“Just be confident, kid. Sal can smell a phony from a mile away.”
I nodded. Sal… Sal… My brain was still running on fumes, but I was pretty sure I didn’t know any “Sal.” Especially no one associated with the people in the Crown Vic who’d dumped me on Shep’s puddle-step.
Three quick raps came from the inside. Shep rolled his eyes. He knocked twice.
Another rap from inside.
“Ah, for cripes sake, it’s me! Shep! Open the damn door!”
The door creaked open. Barely enough for a large, bloodshot eye to peek through.
“Who is it?”
“Damn it, Vito. Open the damn door, will ya? It’s me, Shep!”
The bloodshot eye swiveled toward me and bobbed.
“Who’s the trick-or-treater?”
“Name’s Billy.” I nodded.
The pupil expanded, then contracted. Focusing. Evaluating.
“Billy? Just Billy?”
“Just Billy.”
The eye waited one second. Another. It turned away from the door.
“This is the kid I was tellin’ ya about,” Shep put his paw on my shoulder. “Called the end of the Falcons game cold.”
“That was a hell of a finish.” A different voice. Deep. Gruff. The kind of voice that had been smoothed out over decades by bourbon and cigars, all the sharp edges gently eroded away until what was left was velvet wrapped around a fist. “Let ’em in, Vito.”
The door closed. I heard a chain lock disengage. The door swung wide.
Shep strode in and gave the doorman a half-hug. As big as Shep was, Vito made him look compact. The guy was enormous. He wore a dingy white apron with mustard and (I hoped) ketchup stains. “Vito” was in cursive in faded red stitching on his right breast pocket.
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ NEW CONTACT: Vito ║
║ Class: Enforcer (Level 5) ║
║ ║
║ SPECIAL ABILITY: "Cleaver Master" ║
║ 2x damage with bladed weapons ║
║ ║
║ THREAT ASSESSMENT: High ║
║ DISPOSITION: Neutral (Watchful) ║
║ ║
║ He is currently armed. ║
║ You probably noticed. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
Yeah. I noticed.
What really raised an eyebrow was the honest-to-God cleaver holster on his right hip. A holster. For a meat cleaver. It was exactly how it sounds. And in stark contrast to his stained, disheveled outfit, the cleaver itself gleamed polished silver. Sharp as a samurai sword. The only “blemish” was a cute little drawing of purple poker chips in a stack near the handle.
After a better look, the guy was a walking contradiction. Disheveled clothes, impeccably slicked-back hair. Faded nameplate, weapon of death gleaming on his side.
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I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to go in for a handshake or a hug, but Vito settled the question by pulling me in close. His breath was warm on a spot about three inches above where he thought my ear was.
“You a cop?” he asked.
“What? Hell no. I run numbers.”
He nodded. Almost serenely.
“Good.” He clicked his tongue and shot his eyes down at the cleaver. “’Cause if you are…”
“We, uh, have an understanding.”
“Great.” A feline smile curled across his mouth. “Come on in.”
We were in the back room of the deli. The smell hit me first: cured meats, sharp cheeses, vinegar-soaked peppers, and that weird sweet smell fountain soda water makes when it’s been sitting too long in the lines. My stomach growled loud enough that Vito actually looked down at it.
I turned and nearly walked into Vito again.
I looked back at the door. The hulking man was still there, still grinning.
I looked directly ahead. There was, in fact, a clone.
Everything was identical. The dingy apron. The slicked hair. The ever-present five o’clock shadow. Even the hip holster.
The only differences: his apron said “Tony” on the pocket, and his cleaver had a picture of a sandwich on it. He was spinning the thing in his fingers like a baton. Twirling, stopping, twirling again.
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ NEW CONTACT: Tony ║
║ Class: Enforcer (Level 5) ║
║ ║
║ SPECIAL ABILITY: "Cleaver Master" ║
║ 2x damage with bladed weapons ║
║ ║
║ ? TWIN COMBAT BONUS ║
║ When fighting alongside Vito: ║
║ +3 Coordination, +2 Intimidation ║
║ ║
║ FUN FACT: Their cleavers are named ║
║ but they will deny this if asked. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
“Do you know what we do?” The voice came from the far end of the room. The honey-bourbon voice.
A shorter man stepped into the light. Balding, with an outrageously large nose that entered rooms roughly two seconds before the rest of him. He wore a velour green tracksuit with a wife-beater undershirt, and a prominent gold chain that was the only thing holding back the forest of chest hair beneath.
╔══════════════════════════════════════╗
║ NEW CONTACT: Sal Marino ║
║ Class: Underground Boss (Level 8) ║
║ ║
║ SPECIAL ABILITY: "The Network" ║
║ Can access information and call ║
║ in favors across all of Fanhattan ║
║ ║
║ DISPOSITION: Evaluating ║
║ ║
║ NOTE: This man knew your father. ║
║ How well is unclear. ║
║ Tread carefully. ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════╝
This man knew your father.
My chest tightened again. Same as last night.
“Well, judging by the look of things, you either sell sandwiches or conduct Dr. Moreau-like genetic experiments.” I nodded at the twins.
Tony chuckled. Vito only smirked.
Sal joined Tony with a quick laugh.
“You’re funny, kid. Real funny. I like that. Don’t we like funny, boys?”
“We love funny,” Tony said.
“Yep.” Now it was Vito playing with his knife.
“I mean do you know what we really do here?” Sal pressed.
“Well, let me use my context clues from second grade. Shep told you fellas about how I broke down the game last night. My guess is you guys run numbers.”
Sal smiled. The kind of smile that contained exactly as much warmth as he wanted it to contain, and not one degree more.
“What? You don’t think this is just a regular upstanding neighborhood delicatessen?”
Tony and Vito shot daggers at him.
“I said ‘just’!” Sal protested. “Good! Hey, he’s a smaaht one.” I couldn’t tell if it was a Boston or New York accent. “Kid, you’re already ahead of most of the dopes we bring in here, let me tell you.”
He looked me up and down. “What’s with the bag?”
“Family heirloom,” I shot back.
“Really?”
“Look, I mean no offense, mister…”
“No ‘mister.’ Call me Sal.”
“I mean no offense, Sal, but it was the fourth quarter of one basketball game. How do you know I really know how to pick games?”
Sal snorted. “You see, even though I like to keep a low profile for…” He surveyed the decaying paint and tile with theatrical disdain. “Obvious reasons. I am, as one might say, connected in this not-so-fine town of ours. And when you hear that a kid with a brown paper bag on his head was roughed up by the…”
He leaned in. Dropped his voice.
“…Ssssyndicate…”
The word stopped me cold.
A chill leaked down my spine and pooled in my gut. My skin crawled. Not metaphorically. Actually crawled, like something serpentine was slithering across my neck.
The room dimmed at the edges.
And then the memory detonated.