“Okay, here we go.”
“Showtime.”
“Smile for the camera, you greasy cock sucker.”
The team of FBI Agents buzzed with sarcastic excitement as Frankie Shots pulled up to the Italian American Social Club, his base of operations. The FBI Agents were posted in a dirty faced apartment building directly across the street. The place smelled of cold pizza, corn chips, cigarettes, and determination—the last being the dominant odor because they were relentless in their pursuit. They all wanted the Diamantis so badly they could taste it.
As soon as Frankie Shots and his bodyguard Carmine got out of the Cadillac Seville, the cameras began to click incessantly, shuttering their every step into bite-sized pieces of intel.
Frankie knew they were there. They made no attempt to hide their surveillance, their talks, and their watchful eyes. Frankie looked up at their window and gave them the finger.
It had become such a regular occurrence that on the days Frankie was too occupied in his thoughts to remember to flip them the bird, he liked to think they were disappointed.
Frankie liked the idea of disappointing the feds.
“Fuck! Picture that!” Frankie spat. Then he turned and walked inside.
“I fucking hate that arrogant little prick,” one of the FBI Agents hissed.
Inside, the rest of Frankie’s crew was sitting around, drinking coffee, playing cards and talking. Three TVs blasted around the room in order to drown out the bugs that Frankie suspected were planted in the room. He went through the back door that led to the back steps of the tenement the club was under. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and headed down the hall to the end apartment. He knocked three times at the door. A few moments later, an old man bent with age answered.
“Frankie!” he tried to say, but his hoarse greeting was broken up by a fit of coughing. His eyes bulged like a frog and his chest heaved.
“Uncle Carlo, how are you?” Frankie greeted him with a hug. “You’re lookin’ good.”
“Good? I’m ninety years old. Over here, just to wake up is great,” Carlo replied as he shuffled alongside Frankie.
Frankie chuckled. “Knock on wood, eh?”
Frankie entered the bedroom, opened the closet door, pushing aside Carlo’s clothes and the panel that was propped up to cover the hole in the back of the closet. It was tall enough for a man to walk through, and it led to the next apartment. It was the extra precaution they took in order to beat any bugs. Only the most important meetings and calls took place there.
Frankie picked up the phone and sat on the old bed as he dialed a number. The phone rang twice then Vito, Vincenzo’s bodyguard, answered. “Yeah,” Vito said.
“It’s the kid,” Frankie began, referring to Joey as the kid. “He did the Russian, now he’s tryin’ to muscle his way in on some of the action in the clubs. They feel like they got a pebble in their shoe, and they wanna know what you should do about it.”
“Okay,” was all Vito replied. Then he hung up.
Frankie hung up, tapped a cigarette from a packet and lit it. He pictured in his mind Vito relaying the message to Vincenzo, who was sitting right beside him. Vincenzo never spoke on the phone. The old man was smart, Frankie thought, but maybe not smart enough…
The phone rang. Frankie picked up.
“You tell them, they’re free to handle their problem. Our hands are washed,” Vito reported.
“Okay,” Frankie answered, then hung up. He took a drag of his cigarette, savoring the smoke and the godlike power he had in his hands. Of course, it wasn’t his power…not yet. But he knew it was all a matter of time.
He exhaled and dialed another number. The phone was picked up on the second ring.
“Yeah?”
“He just gave the Gambinos the green light.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure the word reaches the kid.”
Frankie hung up, tapped his cigarette in the ashtray and took another long drag. There was nothing he’d like better than to let the Gambinos kill Joey, but he needed him alive just a little longer, to be the scapegoat.
It was all just a matter of time.
The last call was the shortest: two rings and two succinct words.
“Do it.”
Then he hung up and went back in his hole.
Three nights later, Zev sped along the Cross Bronx Expressway in his midnight blue Porsche 940. He was on his way to see Joey, who had a safe house in the Bronx. He smoothly flipped lane to lane, dipping in and out of traffic as he sped toward his destination. He was going to tell Joey that the Gambino family had a hit on him. As he came off the exit, he thought about how he had come to find out.
Mickey had an arrangement with the Gambino family involving shipments of caviar coming from Russia. Their contact was a top-ranking soldier named Peter Amuso. When Mickey was killed, Zev inherited all of his connects. Zev already knew Peter because of Mickey’s contact with the operation. He and Peter hadn’t talked too much; it was always cut and dry, but Peter had taken him aside and said, “I guess congratulations are in order, huh?”
Zev just looked at him.
“What is it you are saying?” Zev asked, emotionlessly, even though he knew exactly what Peter was talking about.
Peter held up his hands and replied, “Hey, no disrespect. It’s just, Brooklyn’s a small place, and we run in similar circles, capice? But I understand, you know, we all gotta go sometime. Me? I got plans too, and I like you, so maybe we can help each other out one day.”
“Maybe,” said Zev.
“And maybe that day is today. You got that thing with Joey D?”
“Joey D?” Zev echoed, playing dumb.
Peter smiled conspiratorially.
“Joey D, you know…anyway Joey’s a good kid; he’s got a future, but things are about to get dark, real dark, if you know what I mean. Tell him to make sure he watches his mirrors. The family’s got the green light,” Peter explained cryptically.
Zev eyed him suspiciously.
“So why do you tell me?”
“Tell you what? I ain’t told you nothin’, and that’s exactly what I’ll say if it ever gets back to me. But you’re a smart guy; I figure you’d know what to do with a gem like that, you know? We run in a tough crowd, so it’s always good to have a favor or two. So keep it between us and nobody’ll know you and Joey owe me, eh?” Peter concluded, then walked quickly away.
For a moment, Zev contemplated not telling Joey the information. He knew how conniving Italians could be, almost as conniving as Russians. So he knew Peter had an angle; he just couldn’t see why you’d risk the wrath of your family just for a favor. Or were the Gambinos testing him to see how he would react? And lastly, why did he even care? Why get mixed up in all of their Italian bullshit? He could just let things play themselves out and make a deal with the last man standing.
Deep down, he knew that Joey would be the last man standing. He had seen more money in the last few months than he had in his whole criminal career, and he had Joey to thank. Sure, he used him to set up Mickey, thereby forcing his hand and making him a conspirator after the fact. But once the smoke cleared, he was now the Boss, a move that would’ve taken a war to pull off on his own. Besides, he did owe Joey a modicum of loyalty because of Seth. Russians are very sentimental…
Which is why he was pulling up to the building in which Joey was holed up. He parked the car and chirped the alarm. He smiled when he spotted the thin homeless woman in the alley, pushing the shopping cart piled with what anyone would assume were her only world possessions. When she saw Zev, she smiled back. It was Maria. The girls rotated, keeping the building under surveillance. All people saw was a crazy bag lady. She was crazy all right, but the kind of street sweeper she had in the cart would sweep more than trash. The building was a seedy, rundown tenement. It was a Black and Latino area, which Joey chose on purpose. That way, any White face would stick out.
Zev took the stairs to the third floor with gun in hand, off safety.
He got to the apartment and knocked. A few moments later he heard, “Who?”
“Me.”
The door opened, and Te Amo was standing there with a Colt .45 in her hand. They both tucked their pistols in as he stepped through the door.
“Where’s Joey?”
“In the salon,” she quipped sarcastically.
“Huh?”
“Go look in the living room,” she answered, heading for the kitchen in the opposite direction.
He walked the length of the dim hallway, toward the living room. Unlike the outside, the apartment was clean and well kept; the living room was adequately furnished. A big screen TV covered one wall, lit with the somber colors of Batman. Chi-Chi lay on the floor, watching it. When he looked to the right, he couldn’t help but laugh despite the gravity of the situation. He understood what Te Amo meant by the salon. Joey was sitting in a leather recliner, reclined and wearing nothing but sweatpants, as Marilyn gave him a pedicure. Maliah was giving him a manicure and Anita was giving him a facial.
Joey looked up when he heard Zev’s laughter, and shook his head. “This is what happens when you go to the mattresses with a bunch of broads.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Anita scolded him, “before you crack your mask.”
“I’m like a Ken doll over here. Hey Zev, please get these cunts somebody to kill, will ya?”
Hearing the word “kill,” Zev’s mind returned to the current situation. “We need to talk.”
Joey nodded, swung his legs to the floor and got up.
“Come on, while I get this shit off my face,” he said.
They went to the bathroom and Zev talked while Joey wiped the cream off with a towel.
“The Gambinos have a price on your head.”
Joey stopped and looked at him, studying him intently.
“Since when?”
“Recently. I don’t know. I learned about it today.”
“From who? Where? Tell me what you know,” Joey demanded in rapid-fire fashion.
Zev started from the beginning and as he talked, Joey paced the floor like a caged jaguar in a zoo. When he finished, Joey growled, “Again, tell me again.”
And Zev did. Joey listened intently, scrutinizing Zev’s every word, stopping him several times, as if he were interrogating him or trying to catch him in a lie. He wanted to know, but the most painful part was to hear that the Gambinos had gotten the green light. That could mean only one thing.
His father had no only turned his back on him, but wanted him removed from the game completely.
When he survived the hit, he told himself that his father would’ve never okayed a hit on his own son. There had to be another explanation. But now, it was rock solid. He knew the Gambinos would never move without the green light and only his father could’ve given that green light.
“Who the fuck is this guy? What’s his name?” Joey probed.
“That is no matter; the point is what will we do now,” Zev replied, trying to keep a lid on Joey’s anger and guide him to a better, clearer state of mind.
It didn’t work.
“Fuck do you mean, it don’t matter? You protecting this guy or something?” Joey barked. “This cock sucker tells you I’m marked and thinks he can play both sides? Who the fuck is he?”
Zev bristled, not at Joey’s tone, but the implications. He spoke calmly in a measured tone, but it was the measure of a cold heart growing frozen.
“I did not have to bring you this. That fact alone I urge you to remember.”
The two eyed each other evenly. Tension filled the bathroom. Joey felt it and reluctantly relented, recognizing Zev’s sincerity in his anger. “Zev…I’m not asking you to go against your word. You have my word that nothing will happen to this guy. I just need to know what I’m dealing with.”
Zev thought for a moment, then his gaze softened. “Peter Amuso.”
Joey nodded then pinched his lip, pensively, pacing as he talked. “Okay…this is what you tell him…tell him I freaked, that I pulled a gun, whatever, dress it up, make it sound good, follow me? And then you follow him. Have someone good pin a tail on him. I don’t care if the fuckin’ Feds are following the son of a bitch; you follow them and him. I wanna know who he goes out of his way to meet, and trust me, he’ll do just that,” Joey surmised.
Zev nodded. “And what will you do?”
“I’m going to a Yankee game; the Red Sox are in town,” Joey replied, then walked out of the bathroom.
At Yankee Stadium, the Red Sox were in town and the Bronx was on its worst behavior. Scalpers peddled their wares openly, because it was as if the police looked the other way for Yankees/Red Sox tickets.
Louis “Bananas” Bonanno and his raven haired six-year-old son walked through the crowd. His son was dressed in Yankee pinstripes from head to toe, Don Mattingly’s Number 23 worn proudly on his back. He carried a right-handed baseball glove because it was still too big for him to wear, but he had to have it. Louie got into the spirit as well, wearing an identical glove as his son’s and a Yankee cap on his head. They looked like the average American father and son, not the gangster and his kid. Louie looked forward to this first time with his son, because it reminded him of the times with his father. He didn’t even have his bodyguards with him when he went to Yankee games. They trailed him to and from the Stadium, but stayed with the car. This was father-son time: a fatal mistake.
The Yankees were looking good, and Louie was enjoying himself, so much so that he never notice the two redheads that sat behind him. He was on the third base side, mid-level, where the overhang made the boisterous cheers and sonorous boos bounce all around.
The two redheads cheered when the crowd cheered, booed when the crowd booed, all as if they were in Rome. They blended in and stood out at the same time, just as they wanted to. They were patient and yet on edge. They were waiting for one thing…
The wave.
The wave was a crowd favorite. In every stadium, at every type of a sporting event, someone would set off the wave. The concept was simple: one section would start it by standing up, throwing up their hands and then sitting down. Isolated, it had no effect, but if everyone in the stadium did it—one right after another—the visual effect truly looked like a human wave. It was fun, it was a huge crowd pleaser, and it was also the perfect moment for a murder.
Right before the 5th inning, it happened. It started in the right field bleachers.
“Look, Daddy, the wave is coming!” Louie’s son exclaimed, excitedly.
“Yeah, that’s a pretty big wave,” Louie chuckled.
“Can we do it, Daddy, please?” the boy pleaded.
“You sure you can swim?” Louie teased.
The people rose and sat in a unison that looked choreographed and not the spontaneous creation that it was. As it made its way around the first base line, Louie felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see who it was and looked into the pretty smile of one of the redheads.
“Remember me?” she asked.
“Nah,” Louie replied coldly. He hated to be interrupted during his father-son outing.
He turned back around, but something in the back of his mind made him remember her eyes, the clear blueness of them, the shimmer—but most of all, he remembered the coldness. He had seen it before; it only took him a second to remember.
“Here we go, Dad!” his son gleefully announced, as the wave engulfed them.
Louie saw his son’s mouth move, but he was oblivious to the words. The sound of cheers all around overwhelmed his senses. The people in front of them and behind them stood up, so he was alone deep in the pocket of the wave. As he turned his head back to look at the girl with the cold blue eyes, he felt a sharp, searing sensation run across his throat, starting at his jugular vein and ending across his Adam’s apple. It stung, but it didn’t burn, and his mind told him what had just happened.
His throat had been cut from ear to ear.
The weapon Alicia had used was a surgeon’s scalpel, an instrument designed to save lives, yet just as effective in taking one. Louie began to gurgle on his blood, as he leaned back in the seat, grasping at his throat. The agony he felt was nothing compared to the agony he would’ve felt had he seen what was happening to his son. At the same time that Alicia was slicing Louie’s throat, Amanda was doing the same thing to his son.
Just as he stood up, throwing his little arms in the air, Amanda grabbed him by the forehead and plunged the scalpel expertly into his neck and slit his entire throat in one smooth motion; then she forced his dying body into a slump in his seat. His neck was so small that, had she cut further, she would’ve decapitated him. Blood sprayed like summer rain onto the man in front of him, but he was having too much fun to notice.
It happened so fast, that by the time the wave had moved onto its completion, the two redheads were making their way up two separate aisles. When they merged with the crowd, they had discarded their wigs and were simple dyed brunettes. People would later tell the police conflicting stories. One story said a redhead that went left; others said a brunette that went right. Still, others said the brunette went left and the redhead went right.
The murder scandalized the City. It was clear that it was a mob hit, but what was unusual was that a child was murdered as well. Everyone knew that La Cosa Nostra didn’t involve wives and kids.
But Joey was sending a message and declaring war on the old ways. If you don’t recognize me, I don’t recognize your rules, and without rules, only the best man would win. He was determined to prove that he was the best man.
The very best there was.
Several days later, Joey jumped out of a cab in front of the Trump Hotel and handed the cabby a $50 bill.
“Keep the change,” he told him.
He adjusted the cuffs on his double-breasted silk pinstriped Brioni suit. His hair looked like he had just stepped out of the stylist’s chair and a diamond pinkie ring winked whenever it was given time to reflect. His swagger turned heads as he headed inside the hotel.
He had come to see Enrico, who had just arrived from Miami with the latest shipment of X-pills. The drug was beginning to really catch on at the clubs and college campuses, up and down the East Coast. Joey’s team was making money hand over fist. Everybody was playing their part, but it was Enrico who had really come though like a champ.
He had the smuggling game down to a science. Instead of using the New York airports, he used Miami International. He told Joey he had a mole in baggage, customs, and maintenance. He knew his trade well, and that impressed Joey. His relationship with the New Yorker was no longer standoffish, but still had an air of tension that Joey felt was time to clear up. Always one to push the button, Joey had come to shove it, open fistedly over the cliff.
Enrico was staying on the 21st floor. When Joey got off the elevator, he almost bumped into a sexy little Asian getting in the elevator.
“Excuse me,” he smiled.
“Anytime,” she replied, flirtatiously.
They exchanged looks—more like licks—then passed on, each to their respective destinations. Joey arrived at the door and knocked. Several seconds later, Enrico answered it.
“Joey, good to see you! Come on in,” Enrico greeted, shaking his hand.
Joey stepped inside, looking around the luxurious suite.
“Living in the slums, I forgot how the other half lives,” Joey quipped.
Enrico chuckled.
“What are you drinking?” Enrico asked, standing at the bar.
“Anything but vodka,” Joey replied, unbuttoning his suit jacket then sitting down on the couch and crossing his legs, right over left in languid gangster style. “Fuckin’ Zev.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I just dropped off the shipment,” Enrico chuckled.
“Everything good?” Joey asked, knowing that everything was good already, but wanting to see how Enrico rated the situation.
“Good? I’m the best,” Enrico shot back, cockily.
Joey held up his glass, as if to toast his arrogance. “I love a guy with confidence,” he remarked, then drank.
Enrico sat on the arm of the love seat, eyes intent on Joey. “I heard that the Yankee thing with the kid got the cops riled up,” he said.
Joey shrugged. “It’s their job to bust balls; keeps you on your toes.”
“Yeah, but hits don’t usually involve kids. Whoever did it must’ve been…pissed,” Enrico surmised then sipped his drink.
Joey nodded with a slight smirk that seemed to say, “I’ll indulge you.” He sat his glass down on the end table, turning his attention back to Enrico.
“What is it that you’re trying to say, Enrico?” Joey questioned, his tone with an ever so subtle hint of warning.
Unflapped, Enrico simply shrugged and replied, “Just making observations.”
Joey nodded and echoed, “Observations…okay.”
He stood up and grabbed his drink.
“Come on, I wanna show you something,” Joey announced, heading across the room to the balcony. He opened the sliding doors, stepped out then looked back to see Enrico still perched on the arm of the chair. “Whaddya doin’? I said I wanna show you something.”
“Out there?” Enrico asked, in a deadpan tone.
“It’ll only take a second, I promise. Besides, it’s a beautiful night.” Joey smiled, but his eyes conveyed something else.
Enrico felt like he knew Joey’s game, so he was compelled to play along. He downed his drink and got up, stopping at the bar to fix another. He then joined Joey on the balcony.
“Welcome to New York,” Joey declared, as he threw up his arms playfully. “Welcome to my City. Now look,” he said, throwing his arms around Enrico’s shoulder and taking a sip of his drink. He pointed at the skyline with the index finger of his drink hand. “I wanna make an observation about New York. This place…it stinks. The only thing that keeps it from being Calcutta is that it’s godless. But it’s beautiful at night. Look at her. The stars twinkle like fairy dust, and somewhere some sucker believes in it, you know? But that’s only because you can’t see the dirt at night, the grime…the rot, eh? It’s like the thing, I forgot the word, but the night. New York wears it like it’s a word.”
“Façade,” Enrico suggested.
Joey pointed at him. “That’s a good one. I like that. Façade. Wasn’t the word I was lookin’ for, but it fits well enough. So I take it that you get what I’m saying,” Joey questioned, as he took his arm from around Enrico and looked at him.
Enrico returned his level gaze.
“Loud and clear.”
Joey sipped his drink and watched Enrico for a moment.
“You know, Enrico, I like you. You’re a smart guy and you’re good at what you do. We may’ve gotten off to a rocky start, but I guess we had to feel each other out, kinda sorta, ya think?”
“I agree,” Enrico nodded.
“And me and you…I can see us doing some big things. Sky’s the limit. But to do that, you know what we need, you know what’s missin’?” Joey asked rhetorically.
Enrico, self-assured that he knew where Joey was going, played his role and said, “What?”
“Trust,” Joey stated simply, adding “in our line of business, you’ve got to have two things: respect from your enemies and trust from your friends. So I ask you for your trust.”
“You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you, Joey.”
Joey smiled with genuine warmth. “That’s good to know. And I hope that continues to hold, because I’m gonna ask you to take off your clothes.”
The statement took a blink to settle in Enrico’s mind, and when it did, it threw him because he wasn’t expecting it.
“What?” he asked, confusedly.
“Your clothes, Enrico. Take ‘em off.” Joey repeated, any trace of a smile now gone.
“What the hell are—” he started to say, and then it hit him. “You think I’m wearing a wire?”
Joey made a conciliatory gesture with his hands. “Please…Enrico, this isn’t about you, remember? I’m asking you to trust me.”
Enrico saw the psychological ploy Joey was using, but it was one for which he had no defense. By wording it—not as a question of Enrico’s trustworthiness, but of his own—Joey had painted him in a corner, the only way out being compliance.
“This is fuckin’ crazy! I’m not taking off my clothes! I’m not wearing a wire! I’m not a cop!” Enrico protested.
“I’m not wearing one either. You want me to take mine off too?” Joey chuckled. “Come on, Enrico. Trust me.”
Enrico eyed Joey hard. He knew this was a test he had to pass. He knew that if he did, the sky was truly the limit. But if he didn’t…it didn’t bear thinking about.
“This is crazy,” he mumbled as he began to unbutton his shirt.
Joey leaned back casually against the railing, crossing his feet at the ankles and watching him strip.
Once his shirt was unbuttoned, it revealed the gun in his waistband. He sat it on a small table just inside the door. He took off his shirt, revealing a toned yet muscular physique. He stepped out of his gator sandals then dropped his pants, revealing his powder blue Calvin Klein briefs.
“See? No fuckin’ wires,” Enrico hissed indignantly.
Joey approached him and peered around him to make sure nothing was attached to his back. Satisfied, he said, “Okay,” and then did something Enrico didn’t expect…
Joey grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled into him and kissed Enrico, forcing his tongue into his shocked mouth.
Enrico snatched away instantly.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he barked, full of bass.
“Makin’ an observation,” Joey replied, without a hint of humor, and then reached for Enrico again.
Enrico knocked his hand away and simultaneously threw an overhand right hook at Joey, but it was off balance. Joey easily ducked it and shot a short jab to Enrico’s kidney that stung a grunt from his lips. Enrico buckled and stumbled, trying to spin and square off with Joey, but that was made more difficult because he had his pants around his ankles—a fact that Joey had anticipated.
“Like I said, my City,” Joey huffed. “Now let me show it to you.”
Joey landed a barrage of punches, all body blows, all taking their toll as he pushed Enrico up against the balcony and shoved his head back until he was bent over backwards, looking at New York from twenty-one stories up, upside down. The sight made him dizzy, but also made him fight harder because he felt his life was on the line.
Enrico brought his leg up fast, to try to knee Joey in the nuts, but Joey twisted his body, and blocked the attempt with his own knee. He gave Enrico two powerful blows to the solar plexus that knocked the wind from his body and the fight from his spirit. Enrico slumped against the railing, gasping against Joey’s chest.
“This dance ain’t over,” Joey chuckled in his ear.
He bent Enrico over the balcony rail and ripped his briefs down around his thighs. When Enrico felt that, his whole frame of mind changed.
Rape.
The word leapt into his mind and fired up every survival neuron in his brain. He tried to get a footing, but Joey had him bent over the railing so precariously that it was Joey’s weight that kept him anchored to the spot. Nevertheless, he struggled, kicked and cursed, “I’m going to kill you! You fucking cunt!”
Joey delivered several more merciless kidney shots that made Enrico feel like he might piss fire from the burning pain. But just when he thought the pain couldn’t get worse, he felt an explosion of intense torture as Joey forced himself deep inside his virgin asshole.
“Arrrgghh!” Enrico bellowed and his scream seemed to blanket New York, but it was swallowed by the angry car horns, traffic, and banter of the New York City streets.
“I’m going to…” was all Enrico could get out, because he felt like he was being split into from the back. The pain was seemingly unbearable. Every man has a threshold, and Enrico wished he could reach his so he could simply pass out. However, just when he couldn’t take the fresh hurt any longer and he welcomed mindless bliss, he got a glimpse of something beyond pain. It was as undeniable as it was inexplicable, therefore inescapable. It was so overwhelming that it seemed to overshadow the pain, and the pain turned to hatred; hatred of Joey for knowing it was there.
Joey exploded inside him, filling him with his hot load then emotionlessly let his limp body fall to the ground. Joey pulled his pants up and went back inside the suite. He walked over to the bar and poured himself two fingers of cognac. After several moments, he felt Enrico standing behind him. He turned around and found Enrico with his gun aimed at him. The look on Enrico’s face was one of pure disgust; on Joey’s was one of cold amusement.
Joey sipped his drink, and raised a questioning eyebrow. “So you gonna kill me now, Enrico?”
The gun trembled in Enrico’s hand, not from fear but from rage. The hatred Joey had released in him burned in his veins until it tasted like bile in his mouth. Every fiber in his being wanted to pull the trigger, but every fiber in his being prevented him from doing it.
One look into his eyes and Joey knew it.
“You gonna shoot…shoot,” Joey taunted, knowing he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.
“You dirty son of a bitch,” Enrico hissed then gripped the gun with both hands as if to steady it or to stop himself from shooting.
Joey laughed at his impotence. He sat his drink down and stepped closer. Even though Enrico was the one holding the gun, when Joey stepped toward him, he stepped back.
“Why did you even bother to fight? You think I didn’t know? You think I couldn’t see? Of course you did, and you knew this day was comin.’” Joey downed his drink in once swift gulp, then added, “You can thank me later.”
“You…you…you won’t get away with this,” Enrico vowed. “You ever come near me again, I’ll kill you,” Enrico stammered.
Joey laughed.
“Well kid, that horse has already left the barn, but don’t worry… This’ll be our little secret.”
Joey put down his glass, then turned and walked out the door.