Below is my crime fiction story Conti’s Tit-For-Tat.
The short story originally appeared in American Crime Magazine.
Conti’ s Tit-For-Tat
By Paul Davis
I received a call from Jerry Rollins, a security executive for a major defense contractor in the Philadelphia area.
Rollins had come a long way from the young man who once worked for me at the Defense Department procurement center in South Philadelphia, known locally as the “Quartermaster.”
I enlisted in the U.S. Navy when I was 17 in 1970, and I began working at the Quartermaster as a civilian clerk after serving two years on an aircraft carrier during the Vietnam War.
By the 1990s I had become the civilian administrative officer of a tenant Defense Department command at the Quartermaster that oversaw defense contractors in the tri-state area. These contractors, from mom & pop shops to major corporations, provided the military with such diverse items as cruise missiles to pea coats to orange juice.
Our command oversaw the many contractors, providing and ensuring contract administration, quality assurance, production scheduling, engineering and other programs for the military buying commands.
As the admin officer, I wore several “hats” for the command, including security officer, safety officer, fire marshal, facility manager, and public affairs officer. I managed a good number of support programs for the command’s military and civilian employees. I also served as an investigating officer involving security breaches, crimes and Inspector General cases of fraud, waste and abuse. And I performed security and safety speeches, briefings and seminars.
Rollins was one of my assistants, and he was a quick learner and a good worker. I was proud to see him move up the ladder before I retired from the Defense Department and went from being a part-time writer to becoming a full-time writer.
Rollins told me over the phone that he wanted me to meet a security co-worker of his from the defense contractor plant. I agreed and met Rollins and a man Named Joseph Conti at a bar in South Philly.
Conti was a stocky man in his early 50s with short white hair. Rollins said that Conti had a story that the readers of my crime column in the local paper might be interested in. Conti was ready to tell his story as the Statute of Limitations had kicked in.
Conti began by saying that he had been in the U.S. Army and served multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was thinking of reenlisting when his sister Rose called him and told him tearfully that her husband, Bill Atkins, had been beaten severely and was in the hospital.
“I was not surprised,” Conti
said after taking a sip from his beer. “Bill was a degenerate gambler, and he
was always in trouble. I wish my sister would take her daughter, my niece, and
leave the creep, but you know how it is. I was close with my sister, so I took my discharge and
headed home to South Philly.”
By the time Conti made it home, his sister was terrified as a brick had been tossed through the living room window of her rowhouse.
Conti picked up the brick and read the attached note. “Tell your husband that I want my money. Mike Grant.”
“Who signs a threatening note? Who is Mike Grant?”
“He’s the mob bookmaker that Bill bets with at the Oregon Lounge. Bill owes him a lot of money.”
Conti reassured his sister that he would clear things up and all would be well. He then went to a hardware store to buy materials to repair the broken window.
That night the brick went through the large window adorned with gold lettering that read the “Oregon Lounge.”
A note was attached to the brick that read “Tit-for-Tat.”
The owner of the bar, Michael Grant, AKA “Mikie Mutt,” a short, muscle-bound man with dark, curly hair, read the note slowly.
Grant once tried to explain his multiethnicity of German, English and French to a friend, who replied, “So you’re a mutt.” Thereafter, Grant was known as Mikie Mutt.
Grant asked Louis “Louie Jap” Rosetti, “What’s this about a chick’s tit and a tattoo?”
“The note is not about tits and tattoos,” Rosetti replied. “It’s about a retaliation in kind. You do one thing to a guy, and the guy does something similar to you. Tit-for-tat. You broke Atkin’s window. He broke yours.”
Rosetti, known as Louie the Jap as he looked more Oriental than Italian, smiled at the note and at his boss’s stupidity.
Grant was not scared off. He and Rosetti drove to Atkin’s house. Grant banged on the door, but no one answered. He put his shoulder to the door to break it down, but he could not. Grant then kicked at the door’s handle and lock and again failed. In the movies, breaking down a door looked easy, but Grant was having trouble. He finally, after several kicks, busted the door open.
Grant saw Rose Atkins standing in the kitchen with a butcher knife in her hand and her young daughter behind her.
“Where’s your deadbeat husband?”
“Get the fuck out of my house, you asshole,”
“I’m gonna find your husband and get my money.”
Grant walked out the door. Rose called her brother who was working out at a local gym and she told him what happened.
Conti stopped at a hardware store and bought material to repair the door. He repaired the door and tried to calm down his sister.
That night a makeshift
explosive device blew in the front door of the Oregon Lounge. The heavy wood
door flew across the bar, smashing tables and chairs. The bomb's blast blew apart
liquor bottles on the shelf.
The next day Grant and Rosetti assessed the damage. Grant cursed and Rosetti said, “Tit for tat. You broke in his door; he broke in your door.”
“Atkins ain’t got the balls for this.” Grant said.
“I’ll ask around.”
Rosetti returned to the Oregon Lounge a few hours later. He told Grant that Atkin’s brother-in-law, a soldier, was home.
“He’s got the balls to do this,” Rosetti said. “I heard he hangs around Rocco’s gym.”
“Let’s go.”
Rosetti entered the gym and saw boxers sparing in the ring and others hitting heavy bags and speed bags. He recognized Conti from the description he was given. He walked up to Conti who was hitting a heavy bag.
“Hey, Joe Conti? Mikie Mutt wants to see you outside.”
Without a word, Conti dropped his gloves on a bench, wiped his face with a small towel, and followed Rosetti outside.
“So youse Billy Atkins’ brother-in-law? A tough guy, huh? But this ain’t the fuckin’ army. This is fuckin’ South Philly.”
Conti stood on the sidewalk and said nothing.
Grant took off his shirt, showing his heavily muscled torso.
“I sees you at a boxing gym. I’m a boxer. You want to go a few rounds wit me?”
"OK,” Conti replied. “But I should tell you that I was a boxer in the Army, and I was 20-2 and 2.”
Grant moved in and swung a wide hook at Conti. Conti slipped the blow easily. Grant then threw an uppercut that also missed its mark. Conti countered with a right cross that dropped Grant to the cement sidewalk.
Conti looked at Rosetti, thinking that he would step in, but the lean hoodlum just laughed at his friend on the sidewalk.
Conti leaned over as Grant struggled to get to his knees.
“Do you know what a 20-2 and 2 record is? Do you know what the 20 stands for? It’s wins, you idiot. Do you think I would brag about 20 losses? I heard about you. Sparing with guys who work for you don’t make you a boxer. You sure ain’t no fighter, pal.”
Conti walked back into the gym and Rosetti picked up Grant and placed him in the car.
Later that week Atkins’s car was spotted outside of a poolroom where the gambler was betting money he didn’t have on a pool game. Grant and Rosetti drove to the poolroom to confront Atkins.
Atkins saw Grant from the pool hall’s window, and he ran out the back door. Grant was mad when he didn’t see Atkins in the pool hall and he stormed out. Looking at Atkin’s car, he took a baseball bat out of his car’s trunk and smashed Atkin’s car windows.
That night, a makeshift explosive device was placed on Grant’s beloved Cadillac, which was parked in the driveway of his Packer Park home in South Philly.
The explosion destroyed the Cadillac and blew in windows from Grant’s house as well as the windows of several of his neighbors.
“Tit-for-tat,” Rosetti said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Enough was enough. The police
were investigating the bombings and the illegal gambling and loan sharking
business at the Oregon Lounge stopped due to the police attention.
Angelo Abatangelo, known as the “Ange the Abbot” due to his last name’s Italian origin and the bald spot on the back of his head, called for a “sitdown." He ordered the two mob associates, Grant and Rosetti, to report to a closed restaurant on Broad Street.
The portly South Philly Cosa Nostro capo also sent word to Conti for him to appear.
Conti was let into the restaurant, and he walked back to the table where Abatangelo, Grant and Rosetti sat. A bodyguard patted Conti down and found that Conti was unarmed. Conti sat down.
Without introductions, as they were not needed, Abatangelo said to Conti and Grant, “This stupid shit ends now.”
"And you, Joe Conti, where do you get the nerve to be setting off bombs in South Philly like we was in Iraq? I asked about you. You was a street kid hoodlum before you joined the army after 9/11. You should know better than to draw attention to us with exploding bombs like we was the fuckin’ Taliban.”
Conti said nothing.
“His brother-in-law owes us money!” Grant shouted.
Abatangelo gave Grant a disapproving look and Grant shut up.
“He owes you money. You owe me money.” Abatangelo said to Grant. Looking back at Conti, “I give you credit for coming today. Smart move, but tell me why I don’t just put a bullet in your fuckin’ army hard head?”
The phone rang and the capo’s man answered it. He spoke for a moment and hung up. He walked over to the capo and whispered in his ear.
“My guy tells me that someone is standing outside of my house with a grin on his face. Your guy?”
“Yes, my buddy.”
“And I guess your buddy has a bomb?”
“Yeah, but he won’t detonate it if I return home unharmed.”
“I see. But there is the matter of the money your brother-in-law owes. This nitwit here should have cut him off and made sure no other bookmaker took his bets. Instead, he lets him run up a tab no one can pay back and then uses violence. Dumb. Fuckin’ dumb”
Conti motioned that he wanted to reach into his jacket pocket. The capo nodded.
Conti pulled out two thick stacks of bills.
“Here’s $10,000. I’ll somehow get the rest for you later on.”
“Where did you get the money?”
“A bank loan.”
“You ain’t got a job. What bank would loan you money?”
“I got a job. I start next week.”
“Doing what?
“Police officer.”
The capo laughed. “We’ll take the ten large and write off the rest.”
“But Ange!” Grant yelled.
“Shut up, you nitwit.”
“Conti, you tell your brother-in-law to move to Mexico if he wants to place a bet in the future.”
“I will. Thank you.”
I laughed at the story that
ended well.
But Conti said the story didn’t end there. He worked as a Philadelphia Police officer for several years and then became a deputy U. S. Marshal, tracking down fugitives across the country.
Abatangelo flipped when he was about to receive a stiff prison sentence. He testified against his criminal associates, including Mike Grant, and then entered the Federal Witness Protection Program. A prize government witness, Abatangelo asked to be protected by a deputy U.S. Marshal he knew – Conti. And Conti was reassigned to Abatangelo’s protection detail.
Abatangelo later died of natural causes and Conti retired from the Marshals Service and got a job at a defense contractor’s plant.
“And Mikie Mutt is still in federal prison,” Conti said with a laugh.
© 2026 Paul Davis
Note: You can read my other crime fiction short stories via the link below:
