I shoulda known somethin’ was up when that squirrel gave me the stink eye for the third time that mornin’. Not that cute, beggin’ look the tourists go nuts over. Nah, this was the cold, calculatin’ stare of a pro sizin’ up his mark.
My name’s Elias Crowl. I’m a writer. I’m in New York doin’ research for my new novel. Somethin’ about organized crime, I figured. Somethin’ real. Central Park seemed like a good spot to think.
What a freakin’ idiot I was.
It was a gorgeous October mornin’, I’m sittin’ on my favorite bench near the Bethesda Fountain, holdin’ an overpriced coffee-to-go. The squirrel—later I’d get to know him as “Nutcracker Vinnie”—is perched about ten feet away on a tree stump. His right paw’s restin’ on a walnut. A weirdly huge walnut.
“Nice mornin’,” I mutter into my cup.
The squirrel coughs. I swear on everything holy: it coughs like a chain-smokin’ wise guy from Brooklyn.
I stare at it. It stares back. Then it rolls the walnut right at me.
“What the—”
The nut stops dead at my feet. My reporter instincts—or maybe just plain stupidity—make me pick it up. The shell’s fake-sealed, and when I crack it open, out drops a tiny folded piece of paper.
“You are being watched. Follow the gray oak. Come alone. 4 p.m. Belvedere Castle. – The Organization”
I bust out laughin’. Gotta be a tourist prank, maybe even staged for my Insta nobody knows about. I toss the paper and take a sip of coffee.
That was my second mistake of the day.
Ten seconds later, a pine cone nails me in the head. Another smacks my shoulder. I look up—and freeze. At least two dozen squirrels are lined up in the trees above me, each loaded with ammo. Acorns. Pine cones. One suspicious sharp-lookin’ pebble.
“Okay, okay!” I throw my hands up. “I get it!”
The squirrels vanish like nothin’ happened.
By 3:45 I’m walkin’ the paths to Belvedere Castle, totally convinced I’m the star of some hidden-camera show. But the alternative—that I’m losin’ my marbles—was somehow worse.
The castle’s deserted. Too deserted. No tourists, no joggers, not even a pigeon whisperer.
“Mister Crowl.”
The voice comes from up top. On the castle wall sits an extra-fat squirrel and ate an equally fat donut. Yeah, donut. On a Monday. In Central Park.
“You… can talk?”
“We can do a lotta things, Mistah Crowl. But time is money, and you’re wastin’ mine.” The squirrel—clearly the boss—cracks a pistachio with this creepy calm that’s way too human. “Name’s Don Pelzaccio. Maybe you hearda me?”
“Never hearda a talkin’ squirrel, nah.”
“Typical human arrogance.” Don Pelzaccio sighs like he’s on stage. “Since 1872 we run this park. Every nut, every acorn, every tourist buck spent on birdseed—it goes through our books. And you, Mistah Crowl, parked your keister on Bench 47 yesterday.”
“What about Bench 47?”
“That’s our turf. You sat there three hours without payin’ protection. No peanuts. No almonds. Not even a stale chunk of bread.”
I rub my eyes. “This is… this is freakin’ ridiculous.”
“So you think we’re funny?” A dozen squirrels pop outta nowhere and surround me. One’s holdin’ somethin’ that looks suspiciously like a tiny baseball bat. “Last week a hedge-fund schmuck made the exact same mistake. Know where he is now?”
“Nah?”
“In the loony bin. Babblin’ about talkin’ squirrels.” Don Pelzaccio grins—far as squirrels can grin. “Nobody believed him.”
My heart’s poundin’. This is either the best research of my life or a total nervous breakdown. “Whaddya want from me?”
“Respect. And a delivery.”
“A delivery?”
“Tomorrow at 2 p.m. you bring a small sack to the Oak Bridge. Inside: five kilos premium hazelnuts, two kilos unsalted cashews, and—this is key—a jar of Nutella. No off-brand crap.”
“Or what?”
Don Pelzaccio nods left. In the bushes is my backpack, sliced open, contents shredded neat as you please. My laptop cord’s cut into perfect one-centimeter pieces.
“Oh God.”
“Oh God’s right. We know where you live, Crowl. Nice windowsill ya got. Be a shame if somebody… made noise at night and you hadda explain that to the cops, huh?”
Twenty-four hours later I’m standin’ at the Oak Bridge with a sack fulla nuts, feelin’ like a complete moron. Tourists stream by, takin’ selfies, livin’ their lives—while I’m payin’ protection to the squirrel mafia.
Nutcracker Vinnie shows up, inspects the sack like a pro, and nods. “Clean work, Crowl. The Don’s happy. You can split.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Oh, and Crowl?” Vinnie winks. “Your next book. Don’t write about us. The Don don’t like publicity.”
Today I’m sittin’ in my apartment starin’ at this story—an absurd thriller my agent calls “refreshingly original but totally unsellable.” But youse believe me, right?
As I’m typin’ this, a squirrel’s sittin’ outside my window crackin’ a walnut.
And it winked. I’m dead sure of it.
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