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“He was an undercover narc. Probably from that special squad of narcs.”
“And what did he do to your lady that made her so upset?”
“He made her blow him,” Ketcham said.
Cassandro looked at Mr. Savarese. His face was expressionless, but tears ran down both cheeks. When he saw Paulo looking at him, he gestured with his hand for him to continue.
“He made her what?” Cassandro asked.
“First he made her take off her clothes, and then he made her blow him.”
“What did this cop look like?” Paulo asked.
“I don’t know,” Ketcham began, and then, quickly, to ward off another kick to the head or jab at his scrotum, went on. “White guy. Thirty years old. Average size—”
“What’s his name, motherfucker?”
“I told you, I don’t know. I never saw him before.”
Paulo Cassandro, sensing movement, turned to look at Mr. Savarese. Mr. Savarese was walking out of the room.
Cassandro went after him. Mr. Savarese stopped walking halfway down the corridor, took the white Irish linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and dabbed at his eyes and cheeks with it.
“What do you want me to do with this bag of shit, Mr. S.?”
“Nothing,” Mr. Savarese replied.
“Nothing?” Cassandro parroted incredulously.
“Get Pietro. Make sure we will leave nothing behind that belongs to us, and then close the door.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. S.,” Paulo said.
Mr. Savarese nodded, then walked down the corridor toward the door and the Ford flat-tire truck outside.
They were almost back at Classic Livery, Inc., before Paulo finally understood what Mr. S. had in mind for Ketcham.
Nothing didn’t mean nothing. Nothing meant that the miserable fucking cocksucker who had dishonored Mr. S.’s granddaughter would have a long fucking time in the fucking dark to think over what he had done before he died. And there wasn’t even anything in that fucking room he could use to kill himself, unless maybe he could bang his fucking head against the fucking wall until his brains came out.
That’s really better than what I was going to do to the bastard.
Paulo Cassandro had taken the crowbar with him, thinking it would be the thing to use to break Ketcham’s fingers and arms and kneecaps and legs before he put an ice pick in his ear.
He considered Mr. Savarese’s decision on how to properly deal with Ketcham one more proof of Mr. Savarese’s profound wisdom.
SEVENTEEN
After a long time in the bathroom—much of it looking at her reflection in the mirror, as if there was going to be some kind of answer there—Susan finally came out, wrapped in a hotel-furnished terry-cloth robe.
Matt was propped up against the headboard of the bed, naked except for a corner of the sheet over his groin, the telephone to his ear.
Matt said “Thank you” into the telephone and hung it up and looked at her.
“Who were you talking to?” Susan asked.
“Room service. You were in there so long, I got hungry. I told them to send up oysters and a bottle of champagne.”
Been watching a lot of Cary Grant movies, have you, Matt? A little elegant counterpoint to hot and heavy sex?
