Whaddyas Mean I Can’t Find the United CEO Shooter? We Did Everything We Could. Forgettaboutit!

By Michael Kelman Portney

Alright, lemme set the record straight before yous guys start askin’ questions about where I was when that United Healthcare bigwig got himself ventilated. See, I’ve been around the block—done my fair share of “business negotiations” in smoke-filled backrooms with fellas who know how to keep their mouths shut. I got pals named Tony “Two-Times,” Frankie “The Fish,” and Joey “Knuckles” who can make your kneecaps sing soprano if you so much as look at ’em sideways. But this here? This is a whole different ballgame.

This joker who put one in the CEO’s skull—he’s like a freakin’ ghost, a phantom, a name nobody’s even sure belongs to a real face. I mean, who snuffs out the top dog of a big-time operation and then disappears without so much as a rumor hitting the streets? I tried pumpin’ my usual informants for leads—got nothin’. Tried leanin’ on a few of the old neighborhood gossipmongers—no dice. You’d think for a piece of work this high-profile, the underworld would be hummin’ like a well-tuned V-8. Instead, all I’m gettin’ is shoulder shrugs and “I dunno, boss.”

Now, don’t get me wrong: watchin’ a CEO get clipped might’ve even made me crack a grin if it weren’t so damned embarrassing for yours truly. See, I’m supposed to be the kinda guy who’s plugged into every nefarious whisper in the alleyway. The one who decides who gets whacked and who gets to keep breathin’ another day. But this caper went down without my say-so, and I can’t even track down the trigger man. It’s like I’m losin’ my touch—or worse, I’m gettin’ outplayed by some upstart nobody who don’t know the rules of the game.

And here’s what really chaps my hide: this ain’t just some small fry. We’re talkin’ about a top-tier suit who had more bodyguards than a two-bit dictator and more cameras watchin’ him than a Hollywood starlet. Yet this kid—whoever he is—strolls in, pops him, and strolls out like he’s pickin’ up cannoli for Sunday dinner. Meanwhile, I’m left holdin’ my hat, lookin’ like a chump who can’t even track down a runaway hitman.

My associates are startin’ to wonder if maybe it’s time I broaden my portfolio, you know, diversify a bit. If corporate bigwigs are open-season now, what’s gonna stop some overachievin’ wannabe tough guy from nibblin’ at my territory? I’m supposed to be the Don of this domain, the guy who sends a message when some stool pigeon forgets to pay up. Instead, I’m gettin’ upstaged by a shadowy ghost who’s given the whole game a bad name.

And don’t think I’m not steamed about it. My pride’s takin’ a beating here. The family expects me to know these things. Hell, half the reason I got respect in the first place is that I always know who did what to whom—and how hard. Now I got nothin’ to show. Just an empty tip jar of leads and a bunch of punks scratchin’ their heads, wonderin’ how the hell I let this slip through my fingers.

So here I am, ventin’ to you, my dear readers—like some out-of-work gumshoe who lost his snitch. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool mafioso who can’t track down a high-profile killer. It’s humiliatin’, I tell ya. But hey, if you catch wind of this mystery man, do me a favor and drop me a line. ‘Cause right now, the only thing lookin’ more ridiculous than that CEO’s security detail is me standin’ here with empty hands and a bruised ego.

In the meantime, I’ll be at my favorite corner booth, nursin’ a double whiskey and tryin’ not to think too hard about how some ghost just walked into my playground and made me look like a clown. Hey, what can I say? Even an old-school goodfella’s gotta tip his hat when someone’s got better vanishing acts than Houdini himself.