Dante put a five down on the counter. The woman at the grill turned and glared at him.
“Money don’t make ’em cook any faster,” she said.
He rolled his eyes. What the fuck—try to provide a little motivation, and people give you attitude. It was just like Mr. Saint was always tellin’ him—the world was divided up into winners and whiners, and this fat broad cookin’ his egg sandwich was definitely a whiner.
He shook his head.
“Never mind.”
Dante picked up the five and headed for the door.
“Hey—what about the sandwich?”
“You eat it.”
“Hey! Goddamn it. You ordered it, you’re gonna pay for it!”
He kept walking. Yeah, he’d ordered it, but he’d said he was in a hurry, and five minutes to cook a fuckin’ egg, forget it.
“Asshole!”
Whoa.
He stopped walking and turned.
“What did you say?”
The woman put her hands on her hips. “I said—you were an asshole who—”
The dishwasher ran out from the kitchen, and stepped between the two of them. Young kid. Looked familiar. “Sorry, Mr. Dante, my aunt she gets a little tense this time of the morning. You gotta forgive her. She don’t necessarily know what she’s saying.”
The woman tried to push around the kid. “I know what I’m sayin’—hey, Nicky, what are you doin’?”
What the kid was doin’ was a smart thing, tryin’ to keep this woman from shootin’ her mouth off again because Dante was about to bitch slap her into next week. Mouthin’ off to him. Another thing Mr. Saint told him: If you want respect from people you gotta let ’em know you deserve it.
But now he knew who the kid was at least—Nicky Cressoti. Margie’s boy. Friend of Bobby’s, he’d seen him at the funeral.
“Hey, Nick,” he said. “How you been?”
“Okay. Workin’. Good to see you, Mr. Dante.”
“Yeah. You, too.” He gestured toward the fat broad. “Tell your aunt there, short order cook means things gotta come in short order, like quick, all right?”
“Yeah. Sure. Sorry, Mr. Dante.”
The woman peeked around Nicky. “Me, too. Sorry.”
She didn’t look sorry, she still looked pissed, but she also looked as if she’d finally clued in to who he was.
Dante nodded. “Sure. No problem.”
“You want some doughnuts instead, Mr. Dante?” Nick asked. He nodded to the display case by the register. “Come in fresh from Sunrise about an hour ago—some nice chocolate ones.”
Dante frowned. He was tryin’ to do that Atkins diet; that’s why he’d ordered the egg sandwich instead of stopping at Waffle House for his usual, but Sunrise doughnuts . . .
What the heck. A little break from the diet wouldn’t kill him.
“Yeah, sure. Gimme a couple. Chocolate frosted.”
Nick smiled. “Comin’ right up.”
“No.” The aunt moved past Nick, smiling herself now. “I get them.”
And she did—not just two, but a half dozen, taking them carefully out of the case and putting them in a pastry box for him. Dante watched her back as she carefully packed them and tied up the box with a piece of string. That was nice. Goin’ out of her way to make up for the bad impression she made.
“On the house,” she said, handing him the box.
“For you,” Dante said, holding out the five.
She shook her head. “No, I insist.”
Dante shrugged. What the heck.
“Okay. Thanks. Catch you next time, Nick.”
“So long, Mr. Dante.”
“Pleasure serving you,” the woman said.
Nice people, Dante thought on his way out the door. Put a smile on his face, turned his day around a little after the lousy start he’d had. The freakin’ dog that kept barkin’ last night, every hour on the hour, had kept him up till it was almost dawn, and then the power in his house goin’ off so that he overslept for the first time in all the years he’d been on the job for Mr. Saint. Which meant that he was late pickin’ up Spoon, which meant that they were gonna be late gettin’ to the tower, which meant Toros’ men would be pissed, but who cared about Toros’ men being pissed?
Not him. Besides, what did they really need him and Spoon there for?
Who in their right mind would fuck with Howard Saint’s money?
TWENTY-FIVE
Eight oh-two.
Corner of Jackson and Willette.
Raining harder now. Most people weren’t prepared: wet newspapers and suit coats pulled up over their heads. Weathermen being cursed; forgotten umbrellas being cursed. Castle didn’t have an umbrella, either, but he didn’t care.
All he needed, he had underneath his jacket.
The WALK sign flashed.
People crossed quickly, heading for the entrance to Saint Tower. Castle watched them hurry off to their jobs, thinking that, in about half an hour, they would all be wishing they’d stayed outside in the rain.
The second truck drove by, blinker flashing. Castle watched as it turned left, across traffic, down a little alley that ran parallel to the tower.
He checked his watch—eight oh-three—and followed.
He walked briskly, Halliburton case in hand, swinging at his side. A man with a purpose, a man on his way somewhere, taking a shortcut down the alley to the next street over, perhaps.
Ahead of him, a rumble sounded. The steel gates of the Saint Tower loading bay, lifting open. The truck’s left blinker flashed again, and it turned into the bay.
Castle walked past, eyes straight ahead, as the gates began to come down again.
At the last possible second, just as they were about to slam shut, he ducked left and rolled underneath them, kept rolling until he was underneath the truck itself, hidden from sight.
He pressed a button on the Rolex, and the dial lit up.
Eight oh-four.
He was in the building.
The truck doors opened. Footsteps sounded on either side of him.
“—sucks, man. We supposed to get help on this end, too, you know?”
“Tell me about it. I been on since two A.M., man. Had this college boy kept hangin’ round the two-dollar table, tryin’ to count cards. Wouldn’t take a polite hint, so I finally had to toss him.”
“So?”
Castle heard the rear doors of the truck opening. He rolled to his left, out from under the truck, and stood, his back against the driver’s-side door.
“So he shows up an hour later with these two jocks and tries to get back in. Ow!”
“What?”
“Lift, man. These things are heavy.”
Something slammed to the floor. Castle heard the sound of metal on concrete, then the squeak of wheels. He drew the shotgun out from under his jacket.
The front of what looked like a laundry hamper appeared around the corner of the truck, followed a second
