UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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29

Searchlight was an hour south, on the way to Bullhead City. Barone had been through it on his way up to Las Vegas. He’d passed right by the El Condor.

Moe Dalitz’s meat had names. Joey, the driver, the talker, the younger of the two, the dumber of the two, thick neck striped with razor burn. He was the one who’d put his arm around Barone back at the Hacienda. Shelley, in the passenger seat, not a talker, snapping his gum and cracking the knuckles on his right hand, one by one. A former boxer, by the look of his chewed-up ears. He didn’t seem too bright himself.

I could use a guy like you around here. What Dalitz had said to Barone, but it wasn’t true. Dalitz and Sam Giancana had a couple of guys almost as good as Barone. But instead Dalitz had sent Joey Won’t Shut Up and Shelley the Broken-Down Palooka to pick up Barone and babysit him.

Did that mean something? Was Dalitz sending Barone a message? Was he telling Barone one thing and wanting him to do another? Barone didn’t know. Not his line of work. Moe Dalitz, Carlos, Seraphine. They disguised every move. They told the truth with a lie and a lie with the truth. They arranged the dominoes and let some chump knock them over.

Barone could feel the fever building, brewing. Like it had back in New Mexico. His head would be steady for a long stretch, and then without any warning he’d be out to sea, bobbing around. Jumping through time, back in the Quarter as the old colored man played “’Round Midnight.”

The ditch where he’d left the kid was on the other side of Bullhead City. Theodore, don’t call me Ted, don’t call me Teddy. Maybe the cops had found his body by now. Just some colored kid, who cares? The cops wouldn’t go to any trouble for him.

Maybe after he took care of Guidry, Barone would forget about New Orleans. He didn’t know where he would go, what he would do. His mind traveled to a place covered with snow, the air cold and sweet. Alaska, maybe.

“Your hear me?”

Barone came back from Alaska. “What?”

“I said here we are,” Joey Won’t Shut Up said.

Barone walked into the El Condor. His head was steady again for the time being, the clouds gone and the sky bright. Joey came inside with him. Shelley stayed in the car to watch the parking lot. In case Barone tried to sneak out of the hotel and give them the slip.

Joey talked to the manager and came back with Barone’s key. The ratty little room had a bed, a chair, a dresser. Barone didn’t see anything that he could use against Joey. The TV antenna ears, maybe. The glass ashtray. On a good day, he’d take Joey nine times out of ten, even Joey with a piece and Barone without one. But it wasn’t a good day for Barone, and nine times out of ten wasn’t good enough odds anyway.

If it’s a fair fight, Barone learned early on, you’ve screwed up somewhere.

He took a seat on the edge of the bed. Joey took a seat in the chair. Barone stood back up. So did Joey.

“I’m getting a drink,” Barone said.

“Whatever you say, Mr. Barone,” Joey said.

The bar was dim and almost empty. They sat on the rail. Barone picked a spot by the jiggers and shakers, the spoons and the strainer, a bin full of ice. He ordered a double rye and Coca-Cola on the rocks for himself, one for Joey, too.

“Thank you,” Joey said. “Now, that’s the brotherly spirit.”

“You have to sit on my lap?” Barone said.

Joey smirked. He scraped his stool an inch closer. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Barone.”

“Call me Paul.”

“I got a brother named Paul,” Joey said. “He lives back east, Providence, works construction. You think I’m a load, you should see Paulie. I’m the runt of the family.”

“Who tipped your boss?” Barone said. “You have any idea? You weren’t tailing me last night. I would have made you.”

Joey smirked. Barone didn’t make him nervous. Why would he? Joey was one of Moe Dalitz’s guys. You hit one of Moe Dalitz’s guys, you’re hitting Moe himself, and then watch out. Nobody would be so foolish. That’s what Joey believed. Barone understood that it was more complicated than that. He understood better than anyone.

“Paulie played right tackle at Notre Dame,” Joey said. “You should have seen him play. When he hit the defensive line, it’d blow up like you threw a hand grenade at it. Boom. Could have played in the pros. Everybody said so.”

It was driving Barone up the wall. Nobody knew that he’d tracked Guidry to the Hacienda. Just Stan Contini. Just Seraphine if Stan had talked to her. So how then .  .  . ?

Seraphine.

But she wouldn’t want to gum up the works. She wanted Barone to finish Guidry. She needed him to finish Guidry. Seraphine was on the hook for all this, the same as Barone.

Somebody had tipped Moe Dalitz, though. Somebody .  .  . Fuck, Barone saw it now, he started to pick apart the knot. Go all the way back to Houston. How did Guidry get past Remy, that first night at the hotel bar? Because someone had tipped him. Guidry had known that Remy was waiting for him.

Seraphine. She’d tipped Guidry in Houston. She was gumming it up for Barone in Vegas. Or it was whoever owned that green Rolls.

Joey pointed his swizzle stick at Barone’s wrapped-up right hand, his bad hand. “What happened to your mitt there?”

“It was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Barone said.

“Hurt much?”

“Only when my heart beats.”

“I got another brother, Gary, he works for Ray up in Boston,” Joey said. “You ever heard of him? Gary Ganza. He’s the brains of the family. He’s on his way up. Gary Ganza. Watch the marquee. His name’ll be up in lights one of these days.”

Barone waited until Joey leaned and reached for a handful of peanuts. He gave the barstool a nudge with his knee. Joey was almost as big as the mark back in Houston—bigger, even—but give me a lever and I can move the world.

Joey caught himself just in time, before he toppled over. Slapping the bar top, though, spilling peanuts, cussing. The bartender had seen it before. He shot Joey a dirty look and moved away to smoke in peace.

“You’re wet already, Joey?” Barone said. “After only one drink?”

Joey wasn’t grinning now. He bent over and glared down. “Something’s wrong with the goddamn stool.”

“Better write a letter to your congressman.”

“Screw you,” Joey said.

“I’ve heard of a Gary who works for Patriarca,” Barone said. The lacquered cherrywood handle of the ice pick was curved, shaped like an hourglass. The wood cold in Barone’s left fist, because the bartender had left the pick lying right next to the bin. “What’s the last name again?”

Joey finished giving the leg of his stool what for. “Ganza. What did you hear about Gary?”

“I don’t want to tell tales out of school,” Barone said.

“C’mon. Spill.”

Barone put his right arm around Joey’s shoulders, and Joey leaned in to listen, and Barone brought up his left hand and jammed the five-inch needle through Joey’s earhole. So quick and clean, in and out, that Joey didn’t realize for a second that he was dead. His lashes fluttering, his lips puckering. And then he slumped. Barone, ready, caught him before he could slide off the stool. Not a drop of blood. The angle had to be just right, but that was the beauty of an ice pick through the brain.

Now the tough part. Barone ducked under Joey’s arm and lifted him to his feet. The runt of the family, hard to believe. Barone staggered, dug in, held up. The dead weighed more than the living. It was a fact.

“C’mon, buddy,” Barone said. “You’ve had enough to drink. Let’s put you to bed.”

Barone left a five on the bar. When the bartender glanced over, Barone gave him the Moe Dalitz shrug, shoulder up around his ear. Hey, what can you do?

He lugged his blacked-out pal from the bar. Slow work. Heave. Ho. Barone started to sweat, his legs shaking. Past the blackjack tables. Nobody paid any attention to him and Joey. Down the hallway. Good thing the El Condor was such a runt itself, the entire joint not much bigger than the lobby of the Dunes or the Stardust. If Barone had to lug Joey through the Dunes or the Stardust, he’d never make it.

The room, finally. Barone unlocked the door and dumped Joey on the bed. He tried Joey in a couple of different positions, arms and legs here and there, with the pillow and without, before he decided on an arrangement that looked right, looked natural, like a guy flopping off a bender.

He took Joey’s piece, the .45. A dribble of blood now, curling out of Joey’s ear and down his cheek, along his jaw. Barone found Joey’s handkerchief in the breast pocket of his sport coat. He dabbed the blood clean and then folded the handkerchief back up, tucked it away.

In Belgium when a shell burst close by, the concussion sucked you out of your body and then shoved you back inside, wrong side up. Barone’s fever was more gentle than that, more like the universe breathing you in and out, in and out, but the same general sickening sensation. Barone needed to puke. He went into the bathroom and bent over the bowl. Nothing came up. The sweat poured off him. But he just needed to wait a minute. It would pass.

Seraphine. Was she the one who’d tipped Guidry in Houston? Who’d gummed up Barone in Vegas?

He would find out. You could count on it. After Barone took care of Guidry, he was going to hop the first flight back to New Orleans, kick in the door of Seraphine’s house on Audubon Park, and do to her for pleasure all the things that over the years she’d had him do for business.

Shelley the Broken-Down Palooka had the car window open, his arm resting on the frame. He saw Barone and tried to figure it. Barone alone, but not running away. Barone alone, walking toward him with a calm, friendly expression. Barone saying, “Better come inside, Joey is puking up his breakfast. Must be some kind of bug.”

By the time Shelley started fumbling for the piece in his holster, Barone was already there, and it was too late.