we have met the enemy, and he is irs

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I got fan mail from the IRS yesterday. If I do not pay $75,000 in "undeclared" taxes and penalties for 2003 by October 6, I will be prosecuted. I yawned and looked at my watch. Is it okay to call Johnnie Viccilo at home? No, I won't do that. This can wait. Maybe I'll wait until October 5, just to make it sporting.

We met three years ago, when I got a similar letter from the IRS saying that I owed a mere 65k. I did not yawn then. I felt bolts of pain arcing up and down my left arm. I had just moved to Metamuville, and that complicated my problem for two reasons: 1) it took the threatening mail until two days before my incarceration to reach me, and 2) I had no idea which of a thousand boxes my financial papers were in. Worse, I was going on a trip the next day. I needed help, and I needed it fast.

"I know a guy who knows a guy," said an Italian friend. (Hint: foreshadowing)

And thus did I end up in the absurdly lush law offices of one Johnnie Viccilo, my sweaty gym shorts leaving my imprint on multi-thousand dollar chairs. I was early, but Johnnie was right on time, apparently coming from a movie set. He was spectacularly Italian: expensive silk suit but no tie; shirt unbuttoned at the collar, exposing bushels of gray and black chest hair; gold chains around his neck; gold bracelet on one wrist, gaudy Rolex on the other. And an aura of power unlike any I've ever known. This man could crush me, I knew. He was polite but lightening fast, and he didn't speak in tongues like most tax guys. He wasn't a tax guy at all. He was a Fixer.

He spoke in a soft, economical, ludicrously confident manner, in an Italian dialect, of course. As he spoke, never once less than certain that the IRS stood no chance, he skimmed my financial forms. After seeing my paystub, he went to our contract and under "retainer" crossed out "$20,000" and wrote "$200." You try not to feel neutered by that. After skimming my forms for 30 seconds, he paged someone, the accountant who would actually do my taxes. While we waited for him, Johnnie asked me about my impending trip back East. "You ever been to Primanti Brothers?"

"Yes, sir."

"You like?"

Uh-oh. I happen to prefer my roast beef sandwiches without french fries and coleslaw mashed into them by bare hands of dubious hygiene.

"No, sir." My knees shook. My god, I hope they aren't relatives.

"That's all right," he mused. Thank christ. "It's an acquired taste."

The accountant arrived. Johnnie barked some terse instructions at him, introduced us, and abruptly dispatched me. I rose and headed to the door. Johnnie grabbed my arm. We locked eyes.

"John, you go on your trip. Have a good time. Don't worry 'bout this little ting one bit." His tone turned from warm to insanely confident. "It's taken care of."

My knees continued to shake on the elevator, but I went on my trip secure in the knowledge that whoever my faceless accuser was at the IRS, they were about to get theirs. What "get" entailed, I wasn't sure, but I didn't want to ask. I heard from Johnnie's office one last time, a quick note thanking for my business and saying the matter was resolved. I never again heard from the IRS on the matter.