The Rat Who Cried Wolf by Jon Wesick
“My next guest served as a mob soldier for the Arancini crime family. I’m Sarah June Donatello.” The talk show host adjusted eyeglasses that had lenses bigger than the Hubble Space Telescope’s mirror. “Please welcome Joey ‘Elbows’ Caponata.”
A man wearing a dark suit over a white shirt with unbuttoned collar walked on stage. He had a complexion the color of Alfredo sauce and a body that looked like he ate it every day.
“Joey Elbows, you abandoned a life in organized crime and wrote a tell-all book,” Donatello asked. “Why the change?”
“It was because of my mother. She was a saint who raised six kids after my father died in an accident at the mill.” Joey Elbows wiped a tear on his sleeve. “When she was dying of cancer, mother made me promise to give up my life of crime.”
“You say you have inside knowledge about the murder of Pete “Knuckles” Guanciale who was gunned down at a taqueria on the Lower East Side. What can you tell us about it?”
“Knuckles controlled narcotics for years. When he wanted to extend his territory north of Fourteenth Street, he ruffled feathers.” Joey Elbows held up a copy of his book. “I put the whole story in my autobiography, My Life in the Mob, which will be released on June 1.”
“Are you afraid someone will come after you for blowing the whistle?”
“No, anyone who tries better have a funeral home on speed dial.”
& & &
I turned off the television. It was before noon and the unpaid bills on my desk weren’t going to ignore themselves. Both utilities and cell phone were past due. Without the phone, I couldn’t get new business but without electricity, I couldn’t charge my phone. With only eighty-nine dollars and sixty-three cents in my bank account, I could only pay one. I’d have to decide once my bottle of Jameson was empty. I swept the papers into a drawer and poured two fingers into a jelly glass. Then, in a coincidence that could only happen in fiction, the man I’d watched on a talk show entered my office.
“You Nick Colcannon?”
“That’s me, President and Chief Executive Officer of Colcannon Investigations. What can I do for you?”
“I need a bodyguard.” Now that he was wearing a polo shirt, I could see where Joey Elbows got his nickname. The damn things were big as kettlebells.
“Sure, I can handle that.” If I hadn’t been so desperate for cash, I might have refused. In any case, my two years of BJJ training should be enough to handle any contingency. What could possibly go wrong?
& & &
I dropped the cardboard box of books on the table and paused to admire the cover image that was all alleyways, Dutch angles, and shadows before sorting My Life in the Mob into piles. Joey Elbows hadn’t told me my duties included hauling books, setting up chairs, and taking turns driving his Ford Explorer. At least he didn’t make me to pay for gas.
“Can you hear me?” the bookstore clerk asked to test the microphone.
I shook my head. She turned a switch and the speaker squealed with feedback.
“Now?” she asked.
I nodded. A guy typed on his laptop at a nearby table as if Joey wasn’t there. It was 6:55. Joey’s reading was supposed to start at 7:00 and the bookstore was empty except for a few customers in the young adult section. I hoped no one would show. That way I could get dinner. All I had to eat since noon was beef jerky, and a double espresso sat in my guts like a pool of nitric acid. At 7:02, a man and a woman occupied the sea of empty chairs. Dinner would have to wait.
“We’re pleased to welcome Joseph Caponata who will read from his memoir, My Life in the Mob.” The bookstore clerk didn’t stick around.
“Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a mobster,” Joey Elbows began.
Even though he was a criminal, I felt sorry for the guy. Imagine spending two-thousand hours writing a book, suffering rejection after rejection until you find a publisher, and then going around and around doing rewrites only to have the public greet your effort with a not-so-polite yawn. Even the bookstore’s staff preferred tabulating receipts to listening to Joey’s words. One of the listeners walked out in midsentence. As his bodyguard, even my jumping in front of him couldn’t have saved Joey from that stab to the heart.
“Mother said, ‘Joey, you have to change your life.’ Thanks for coming. I’ll be happy to sign any books you buy.” Joey Elbows closed his autobiography and sat behind a table.
The sole listener thumbed through a few pages before setting Joey’s memoir down. I packing the books and carried the box toward the exit.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Joey said. “Just want to ask if they’ll take a few copies on consignment.”
As I loaded the unsold books in the back of Joey’s SUV, I noticed a bearded guy in a watch cap standing on the opposite side of the street. When Joey exited the bookstore, the guy smiled revealing a gap in his teeth.
“Get down!” I tackled Joey to the sidewalk as the stalker drew a pistol.
I dragged him behind the SUV’s engine block while splinters of brick showered from where bullets dug into the wall. I couldn’t do much more. My pistol remained locked in my office drawer because carrying it was illegal in the cities on Joey’s book tour and chasing down a shooter unarmed would be suicide. We huddled behind his SUV until the police arrived.
& & &
AUTHOR SURVIVES ASSASINATION ATTEMPT
Boston – Gunshots rang outside Neutronville Books after Joey “Elbows” Caponata read from his memoir My Life in the Mob. When asked whether the attempt on his life was due to his blowing the whistle on organized crime, Mr. Caponata said threats would not deter him from telling the truth. His next appearance will be at 7 PM on the 6th at XLibras in Philadelphia.
& & &
A customer grabbed a book out of the box before I could set it on the table. If this kept up, I wouldn’t be returning many to the SUV. The crowd was a mixed blessing. Sure, Joey Elbows would sell more books but any of the hundred listeners could be concealing a weapon. To make keeping Joey alive even harder, the local government had banned bulletproof vests in order to “protect” their citizens from gun violence.
“Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a mobster.” Joey Elbows paused for two minutes of applause.
A blonde in the front row leaned forward until she was within arm’s reach. I didn’t worry. Her clothing was too skimpy to conceal a weapon or anything else, for that matter. I dragged my eyes away from her plunging neckline to scan the rest of the crowd. A guy with a chest-length beard was playing with his phone. A gray-haired man wearing a sports coat with elbow patches shushed his wife when she whispered questions in his ear. Having loaded a spray bottle with a mixture of vinegar and Habanero peppers, I was a bit more prepared than before the shooting. I eventually decided an attack was more likely to come from outside. A professional killer would want to get away unseen so I left the bookstore and waited in a darkened doorway where I could see Joey Elbows through the window. It would be safer if he read in the back at the next store. When I went back inside, Joey Elbows was signing the blonde’s book and taking longer than DaVinci took to sketch that famous renaissance helicopter.
“Hey, Nick.” Joey handed me fifty bucks. “Why don’t you buy yourself dinner and take a cab back to the hotel? I’m going to give Shirley a ride home.”
“You sure?” I pocketed the cash. He was taking too many chances for someone whose life was in danger. “We have a tight schedule tomorrow.”
“I’ll be fine.”
My rideshare arrived in time to follow Joe’s SUV to Shirley’s home. It was a two-story colonial revival with a side-gabled roof and covered entryway. My credit card got me through the door lock.
“What the hell are you doing?” Joey yelled from the living room couch while Shirley covered her breasts with a throw pillow.
“What the hell are you doing?” I searched the kitchen and bathroom. “Someone is trying to kill you and you walk off with a woman you don’t even know!”
“This is Shirley Mancuso. We went to high school together.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Shirley extended her hand for me to shake.
“Look! Anybody could be waiting to ambush you.” I climbed the stairs and searched the second floor before returning. “My credit card got me through your door lock in ten seconds. What makes you think the killer couldn’t do the same? You hired me to be your bodyguard but if you’re not going to let me do my job, I quit. What’s it going to be?”
“Okay. Okay.” Joey raised his hands in a peace offering. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know about Shirley. I’ll keep you in the loop next time.”
& & &
I dropped a box of books on the table and returned to Joey’s SUV to retrieve the next. If anything, this bookstore was even more packed than the last. At least, the reading wasn’t in front of a picture window. I opened the SUV’s rear hatch and noticed a man sitting in a late-model sedan with Pennsylvania plates. He wore a baseball cap and had shaved his beard but I recognized the missing tooth when he lit a cigarette. I removed the box of book and closed the hatch.
Once inside, I wrote down the license plate number, exited the back door, and waited behind a pickup truck a few steps away from the sedan while keeping my bottle of homemade pepper spray ready. When gap-tooth exited the car, I hit him in the eyes with a dose of Habanero peppers. He clutched hands to his face leaving his groin open for me to kick a field goal. I got him in a chicken wing, took him to the pavement, and zip-tied his hands behind his back.
“Ronald Insalata, 1222 Parker Drive, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,” I read from his driver’s license. “Pleased to meet you, Ron. The police will have a few questions for you.”
“Let him go, Nick,” Joey Elbows said. He’d left the bookstore when someone told him about the fight on the street. “I can explain everything.”
& & &
“My real name is Joe Esposito.” Joey spooned hoisin sauce and mu shu pork onto a Chinese pancake and passed the plate. “I’m the author of the Dragons of Shawarma series.”
“Never heard of it.” I took the mu shu pork and passed the ma po tofu to Ron.
“That’s exactly the point.” Joey rolled up the pancake and took a bite. “Thirty years as a writer and I have nothing to show for it so I invented a mobster autobiography and hired Ron to drum up publicity with a fake assassination.”
“And your publisher is okay with that?” I asked.
“They only care about sales.” The filling fell out of Joey’s pancake and he picked at it with chopsticks. “I told them I conflated people and events for dramatic purposes but not about my unorthodox marketing campaign.”
“I guess I’ll head home, then.” I poured another cup of tea. “You can mail my check.”
“Why don’t you stay?” Joey asked. “Ron’s part is finished. All you have to do is stand around at my readings to earn two-hundred dollars a day and you look like you can use the money.”
& & &
“I’m going to pack up the car and head down to breakfast,” Joey said.
“See you in a half hour.” I closed the hotel-room’s door and peeled an orange.
Even though Joey was picking up the tab, I couldn’t justify paying twenty dollars for a hotel breakfast. An orange, muffin, and cup of coffee were good enough for me. I took my meal to the window and watched Joey wheel his suitcase to his SUV. I tossed the orange peel at the trash can but the liner was so tight that it bounced off. I bent to retrieve it as an explosion blew out the window. The fire alarm wailed, my ears rang, and I brushed shattered glass off my shoulders. Outside, Joey’s SUV was a ghastly sculpture of burning plastic and twisted metal.
& & &
“You have to help me,” Ron Insalata said over the phone that let him communicate from behind reinforced glass. “The cops don’t believe my shooting at the bookstore was for publicity. They think I killed him.”
“Do you have any written agreement with Joey?” I looked at Insalata who wore an orange prison jumpsuit and had a bruise under his eye.
“No.”
“Any checks?”
“He paid in cash,” Insalata said. “You think he’d leave written records?”
“No, but I had to ask,” I said.
“So, you’ll help me clear my name?”
“I’ll sniff around and see what I can come up with.” I nodded to the guard as I left the visiting room.
& & &
“His remains didn’t survive the explosion,” I told Shirley Mancuso. “I just wish I could have done more to protect him.”
I was sitting across from her couch in her Philadelphia home. It was the only place I could think of to find answers.
“I don’t see how you could have.” Shirley walked to the kitchen. “Want some tea?”
“That would be nice, thanks.” I waited until she returned. “I think the cops arrested the wrong guy. That means Joey’s killer is still out there.”
“Do you think I’m in danger?”
“No, but you should change your locks just to be safe.” I sipped the tea. It was a pretentious brew that covered up mediocre leaves with artificial flavors. “The suspect’s name is Ron Insalata. Ever heard of him?”
“Ronnie? He was in our high school but we never hung around with him. I heard he joined the Marines after graduation.”
“Did Joey always want to be a writer?
“Not at first. He was kind of a jock but he always gave hilarious book reports in English class. Mrs. Godfry was so amused that she gave him B’s even though he never read the assignments.”
“Did you date back then?”
“Once or twice. Then he got Valerie, that’s his ex-wife, pregnant. It was our senior year and I think she let it happen on purpose.”
“Did you stay in touch?”
“No. We reconnected after his fantasy series got published six years back.”
“Can you think of anyone who wanted to hurt him?” I finished the tea and set my cup on the coffee table.
“I’d look at Valerie. She’s a real bitch who never believed in his writing.”
I thanked her and stepped outside to find a large man in a dark suit standing by my Hyundai.
“Mr. Arancini wants to see you.”
“Tell him to call my office.” I reached for my Hyundai’s door handle.
“He ain’t asking.” The thug lifted his lapel enough for me to see the butt of a pistol in his shoulder rig.
He and his partner drove me to a restaurant called Fusilli’s in a Lincoln Navigator. I found Frank Arancini at an empty table in the back. He wore a dark suit with a trilby hat. Even though age had left him thin, it hadn’t affected his appetite.
“Want something to eat?” His voice was deep as the bay where his goons discarded bodies in cement overshoes. “The scungilli here is outstanding.”
“Just an espresso, thanks.”
Arancini snapped his fingers and one of his men returned with my coffee.
“We had nothing to do with Joey Elbows’ death.” Arancini tasted the shellfish in tomato sauce before continuing. “Anyone who read his book can tell he doesn’t know what he was talking about. It made me laugh my ass off. That said, his death left us with an image problem. Thinking we had him whacked is bad for business. The cops have a suspect. It might be better for your health to leave it alone.”
“Yeah, there’s just one problem.” I stirred my espresso with the tiny spoon and took a sip. “If the cops jam up Ron Insalata for Joey’s murder, the public will think you’re behind it, anyway.”
“What do you propose?”
“Let me poke around. If you had nothing to do with it like you say, you have nothing to worry about.”
& & &
“Mrs. Esposito, my name is Nick Colcannon. I’m a private investigator hired by Ron Insalata’s defense council.” I showed my PI license. “Is it okay if I ask you a few questions.”
“I use my maiden name, Valerie Bannon, now.” Joey’s ex-wife had the body of an eighteen-year-old gymnast but her laugh lines indicated she was in her mid-thirties. Blue dye streaked her hair and she wore an unbuttoned shirt over a halter. “So, the cops arrested Ronnie? Not surprising. He was always getting Joey into trouble.”
“I don’t think Ron did it. If you help me out, maybe I can find the real killer.”
“It was bound to happen. If not Ron, somebody else would have done it.” Valerie scanned me from my face to my feet. “Sure, I’ll talk to you. Why not?” She walked inside leaving the door open for me to follow.
Her living room contained no books, plants, or wall art. There was only furniture and a big-screen TV. She sprawled on the couch leaving me to pull up a chair.
“Tea.” She pointed to a pot on the coffee table. “I’m microdosing. Helps my mood. Cups are in the kitchen.”
“No thanks.” I wanted to ask about the will but I wasn’t a cop so she could tell me to get lost at any time. The best I could do was keep her talking. “You mentioned people wanting to kill Joey. Why?”
“He was a phony, a big phony. He came off like he was going to be the next George R.R. Martin but he hardly earned a thousand dollars. We had to live off my paycheck while he worked on his masterpiece.”
“The Dragons of Shawarma?” I asked.
“No, that was the book he plagiarized. Joey had this theory that dwarves and elves are our genetic memory from when we shared the planet with Neanderthals. Instead of supporting his family, he wrote thousands of pages of that awful stuff.”
“What about the plagiarism?”
“Guy named Wade Simpson sued Joey for copying his work. The plot and characters were the same but the wording was different enough that he didn’t win. Of course, I ended up paying Joey’s legal fees.”
“You said Ron and Joey got into trouble together.”
“They stole a car. Ron took the blame and joined the Marines to escape jail while Joey got off Scott free.” Valerie looked at her smart phone. “My kid’s going to be home in fifteen minutes. Can we wrap this up?”
“Sure.” I gave her my business card. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”
& & &
“Are you Wade?” I asked.
“Not bad. You?” Wade Simpson was a gnomish man with a bald pate and long hair on the sides. Boney legs stuck out of his khaki shorts and he wore a torn, Nirvana T-shirt.
“I’m Nick Fischer from the Thoreau and Fischer Literary Agency. Mind if I come in?” I barged into Wade’s studio apartment without waiting for permission.
Dirty dishes filled the sink and an unmade mattress lay on the carpet in the sleeping area. Cables ran from the laptop atop a card table to a printer on the floor.
“You sent us a book proposal for The Dragons of Andromeda a decade ago.” I sat on a modular couch that looked like it came from the 1970s and placed a folder on the coffee table. “It took a long time but we finally found a match for Andromeda. Do you have the film rights?”
“Yeah.”
“Great!” I scribbled a few notes. “As you know, fantasy is hot right now. A streaming service (I can’t say which) is looking for a new property to adapt into a miniseries. They’re bringing in John and John as producers so you know they’ll have a decent budget. The studio will commit to ten episodes with an option for more. If you let us represent you, we can get your ten-thousand-dollar advance by next week.”
“Wow! I never imagined I’d hit it big after all this time.”
“Here’s a contract.” I removed a document from the folder. “It’s standard stuff. We’ll take fifteen-percent of your royalties. The rest is boilerplate. You’re welcome to look it over. Oh!” I touched my index finger to my chin. “There’s just one hangup.”
“What?”
“It’s probably nothing but there were allegations of plagiarism from an author named,” I paused, “Joseph Esposito.”
“Plagiarism! That son of a bitch stole my work! It took me five years to write those books and all he did was use Word’s replace function.”
“I suppose we should get Mr. Esposito to sign a release just to cover our bases.”
“Release? The bastard is dead and I’m glad he’s dead!”
“In that case, I’ll leave the contract for you to look over.” I stood to leave.
“No need.” Wade scribbled his signature and handed the document to me.
“Thank you, Mr. Simpson.” I tucked the document into the folder. “We’ll be in touch.” After leaving, I turned off the tape recorder in my jacket pocket.
& & &
“The DA dropped the murder charge in exchange for me pleading guilty to the illegal discharge of a firearm,” Ron Insalata told me in the visiting room. He looked healthier than the last time I saw him. He had no bruises and a bit of color in his cheeks. “How’d you do it?”
“Another author accused Joey of plagiarism. There was a trial, threatening emails, and his credit card statement put him in the area when Joey was killed,” I said. “Will you be okay?”
“I can do six months in my sleep. Thanks for everything.” Ron placed his palm against the reinforced glass.
I pressed my palm to the glass before leaving. That would be the last I saw of Ron Insalata, or so I thought.
& & &
“Any final thoughts?” the moderator asked.
“The last decade has ushered in more representation in science fiction and fantasy,” Howard Adams said.
“You still have to tell a good story,” Lucinda Jackson replied.
“As the only straight white male here, I’d like to point out that science fiction and fantasy expand the possibilities of exploring identity. People have a hard enough time coexisting with others who share their biology. What about getting along with beings who don’t? Ursula Le Guin’s Left Hand of Darkness is perhaps the finest example.” Tony Pierce held up his book. “In my Distant Cousins Trilogy, I imagine how we’d get along with Neanderthals if they’d survived into modern times.”
“With that, I think we’ll adjourn. Give us a few minutes and the panelists will sign their books in the lobby.” The moderator shook hands with the others and gathered her bags.
“Excuse me.” I slipped past five attendees in colorful leotards and matching motorcycle helmets and made my way to the aisle.
I’d come to a science-fiction convention called SuguaroCon in Tucson after learning about a fantasy novel with a familiar theme. After all, what private investigator doesn’t read the New Your Times Book Review? In the lobby, I got in line behind a Mr. Spock lookalike, with pointy ears and bad hygiene. Joey had dyed his hair blond, shortened his nose, and sculpted his cheekbones but there was no mistaking the elbows he rested on the table. The Spock lookalike smiled as he left with a signed book. I stepped forward.
“Love your work. I’d appreciate it if you signed this.” I set down a copy of Dragons of Shawarma.
Joey gazed at the book, raised his eyes to my face, and ran. I chased him. He knocked over Robby the Robot in a clatter of sheet metal, burst through a cluster of blue-skinned Venusians, and left an Altairian shaking her fist. I paused to help a man-sized broccoli to his feet before continuing. Despite too many beers and not enough exercise, I was gaining on him. An Intergalactic Shock Trooper, in ebony plastic armor, stepped into his path and Joey went down holding his bleeding belly. A gorilla in a tutu tackled the assailant. Vulcans, wookiees, and Antarians piled on. I kicked the attacker’s knife away and ripped off his mask. It was Ron Insalata.
“I took the fall for him twice and he still didn’t pay me.” Ron struggled against those holding him down. “Faking Joey’s death was the plan all along. We were supposed to share the profits but he split and let me take the fall.”
Somehow, I’d managed to keep hold of Joey’s book in the confusion. I’d never get his autograph.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Jon Wesick 2026
Image Source: Dey from Fictom.com
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