Tony’s fist tightened around the handset. “I got news for you, pal. I’m not a man who likes to be jerked around, and when I find out who you are, I’m gonna cut off-”
“I got a proposition for you.”
Tony took a deep breath to calm down. “People come into my office all day long with propositions for me. I don’t do business over a fucking pay phone.”
The man didn’t say anything. Finally, sick of listening to the hum of the phone line, Tony said, “What kind of proposition?”
“I’ve got some information for you.”
“And you want something for it, right?”
“Of course.”
“What kind of information?”
“Meet me at Fat Harry’s in an hour.”
Tony snorted. “Fuck you.”
The voice remained calm. “Believe me, you want this information.”
“I’m not meeting you anywhere. I don’t even know who the fuck you are.”
“An hour, Tony.”
The balls on this fucking guy, telling him, ordering him around like he was some sort of lackey. What kind of information could this clown possibly have that would interest him? “How am I supposed to recognize you?”
“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “I’ll recognize you.”
“How?” Tony asked, a tingle of anxiety beginning to creep up his spine. “Do we know each other?”
“Hey, Tony,” the voice said.
“Yeah?”
“Leave your lapdog at home.”
The line went dead.
An hour and a half later, Tony Z. sat at a rough wooden table in a back corner of Fat Harry’s Saloon on Saint Charles Avenue. He had left Rocco at the House. The big man hadn’t liked it at all. “What’s the matter with you?” Rocco had whined. “This guy, who the fuck knows who he is, is setting you up for something. Someone’s looking to hit you, Tony.”
But whatever it was, it wasn’t a hit, at least not a hit from inside the family. This wasn’t how they operated. They didn’t pass notes, didn’t call you on a pay phone with a lot of vague bullshit. When they wanted you hit-Tony knew, he had done it twice before-they got your best friend to call you up for a meeting, maybe invite you for a beer. Then when you least expected it, something brushed the back of your head, and in that moment you knew, you knew you had breathed your last breath. Then came the POP! as the. 22 went off and the little bullet, smaller than an aspirin, blasted into your brain and the lights went out. Forever.
Both times Tony had wondered what it felt like, in that split second, microsecond really, as the bullet left the barrel and blew through your hair, your scalp, your skull. Did you feel it? Or was it all too quick to register?
Tony sat with his back to the wall, sipping his second scotch, when a guy walked in wearing jeans and a dark blue sport coat over a gray golf shirt. Tony recognized him. Not sure whom he had been expecting, but knowing he hadn’t been expecting this guy.
“Buy me a drink,” the guy said as he sat down on the wooden bench across the table from Tony.
Tony knew he was a cop. He was a dirty cop, but what other kind was there? He just couldn’t recall his name. Not right off. The name was there, creeping along the fringe of his memory. The guy was Vice, or used to be, which made him double dirty.
“Who the fuck are you?” Tony asked.
The guy laughed. “That’s just like you, Tony, such a big shot you don’t remember the little people who put you so close to the top.”
If the guy wasn’t a cop, Tony would have smacked him right then. Instead, he drained his glass and started to stand. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re running, but I don’t have time for it.”
The guy held up his hand, gesturing for Tony to stay. “My name is Jimmy LaGrange. I used to be in Vice. Ray Shane was my partner.”
Now, Tony remembered him. He was the one who didn’t end up in prison.
The cop signaled for the waitress. When she came over, he ordered a drink on Tony’s tab and told her to bring Tony a refill.
The balls on this guy. When the girl left, Tony said, “You got sixty seconds.”
The cop opened his mouth to speak, but Tony cut him off. “First, why all the cloak-and-dagger bullshit?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” the cop said. “You’re a mobster, I’m a detective. I know the feds are watching the Rising Sun, so I’m pretty sure they’re listening to your phones. I don’t want to end up on any government tapes.”
Tony drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t give a shit about the FB-fucking-I. They got to do something to justify their budget, so they’re always hanging around, taking pictures, watching people, and yeah, probably listening to my phones, but the bottom line is, they can’t make a case to save their fucking lives. Believe me, the FBI is the last thing on my mind.”
The waitress came and set their drinks down.
Tony looked at his watch. “Your minute’s almost up.”
The cop wrapped his hand around his glass and took a sip. Then he said, “I know Shane is working for you, and I know who he’s trying to find.”
Tony got uncomfortable. He didn’t know anything about this asshole, yet this asshole seemed to know a lot about him. Tony eyed the guy’s sport coat. “What is this, some kind of amateur-hour shakedown? You wearing a wire, Detective?”
The cop laughed. “You want to go into the can and feel my balls? ’Cause that’s where we put wires, you know? Right under our balls so homophobes like you won’t find them.”
Tony jumped to his feet.
“Sit down, douche bag.” The cop looked around like he was embarrassed for Tony. He sure sounded like a cop. Had that cocky cop confidence.
Tony glanced around. Then he took his seat.
I should have brought Rocco.
Rocco could drag this arrogant prick outside and tune him up. At worst, Rocco would do a year in the parish prison. Tony would take care of him, make sure he got paid, look after that hot little Spanish girlfriend of his.
Tony took a sip of his drink. He needed time to figure out how to get the upper hand on this guy.
“I got some information about Ray Shane I thought might interest you,” the cop said.
“Ray Shane…” Tony rubbed a hand across his chin. “That’s that cop who went to prison, right?”
“Don’t pull my dick, Tony,” the cop said. “I know you got held up by a four-man crew, and I know you’ve got Shane trying to chase them down.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I got two names for you.”
Tony stared across the table. “What names?”
The cop shook his head. “Not so fast.”
“So here’s the catch?”
The cop nodded.
Tony downed some more scotch. How much did this flatfoot know? “What do you want?”
The cop held up two fingers.
“What’s that mean? Two what?”
“Two things. That’s all. Just two things.”
“Spill it,” Tony said.
“The first is money. Two names, two grand.”
“If you’re wearing a wire, this is entrapment. You’re trying to solicit a bribe. I intend to report you to the proper authorities.”
“I’m not wearing a wire, dipshit, and your little jailhouse lawyer legal tricks don’t hold up in court anyway.”
