The Family Fed
An undercover fiasco
The meeting room smelled of cigar smoke and whiskey. A dozen men in tailored suits sat around a table under a single hanging bulb. Don Rossi leaned forward, his gold pinky ring catching the light.
“We had a problem last week on the warehouse job,” he said. “That new kid, Jimmy the Rat, turned out to be a fed. He was wearing a wire the whole time. We caught him slipping documents to his handler. Had to…dispose of him, if you catch my drift. Took him to the old meat packing plant, and gave him an up-close tour of the sausage mixer.”
“I guess he’s Jimmy Dean now, huh?” one of the seated mobsters offered.
The table erupted in chuckles. Don Rossi raised a hand for silence. “In more pleasant news, after twenty years of loyal service, Big Sal here steps up to become our chief financial officer. He’s gonna handle the books, the real ones and the ones for ‘tax purposes.’ Congratulations, Sal.”
The room thundered with applause and fists thumping the table. Sal stood, nodded once, and accepted the ensuing back slaps. The meeting wrapped up fast after that. Orders went out for the next shipment, jobs were divied out, and the men filed out one by one until only Sal remained.
The door clicked shut. Sal let out a long breath.
“Finally,” he whispered.
He moved to the metal filing cabinet in the corner, pulled open the top drawer, and began flipping through ledgers. His phone came out. He snapped photos of pages, scanned columns of numbers, and uploaded everything to the cloud. For twenty years he had climbed these ranks inside the family, feeding every scrap to the Bureau. Now he had hit the jackpot.
The side door creaked. Vinny stepped back in, gun already drawn. “DEA! You’re under arrest—” Then he noticed who it was. “Big Sal?”
Sal froze, then smirked. “DEA? This is an FBI operation.”
Before either could move, the main door burst open. Frankie the Nose marched in, badge flashing. “Everybody freeze. ATF. I've been waiting for this bust for years.”
More footsteps. Louie appeared from the hallway. “Homeland Security. Stand down, all of you.”
One by one, the rest of the crew trickled back, each flashing different credentials. State police. IRS criminal division. Even one guy from the Coast Guard. The room filled with overlapping shouts of agency names until everyone stood in a circle, guns lowered, staring at one another.
Don Rossi rubbed his temples. “So nobody here is actually a mobster? The whole outfit is just undercover cops and agents?”
A long silence followed. Then someone muttered, “What about Jimmy the Rat? The one we turned into salami. Who did he work for?”
All eyes turned to Don Rossi. He sighed and raised both hands. “Alright, cats out of the bag. I framed Jimmy. Planted the wire evidence myself. I didn’t want anybody sniffing around my own gig with the Marshals. Figured if we took him out, it’d keep the heat off me.”
Silence filled the room for a while, and then a chuckle started low and built until the whole building shook with uproarious laughter. Grown men in suits wrapped their arms around one another to hold themselves up and wiped tears from their eyes. When the mirth died down, the truth of the situation settled heavily upon them.
Big Sal cleared his throat. “So what now? We all go back to our desks? Fill out reports?”
The men looked at one another.
Don Rossi straightened his tie. “Nobody says a word. Far as anyone knows, we’re still the family. We give this up, who knows what the next assignment will be.”
A chorus of agreement went around the table. They poured fresh drinks and lit new celebratory cigars.