'I bought one myself.'
'That was a scam I ran with Vincent. I can trust him.'
Gus lit a cigarette, exhaled with a sigh. 'You know better than I do, Frank. I just don't want to get in over our heads.'
'You heard what Charlie Rain said. We're going to need muscle; there's no way around it. Vincent's the best move we can make. He's in with these people, but mostly on the fringe. That'll allow us to tap into their resources without actually going into business with them.'
Gus stood up and began to pace. 'If you bring Vincent in, what happens to me?'
'Nothing.'
'Will we have to make him a partner?'
'Yeah, I already spoke to him about it briefly.'
'Oh.'
'Gus,' Frank said softly, 'what was it you told Charlie tonight? A little bit of something is better than all of nothing, right?'
'Do whatever you think is best. I'll back you either way.'
'Good man.'
Gus dismissed the tension and smiled. 'Were we beautiful tonight, or what?'
'Positively gorgeous.'
'I'm gonna go celebrate, hit some of those strip clubs a few blocks down, see if I can find me a long-legged whore. You wanna come?'
'I'm going to bed.'
'You sure?'
'Yeah,' Frank said, 'and don't bring anybody back.'
Gus hesitated at the door and smiled mischievously. 'Would I do something like that?'
Alone with his thoughts, Frank tried to contain his excitement. He'd rehearsed the meeting with Charlie Rain in his mind for weeks, and now that it was over, he still found it hard to believe that he'd pulled off his end so smoothly. Even Gus had had the good sense to keep his mouth shut, which in itself was a minor miracle. Things had almost gone too well, and Frank found his excitement slowly turning to concern.
He butted his cigarette in an ashtray on the nightstand, grabbed the phone and dialed his home number. After five rings the answering machine clicked on.
'We can't come to the phone right now,' Sandy's voice said. 'Please leave a message after the tone and we'll get back to you.'
Frank hung up and checked his watch: Almost midnight. She was probably already asleep and hadn't heard the ringer.
He continued to tell himself that until sleep, although tardy, finally arrived.
CHAPTER 3
Vincent Santangelo rocketed through the streets of Providence in a Ford Escort like a man who had just held up a liquor store. The fact that the car was in no way designed for the demands he placed upon it did little to discourage him as he somehow managed to consistently get from one point to the next both alive and uninterrupted by police.
'I admit you know a lot more about cars than I do,' Frank said, gripping the armrest on the door in an attempt to avoid attaining permanent union with the windshield, 'but I'd be willing to bet this doesn't have the same handling package your Corvette's equipped with.'
'Fuck it, that's the car's problem.' Vincent laughed, changed radio stations, enthusiastically increased the volume once he found a heavy metal tune then bolted down a side street. 'Besides, it's a company ride. It'll end up scrap soon anyway.'
They screeched to a stop in front of a small saloon. Two tiny windows faced the street, both dressed in blinking neon beer signs. The front door was open. Vincent double-parked, shut off the car and after a quick inspection of himself in the rearview mirror said, 'Come with me on this one, will ya?'
Frank had done so before but always knew about it in advance. Sudden requests made him uneasy. 'Why?'
'Stand by the door but don't actually go inside. Just make sure the guys at the bar know you're there.'
'Expecting trouble?'
Vincent smiled that crooked grin of his. 'Let's find out.'
They crossed the street and Frank stayed near the door as instructed. Had he known this was going to happen he'd have dressed differently. In a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, he looked more like a pizza delivery boy than someone supposedly on Michael Santangelo's payroll did.
Vincent slipped off his sunglasses and continued on into the dark room with an arrogant strut. Five men sat at various points along the bar, and a chubby bartender stood behind the counter with a cloth draped over his shoulder. He recognized Vincent immediately. 'Vincent, hi – how – how are you?'
'How you been, Mick?'
'Can't complain,' the bartender smiled. 'Can I get you something?'
'Privacy.'
'You got it.'
A man in his early fifties sat huddled over a bottle of cheap beer. Vincent took the stool next to him. 'Aren't you gonna say, hello?'
'Hello, Vincent.'
'Where the hell are your manners, Jerry?'
The man fidgeted in his seat. 'I didn't recognize you.'
'Here's the thing. Michael says he wants you to give him a call. You remember my brother, Michael, right?'
'Of course.'
'He expects a call before the end of the day.'
The man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope. 'I've got five hundred here. Tell Mike I can have the other fifteen hundred by tomorrow noon.'
Vincent took a wooden toothpick from a bowl on the counter and rolled it into the corner of his mouth. He looked at the envelope Jerry was offering and shrugged. 'What's that?'
'I told you. It's five hundred of what I owe him.'
'What'd I just say?'
'Huh?'
'You fucking retarded?'
'I don't get what you mean.'
'Did I ask you for money?' Vincent asked in a quiet voice. 'What the fuck is that, a loan? Did I ask you for a loan?'
'I was just trying to – '
Vincent leaned against the bar. 'If you and Michael have some sort of business going, that's between the two of you. I'm just here to tell you to give him a call before the end of the day. Any of this getting through?'
'Yeah,' he said, stuffing the envelope back into his jacket. 'Tell him I'll call before – '
'I look like an errand boy, is that it?'
Jerry nervously twisted a napkin between his fingers. 'I'll call him today. Is that good enough for you?'
Vincent slid off his stool, the heels of his boots hitting the floor with a distinctive thud. Although he was an inch or two under six feet, Vincent was a muscular two hundred and five pounds. His outfit of black jeans and a
