lightweight black leather jacket combined with his swarthy looks to form an extremely intimidating presence. 'Don't give me attitude, you cocksucker.'
'Please don't bust the place up,' the bartender pleaded. 'Please, Vincent, with all respect, take it outside if you have to talk to Jerry harshly.'
Frank lit a cigarette, stepped a bit further into the bar. Several faces turned and noticed him but no one said a word. He and Vincent couldn't get the hell out of there soon enough as far as he was concerned, but he held his ground in silence nonetheless.
'I apologize,' Jerry said. 'I been under a lot of stress lately. I'm sorry. Let me buy you a drink. No hard feelings, right?'
'Yeah,' the bartender said cheerfully. 'What can I get you?'
Vincent's eyes never left Jerry's. 'I dunno, Mick. You got any fucking brains back there? Gimme a large order of brains for this mindless fuck.'
Everyone in the bar laughed too loud and too hard, and that was exactly how Vincent wanted it. Even Jerry cracked a smile and extended his hand. 'You're right, I'm dumb as a brick sometimes. I apologize.'
Vincent kicked the stool out from under him so quickly that by the time his actions had registered Jerry had already crashed to the floor.
From the doorway, Frank flicked his cigarette away and checked over his shoulder to make certain the street was still clear. One man started toward the door but saw Frank and hesitated. He shook his head, and the man returned to his seat without protest.
'Have another drink, ya clumsy prick.'
Again, the bar exploded into nervous laughter. Jerry, more embarrassed than hurt, could have gotten up but knew better. Standing would be interpreted as a challenge, and that was the last thing he needed. Vincent turned to Mick. 'You see that?'
'He fell,' Mick answered staunchly.
'You're cut off,' Vincent cracked. 'That'll give you plenty of time to call my brother.'
'No problem,' Jerry mumbled.
Vincent picked up the stool and slid it back against the bar. 'I'm outta here. Take it easy, Mick.'
The bartender nodded. 'You take care, Vincent, and tell Michael I said hello.'
By the time he and Frank reached the car Vincent had already begun to laugh. They tore out of there without another word, putting quite a distance between themselves and the bar before Frank was able to relax.
Throughout the morning and early afternoon, in between stops, Frank had done his best to explain all that had happened with Charlie Rain as well as the plans he and Gus had already formed to that point. Vincent listened intently and occasionally asked a question or two, purposely refraining from offering any definite opinions of his own.
'Can you believe Jerry?' Vincent shook his head wearily. 'Dumb bastard's been borrowing money from shylocks since I was a kid, for Christ's sake. Like I'm gonna take an envelope full of cash in a public place and discuss my brother's personal business.'
The neighborhoods improved somewhat once they ventured beyond that section of the city, and Frank was reminded of why he'd traded city life for Angel Bay and why he had promised himself that he'd never live in any city again.
'The stupid shit spends too much time at bars and betting horses – not that I blame him. He's got a wife so ugly I'd sooner kill myself than fuck, and a kid about our age who's an even bigger loser than he is.'
'How does a guy like that ever pay back big money?'
'He's not in for big money, Frank. Shit, he probably only borrowed about a thousand bucks. Figure he's done business with Michael for years so I'll bet compared to a guy right off the street he hardly pays much juice. Still, you think a guy like Jerry can walk into a bank and get a legitimate loan?'
No, Frank thought. But then again, neither could he. At least not the kind he'd need to start the business. 'You think he'll come up with the money by tomorrow?'
Vincent shrugged. 'Who gives a shit?'
'Wouldn't want to be him if he can't.'
'They might slap him around a little – maybe even break something – but it's not like in the movies where loan sharks whack people out because they owe them a few bucks.'
Frank nodded. 'Can't get money from a corpse.'
'Fuckin' A.'
They came to a red light, and surprisingly, Vincent actually stopped for it. 'I've got to swing by Michael's office,' he announced, glancing both ways for cops. 'After that we can hang out at my place and talk.'
'Just wait for the light, will ya?'
Vincent grinned like a shark just before he ran the light. They bolted through the intersection, leaving blaring car horns, screeching tires and, Frank was certain, his lower intestines in their wake.
They pulled onto one of the busier and more congested streets in the city, where one could find just about anything: Food, entertainment, independently owned shops, larger outlets, bars, cultural and learning centers, office spaces, and a highly diverse mixture of people.
Vincent parked in front of Dino's, a small clothing store where suits and slacks made from the finest Italian fabrics were sold. A factory in the city imported the fabric, handled the design and production of the clothing, and then shipped product not only to Dino's but also to various outlets across the country.
Michael Santangelo owned the entire operation.
Frank decided to wait in the car while Vincent ran in. He returned in less than five minutes, hopped behind the wheel and pulled out into traffic without comment. Once they had traveled a few blocks, he handed Frank five twenty-dollar bills. 'What's this for?'
'Helping me out.'
Frank had gone on the route with Vincent many times and he'd always been paid. But after only helping at one stop he hadn't expected compensation. 'You don't have to – '
'Hey, you don't want it? Give it back.'
'Did I say I didn't want it?' Frank smiled and buried the money in his wallet. 'I just said you didn't have to pay me.'
'Don't worry about it. He gave me five hundred for the day.'
When he wasn't running errands or visiting people who owed his brother money (known by the family as the 'juice route'), Vincent sold used cars at a lot owned by his cousin, Jimmy. Although the opportunity to work with Michael on a full-time basis had always been an option, Vincent had never wanted a life of crime, preferring instead to move along the outskirts of the world his brother inhabited.
At the city limits they stopped at the lot, switched the Escort for Vincent's Corvette, and drove back over the border into Massachusetts. A few minutes later they reached Vincent's apartment in New Bedford.
Vincent lived on the second floor of a two-family house on a quiet side street in a working-class neighborhood. There was a small fenced-in yard, a gated driveway where he could park his car without fear of theft or damage, and a private side entrance.
The front door opened directly into a large kitchen. Vincent went to the refrigerator. 'You want something to drink?'
'What have you got?'
'Couple cans of soda.'
'What else?'
'Some soda.'
'I guess I'll have a soda.'
Vincent tossed a can of Pepsi at him and took one for himself. 'Come on, I gotta work out.'
'Can't you take a day off, for Christ's sake?'
One bedroom was set up as a gym. A large weight bench sat in the center of the room, flanked by a stationary bike, and a freestanding, combination heavy and speed bag station. Several weapons were scattered across a low table along the back wall, including two ninja swords and an assortment of mostly illegal pieces generally associated with the martial arts. Steel plates were stacked neatly on the floor, and three of the four walls were covered with posters of bathing beauties and centerfold models. The fourth wall had been decorated with
