number and your beeper number. Let him know you’re available to negotiate.”
“My name is Bob Ewing, Jilly. I’m an FBI agent.”
“How did I know?” Sappone paused briefly. “My dear sweet wife isn’t there, is she?”
“No, Jilly, she’s not here. Ann’s in the hospital.”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is, Bob. I went fourteen years without kickin’ her fat guinea ass and I got carried away. Next time I’ll try to be more gentle.” His laughter was harsh and mocking. “Why don’t ya tell me what hospital she’s in. So’s I can send some flowers.”
“Why don’t we talk about Theresa-Marie, instead. Is she with you?
“What’s the matter, Bob, ya gettin’ tired of my company?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m going to give you my beeper number. That way, you can reach me any time you want.” He paused, smiled slightly. “I already have your number. The cellular phone was a nice touch, by the way. We’re running into that more and more often these days.” He paused, glanced at his partner. “Jilly, are you there?”
“C’mon, talk ya little bitch. Talk to the fuckin’ man, or I’ll slap the shit out of ya.”
“Hey, Jilly, it’s okay.” Ewing’s voice was dead calm. “If she doesn’t want to talk …”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what’s okay.” Sappone was shouting, now. “If I want the bitch to talk, she’ll talk.”
“Don’t hurt her, Jilly. She’s not part of this.”
“Ya wanna keep tellin’ me what to do? Huh? I swear to God, I’ll rip her fuckin’ heart out. I’ll mail her back in pieces. Ya tell that to my sweet, innocent wife. Tell her if she ain’t back in that apartment next time I call, I’m gonna get myself a long knife and play butcher. Tell her I’m gonna give the kid to my partner. He likes little girls.”
“Damn, Jilly, that weren’t right.” Jackson-Davis Wescott peered over Jilly Sappone’s right shoulder, tried to catch a glimpse of his own face in the rearview mirror. The angle was wrong, but he just knew his hurt-like eyes were even more hurt-like after what Jilly told those cops. “I never had nothin’ for no little girls. That was a damned lie.”
Jilly Sappone didn’t bother to respond. He was too busy trying to get his head back together. They were traveling south on the Harlem River Drive, down toward the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the heart of Carmine Stettecase’s territory. If one of Carmine’s boys spotted Jilly Sappone, he’d know exactly what to do. And if Jilly wasn’t ready …
Of course, he looked a lot different now. He’d trimmed his beard, cut his hair to within two inches of his scalp, dyed both—his beard and his hair—a dull gray-white. Fourteen years ago, the last time any of the boys had laid eyes on Jilly Sappone, he’d had a full head of dark, curly hair and no beard. He’d been fourteen years younger, too, twenty-six instead of forty. A kid instead of the man he’d become.
He glanced back over his shoulder, saw Jackson-Davis with his arm around the kid, trying to comfort her. The sight irritated him, but he wasn’t about to say anything. When Jackson wasn’t around, the kid cried all the time. That was a lot worse than irritating. It threatened to produce a serious shitstorm, the kind of shitstorm that blew whiny kids out the window, smashed them up against walls. Which was probably what would happen in the long run but, for right now, he needed the kid alive. He needed the kind of reaction the fed pig had when he thought about getting chunks of Theresa Kalkadonis in the mail.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah, Jilly?”
“Wrap the bitch up. We got work to do.”
“Hell’s bells, Jilly, Theresa really hates that.”
Sappone took a deep breath, told himself to hold on, that one day old Jackson-Davis would smash up against walls of his own.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah, Jilly?”
“We can’t leave her alone, can we? Can’t have her screaming out the window. Suppose a cop sees her? Ya know the
“My name is Bob Ewing, Jilly. I’m an FBI agent.”
“How did I know?” Sappone paused briefly. “My dear sweet wife isn’t there, is she?”
“No, Jilly, she’s not here. Ann’s in the hospital.”
“Yeah, well, you know how it is, Bob. I went fourteen years without kickin’ her fat guinea ass and I got carried away. Next time I’ll try to be more gentle.” His laughter was harsh and mocking. “Why don’t ya tell me what hospital she’s in. So’s I can send some flowers.”
“Why don’t we talk about Theresa-Marie, instead. Is she with you?
“What’s the matter, Bob, ya gettin’ tired of my company?”
“Not at all. In fact, I’m going to give you my beeper number. That way, you can reach me any time you want.” He paused, smiled slightly. “I already have your number. The cellular phone was a nice touch, by the way. We’re running into that more and more often these days.” He paused, glanced at his partner. “Jilly, are you there?”
“C’mon, talk ya little bitch. Talk to the fuckin’ man, or I’ll slap the shit out of ya.”
“Hey, Jilly, it’s okay.” Ewing’s voice was dead calm. “If she doesn’t want to talk …”
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what’s okay.” Sappone was shouting, now. “If I want the bitch to talk, she’ll talk.”
“Don’t hurt her, Jilly. She’s not part of this.”
“Ya wanna keep tellin’ me what to do? Huh? I swear to God, I’ll rip her fuckin’ heart out. I’ll mail her back in pieces. Ya tell that to my sweet, innocent wife. Tell her if she ain’t back in that apartment next time I call, I’m gonna get myself a long knife and play butcher. Tell her I’m gonna give the kid to my partner. He likes little girls.”
“Damn, Jilly, that weren’t right.” Jackson-Davis Wescott peered over Jilly Sappone’s right shoulder, tried to catch a glimpse of his own face in the rearview mirror. The angle was wrong, but he just knew his hurt-like eyes were even more hurt-like after what Jilly told those cops. “I never had nothin’ for no little girls. That was a damned lie.”
Jilly Sappone didn’t bother to respond. He was too busy trying to get his head back together. They were traveling south on the Harlem River Drive, down toward the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the heart of Carmine Stettecase’s territory. If one of Carmine’s boys spotted Jilly Sappone, he’d know exactly what to do. And if Jilly wasn’t ready …
Of course, he looked a lot different now. He’d trimmed his beard, cut his hair to within two inches of his scalp, dyed both—his beard and his hair—a dull gray-white. Fourteen years ago, the last time any of the boys had laid eyes on Jilly Sappone, he’d had a full head of dark, curly hair and no beard. He’d been fourteen years younger, too, twenty-six instead of forty. A kid instead of the man he’d become.
He glanced back over his shoulder, saw Jackson-Davis with his arm around the kid, trying to comfort her. The sight irritated him, but he wasn’t about to say anything. When Jackson wasn’t around, the kid cried all the time. That was a lot worse than irritating. It threatened to produce a serious shitstorm, the kind of shitstorm that blew whiny kids out the window, smashed them up against walls. Which was probably what would happen in the long run but, for right now, he needed the kid alive. He needed the kind of reaction the fed pig had when he thought about getting chunks of Theresa Kalkadonis in the mail.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah, Jilly?”
“Wrap the bitch up. We got work to do.”
“Hell’s bells, Jilly, Theresa really hates that.”
Sappone took a deep breath, told himself to hold on, that one day old Jackson-Davis would smash up against walls of his own.
“Jackson?”
“Yeah, Jilly?”
“We can’t leave her alone, can we? Can’t have her screaming out the window. Suppose a cop sees her? Ya know the
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