“He’s only one guy. And I’ve got a sure fire way to keep him busy. Believe me, the last thing he’ll be thinking about tomorrow is a kidnapped Chihuahua.”
“Okay, then. I’m still up for it.”
“The whole nine yards?”
“Right down the line, brother.”
“Good,” Tony said. “Did you call the Gemignani bitch?”
Harold nodded. “You should have heard her. Man, she was scared shitless. Especially when I told her that she was going to have to make the drop alone if she wanted to see Spike alive.”
“Think she’ll tell her grandfather?”
“No. She’s got no reason to. She’s already got the money.” Harold sipped his Olde English. “All she’s got to do is unlock a safe-deposit box, right?”
“Right. Granddaddy gave her the key on her twenty-first birthday. It’s her own personal stash of Gemignani Family swag, and the taxman doesn’t know anything about it. The rich bitch. She makes a withdrawal now and then, parties down with her little friends. They all know about it.”
“Thank God for girl talk.”
“Pillow talk’s more like it,” Tony said.
“Don’t rub my nose in it, stud.” Harold laughed. “Anyway, I told Angel I’d call tomorrow and tell her where to deliver the ransom. Eden’s sisters spent the day getting the place ready. As long as Angel gets out of the casino without her granddaddy noticing, we’ll be in the clear.”
“And you’ll have a half a million bucks.”
Harold whistled through his teeth. “And you’ll have Angel Gemignani.”
“Yeah.” Tony sniffled blood. “And her little dog, too.”
Tony killed his Olde English and popped another. “This Eden’s really special, huh?”
“Yeah.” Harold looked out the window at the big ripe moon. “She is. Man, she’s a keeper.”
Harold really liked times like this. Hanging with his blood brother. Tony didn’t put on airs around Harold. He didn’t talk all that fancy talk that he talked on TV. Nights like this, it was just like rapping on the block in the slams, rapping all night to keep the fucking loneliness far, far away.
Tony popped a couple of Percodans and chased them with malt liquor. He was quiet for a couple minutes. Then he said, “Porschia walked out on me today.”
“Again?” Harold was really surprised. “What happened this time?”
“I think maybe I fucked up. Everything’s so fucking complicated lately. Little shit gets in the way. Little shit all of a sudden becomes big shit, and it’s like I don’t know where I stand anymore. I can’t see anything clearly.”
“Things used to be easier.”
“Yeah.”
They both thought it, but neither one said it.
In the Shoe, you knew just where you stood. There was you and your blood brother, and that Mexican Mafia tag team, and that guard with the lip that wouldn’t smile. And when you took down your spic, you checked on your blood brother. And if he needed some help with his spic, you gave it to him.
And even if he didn’t, you watched his back. You kept your eye on that fucking hack with the lip, because you knew he had it in for your bro. And if you saw that hack shoulder his rifle and take aim when your bro wasn’t even looking. . well, you got in the way of the bullet is what you did.
And you wore your brother’s scars.
That’s what brothers were for.
“That bitch Porschia,” Harold said. “I can’t believe she left you.”
“Yeah. I thought maybe we were going somewhere. I guess she saw things differently.”
“Her loss, amigo. Her loss.”
They sat together in silence, drinking Olde English, watching the icy white moon rise in the night sky. Harold knew he should be getting back. Eden was wrapped way too tight. She was probably worried about him. And then there was the dog, and Eden’s snakebit daddy, and her crazy mama. .
But Tony was all fucked up. Harold could tell. That bitch Porschia. Why she had to leave him, today of all days-
“You gotta get back?” Tony asked.
“No, man,” Harold lied. “Not yet.”
“Good,” Tony said, and the word echoed through the Chevy as if it had been spoken in a cell made of cement and steel.
TWO
The kid’s name was Johnny Da Nang, and one of these days he was going to be famous.
He had the talent, that was for sure. He fronted Johnny Da Nang and the Napalms, the world’s best Vietnamese soul band. The Napalms were Johnny’s brothers, and the band had a regular gig at the Casbah Hotel amp; Casino, where they partied down at the Sheik’s Lounge five nights a week. Rocked the house and set the slot grannies to dancing in front of damn near every one-armed bandit within earshot. There wasn’t a Motown song that Johnny and his boys couldn’t do. They had sixties and seventies soul covered, and then some. Didn’t matter if the song had come out of Muscle Shoals or Philadelphia or Detroit or LA, the Napalms had ’em all knocked.
Hell, a Saigon-born boy like Johnny could even sing ’em in Vietnamese or French if he wanted to. Do Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” en Francais:
Multiculturalism. It was a big thick slice of all right. Up-tight and outta sight. Ditto for the Casbah gig. But the gig was just a stepping-stone. Johnny wanted his own shot at the brass ring. He wanted his own hit records. Somewhere down the line, he wanted to walk into the Sheik’s Lounge and catch some kid doing one of
The big time. That’s what Johnny wanted. It was one reason he enjoyed living at the Agua Caliente condominium complex. Lots of show people did. And they were social types, too. Everyone hung out at the pool. Drag down a six-pack and some chips, and you had all the advice you could ask for. Actors, musicians, dancers, athletes-you could find ’em all at Agua Caliente.
Some had enjoyed fifteen minutes of fame. A few had stretched it out a little longer. But for damn near every one of them, celebrity was a past-tense kind of thing.
Except for the guy who was about to knock on Johnny’s door.
He was the man of the hour.
Johnny handed Baddalach a Tsing Tao. Right away the boxer started rolling the beer bottle back and forth across his knuckles. Johnny had known Jack for a couple years-after all, they both worked at the Casbah and lived in the same condo complex-and he’d seen Baddalach do that rolling thing with a beer bottle plenty of times. The boxer hardly ever popped the cap and drank one. Kind of a weird habit, but hey. . Johnny Da Nang was not a judgmental type of guy.
“Whatcha been up to, Jack?”
The boxer sighed. “Well, yesterday I lost the boss’s granddaughter’s Chihuahua to a bunch of dognappers dressed in black leather. Then I got locked in the trunk of a limo and had to bite a rattlesnake in half before I could get out. Last night I beat up a couple of punk rockers who tried to smash Frankenstein with baseball bats. And today I KO’d the heavyweight champion of the world.”
Johnny nearly dropped his beer.
“Oh yeah,” Jack added. “Somewhere in there I ate a lot of donuts, too.”
“Jack,” Johnny said.
Like, Johnny couldn’t
