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“So, you want me dead,” I say without preamble. It’s more of a statement than a question.
Maroney laughs. “So dramatic! What could possibly have given you that impression?”
“I had some trouble with my Tesla the other day. Thought you might know something about it.”
“You’d have to talk to an electric car mechanic. I drive a truck.”
“How’s your gas mileage?”
“Bad, but I can afford it. You have any trouble finding charging stations?”
“Not anymore.”
We walk through a row of carnival games, all blasting music and flashing lights. To our right, a pair of teenagers compete to shoot red stars from their paper targets using the BB guns mounted on the counter.
“I used to like that game when I was a kid,” Maroney remarks. “Always wondered if you could find a way to detach the BB gun and start shooting people. You ever wonder that?”
“No.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough. I guess I’m the only sick fuck.”
“Not in our line of work.”
“I suppose not. The sick fucks are always the dangerous ones.”
He lets his words hang as we keep walking through the crowd.
“I’m going to need you to stay out of my territory in South Bover,” I tell him. “That means Rossi neighborhoods and Gagliardi neighborhoods. It’s all mine now.”
He stops. “Is that so? Hold on. I’m going to get a funnel cake.”
Maroney is a confusing mix of threatening and disarming. He has more charm than Gio the Butcher, I’ll give him that. I wait next to him on line for his funnel cake.
“Want a piece?” he offers. “Come on, you know it looks good.”
Fuck it. I rip off a piece of his funnel cake, covered in powdered sugar, and I can’t deny that it’s delicious. I should come here with Ava some time.
Ava.
…Fuck.
“You want to talk about that fight at the bar between our boys?” Maroney asks when he’s finished eating.
I scowl. “Honestly, I don’t care. That’s not what I’m here about. Kids will have their bar fights. But if you and I have a problem, I’m going to piss on your fucking corpse. I will not accept a thorn in my side, do you understand me?”
I hold eye contact long enough to make my point. My organization is bigger than his, considerably. An all-out war isn’t good for either of us, but it’s worse for him.
His face is impassive. “How about we ride the Ferris wheel, huh? I haven’t done that since I was a teenager.”
“Why not,” I reply with a shrug.
***
The Ferris wheel operator looks us over as we get in, me in my dark shirt with buttons, him in his tracksuit. A mismatched pair, united only by profession. Maroney and I take seats across from each other in the gondola, a small, enclosed pod with a maximum capacity of four.
He gazes out the window as the ride starts up. “This is nostalgic, isn’t it? Did you come to the carnival when you were little?”
“No,” I tell him. “We weren’t really a carnival family.”
