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Then there’s Tommy, the most dangerous of them all. Hair as crazy as him, sticking up everywhere. Probably got three guns on him, not to mention the knives in his boot and at his hip.
I could kill all of them in ten seconds flat. They know that which is why their nervousness is coming across as arrogance. They’ve got the Don protecting them but that’s not that useful here and now.
All there is here is me and them. But if I kill them, I’ll never get to the Don again. Never get near enough to do what I’ve already decided I’ve got to do to make sure Chloe is safe. I’ve got to take him out. The only questions are when and how.
I walk with the three of them, one on either side, Tommy behind. He’s knifed people in the ribs from this position before. Is that the plan for me? I stay braced to fight if it comes to it but nothing happens.
We climb into a car outside. I decide against calling Imelda again. I don’t want these three to hear anything that might hint that Chloe is there.
I’m in the front next to Marco as he drives. Tommy’s still behind me, talking about last night’s ballgame with Pierro, discussing how well their fixing is working at the minute.
I say nothing. I rarely do in situations like this. I prefer to let others talk while I remain ready to act. I think to myself about what I’ll do if they attack.
Marco will probably slam on the brakes. Tommy will jump forward, either with a knife or with a wire to go over my throat. Same time Pierro will be getting an icepick in my ear or doing his best to hold my hands out the way while the wire cuts off my breathing and digs into my jugular.
How would I respond? Simple. Soon as Marco starts to shift. I’ll yank my head forward, twist in my seat, taking him out of the game with an elbow to the nose on the way. Then I’ll reach between the seats with my gun and shoot them both before they get time to draw.
Nice and simple. I’ve done it enough times before during rides like this. Taken out three men one time before their car even rolled to a stop.
Nothing happens. I’m almost disappointed. We get to Marco’s Bistro in Little Italy and head through it to the back room. Cellophane bricks of coke are piled up on the table next to neat bundles of cash. The freezer’s open and a corpse in overalls is hanging from a meat hook, swinging slightly back and forth in the breeze from the cooling fan set into the ceiling.
Marco pulls a TV on a wheeled stand toward the table, nodding toward one of the steel chairs. “Take a seat,” he says.
“Not coming himself?”
“Sit your ass down, Enzo. Don’t make this difficult.”
I look at him and get a sudden urge to break his neck. I resist that, instead sweeping his leg and sending him to the floor. As he falls, I get his head and slam it into the table. Banknotes cascade down as he grabs his nose, blood spurting from it. “Don’t ever disrespect me like that again,” I tell him.
“You can’t do that to me,” he says, getting to his feet, sounding a lot more nasal than before.
“Can’t I? Want to see what else I can’t do?”
“Enough,” a voice from the TV says. I turn and look at it. Sure enough, there are the Don’s head and shoulders. He’s sitting in a red leather armchair, most of him out of shot. “Stop bickering, you two. Enzo, if you’d be so kind as to take a seat. Marco, go clean yourself up.”
“But you told us to watch him.”
“You want me to tell him to bust your nose a second time?”
“No, Don Felici.”
“Then get the fuck out of there.”
He leaves, the door swinging shut behind him. Tommy and Pierro have been watching the whole thing in silence. A real shame they didn’t try anything. I’m in the mood for cracking skulls after the way Marco spoke to me.
“Is this what happens when I’m out of the city for a while?” I say to the Don as I relax in the chair nearest the TV.
“Marco was rude to you,” he replies. “You have my apologies for that.” He leans back in his seat, lighting a cigar and taking a deep drag on it before continuing. “What’s going on, Enzo?”
“With what?”
“I hear from Walter that you’re fucking the girl. Maybe got a thing for her.”
“What if I have?”
He laughs, smoke billowing around him like he’s a dragon coiled on his treasure pile. “Only you, Enzo, would fuck someone whose parents you killed. You’re colder than a dead penguin with an iceberg stuffed up its ass.”
I say nothing. He’s been talking to Walter. How much more does he know? Better to let him reveal his hand rather than show him mine.
