My hypnosis hit him like the lash of an electric whip.
His irises popped open to the diameter of my pistol’s bore. His aura gave a thousand-watt flare and dimmed to a steady red glow.
If I fanged him, I’d get into his subconscious that much quicker and deeper. This time of the afternoon, I could do with a blood refresher. All that testosterone fueling his Italian machismo would give me a nice buzz, better than triple espresso juiced with whiskey. But if Cavagnolo’s goons returned, finding me deep in the bliss of noshing on his neck, they’d get the drop on me. Supernatural or not, letting their bullets turn my torso into a sieve was not the way I wanted to end this case.
I opted to massage his hands between the thumbs and forefingers. His hands were big and hard as mallets. Scars crinkled his knuckles. Cavagnolo took care of business with a personal touch.
His eyes fell into the black trance. His breathing lapsed to an even, unhurried rhythm. In this state, I could order Cavagnolo to tie a noose around his neck and he would.
“Sal.” I waited for my use of his first name to draw him out. His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of recognition. I asked, “What do you know about the disappearances?”
Stems of anxiety grew from his aura. His breathing skipped to a faster cadence.
I massaged his hands again and repeated the question.
His aura and breathing calmed.
“It’s freaky as hell,” he whispered in a dreamy voice. “Stanley. Gino. Barrett. Gone.”
“Who’s responsible?”
“Don’t know.”
“Why are you keeping it quiet?”
“No choice. They can’t find out.”
“Who can’t find out?” I asked.
“My crew.”
“Find out about what?”
Anxiety blistered across his aura. “The work I do.”
“What work?”
“For the Feeb.”
FBI? Cavagnolo padded his wallet by ratting on his buddies? “You’re an informer?”
“Yes.” A storm of tendrils whipped from his aura. Even under this deep hypnosis, Cavagnolo knew what would happen if the word got out he was a fink. His men would treat him to a steel pipe massage followed by a dive into a wood chipper.
“What’s in it for you?”
“Plenty. I get to keep my ass out of prison. I get the cops to put muscle on my rivals. I get a government check regular as clockwork. Plus I get to pocket what I earn.”
Sweet deal if you discounted the getting discovered and murdered part.
“Let’s talk about Stanley and Barrett. What’s with them?”
“Somebody’s trying to scare us.”
“You scared?”
Despite the hypnosis, Cavagnolo managed a grin. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the business. Drop your guard and you get filleted. We’d do the same thing.”
“Could it be another gang?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s one of us gone psycho.”
I hadn’t thought of that angle. “Who?”
“Don’t know.”
Were the murders an inside job? Maybe in cahoots with the zombie maker? As usual, the more I learned, the further I found myself from the answer.
I didn’t want to ask the zombie question directly, not yet. The question would stay in Cavagnolo’s mind, and if someone else used supernatural hypnosis on him, he’d have no choice but to tell. I didn’t know what or who I was up against. The best strategy was to keep my undead tracks covered as much as possible.
I could plant subliminal commands but they wouldn’t last long. A couple of minutes for complicated orders. A simple instruction like wake up at a specific hour might remain until the next morning.
I let go of his hands and replaced my contacts. “On three, you’ll wake up.” I went straight to three and punched him across the face.
Cavagnolo fell from the chair and hit the concrete floor where he lay spread-eagle. He lifted his head from the floor and blinked. He turned onto his haunches and sat, looking groggy and confused. He rubbed his cheek and realized that I’d hit him. “You son of a bitch.”
“Quit jerking my chain, Sal,” I said, “or you’ll get more of that.”
“What the hell you talking about?” His eyes turned from me to the chair, clearly wondering how one moment he and I were playing cat-and-mouse chitchat, and the next, I had knocked his guinea ass to the ground.
He wouldn’t wonder about the lost time.
Cavagnolo acted like his knees were stiff and he couldn’t get up. I pushed his chair close.
“You want revenge for what happened to Gino? Let me handle it and stay out of my way,” I said.
Cavagnolo sneered. “Go screw yourself.”
“No, screw you.”
If zombies were involved, I had to destroy the infestation without human intervention.
Cavagnolo brushed dirt from his shirt and the back of his pants. He acted like we’d merely gone through a minor spat, but in his heart, I knew he wanted my dismembered corpse in a trash compactor.
I beckoned for Cavagnolo to accompany me through the office and out the door.
Vinny was gone, probably taking his buddy to the doc. The black pickup had moved to the other side of the street. Cleto eyed me from behind the steering wheel; his passenger watched through the open front window.
“Sal, some of your boys might decide to take me out on spec. Bad idea. Make sure we all stay friends. If I have to shoot, believe me I’ll use you for target practice.” I poked him in the side to emphasize my point.
Cavagnolo’s face went steam red with humiliation, but unless he wanted to die like a fool, what choice did he have?
We circled the Toyota and I checked for footprints in case somebody planted a little explosive souvenir under the chassis. Looked clean.
I stopped by the driver’s door of the Toyota. “Remember, make sure your men stay cool. You don’t want to start trouble in public like this. Might affect your cozy arrangement with the feds.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes could’ve burned holes though me.
I waved to his goons and drove off.
I checked my rearview mirror. Cavagnolo hustled across the road, oblivious to the mud. He got his cell phone and gestured in my direction.
This wasn’t over.