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Nothing’s going down inside there. Even if it is, it’s not what Alesso and Leo said. Tony’s all bark, no bite. No way they’d tap him to kill Dad.
Still, I can’t just wait this shit out. I need to know what’s going on. Is my dad really in there? Probably not. I’m pretty damn sure…but I have to see.
I step closer to the front door, where there’s some old wood signs half falling off where they were mounted by the building’s entrance. I notice one is for a barber shop and feel like maybe I remember coming in here as a little kid. Beyond the brick façade, this place was like a really shitty, five-shop boutique mall. I think it smelled like dust and old stuff.
I step closer to the boarded-up door, try the handle. Despite the boards, when I tug, the thing swings right open.
Dust and old stuff. Fuck, and also mold and something smoky. I sniff. Squatters burning shit, I bet.
Something in my stomach coils. I tell myself I could go back to the hotel. Let these fools be fools. I’ve got a spot at Columbia. I told her dad I’d keep my nose clean.
There’s a shout, though—at that second. It’s not from right inside the door, but from deeper inside the building. Now I know there’s no turning back. I duck the hanging board over the door and step into what looks like a hovel. There’s a burned out mattress in one corner, a ripped up swivel chair beside it. Dark stains on the floor…. I note the small, peeling countertops and realize this is the old barber shop. I think of the old guy’s murdered wife and cross myself. It didn’t happen here, but something did.
I can feel it in the air, the way you feel a draft, as I walk out what I realize is the back door of the barber shop and into some kind of equally decrepit common area. There’s a cracked fountain in the middle, surrounded by some old-ass benches and a couple of closed doors I think used to lead to little shops.
My eyes catch on a red door with peeling paint on the back side of the fountain. As I start toward it, voices rise and fall in a sharp burst of sound; I stop mid-stride as a louder, familiar voice rises over the rest.
Fuck.
That sounds like Tony.Chapter Twenty-ThreeLuca
I hold my breath as I move closer to the red door.
It’s the door to the old movie theater. It’s got a narrow, vertical window, and near the top there’s a peeling sticker-poster that’s shaped like a film reel.
I don’t know what I’m planning. Maybe just to peek in. But when I look through the smudged glass, I see my dad.
He’s down at the bottom of the room, on the theater stage, his torso duct-taped to a chair. All around him, guys in dark clothes—half a dozen of them. My blood runs cold as I see Tony up in front. I don’t recognize the others, but I count five.
There’s a moment that I think of running. It’s self-preservation, like a reflex. But I’m not someone who runs. I keep looking through the window, trying to understand what’s happening and why and how. Tony crouches by my dad, waving his arm as he says something I can’t quite hear. Maybe my dad doesn’t answer. I don’t know, but Tony backhands him. My dad’s head snaps back, and pure rage billows through me.
My mind feels blank and focused as I push the door open. All seven heads turn toward me. It’s my father’s face my eyes are fixed on. There’s tape over his mouth; even from twenty or thirty yards away, I can see his face is bleeding.
“What the fuck?” Tony gives a throaty chuckle as he swaggers up the aisle, moving past folded red chairs toward me. His eyes widen as they meet mine and his face twists into a hard smile. “Look who it is,” he says in a raised voice. “It’s Bowser Junior. Come to see big Bowser one last time?”
I don’t see a gun on him, so with a few long strides, I close the gap between us.
“What the fuck is this shit, Tony?”
“Diamond to you,” he snaps, and my stomach feels like I got on a roller coaster.
I move slightly closer to him. “Why’s my dad taped to a chair?”
I’m grabbed so fast, there’s no time to struggle. Someone’s hands are twisting both my arms behind my back, and my legs buckle from the pain. I’m blinking through tears, on the floor. I can’t hold in a moan as I try to grab the hurt shoulder.
“Whoa! Someone’s rocking the head wound. Careful with his melon, Bobby.” Tony holds a hand out for me, but I’d rather die than take it, so I struggle up on my own.
