A mole in Big Tony's organization

I hate this fucking sauna. Steam so thick I can’t see. Sweat running into my eyes. But this is where the boss likes to conduct his most private affairs, so here I sit. The heat drains my energy, so I recline against the wall and close my eyes, just for a minute.

Big Tony - that’s what he likes to be called - has dispatched enemies, and some friends, while sitting naked on these wooden planks. I’m here because I’m his consiglieri. Well, technically, I’m his attorney. There was a time I was a trusted advisor, but no longer. Now I mainly shuffle paperwork to create shell corporations and shelter dirty money.

I find myself thinking about how I got here. How we got here. Little Anthony and I grew up together.

I smirk to myself. Yeah, you were Little Anthony when we were kids.

The other kids teased him for being a skinny little nerd. We learned early that life isn’t fair, or kind.

But Little Anthony had a gift; he was good with people. He could size up any situation and see how to play the participants. That gift served him well. He wormed his way into a street-hustling gang, and he took me with him. It wasn’t long before he had his own crew, including me.

Two-bit scams and hustles were fun, and the money was nice, but I wanted to do more. When I was accepted to law school, Anthony footed the bill. By then, he had renamed himself Big Tony, and, surprisingly, it took.

After passing the bar exam, I returned to Miami, and Tony set me up in a practice. I thought I worked for myself, but really I belonged to Tony.

And it was great. He had established a successful enterprise while I was away. Like the girls, the money was easy, and the drinks flowed.

“Big Tony, we got a mole.”

The words jolt me out of my daydream. I open my eyes to see Angelo in the doorway of the sauna.

A mole. The words you never want to hear in this line of work. A mole. In Big Tony’s organization.

That poor bastard is going to die a very unpleasant death. Too bad it’s me.

My heart races, but I remain calm on the outside. At least now the steam gives me cover for the perspiration rolling down my temples.

How did they find out?

“Get outta here,” Tony tries to appear tough, but I know he’s concerned. “What’re you talking about?” Angelo hands Tony a piece of paper then scurries away.

“Sonofabitch,” Tony whispers. His response is measured; he’s calculating. That’s his other gift.

He hands it to me, and I take it, but I don’t need to read it. I wrote it.

“Las Olas. Midnight. Slip 45.”

I had scribbled the note on the back of a pamphlet in the lobby of the gym. I slid it under the cardboard display on the counter, like every other time, whenever I tipped the Feds about Tony’s next move. So, how?

“Fuck!” I feign anger at the unnamed mole, but in reality I am disparaging my own apparent mistake. This is not going to end well. I fold the paper and close my eyes.

Why did I choose this path again? Oh yeah. The girls. The underage girls. I remind myself so I can justify the excruciating death I may soon experience.

When we first docked at George Town in Grand Cayman, the women were young, sexy, and eager to please. They were with us by their own choice. In time, however, Tony developed a taste for younger and younger girls. I tried turning a blind eye, and I did, but I guess Tony detected my dissatisfaction, because it was around that time that I lost my place as his advisor. Invited on fewer trips to the Caymans, I was relegated to office duties in Miami.

And then last year, I learned Tony was bringing underage girls back to the mainland for his well-connected friends. I swallowed the guilt that gnawed at me. Until that fateful evening. I was bringing incorporation papers for him to sign. It was not unusual to see women on his boat, but this time I walked into the wrong room.

I’ll never forget the look on her young face as she laid there, tied to the bed posts. Immediately, I knew I wasn’t supposed to see this, but I was fixed by her stare, her eyes. They held so much pain, and fear. They pleaded with me.

I couldn’t save her, so I closed the door, slowly. But, in that moment, I resolved to stop the bastard from perpetuating this inhumanity.

And that’s why I’m sitting here now, wrapped only in a towel, and dread, contemplating my imminent death.

Maybe he won’t know my handwriting. Everything I bring him is typed.

Opening my eyes, I find Tony staring at me. I try to read his expression, garner information, but that’s his gift, not mine.

“What are you gonna do, Anthony?” I invoke his name from our youth. I almost add the “Little” moniker but fear holds me back.

His expression flatlines, reveals nothing. “Who do you think it is?” he’s probing me. I’ve seen it a hundred times. He can get information from the slightest tell.

“No idea,” I reply. “But I know he’s a dead motherfucker.”

Sweat stings my eyes. Did it get hotter in here? Does he know?

“Yeah. He definitely is.” Tony’s looking at the floor with a sadness I’ve rarely seen.

“Angelo!” his outburst startles me. I flinch reflexively.

Angelo peers in. “Get the car,” Tony says quietly. “The one with the big trunk.” We all know what that means.

“Let’s get outta here,” Tony still gives nothing away.

I gather my towel and follow him out of the sauna.

“Close the fucking door,” he scolds me. As I pull the door, I pause. I remember her eyes, and I make peace with my ending.