“Spoken like a true boss,” he says.
His pointed look irritates me even more. He’s feeling me out, but he’s not going to get the answer he’s looking for. He, however, might be useful to me. Stupidity, inflated confidence, and eagerness is a deadly combination for keeping secrets. It’s a cocktail that makes people talk.
I glance around, as if I’m about to get conspiratorial. “You’ve done jobs before?”
He makes a sound of agreement and snubs his cigarette beneath his foot. “Depends on if we’re talking about the same thing.”
“It’s a possibility.”
Brevity is my forte and I’ll play that hand all day. A man like this won’t be able to handle subtlety when he’s antsy to get to the meat and bones. He wants something from me, and he’ll start puffing his chest to convince me to give it to him. Glancing over his shoulder, he moves closer again. Guess daddy doesn’t know he likes to play dirty for cash on the side.
“I’m not picky,” he says. “Don’t mind getting my hands dirty and doing whatever needs to be done to keep the business running.”
He surveys my reaction with a side-eye.
“You like getting your hands dirty?”
One shoulder bobs up and down. “I’m not opposed.”
“Who’s hired you to get dirty in the past?”
His lips press flat. He doesn’t answer.
Tossing back my drink, I look at the empty glass with regret that the best part of this little session is gone.
“I don’t work with newbies.”
“Sure. I bet not.” He pulls a breath through his nose. “I can’t give you names, you know that. Let’s just say I’m a freelance errand boy.”
My turn to scoff. “If you’re freelancing that means you’re not good enough for someone to sign on.”
“Bullshit.” His cheeks flame red. “I get the job done. Cash runs, shaking out debts, turning bets. Getting rid of evidence.”
That I believe. He’s got the strength to be good with a shovel and enough deviousness to bury a body without batting an eye.
“Where do you turn bets?”
“Money talks. I go wherever the man with the money tells me. Horse tracks, mostly. Big enough stack of C-notes’ll turn a sure winner into a horse with an unlucky injury every time.”
“You ever turn cars?”
I watch him as I ask this question. Marco races semi-professionally, and a sabotaged car nearly killed him not long ago. I know this kid isn’t responsible—the Brunos had their hands all over that clusterfuck—but I’m more tuned in to what’s going on at the speedways these days.
“Not yet I haven’t,” he says. “But I could if the incentive is right.”
“Going near the track is a death sentence, kid. Remember that.”
“Why, that your territory?”
“Something like that.”
He grunts appreciatively. “You race?”
“It doesn’t matter what I do. I’m the one with the money, remember?”
He looks away. “My bad. Accardi hit me up to do some mechanical work at the track last fall, but I was busy. Besides, she didn’t want to rub those hundreds together, you know?”
The name is familiar. Guilette Accardi is a quiet woman. She keeps her family under a tight wing and her dealings even closer. I can’t recall the last time I spoke to anyone from that family, though there’s no bad blood between them and the Bellanti clan. Marco’s saboteurs had been caught, but who the hell had Guilette been after? Interesting.
