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Outside, a car is pulling up. Michael looks at me and swallows. I wrap my hand around the paperweight on his desk. It’s heavy. If I need to… Hell, I would if I could do it and get away with it. That’s low of me, but it’s the truth. This is family.Michel. The man who will hold my child in his arms and maybe see his own eye color reflected back at him.
I turn, tossing the paperweight from hand to hand. Leon is shifting from foot to foot now. Martin is at the window, tilting his hat rim as he presses against the glass. “Holy fuck. Who are those guys?”
“The big man is a representative of Leonardo Esposito. Have you heard of Leonardo Esposito? He was recently involved in a gang war on the East Coast against the Russian mob, the Bratva. He won, by the way. The two men are also representatives of the mob.”
That was easy to discover online—lots of news stories about it. All I had to search for was “mob East Coast violence.”
Martin turns to me, removes his hat, and holds it like a beggar. “No, no, no, man. You’re joking.”
When the door opens, Leon throws himself right at the men. It’s a blind rage that makes me wonder if he’s on something to do something so reckless. Or maybe it’s just panic. Whatever it is, luckily, the two private contractors are well-trained. They surge forward in matching blue suits, their gold chains glinting, their shiny Italian shoes catching the light. They bought everything new this morning, just for the job.
They throw Leon against the wall. The third man, taller, leaner, wearing a much more expensive suit, casually waves a hand. The other two are from the West Coast, so they won’t talk, but the leader’s actually from New York. “Sit him down, and you…” He snaps his fingers at Martin. “Sit.”
Martin nods and rushes toward the desk. The so-called mob boss, Frank, walks around and sits opposite. He glances at me. “You said there was a video.”
Michelis already doing a good job selling the act, hands clasped in front of him, gaping. Or maybe it’s not an act. Leon is still struggling, kicking and grunting, but the two men throw him into a chair and hold him there. He’s about to rage again when Martin shouts, “Stop it, you Lennie Smalls fuckingmoron!”
Leon deflates, then looks at Frank. Suddenly, he seems younger and terrified.
I do my part to sell the act, averting my eyes as I approach the table. I talk to Frank in a small voice. “I’ve got the video.” I slide the phone across the desk.
When I press play, Frank leans forward and watches it. He does one hell of an acting job. The more the video plays, and he hears Tweedledum and Tweedledee doing their mobbed-up routine, the angrier his face becomes. He contorts his features. He looks ready to kill. When it’s done, he stands, grabs a mug, and throws it through the window. Thesmashmakes Martin gasp aloud. Leon looks around in panic.
Frank should get an Oscar. He stands with his back turned, breath heaving. Finally, he turns. He walks right up to Leon and kneels, staring him in the eye. Leon cringes away.
“This is Cartel country,” Frank snarls. “If we were back east, I’d have my boys drag you outside. One bullet each. Right to the back of the heads. I’d throw you in a goddamn pit. It would be easy, but you fuckingratsaren’t worth the heat.”
Leon looks almost relieved, but then Frank goes on. “Not for me, anyway, but I’ve got a buddy in the Cartel. He can operate in these parts. I’m putting a hit out. If you’re not a made man and act like one, that’s a no-go. That’s the end of the line. If I were you, fellas, I’d pack a bag. Not that it will make a goddamn difference.”
Frank stands, calmly walks around the desk and shakes my hand. When he walks toward the door, the other two men follow. I feel Michael looking at me as if wondering where they’re going, but they don’t need to be here anymore. The fear is enough.
Frank really hammers the point home. At the door, he stops and turns. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your day, Leon Reynolds and Martin Blackwood.” Then he reads out their social security numbers and their addresses. With each word, Leon and Martin look less and less like the big, bad wolves they think they are.
When the so-called mob car pulls away, Leon bolts to his feet. He looks like he’s going to act tough, but Martin slaps him hard across the back of the head. “Idiot. Get moving, now.”
“But—”
“This is themob. We’re done. It’s over.”
They rush for the door and speed away in their car. Michael runs to the window and then turns to me. His mouth is wide open. After a moment, he smiles semi-deliriously. It’s like it’s all catching up with him in one moment. I’m familiar with the feeling. It’s one thing I try to train for—being in the moment, focused, active, aware when it matters.
“Do you think they’ll really stay clear?” Michael asks.
“Frank and the guys are on my payroll for the next few days. They’re going to follow them. Park outside their apartments and freak them out.”
Michael frowns.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing, nothing,” he says. “It’s just… Won’t they do this to other people now?”
I sigh darkly. “I don’t know. Maybe they will. I hope not.”
I wasn’t thinking about that. Just my family. Just Michael. But he’s right. It would’ve been better if those scumbags ended up in jail.
“I should see about the window,” Michael murmurs. “Clear up the glass.”
“I’ll help.”
