Peril полностью

“You know anything about Eddie?”

“You mean that mick works for you? What about him?”

“He’s missing.”

Labriola laughed. “So what? Jesus, some fucking mick works for you goes missing and you think I know something about it? What’s the matter with you, Tony? What I got to do with this guy?”

“I need to know who’s looking for Sara,” Tony said.

Labriola glared at him. “You don’t need to know nothing I don’t want to tell you.”

“Who’s looking for Sara?” Tony demanded.

“What’s that got to do with this fucking mick?”

Tony started to answer, then stopped. If he told the truth, Caruso’s head was on the block.

“I want you to stop looking for Sara,” he said instead.

Labriola squinted, as if against an unexpected flash of light. “You what? You want me to stop looking for that—”

“Don’t call her names,” Tony blurted out.

“What, you a tough guy all of a sudden?”

“I mean it,” Tony said firmly. “Don’t call her names.”

“You’re still pussy-whipped, Tony. She’s still got you by the balls.”

“Stop looking for her,” Tony said.

Labriola’s face had become a smirking mask. “What, you think you can find her? You couldn’t find your own dick, Tony. And what if you did find her? You gonna beg her to . . .” He studied his son’s face for a moment, as if trying to read the mind behind it. Then he shrugged. “Okay,” he said lightly. “Okay, fine, Tony. You find her.” He grinned malevolently. “Good luck,” he said, then turned and trudged up the stairs, his great arms pumping massively, as if warming up for some final title fight, the great belt in contention now, the championship of the world.

FIVE

Someone to Watch Over Me

MORTIMER

He took his usual place at the dark end of the bar, and it struck him unpleasantly that he had always tended toward shadowy corners. Like a bug, he thought.

Jake stepped over and poured a drink. “You look like shit, Morty.” He gave the bar a quick wipe, then slid over a bowl of beer nuts. “Like shit,” he repeated like some doctor who was making sure his professional observation had not gone unnoted.

“Yeah,” Mortimer said. He knocked back the round. “Where’s Abe?”

“Back in his office,” Jake said.

“I hear he’s got a girlfriend,” Mortimer said, allowing himself the small pleasure that Abe had shared this intimacy. But that was what best friends did, wasn’t it, share things they didn’t share with other guys? It was the only thing that gave relief, he decided, the warmth of friendship, all that trust. “He told me about her,” he added as if displaying a medal he’d won for good service.

“She’s probably gonna work here,” Jake said absently.

“Doing what?”

“Singer, I guess.”

“No shit,” Mortimer said.

Jake indicated Mortimer’s empty glass. “Another?”

“Why not?”

Jake poured the drink and Mortimer took a quick sip. “Is she any good, Abe’s girl?” he asked.

“She ain’t bad. Coming in later tonight, Abe says. Gonna do a couple numbers.”

Mortimer rolled the glass between his hands and watched the amber liquid slosh back and forth. He could feel the weight of the pistol in his jacket pocket. He knew it wasn’t much to offer, just a way for Abe to defend himself if some tough guy showed up and started throwing his weight around. You wave a gun in a guy’s face, and he cools down right away, starts figuring the odds, decides the guy holding the piece is one serious bastard, and that the lady in question is by no means worth taking a bullet for.

And as for the piece, Mortimer thought, hell, he didn’t need it anyway. He wasn’t going to shoot anybody at this late date, and if somebody wanted to shoot him, so what? They’d shave off a few weeks at the most. And bad weeks at that. Hospital. Dottie fretting. Fuck it, Mortimer thought, now feeling oddly urgent about getting the gun to Abe before it was too late, doing just one good thing while he still could.

He slid off the stool. “So Abe’s in back?” he said hastily.

“Yeah,” Jake said dully. “Probably mooning over the broad.”

Mortimer didn’t like Jake’s attitude, but what could you do with a guy like Jake, a dry kernel of a man, probably without a friend in the world. At least, Mortimer concluded, nobody could say that about him. Suddenly the pistol was like a gold watch after a long career, the physical proof that he had not lived in vain. After all, how many guys in New York City actually had an unregistered piece he could give to a friend? Not many, Mortimer told himself. You had to have lived a certain way to have an unregistered piece at your disposal. Thinking that, Mortimer abruptly decided that perhaps his life had always been headed for this moment, when he’d have a piece he could pass on, and touching it now, as he made his way toward the back of the bar, it felt like the one sweet fruit of a long, dry season.

“Hey, Abe,” he said as he stepped into the office.

Abe sat behind the desk, papers spread over it.

“So, how you doing?” Mortimer asked.

“Okay,” Abe said. He looked surprised to see him. “And you?”