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Corrado raised his eyebrows. “You have the audacity to make excuses?”
“No, I, uh . . .”
“I’m not interested in what you have to say. It’s meaningless to me. I don’t care if you’re run down in the parking lot. You had better drag your mangled body in here with enough time to be in my office when I tell you to be in my office. Nothing short of death is reason enough to be late. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Corrado could smell his fear. It reeked, filling the office with the sickly-sweet scent of sweat and panic. Remy was tall and skinny with shifty eyes, but they were more about his sudden fear and less about deception. Was he hiding something? Maybe, but he didn’t let it show. He had been called into a Capo’s office—a wise man knew those situations didn’t often end well. But he came, shoulders square, head held high.
What he lacked in brains he made up for in guts.
Remy was a decent earner and good at what he did, never once getting caught, which was why he had entrusted Carmine to his crew.
“Word around is you’re the best at picking locks,” Corrado said.
“Uh, yes,” he said. “Not to brag or anything, but I’ve yet to find a lock I couldn’t pop on the first date.”
Remy grinned, trying to break the tension, but Corrado didn’t find it funny. He just stared him over, pondering whether he was the right one for the job.
Tense silence ensued. Remy stood in place, making no move to sit. “Aren’t you going to have a seat?” Corrado asked.
Remy’s eyes darted to one of the empty chairs, but he still didn’t move. “You didn’t invite me to sit down, sir.”
Maybe he was smarter than Corrado originally thought.
“Can you get this open?” he asked, turning the briefcase around to face the boy. Remy took an immediate step forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the small lock.
“Uh, yeah, I think so.”
“Think so or know so?” Corrado asked. “If you’re not certain, turn around and walk out that door. I’ll find someone better equipped to do the job for me.”
Remy cleared his throat. “With all due respect, sir, there is no one better equipped. If I can’t get it open, nobody will.”
Touché. Corrado nodded, motioning toward the briefcase, silently permitting him to prove his worth. Remy eyed the lock for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small tension wrench and a pick. Corrado watched, fascinated that the boy carried them with him. “Do you make it a habit to keep tools in your pocket?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You never know when you might need to pick a lock or hot-wire a car, so I try to keep what I’d need on me just in case. Same reason you always carry a gun, I’m guessing.”
“Do you carry a gun also?”
“Not always,” he admitted. “I tend to only have it when I think my life might be on the line.”
“Do you have one with you now?”
Remy hesitated. “Yes.”
Corrado smiled at that and relaxed back into his chair, tapping his foot to the beat of the music from the club. Two songs from Sinatra’s Greatest Hits passed before Remy made any progress, a smile lighting the boy’s face as he finally jimmied the lock. The briefcase cracked open, not wide enough to see inside, but enough for Corrado to take over.
Remy returned his tools to his pocket and took a step back. “It’s all yours.”
“You’re not going to ask me what it is?”
“No.”
“You’re not at all curious?”
“Well, of course, but it’s none of my business,” he replied. “If you wanted me to know, you would’ve told me, right?”
“Right.” Corrado stood up, motioning for the boy to follow him as he stepped out of the office and met up with one of the security guards in the hallway, standing watch outside the office door. “Tell the bartender Tarullo’s drinks are on the house. Anything he wants, he gets—no questions asked.”
