And so Andrew waited. He paced and waited and wondered what in the hell he was going to do. He made a sandwich but only ate half. He sat on the toilet for twenty minutes but couldn?t shit. Nervous gut. He was all screwed up.
He looked at the picture of his father and uncle again. There was something in their faces. Smug and carefree and dangerous and sly all rolled together. The phone number on the other side was smudged and faded. He transferred the number from the photo to a small spiral address book. Andrew didn?t want to accidentally wipe the number away with a sweaty thumb.
The phone rang. He grabbed it. ?Hello??
?It?s Vincent.?
?What is it? Did you hear anything? Is it??
?Go someplace. Get out of town.?
?What?s going on??
?No time to explain,? Vincent said. ?Just get the fuck out of town, Andy.?
?But?wait, I??
?You got someplace to hide? Far away?? Vincent asked.
?I was thinking Oklahoma, but I don?t even know??
?Go now. Don?t wait.? Vincent hung up.
Andrew set the phone gently back into the cradle.
Oklahoma. The middle of nowhere. Who would be able to find him? Uncle Mike was getting a visitor whether he wanted one or not. He couldn?t afford an airline ticket, but he was pretty sure he could swing a seat on a bus. He?d catch Greyhound, ride the big dog all the way to Tulsa, and hide his ass behind a tumbleweed or whatever the hell they had out there.
He packed his duffel bag one last time. He considered his instruments. The banjo, guitar, mandolin, electronic keyboard. He needed to travel light, but he couldn?t stand the thought of leaving them all.
Dammit, he knew he was forgetting something? toothbrush, underwear, wallet? No time. Every second counted.
He snatched up the mandolin and ran out the door.
* * *
Vincent Minelli hung up the pay phone in Times Square, scanned the crowd for anyone who looked out of place, saw only tourists, and headed for the subway station. His dad?s pal Big Billy Romano had told him what to do. Leave your apartment. Don?t take anything. Go fast. Get over to the Eighty-seventh Street Social Club. Billy Romano said he?d be safe there surrounded by meaty wiseguys in jogging suits. Don?t call anybody. Don?t tell anybody. Don?t look back.
But Vincent couldn?t leave his buddies twisting in the wind. He?d tried to call his cousin Anthony ten times, finally risked leaving a message on his machine. It was better than no warning at all. At least Andrew had been home when he?d called.
So he?d done it. He?d warned his buddies. They were on their own now.
Vincent hopped on the subway, kept glancing over his shoulder. He felt comforted only a little by the weight of the .38 revolver swinging in his coat pocket.
5
Mike Foley returned his nephew?s call, but didn?t get an answer. He waited ten minutes and tried again. Nothing. Mike couldn?t decide if he was worried or relieved.
He grabbed the knife and the bars of deodorant soap and walked the vine rows, leaving a wake of antibacterial shavings. Mountain Fresh scent. He walked and shaved soap slivers and remembered.
