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“I’m going to shove my hand under the cuff of his sleeve. Precut a hole in my glove. I just need my longest finger to touch skin.”
Barron laughs. “Mom’s old trick. The way she did that guy at the racetrack. You remembered.”
I bite back a comment about remembering and just nod, looking down.
“Go ahead,” Anton says. “Show me.”
I extend my right hand, and when Barron takes it, I wrap my left hand around his wrist and shake. The left hand holds Barron’s arm in place so that even if he struggles it’ll take him a moment to get away. Anton’s eyes widen a little. He’s afraid. I can read his tells.
And just like that I’m sure he hates me. Hates being afraid and hates me for making him feel that way.
“A real honor, sir,” I say.
Anton nods. “So, then you turn his heart to stone. That should look like—”
“Very poetic,” I say.
“What?”
“Very poetic, turning his heart to stone. Was that your idea?”
“It’ll look like a heart attack—at least until the autopsy,” Anton says, ignoring my question. “And that’s what we’re going to let them think it was. You’re going to ride out the blowback in here, and then we’re going to call for a doctor.”
“You didn’t seem drunk enough,” says Barron.
“I’ll seem drunker,” I say.
Barron’s looking at himself in the mirror. He smoothes out one of his eyebrows, then turns his head to admire his profile. His shave is so close that it might have come from a straight razor. Handsome. A real snake-oil salesman. “You should throw up.”
“What? You want me to stick my finger down my throat?”
“Why not?”
“Why?” I lean against the wall, studying Philip and Barron. Their faces are the two I know best in all the world, and right now they’re unguarded. Philip shifts back and forth, grim-faced. He crosses and uncrosses his arms over his chest. He’s a loyal laborer and he’s got to be a little uncomfortable at the idea of taking out the head of the family, even if it means becoming rich and powerful overnight. Even if it means putting his childhood friend in charge and making himself indispensable.
Barron, however, appears to be having fun. I don’t know what he’s getting out of this, except that he loves to be in control. And it’s obvious that he’s managed to make Anton and Philip need him. He might be burning through his own memories to do it, but he’s got power over all of us.
Of course, maybe he’s in it for the money too. We’re talking about a lot of money, being the head of a crime family.
“Afraid you won’t be able to do it?” Barron asks, and I remember we’re talking about vomiting. “But think—the hardest thing is getting in the door. This way you can burst in the door with your hand over your mouth, push into the stall, close it behind you, and toss your cookies. He’ll be laughing at you when you come out. Easy mark.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Philip says, nodding.
“I’ve never made myself throw up before,” I say. “I have no idea how long it will take.”
“How about this,” says Barron. “Go in the kitchen. Hurl in a bowl. We’ll bottle up the puke and tape it behind the toilet in the first stall. If someone finds it, then you’re on your own, but otherwise you can take whatever time you need now and not worry about it then.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
“Just do it,” says Anton.
“No,” I say. “I can act drunk off my ass. I can pull it off.” I don’t intend to pull any of this off on Wednesday, although I don’t quite know what I am going to do instead. But I can scheme in the morning; right now I need to observe.
“Throw up, or I am going to make you wish you did,” Anton says.
I turn my neck to the side, so he can see the length of unmarked skin. “No scars,” I say. “I’m not in your family, and you’re not my boss.”
“You better believe I’m your boss,” Anton says, walking up to me and grabbing the collar of my shirt, stretching it toward him.
