Sal was beginning to believe that Maria had the same powers as Aunt Sofia. Okay, maybe not Gypsy powers, but black magic or voodoo or something. Whatever the hell they practiced down in Guatemala.
For starters, there were Maria’s pets-that damn cat and that pathetic lame bird. Sal had often seen the cat out in the garden, stalking songbirds, dropping little dead sparrows and wrens at Maria’s front door. So, a couple of months ago during breakfast, Sal had asked Maria how she managed to keep the cat from trying to eat her own bird. It took a few tries before Maria understood his question because her English wasn’t so good. But she finally got what he was asking, and, in her broken English, said she had put a spell on the cat, made it think the bird was just another cat. Then she had laughed like it was only a joke.
But Sal had seen the look in Maria’s eyes. That gleam, like Aunt Sofia used to have.
Just last week, Sal had slipped out to Maria’s cottage one night to play a little “Hide the Salami.” Maria pretended to resist his visits on occasion, as a good girl would, but Sal figured she secretly enjoyed them, that she craved the attention. After all, she was thousands of miles from home, had no boyfriend, and Sal was no slouch. He knew a few tricks in the sack. But on this particular night, Maria seemed kind of depressed. Sal noticed her staring into the corner of her darkened bedroom. Seconds later, the cat jumped on his back like some demon from hell-left claw marks down his back. Almost as if Maria had sent some sort of voodoo message to the cat, telling it what to do.
A couple of other times, Sal had walked in on Maria in the middle of what appeared to a black-magic ceremony. She had candles burning all around the room, some kind of freaky music playing, and she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. And chanting… the woman was chanting. Low, indecipherable words, the same as Aunt Sofia did. The cat was always perched on the bed watching her, blinking its black, soulless eyes. Gave Sal the friggin’ creeps.
Maria also wore all kinds of weird little necklaces and bracelets she made out of cheap trash that she found. Broken glass with the edges sanded down. Little bits of polished rock and metal. Aunt Sofia wore cheap crap like that, too-to ward off spirits, she said. Who knew why Maria wore her jewelry, but it had to be something evil.
Sal was staring into space, thinking about Maria, when the doorbell rang and he flinched, dropping his empty scotch glass on the floor.
Goddamn, just like someone to come along and ruin his peace and quiet. He started to ignore the visitor, but then figured it might be one of the guys from his work crews. They stopped by sometimes when they finished a job, looking for more work. That was the amazing thing: These jamooks were eager to bust their balls all day long for a lousy twelve bucks an hour when Sal was making twenty times that without breaking a sweat.
Sal peered through the peephole-something that always made him feel a little cowardly-and there was Emmett Slaton standing on his front porch.
“Hey,
But something was all wrong. Emmett Slaton appeared to have blood all over his shirt, on his forearms, even up his neck and on his face. He emitted a low, threatening growl, a rumble from deep in his chest, and launched himself onto Sal.
Sal tumbled backward, his legs buckling under him, his head banging smartly off the tile, a jolt of pain running down his spine. He could feel Slaton groping, trying to get a grip with both hands around his neck. Sal brought a knee up hard into the rancher’s chest and felt something give, maybe a rib. Then he brought an elbow down onto Slaton’s collarbone, then again on the crown of his head, and managed to drag himself away from the old bastard. But Slaton seemed unfazed. He sprang to his feet and rushed Sal again, wrapping him in a bear hug. The men went spinning wildly down the hall, sending a lamp crashing to the floor, and ended up in Sal’s den. There were no words exchanged, only grunts and groans as both men jockeyed for an advantage, gripping, grabbing, throwing an occasional short punch. Finally Sal broke free again, but then Slaton landed a tremendous right cross to his chin.
“That’s for Patton, you wop sumbitch!” Slaton yelled.
Sal was confused, staggering, feeling the impact of the blow, a couple of teeth loosened.
Sal screamed in anguish, getting nervous now, frustrated, wracked with pain. This old geezer was kicking his ass and meant to kill him, Sal had no doubt. If he could only get to the.38 in his nightstand…
Slaton took another swipe, the pronged end of the poker scraping across Sal’s torso, Sal feeling the blood begin to flow.
Then he remembered the.35-caliber in his desk drawer. It was an old collectible, a family heirloom. But like every gun in Sal Mameli’s house, it was loaded and ready for action.
Sal feigned left then went right, Slaton stumbling, not able to keep up. Sal scurried behind his desk and ducked as Slaton hurled the poker inches from his skull, leaving it embedded in the wall like a spear.
Sal yanked open the top drawer, fumbling for the small gun in the back-so close to ending this fiasco-only to glance up and see Slaton aiming a.45 directly at his face. He must have had it in the waistband of his pants.
“You lowlife piece of shit,” Slaton croaked, out of breath, cradling his arm against his wounded ribs. “Bring your hands up…slowly!”
Sal did as he was told, the.35 hanging in his hand. Now the room was cloaked in an eerie calm, both men gasping for air, eyeing each other carefully, Sal feeling the blood pound in his ears, the ache in his arm, the warm stickiness of blood on his belly.
“Toss that piece over here,” Slaton demanded.
Sal pitched the gun at Slaton’s feet.
“What the fuck is this?” Sal shouted, trying to show a little bravado, maybe back Slaton down a little. “Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”
“Shut up! Just shut your goddamn mouth!”
Sal stared Slaton directly in the eyes, refusing to look away, knowing that would only make him look guilty. Whatever Vinnie had done, he had pushed it too far. Or he hadn’t pushed it far enough, gone ahead and clipped the guy. And now Sal was the one paying the price.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Slaton just stood there, his pupils large as dimes, boring his eyes into Sal’s skull. Sal knew that look, and he didn’t like it at all. He had seen it on plenty of faces back East, wiseguys looking to make their bones, trying to work up the courage to kill another human being. In a matter of seconds Slaton would either pull the trigger or lose his nerve.
Sal had owned a.45 just like the one Slaton was holding, knew the damage it could do, the softball-sized hole it would leave in the back of his head. His brains would be all over the wall behind him. Sal stared down the barrel of the weapon, feebly holding his hands in front of him, waiting to hear the roar that would cast him into another world.
Then he noticed that the safety was still on.
The old fucker was so worked-up he’d forgotten about the safety. It was Sal’s only chance, but he had to act quickly, before Slaton tried to pull the trigger and realized his mistake.
This time, it was Sal who leaped forward, literally vaulting himself over the desk, wrapping his arms around Slaton as the rancher pulled frantically on the trigger. Both men crashed to the ground, Slaton grunting as he landed on his back, a stream of frothy blood rolling from the corner of his mouth. Sal felt a new cut open on his scalp as Slaton slammed the butt of the gun against the crown of Sal’s head with surprising force. Sal grabbed Slaton’s right wrist, shook the gun loose, then gripped the left wrist. Now he had both of Slaton’s wrists pinned to the floor. Before the rancher could begin to struggle, Sal crashed his head against Slaton’s, a classic head-butt, and the
