and went back to the cool house. 

“Yeah, what you want?” he asked. 

“Is this Michael Morello?” It was a female voice, slightly familiar but
he couldn't picture the caller. 

“Yeah, it's me?” 

“This is Ms. Simmons, at the school.” 

“So?  What's she done now?” 

“Why do you take that attitude, Mr. Morello?  Josephine is usually a
little angel.  She is not a bad girl.” 

“I'll take your word for it." He laughed. "What's she done now?” 

“I don't like your attitude, Mr. Morello.” 

The voice sounded angry, though Mike couldn't figure why. 

“Look, lady, I got me work to do here.  Has Nuisance got into trouble or
what?” 

“And why do you call her a nuisance, Mr. Morello?  She is a nice,
well-behaved student -- most of the time, that is.” 

“So she's done something, uh?” 

“Maybe you should come in and speak with me, Mr. Morello? Your niece is
a good girl, but might have gotten a few bad habits from you. Did you 
ever think of that?” 

“Nope and nope. I ain't got time to stand here while you chew me out,
lady.” Mike hung the phone up and went back to work.  When she got 
home, he would ask Nuisance what was going on. 

But when he happened to look up and saw the yellow school-bus keep going
in the distance, not coming down his road, he knew something was wrong. 
Slamming the brush back into its can, in the process splashing 
turpentine and paint onto his pants, Mike went back to the house to 
wash up and change clothes. Guess I have to go see what's wrong, 
myself, he thought, wondering if she had been hurt. 

Na, he figured. If Nuisance was hurt, the teacher would have told him or
someone else would have called.  Some kinda school bullshit, he 
decided. 

Mike was still in boxer shorts and socks when he heard the front door
open. He had been shaving and put a towel around his waist before 
checking it out. Half-shaved face still sporting shaving-cream and hair 
mussed up from a shower, he went downstairs to talk to Nuisance. 

“What the hell!” he exclaimed. 

"Oh, my God!” Margaret yelped in surprise. Incensed at Mike's refusal to
talk on the phone, she had relieved Josephine from the punishment 
detail and brought the girl home herself, intent on talking to the 
uncle -- whether he wanted to or not. 

When they came face to face, each had another surprise. He found he
didn't have to even bend his chin to look into her face, and she was 
surprised at a man she had to look up at. It was an unusual event for 
both of them. 

A quick glance at his hairy chest and her eyes snapped shyly back up to
his face, half of which still contained four-day's growth of beard. 

Mike, as though the efforts were coordinated, looked down at a fantastic
figure of a woman. Although neither one would admit it at the time, in 
fact took great efforts to conceal the fact, they were both impressed. 

Nuisance, or Josephine if you will, was ignored. She simply stood there,
head almost inverted with effort, watching the two adults staring at 
each other. 

“Well!” The girl finally broke the deadlock. Four eyes snapped down to
find the Nuisance staring quizzically up at them. 

“Mr. Morello.  I am Ms. Margaret Simmons, principal of the Happy Valley
school. I insist on speaking to you about Josephine. 

"Since you do not seem to care for telephones, I have come to see you in
person.” She assumed her most officious manner. “Is there some place we 
may converse ... alone?” 

“Nope. Nuisance is a sensible girl. I don't have any secrets from her.”
Thinking of the mulcher, he was damned sure of that. “I won't hide and 
talk about her like a little kid. If you wanna talk about her, she has 
to be with us.” 

He was right in that, at thirteen, she had become less a nuisance while
he'd become more a farmer than a mobster. His former life as a 
leg-breaker seemed like a childhood dream. Mike farmed, with an 
occasional package coming in to dispose of. 

The Don had long ago told Mike to bank the farm profits, and as far as
Mike knew, himself the Don and the two bodyguards were the only ones 
who knew about the farm. It was a private project of Don Vittorio and 
the Don wanted to keep it that way. 

All the packages came directly from Vittorio, although indirectly from
all over the country. Mike figured, correctly, that the Don himself 
collected from the sender of each package. It was a little sideline 
business; one Don Vittorio's associates probably knew nothing about. 
But that was none of Mike's business.  He only did what he was told to 
do. 

Seeing he was adamant about not talking about Josephine without the girl
being present, Margaret swallowed her anger and followed them to the 
kitchen. 

As the others sat down at the table, Mike made a point of placing three
beers in the center of the cloth, next to the salt and pepper shakers. 

Smiling, Nuisance pounced on the beer.  Pulling the tab on one, she
looked meaningfully at the teacher and took a large swig. The effect 
was hurt by her choking briefly, beer dribbling down her chin.  “Ah, 
that's good.”  The youngster pretended to belch, not fooling anyone. 

Holding herself in check, the now-livid principal held her peace. 
Ignoring Nuisance, she jerked the tab on her own beer and took a longer 
gulping drink, somewhat like saying, “so there.” 

“All right, what's going on?  You wanted to talk to me, so get to it.”
Mike sat down with a cup of coffee. He looked at his coffee and 
Margaret's beer, as though he were accusing her of being a drunk. Mike 
sat back and waited, a smug expression on his face at upstaging her. 

“Your niece was directly involved in a display of fisticuffs this
afternoon.  She was caught in a physical altercation with three other 
children on the playground. Seeing you, I wonder how she held that 
aggressive tendency in all this time.” Margaret leaned closer to Mike, 
seemingly trying to intimidate him. 

At her size it was a common ploy. Him being larger, it looked silly to
Nuisance, who was beginning to think something funny was going on. 
Their conduct reminded the girl of two roosters facing off in the 
farmyard, establishing a pecking order. 

“I take it she won? Didn't you, Nuisance?” he asked the girl, who nodded
with a pleased grin. 

“They started it.  Called me a dork because I didn't play with them,”
she told the adults. “They're only children, and want to play those 
stupid kid games and stuff.” 

“But you have to learn not to hit people simply because they don't like
you, Josephine. As you go through life, you will find people you do not 
like and others that do not like you."  Margaret gave Mike an innocent 
glance.  "You cannot fight every time that happens to you.” 

“She's right, Nuisance. I would've been dead a long time ago if I hit
everyone I didn't like. You have'ta learn to walk away," He said, 
nodding at the principal. Then, he continued. 

"If they follow, go into an alley or something.  Then kick the shit out
of them in private.”  He gulped coffee, raising his head to smile at 
the teacher. 

“No. You cannot do that either, Josephine. You must learn to ignore them
-- whether they follow you or not.”  The teacher, in turn, made a show 
of swallowing the rest of her beer, then crushing the can with one 
hand.  She slammed it to the table, glaring at Mike. 

“Yeah, guess she's right. After all, you're only a girl.” 

“What has that got to do with anything, you big ape?” Margaret jerked
upright, fire blazing from normally light-green eyes. “Just because 
they are larger, and men, does not mean she cannot fight back.” 

“Ha! I never seen a broad yet I couldn't beat.” 

“What makes you think I'm a ‘broad', you ... you Neanderthal. I've
knocked the hell out of bigger men than you,” she lied.  Josephine was 
forgotten, as the two faced-off across the table. 

“Neanderthal?  Then what are you ... a Cro-magynum or something, or just
a crow?” 

He leaned forward, too.  They were about six-inches between noses.
Nuisance sat, calmly drinking her beer, then opening another with 
nobody noticing. She leaned back and watched, gleefully hoping Mike 
would set the principal straight. 

“Crow!  You two-bit punk of a Brobdingnagian, bunyanesque, mastodonic,
idiot.” She slapped his face before he could back away. 

They both jumped to their feet, taking combative stances, Margaret's a
popular martial arts position and Mike's fist raised. 

“Ha-ha-hee. Go get her, Mike.” Nuisance laughed, enjoying the show. She
could see anger flowing out of the would-be combatants, bodies visibly 
deflating as they looked down at the thirteen-year-old sitting and 
drinking beer out of a can. 

Still glaring, he turned back to Margaret. “What you say we finish this
argument in private, upstairs?” 

“You're on, buster,” she spat out, exploding to her feet. 

The two stormed out, leaving Nuisance sitting with her beer, and
finished the confrontation upstairs in his room. It must have been a 
good fight, Nuisance figured later, since they were both pretty much 
disheveled when they came back downstairs. 

At least they weren't angry anymore. Although they never told who won
the battle, the two seemed to get on rather well from that point 
onwards. 

Of course, Nuisance was at the age where she could figure out what was
happening. 

*** 

For the next few years, matters progressed routinely. The farm was
profitable, being known far and wide for its Llama wool. Fields were 
productive, in part due to the healthy homemade mulch, sales of which 
also brought in a small but steady income. Mobster remains pushed up 
many a daisy in fields up to fifty miles away. 

The flow of special deliveries continued sporadically according to the
ebb and flow of mob violence across the land.  Margaret was a frequent 
visitor, finally moving in with Mike and Josephine, even beginning to 
call the girl "Nuisance." 

Margaret took to occasionally mentioning marriage, while Mike resisted.
Josephine also changed -- with the full onset of puberty -- and took a 
liking to her former nemesis, Tommy Tucker. Tommy, with his first 
used-car, was also a frequent visitor, carefully chaperoned by 
Margaret. 

*** 

“Mike! Mike.  Look at this.” Nuisance had just opened one of three metal
containers. They hadn't had any in months, and now received three at 
one time. 

Mike came over from oiling the device.  He had to look twice, in
astonishment. The body was that of Don Vittorio. It turned out the 
other two were the bodyguards that had accompanied him to the farm 
earlier. 

Leaving Nuisance to finish getting things ready, Mike returned to the
house.  Breezing past Margaret, who was fixing supper, he hurried to 
turn on the television in the living room. 

Anxiously, Mike flipped channels until a news broadcast came on. About
halfway through, the commentator mentioned what he was looking for. 

---------------- 

“It's now been six days since the Kingpin of Chicago organized crime was
reportedly gunned down while getting his hair cut in a local hair 
emporium. Police still haven't caught the perpetrators. 

"Don Vittorio and two of his men were supposedly shot dead while the Don
played checkers prior to getting his hair trimmed. According to 
witnesses, four men came in and calmly killed them, then left through 
the back door and walked away. Since the bodies disappeared before 
police arrived, the news still hasn't been verified. 

"According to witnesses, the bodies were quickly removed and the place
cleaned up before authorities arrived. However, eyewitnesses, combined 
with the fact that Don Vittorio has not been seen in public since, we 
can only assume it's true. 

"Rumor has it that the Don had been caught spending large amounts of mob
money on grandiose and sometimes ridiculous projects, then keeping any 
profits for himself. He's even rumored to have given 
hundreds-of-thousands of dollars of mob money to finance a marina on 
the outskirts of Las Vegas -- so as to be ready when the San Andreas 
fault finally breaks off and submerges California, making Las Vegas a 
seaside town.” 

---------------- 

Mike sat, stunned. He went back to the mulcher, taking a bottle of
whiskey with him. After they processed the three bodies, Mike sent 
Nuisance back to the house for supper. He then spent the night drinking 
alone, chasing Margaret out when she came in to talk. He had to think 
things over. 

Since he worked exclusively for Vittorio, he might be seen as an enemy
to the new mob boss. At best, he would be under the rule of a new Don, 
or even be called back to breaking legs for a living. On the other 
hand, it was very possible nobody even knew about him being there at 
the farm. 

He had a good place to live and money in the bank. With a family now, he
was getting older and hated the idea of returning to the rat-race of 
the city. 

Mike decided to stay quiet and let matters take their course.  As a
small mob war engulfed Chicago, he waited anxiously.  There were no new 
deliveries at the farm, no phone calls or visitors. 

Mike was nervous at first, keeping loaded weapons hidden around the
property and watching Happy Valley for visiting mobsters, but no one 
showed up. 

Eventually, he married Margaret, even ran for and became Mayor of Happy
Valley. It seemed the Don had been true to his word. Nobody knew Mike 
was there and he lived happily ever after. Mike never did find out who 
had sent the final delivery. But then, he wasn't about to ask. 

The End.


Tweet