He told T-Bone to guard the stash and motioned to Big Bad to follow us. We started making the journey through the crowd of well-wishers and glad handlers. As we walked I said, “How’d you know about the adoption?”
Sal smiled. “I got my—whatcha call—sources.”
To Kathleen, Sal said, “You ever see this one fight?”
“I
Sal said, “Heard him? What’s that mean?”
She gave me a look. I said, “Nellie’s Diner. Joe DeMeo’s goons.”
Sal said, “You was there?”
Kathleen nodded. “Sort of,” she said. “I was in the restaurant, hiding under a table.”
We entered the great room. Santo Mangano waved from the foyer and yelled, “Hey, Sallie!” Sal returned the wave.
“Thing of beauty,” Sal said, “the way Creed—whatcha call—inflicts physical damage. We was in a place one time, some martial arts guy was drunk and comes at me for no frickin’ reason. Before Big and T have a chance to react, Creed goes after this guy and I swear to Christ, it looked like a cyclone fightin’ a water bug!”
Kathleen squeezed my arm. “You think that’s something, you should see him in the sack.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Except in the sack, I’m the water bug.”
Sal started to laugh but a thunderous voice suddenly took over all the speakers in the house. He flinched slightly, but stood his ground. All around us, gangsters hit the floor, pulling their wives down with them. Women screamed as their husbands scrambled for cover. Guns were produced from ankle and shoulder holsters. Servers brandished knives, proving me right about the brandishing.
The voice was masculine, and powerful, like the wrath of God.
The voice boomed: “The mightiest warriors are not the most physically impressive!”
The lights went out and circles of blue lasers started flashing at the far end of the foyer. The giant voice spoke again.
“Behold the mightiest warriors of all time!”
A giant cloud of smoke appeared and the lights came back on. A wheelchair stood where the smoke had been. Not an ordinary wheelchair, but one fashioned from space age materials. It was equipped with a series of roll bars, lights, and all manner of electronic equipment. Navigating the chair was a little person with enormous dreadlocks, wearing an electrified shirt.
Victor.
At Victor’s side, the ever-present, always angry Hugo, “The Little General,” stood guard. Hugo was Victor’s aide, confidante, and advisor in all things military. Victor and Hugo were little people who dreamed of conquering the world with their midget army. If they ever succeeded it truly would be a small world, after all.
All eyes turned to Sal.
“Relax,” he said. “The little guys wanted to make a—whatcha call—entrance. I told ‘em, knock yourselves out.”
Dozens of gangsters sheepishly holstered their weapons and dealt with their angry spouses with severe, whispered threats.
Victor made an adjustment on the arm of his chair and the loudspeaker voice softened. “Could I have the honor of Salvatore Bonadello’s presence for one moment?”
Sal said, “Let’s—whatcha call—indulge the little guy.” We started walking toward Victor and Hugo.
“I need to check my makeup,” Kathleen said, just the way we’d rehearsed. “Can you point me to your powder room?”
“Powder room?” Sal said. “Now that’s class!” He pointed the way and Kathleen headed there.
“At first I thought she meant gunpowder,” Sal said, studying her ass as long as he could before she disappeared from view. “That there’s a winner. I envy you, wakin’ up to that every morning.”
Victor’s speaker voice said, “Will you all please give a warm welcome to my manservant, Merlin.”
No one moved to make a sound. Once again, all eyes were on Sal. He looked around the room and shouted, “He means clap your hands. Show some class here!”
Sal began clapping his hands. Others, clearly befuddled, reluctantly joined in.
From behind the assembled guests a woman screamed. Everyone spun around. Then the scream circled the room through the speakers and the guests saw that Victor had created a diversion so the magician could appear.
Merlin began approaching Sal. Big Bad produced a .357 magnum and held it at Merlin’s face.
Merlin regarded the gun with more than a little trepidation. “I was told there’d be no guns?”
Sal said, “I’m gonna let the gun stay where it is. Just in case.”
Merlin assembled his courage and said, “Very well, but please be careful. Can you give me a dollar please?”
“The fuck?” Sal said.
Sal looked at Victor. “It’s my friggin’ party,” he said. “It don’t set well givin’ money to this guy here.”
“Just one dollar,” Merlin said. “I can assure you, you won’t be sorry.”
“I better not be.”
Sal dug into his pants pocket, produced a wad of cash big enough to choke a wide-mouth frog. He flipped through the bills until he found a dollar, which he peeled off and handed to Merlin. Merlin’s right hand was empty—I was watching it—then suddenly it held a felt-tip pen.
I’ve seen good before. Merlin was great.
“Please sign the dollar, so we’ll know it’s yours.”
“I already know it’s mine, shithead!” Sal said. But he signed it anyway.
