and he lay sideways on the seat and watched the car’s headlights pass.
Sitting up, he dropped his hands to the floor. According to Murphy’s Law, the keys would have fallen to the most inconvenient spot. Sure enough, he found them lodged beneath the accelerator and the floor mat.
He jammed the keys in the ignition and fired up the engine. He was thinking about taking a shortcut to catch Valentine and did not see the fist come through his open window.
It caught him flush on the jaw. Pools of black appeared before his eyes. His door was jerked open, and a pair of hands pulled him roughly from the car. He rolled out and landed on the macadam. A thing began to crawl out of his stomach. Dinner.
“Aw shit, he’s puking,” a voice said. “You shouldn’t have punched him so hard.”
“He deserves it, fucking Peeping Tom,” another voice said.
“How can you be sure he’s the Peeping Tom?”
“I just am.”
“Look, here’s his binoculars,” a third voice said.
Longo made himself get sick. It was keeping them from hitting him anymore, and that was a good thing. He cracked an eye and saw three pairs of sneakers standing around him. Neighborhood vigilantes, one of them carrying a baseball bat. He flipped his wallet out of his back pocket, let it hit the ground. It contained the last of his money, and it was the only way he could think of to save his ass.
“Look, he’s trying to bribe us,” the first voice said.
“Take the money and break his kneecaps,” the second declared.
“Aren’t you the brave one,” the first said.
Longo saw the third man pick up the wallet. Seeing Longo’s gold detective badge, he dropped it on the ground.
“He’s a frigging cop,” the third man declared.
They did what any smart law-abiding citizen would do and ran like hell. Longo heard the front doors of their houses slam shut.
Soon the neighborhood grew peaceful, and the barking dog quieted down. He slowly got to his feet. His brain had been rattled; he was seeing two houses across the street where there was only one. The good news was, his jaw didn’t feel like it was broken.
“Hooray,” he whispered.
Longo climbed into the car. Turning the engine on, he hit the AC button and positioned the vents to blow in his face. It was an old trick he’d learned in college, the quickest way to cure a night of drinking.
The cold air felt like invisible ice cubes rubbing on his skin. Sucking up his courage, he dropped the visor above the steering wheel and looked at his face in the lighted vanity mirror.
“Jesus,” he groaned.
He had raccoon eyes, a swollen jaw and the undercarriages of his eyes were ringed black. The bad part was, it would look worse in a few hours. A lot worse.
He needed to find an ice pack and a soft bed. He was clutching his wallet in his left hand, and he opened it. They hadn’t touched his money, and he had enough for a cheap motel room. Making amends with Valentine would have to wait.
Driving away, Longo noticed a sign: NEIGHBORHOOD WATCHDOG GROUP. He’d always thought neighborhood groups were idiotic. He didn’t feel that way anymore.
32
Gerry took a hot shower in his motel room. His conscience would not let him forget that he’d killed a man a few hours earlier, and a pounding sensation filled his head.
Coming out of the bathroom, he found Pash and Amin in his room, the door that joined their rooms wide open. His hair was still wet, and he flipped it off his forehead the way he used to as a kid. To another Italian, the gesture was as rude as
“I suppose you want to know what’s going on,” Amin said.
Gerry nearly told them to leave. Only he wanted to hear Amin’s side of things. The room had twin beds. He sat on one while the brothers sat on the other.
“I have a pretty good idea,” he said.
“You do?”
Gerry nodded. Amin had taken off his sweatshirt and was no longer packing a gun behind his belt buckle. Gerry said, “You figured out a way to take the money you were making at blackjack and quadruple it. You bought drugs.”
“That’s right,” Amin said.
Pash was looking at the carpet, wanting no part of the conversation. Reading his body language, Gerry guessed that the drugs were Amin’s idea. He felt bad for Pash.
“What did you buy?”
Amin seemed confused. “Mexican drugs,” he said.
“Coke, smack, or meth?”
“Smack?” Amin said.
“Heroin.”
“Cocaine,” Amin said. “We bought cocaine.”
“How many pounds.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Uncut?”
“It is pure, if that’s what you mean.”
Back when Gerry had run his bar, he’d heard about a lot of drug deals, and he knew how much seventy-five pounds of coke would fetch on the street. A telephone number, as some of his patrons liked to say. He fell straight back on the bed and for a long moment stared at the cheap popcorn ceiling. Dead flies were embedded in the popcorn, and he imagined them trying to escape the room, flying suicide runs into the ceiling. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked at his partners. Pash was still showing him the top of his head, while Amin held his gaze.
“A third of it is yours, once it’s sold,” Amin said.
“Not interested,” Gerry said.
“I will sell it in a few days, and give you your share,” Amin said. “Cold hard cash. If you want to leave then, you can.”
Gerry didn’t like the direction the conversation was heading. Amin was crazy—he’d killed a drug dealer. The Las Vegas police would know there were drugs on the street, and put plants out. If Amin wasn’t careful, he’d walk right into the hands of the law.
“No thanks,” Gerry said.
“But we had a deal,” Amin replied.
He had an emotionless way of talking, and it surprised Gerry, considering he’d watched a man burn to death a few hours ago. He said, “You never said drugs were involved.”
“Why does that make a difference?”
“It just does.”
“But why? It is business. Nothing more.”
“You ever see the movie
“No.”
Pash lifted his head and whispered something into Amin’s ear. Amin’s expression changed, and he said, “Oh, the film with Marlon Brando?” He looked at Gerry. “Yes. I have seen that one. It is one of Pash’s favorites.”
“There’s a scene in that movie,” Gerry said. “All the godfathers are sitting around a gigantic table, trying to convince Brando to help them sell drugs in New York. Brando has the judges in his back pocket, and the godfathers want him to peddle some influence. Only Brando won’t do it. Remember that scene?”
Amin had to think. Pash whispered again, and Amin said, “Yes, I remember it.”
