CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

I staggered home at about the same time the sky was lightening to gray. It had been a long time since I’d seen five a.m. moving in this direction.

I was beat to shit, could hardly hold my head up or shuffle my feet. Muscles I hadn’t thought I had any longer were sore and aching. I felt wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

Tired as I was, I couldn’t stop grinning, like some pimply adolescent who all of a sudden feels he’s master of the universe. I didn’t pose much of a threat to Warren Beatty, but all things considered, I had made a pretty good accounting of myself. One might say that the old dick had risen to the occasion.

Oh, Spanner, cut it out. Jesus.

But I was awfully pleased with myself, feeling really human for the first time in years. Spanner, I thought, my grin growing even wider, you might yet turn into an absolutely filthy old man. Mentally, I rubbed my hands and made obscene noises.

I got into my tatty old pajamas, then smoked another small bowl of dope. Usually I sought sleep as an escape from the day’s monotony, the easiest way to fill a few hours, but this was one day I didn’t want to end. I felt too good to waste it by going to sleep. Soon, though, I couldn’t put it off any longer and I reluctantly crawled into bed.

 

* * *

 

I was cavorting with a bunch of sylphic maidens, running through a sunny glade, when suddenly the sky darkened. A dead tree turned into a sinister forest demon and grabbed at me with clawlike branches. Though I tried to move away, I was poked and prodded with hard, cold fingers. Had to get away. Get away...

I opened my eyes and looked down the barrel of a sleek blue-black pistol. A Beretta, I thought pointlessly. The 9mm circle looked as large and inviting as the Hell mouth. It jabbed me in the cheek, not at all softly. The fingernails of the hand holding the gun were chewed and slightly dirty. I changed my focus. Behind the gun and the dirty fingernails was Tony Novallo, looking considerably less friendly than the forest demon.

One of his pea-brained palookas stood on the other side of the bed; the second was at the foot. Just in case I tried to make a break, I supposed.

I glanced at the bedside clock. It was nine-twenty. Tony New had started work early. He poked me again with the gun.

“Unh,” I said brightly.

“Hand it over,” he squeaked.

“Look—”

“No, you look, fuckhead.” He moved the gun up to about an inch from my eyeball. “You can either say good-bye to your head or you can tell me where the dough is.”

Hmm. Nice choice. Being in pajamas, in one’s own bed, surrounded by two hulking morons and a demented midget with a gun, having had five hours’ too little sleep, and not having a clue what was happening, did tend to put one at a slight disadvantage. If I hadn’t felt so sluggish, I would’ve been scared shitless.

“You know where it is,” I said. “I gave it back to the guy you took it from.”

Apparently, that was not the correct answer. The kid’s face turned dead white, then a scary shade of maroon. The hand holding the gun started to jerk and twitch. His eyeballs rolled back and his cheeks puffed up. He made a guttural exploding sound and I was sprayed with spittle.

No question, I had a genuine flaming psycho here. I’d have to be very careful if I wanted to get out of my bed again.

“Take it easy,” I said. “Look, I can understand that you’re sore. You had a nice little play going. You thought you were clear, then it fell through. I know how you feel. After all, you did the same thing to us. But it didn’t work, and now it’s over. You’re not really out anything, so why don’t you just leave it alone?”

Wonderful, Spanner. That was like saying, “Come on, old chap, let’s be sporting” to Attila the Hun.

The kid seemed quieter. “Where’s the dough?” Quieter, yeah, but as hard and as cold as the gun he was holding. His snake’s eyes were the color of asphalt.

“I told you. I gave it back to Sal Piccolo. It’s probably back in the bank now.”

The kid exploded again. The different colors, the saliva, the whole routine. I wondered if he was going to fling himself, writhing, to the floor, but one of the bruisers sort of held onto him. The other bruiser stared down at me, looking as though he was trying to decide on what technique he’d use to crush my esophagus.

The kid eventually regained his slippery grip on coherency. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull, you stinking bag of bones, but it don’t wash. Tear it apart.”

Something that might well have been a smile creased the Neanderthals’ faces, and they nodded.

“That’s not necessary. I told you that—” I started to protest, but the look Tony New gave me cut it short. So did the gun barrel being pushed against my Adam’s apple.

My place was pretty small, but even so, it took them surprisingly little time to empty every drawer and cupboard and overturn all the furniture. My only consolation was that the insurance would cover any damage, until I remembered I had cancelled it a year ago to save on the premiums. Anyway, the policy had probably excluded depredations by lunatics.

“Nuthin’,” one of the goons said, when they returned to the bedroom. It sounded like he had a sock on his tongue.

“Ah, but did you check the toothpaste?” I said.

The kid’s eyes narrowed, then he motioned with his head. One of his boys left, then came back and handed him the tube. Tony New took off the cap. He smiled without opening his lips. He squeezed off a line across my forehead. Then one from the top of my head, over my nose, and down to my chin. Then a couple more on each side. Tony New giggled. His boys dutifully joined in, sounding like barking seals.

The kid put a soft little hand up to my face and smeared the paste around. Of all the ways I liked to begin my days, a facial with mint-flavored Crest was not near the top, but I seemed to have little say in the matter. For sixty years people had been telling me it didn’t pay to be a wise guy. Maybe I was finally beginning to understand.

Tony New talked as he rubbed my face. “You know, old man, what I really want to do is snuff you right now.” His tone was conversational, friendly. “You’ve made me look bad, and I don’t like for people to do that.” His touch on my face had been light, but suddenly he squeezed my cheekbones hard. It hurt. Remarkable that that soft little hand could contain so much strength. Then he smiled, patted my cheek, went back to rubbing gently. “But you’re lucky. That money belonged to some very important people. They want it back. So right now, I want what they want. You return the money, maybe I won’t off you.” He paused. “Then again, maybe I will.” He giggled. That high-pitched crazy sound. His boys joined in, like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Had to hand it to the kid. He really knew how to generate incentive.

“Uh, look—” I started, but the kid squeezed my lips together.

“Shut up. If I want conversation I’ll put on Johnny Carson. You got nothing to say that I want to hear except ‘Here’s your money.’ I don’t know who put you up to this or what the story is, but I’m not interested in any bullshit. What do you think I am, old man, some dumb punk you can jerk around? Sal Piccolo!” He smiled, as though remembering something pleasant, like pulling legs off of lizards. “Sal Piccolo’s dead.” He giggled.

“Wha—”

He jammed the barrel of the gun into my mouth. The steel against my teeth sent a shiver through my body. “You will be, too, unless I have that dough in twenty-four hours.” He grinned. “And it won’t be quick.”

Tony New stared down at me, smiling. He took the gun out of my mouth. He motioned with his head that the muscle could leave. He turned to go; then, almost as an afterthought, looked back and abruptly brought the butt of the gun down on my shin, just below the knee. Considering that my leg was under the covers and that he could’ve hit me a lot harder, had he wanted to, the shock of pain was nearly unbelievable. My vision turned a blurry red and there was a roaring in my ears.

I didn’t hear them leave. My gasps and sobs were too loud.