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“Take mine.” Bell tipped his glass into hers, and cleared the plates and flatware and stacked them in the corner. “How was it strange?”
“I picked up Ed Hunt at a party the Boss sent me to and took him to the hotel where the Boss had booked me a room. What I didn’t know was the Boss hid in the closet. All of a sudden, when Hunt fell asleep, he stepped out of the closet. I almost jumped out of my skin.”
“You saw his face?”
“No. It was dark. I never saw his face until this afternoon. Anyhow, he shooed me out—sent me to the next job—and next I hear, Hunt had a heart attack. Well, I have to tell you, Isaac, if he was going to have a heart attack, it would have been while I was still there.”
Bell said, “As I understand it, a stiletto played a role in the heart attack.”
“Big surprise,” said Francesca.
“You said you went on to the next job. What was that?”
“Hunt’s cousin, McBean. The Boss gave me strict orders. Don’t hurt him. Just put him to sleep and go home. Which I did. Just like with Hunt. Then I learned at confession that McBean’s alive and kicking, not like Hunt. So I’m thinking they made a deal. You hear anything about that?”
“I heard heroin changed hands,” said Bell.
“Which reminds me of a job I don’t think I told you about yet . . .”
Bell listened. One story blended into another, which reminded her of another. Suddenly, he asked, “What did you say?”
“I was telling you how he confessed to me.”
“Would you repeat that, please. What do you mean ‘confessed’? Branco confessed to you?”
“I mean, one night he confessed to me. In the church. I was trying to figure out how to do this guy he wanted dead. All of a sudden, it was like I was the priest, and he started telling me about the first man he ever killed—when he was eight years old, if you think I’m bad. You know what he said? It was ‘satisfying.’ Isn’t that a strange word to talk about murder. Satisfying? And when he was only eight?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Bell. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t call it satisfying. I’d call it, like, finishing. Completing. Like, ‘That’s over,’ if you know what I mean. Anyway, then he told me how he killed a padrone who robbed him.”
“How does he kill?”
“He plans and he hides.”
“What do you mean?”
“He gets close to kill. To get close, you have to plan. Study the situation. Learn it cold. Then make a plan.”
“He told you that?”
“He taught me: Plan what to pretend. Pretend you’re reading a newspaper. Pretend you’re busy working. Or pretend you need help. To throw ’em off. You know what I mean, Isaac? He makes an art of it.”
“Of killing.”
“Yes, if you want to call it that.”
“So Branco was your teacher?”
“He taught me how to do it and not get killed. I owe him a lot, you could say. But what’s the difference now?”
“What else did he tell you?”
“You’re not listening, Isaac. He didn’t tell me that; he taught me.”
“Get so close that they can’t be afraid?”
“Plan to get so close that they let their guard down.”
