“Get down!” A black, unmarked, unlicensed car pulled up next to Zaterelli’s limousine, automatic machine guns firing into the limo. Reinforced Kevlar plating, bulletproof glass, and insulated rubber tires made the limo the perfect vehicle to keep the crime boss safe.

Rin Zaterelli and two of his goons were finishing up a quick visit at a local small business in southeast Portland. The cash-based business was a perfect front for washing their dirty money. Magazines and More, the name of the small shop, took in used magazines and books, reselling them for pennies on the dollar. Occasionally, the store would get a massive donation, a large staff of people scrounging through the worthless items and saving the most worthwhile stuff. The business legitimately netted three hundred thousand dollars a year. But with Zaterelli’s regular investment? They brought in a bit more than five hundred thousand dollars. The two owners lived near the storefront several blocks from their warehouse sorting facility. Michael didn’t know Neil made a deal with Rin, giving him three percent of the profits from their laundered money. A line item in their account book read, ‘Angel Investor.’ That was Zaterelli. All business was done in cash, including the pickups of the profits.

Rin wasn’t making a pickup this Saturday. He knew where and what Neil and Michael were doing this weekend. Ten laborers were hired from the same temporary agency to sort through all the trash collected from a giant Salvation Army donation. Fifteen cardboard watermelon boxes, five feet tall, not including the pallets they were affixed to, filled to the brim with items that Tukwila Salvation Army didn’t want, didn’t need, and didn’t have room to throw away were theirs for the taking. Michael was ‘close’ personal friends with a drag queen in Seattle who mentioned he had connections to the Salvation Army. The new ‘donation’ of recycled material netted their small business more revenue than expected, especially when they found first editions or textbooks. Michael would send temps into Powell’s to resell those, knowing the staff working the book-buying counter knew both Neil and Michael. All Michael and Neil needed was a 24-foot truck with a liftgate and at least one pallet jack.

The machine gun fire stopped as fast as it started, and the sound of sirens came from multiple directions. Thankfully, Rin didn’t have any more than the six or seven thousand dollars he carried on himself for personal use. His goons, Jesse and Frankie, had a lot less than that. Hearing the shots stop, Rin jumped out, pulled out his pistol, and shot in the direction of the squealing tires, black streaks still smoking on the blacktop. Jesse kept his arms splayed out, doing his best to cover Rin. Frankie was looking for someone to tackle. Anyone. Getting shot at didn’t scare Frankie; it only made him mad. A dumpster close to the bullet-riddled limo got the brunt of Frankie’s anger. Frankie lifted the dumpster by its wheels in one fluid motion, flipping it over without ripping his suit or breaking a sweat. Rin didn’t see it happening but spun when it crashed to the ground. Rin almost fired his gun straight through Frankie. Instead, Rin rubbed his temple with the barrel of his HK45.

“Did either of you get the plate?” He smacked Frankie with the butt of his pistol. “You freaking moron twins.

Neil ran out of the concrete building where he, Michael, six guys in their early twenties, and two young ladies in their early twenties were hiding behind one of the fifteen, now almost empty, cardboard watermelon boxes.

Neil hissed at Rin, who hadn’t let go of the pistol hanging from his right hand. “You told me NONE of this would come back to bite me!” Neil’s lisp elongated every single ‘s’ syllable. “That’s not what this looks like!”

Rin leveled his pistol at Neil’s, pressing it into his chest. “You wanna do this right now, tough guy? You think I don’t know what you do late at night? After your ‘boyfriend’ goes to sleep? Howdya like me to let him know all your deepest, darkest secrets, huh?”

Neil’s face lost all color. The young people stayed out of sight, huddled behind the boxes. Neil stood up and walked outside toward Neil and Rin. Rin holstered his gun, straightening out his suit. “Forget about it, Neil.” He patted Neil on both cheeks. “You must be Michael,” Rin extended his right hand to Michael. “Neil’s told me a lot about you.”

Michael never had a firm handshake. Anyone grabbing his hand got the ‘limp spaghetti.’ His hand went limp like a deflated balloon. Rin grasped Michael’s hand tight, pumping up and down until Michael couldn’t stand it anymore and let go – as best he could. “So, how do you know Neil?”

“Should you tell him, or should I?” Rin made his wink at Neil obvious.

“Michael, this is Rin Zaterelli, owner of Zaterelli’s Fine Italian Cuisine. Rin, this is my boyfriend,” Neil emphasized ‘boyfriend,’ “Michael.”

“As I said, Neil’s told me a lot about you. So, Mikey, this whole magazine recycling idea is yours, right?” Michael grew up being called Mikey, a name he hated due to its connotations. His inability to throw, catch, or play sports and his love of musicals made life tough for the young boy. ‘Mikey’ was one step back into the traumatic experiences Michael suffered as a kid. It wasn’t something he enjoyed. Today, he refused to tolerate it.

“It’s Michael, not Mikey.” Michael glared at Neil. It was the same look a wife would give her husband in public if he embarrassed her; that ‘we’ll talk about it at home’ glare. “Neil, what exactly is going on?” Michael clung to Neil’s arm, holding his hand.

“Sorry about that, ‘Michael,’” Rin bowed slightly, “I didn’t mean no offense. Me and your, “ he cleared his throat, “boyfriend, Neil, are business partners. Isn’t that right, Neil?”

“Angel Investor. Gotcha,” Michael said, leaning into Neil’s shoulder. Neil tried to pry himself away from Michael, but he clung tighter to him. “So, Mr. Angel Investor, what was that all about?” Michael pointed at the limousine peppered with bullet holes. “Seems a bit more serious than restaurant competition.”

“Some guys take this whole business thing a little too seriously.” Rin laughed, his gold pinky ring glittering in the Portland sunshine. Sirens got louder, the younger people peeking around the boxes, not wanting to make eye contact with the crime family’s boss. Even as young as they were, they weren’t stupid. Four sat in the same criminal justice classes, covering local criminal cases like the Zaterelli family. They recognized his face the second they saw him. The other two young guys recognized the former football players. The girls were clueless, knowing nothing about the crime families in Portland or the two defunct football players, but followed suit when one of the boys told them to be quiet and stay put. “Neil, I’ll be in touch.” Rin blew a kiss to Michael. “Michael? It’s been a pleasure. Hope to see you both again. Real soon.” With a wink, a finger gun, and a click of his cheek, Mr. Zaterelli slid into the back of the limousine, waiting for the authorities. With the door shut, the tinted windows kept him hidden from sight while he lost the gun and the cash, stashing it in a secret compartment. The sirens stopped, and Rin hopped out of the limo just in time to see the first responder grab ahold of his lapel. “What’s going on here, Zaterelli?!?” The officer screamed, spinning him around and clicking handcuffs on each wrist.

“Whatever happened to my Miranda Rights, officer?” Rin laughed. “Oh wait, I remember now. It’s innocent until proven guilty unless you’ve already been convicted. Then you are automatically guilty until proven innocent, ain’t that right?” Rin kept laughing, and the officer did his best to keep his cool. Rin spent the vast majority of his adult life taunting authority, targeting cops specifically. Officer Wilkes, skating on thin ice as it was, managed to keep his job with Portland Metro Police because of the large area covered by a small number of officers. His transfer to the Central district made his fourth in under six months. The threat of one more infraction didn’t scare Keegan. In his mind, criminals deserved all the negative attention the police wanted to give them. Rights, schmights!

But Rin knew better. He knew that if he wasn’t read his rights, if the officer refused to get him a phone call to talk to his attorney before being read his rights, then any charges would get dropped for not following proper procedures.

“Officer,” Rin glanced at the nametag opposite his badge, “Wilkes. I want my attorney.”

“Yeah? Well, you can talk to your attorney when I say you can, scumbag!”

Rin laughed, shaking his head. “Keep it up, kiddo. Keep it up, and I’ll be outta these cuffs. You, on the other hand. You won’t like the convo you will have with your, what? Sergeant?”

“Yeah. Sergeant, Zaterelli.” The Sergeant glared at Wilkes. “Officer Wilkes.”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Take those cuffs off him. Right now.” The pained look on the rookie’s face reminded Rin of a puppy who got smacked in the nose for pooping on the floor. Rin really did feel bad for the kid. Wilkes spun Rin around, sticking the key in, and getting the handcuffs off his wrists.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Don’t thank me, Zaterelli. You and your goons can go now.”

“Yes, sir.” Rin saluted the Sergeant, climbing into the backseat of the shot-up limousine.