Organized: A Mafia Tale

Chapter One: The Marker

Matthew Marciano is a twenty year old young man who in 1979, is coming of age in the world of Mafia glory. His Grandfather, Louis Marciano is the patriarch of the Marciano crime family, one of the most powerful families in the west coast. They control a great portion of the gambling industry in Nevada, namely Las Vegas, Reno, and Laughlin, and hold a great deal of political sway through organizations such as the Teamster's Union and Better Business Bureau.

"Do you want another one sir?" Matthew asked a drunken, apathetic tourist in the Loser's Lounge tavern of the family's second-largest casino, the Herculaneum.

The drunken patron seemed as though the slot machines had erased his memory, leaving him dull and void of emotion.

Matthew's job was to work the bar and assist the gambler's with their tickets. Actually, his real job was to bait desperate, addicted gamblers into requesting a marker.

No, not a Sharpie marker, silly. A marker is essentially a loan that a broke, wishful gambler requests from the casino owners. They call it that because simply put, once you receive a marker, you become a mark.

Matthew's job was to take any patron who had clearly just wasted their life savings and send them over to Twitch. Twitch was the boisterous, seemingly friendly financial advisor of the family, and as such he was in charge of approving the markers- as well as dealing with anyone who couldn't pay back their debt.

Twitch was a veteran at his job. Despite his demeanor, he was one to be taken seriously, too. He enjoyed the violence the most. Ironically, he seemed to enjoy hurting those with a small debt rather than a large one. For instance, when Twitch was younger, one gambler borrowed a marker of $1000. When he failed to pay it back, Twitch carved a notch for every dollar not paid into the gambler's chest and back before allowing enforcer Nicky, to execute him. Louis Marciano always said Twitch would've carved a notch for every penny not paid back if there had been enough space.

The ragged-looking patron nodded his head, and Matthew grabbed a bottle of Boone's Strawberry Hill wine from the top shelf of the liquor cabinet, pouring the patron a neat serving. "How are we doing tonight, sir?" Matthew asked, initiating conversation.

"I've been here for three days, and I've just spent the last hundred-dollar bill of my daughter's college fund. That's how I'm doing. What the hell's wrong with your slots?" The patron brashly asked Matthew, his frustration keeping him from realizing that the bartender was not responsible for the configuration of the machines.

"Our slots are in tip-top shape." Matthew replied. "All I know is, you won't win with that attitude."

The patron raised an eyebrow. "Well, all I know is that I'm broke, my little girl isn't going to college, I'm probably fired for not showing up or calling in, and if I face my wife with what just happened, I'll be dead." The patron was strangely nonchalant about his dilemma, as if his mistakes had manifested themselves into a bullet that he were staring into with no regrets.

"Ah it could be worse." Matthew feigned sympathy.

"I'm sorry, what?" The patron now looked mildly astounded. "No, I don't think it could be."

"Sure it could." Matthew assured. "But if you're that certain you've hit a dead-end, maybe I could help you out."

The patron looked confused. "Help me out how? You gonna loan me a few bucks?"

Matthew shook his head. "Not me, him." He pointed over to the large, glazed oakwood table that Twitch was sitting at. Surrounding him were enforcers, cigar smoke, and beautiful women.

"Who's that? Jimmy Hoffa?" The patron sarcastically questioned. Some were smarter than others, but not smart enough to listen to their own gut.

"C'mon man, I'm not trying to put you in a vice here. We run a legitimate business, what with fine patrons like you. He's a good guy, he'll fix you right up." Matthew was practically sweet-talking the poor fool.

"I don't know, I don't wanna end up with my face flattened." The patron lightly chuckled. He should've left the casino, but unfortunately a part of him inside was feeling like this could actually work.

Matthew laughed. No, he forced a laugh that sounded genuine. "That only happens in movies. The black suits and cigars, that's all just a casino gimmick. You know the folks in Las Vegas, they eat that mob shit up. We're just normal people. C'mon, I'll take you over there."

After a moment of hesitation, the patron nodded his head and stood up to follow Matthew. The terms for Matthew's job were clear, one of those terms being to keep it casual in front of potential marks.

Matthew approached Twitch. "Hey big guy, this fella lost big-time and he could use a hand."

Twitch swiveled around in his seat, leaning his arms on his cane. "What's your name, son?" Twitch asked the patron as he looked him up and down, almost like that of a manager hiring a new employee.

"Swinney, sir. John Swinney." The patron replied.

"Well perhaps we could work something out. Tell me John, what are you gonna do with this money?" Twitch

John stared at the floor. "Well I've got a little girl at home and I need to get back there and all..."

Twitch interrupted him. Knowing damn well that John was lying to himself, he slammed his hand on the table and said "$5,000."

John looked up in surprise. "I don't know if I meant-"

Twitch again interrupted. "No no, you've got a little girl at home." Knowing that John was going to stay at the casino until that money was gone, he boisterously raised the loan. "$10,000."

John had no response. He didn't say yes, but he didn't say no. Twitch looked into John's eyes. "Now John, you're going to pay back every cent of this, right?"

John was hesitant before replying. "Absolutely sir."

"Great, then it's a deal." Twitch smiled as he shook John's hand. He signaled one of his men to get the cash, and Matthew made his way back to the bar.

"That poor bastard is gonna end up in concrete boots." Matthew thought to himself as emptied John's glass. "I hope he enjoyed that last drink."