Ded Reckoning by William F Lee Page B

understanding.  He receives only a granite-like stare. Bruno snaps his head to the front as Pisces speaks.
    "Then why are you fucking my wife?"  Pisces' eyes are cold and his tone has the feel of dry ice.
    Bruno stills, stiffens, eyes shifting in thought but lost for words.  He clears his throat, stammers, "B ... Bo ... Bossa.  Signore Catalano, I  ..."
    Pisces raises his hand from his lap like a cobra ready to strike. The "Psssst" of the silencer-equipped pistol, although suppressed, sounds like a cannon in the morgue-like quiet study.  Bruno flops backward onto the tiled floor like a thrown sand bag.  The collapse of the body is loud, magnified by the silence of the room, sounding like a kettle drum crash.  The sandbag quietly pooling blood onto the tile floor.  The last fading violins of the concerto.
    Pisces looks at Rocco and hisses, "Get him outta' here.  Without her," nodding his head towards the bedroom, "seeing you.  I will handle everything else."
    "Yes, sir."
    "And, Rocco.  Let it be a warning. Pisces is life and death.  Pisces giveth and Pisces taketh away. Pisces is life.  To himself, and to those around him.  Make sure all our help understand.  The crew.  Gina ... never mind her."  He pauses, turns the calendar page, "Find us another driver.  Someone older so as not to make a young man's mistake."
    "Yes, sir."
    "The man in Pisa. Carmen Messina?  He would be good, and he's from here.  Get him, but only if you agree and like him.  Vet him like a good horse."  Pisces laughs.  "And make sure he's a gelding."  Laughs again.  Still with a sly smile on his face, he says, "Rocco, don't make him one.  Just find one."  He pauses. "Should have thought of that sooner, huh?"  
    "Yessa, boss."
    "Oh, and Rocco.  While there, get rid of Antonio.  I don't trust him.  Make it hurt first, like make him a gelding first if you have time."
    "Done."
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    Dee strolls out onto the patio.  Hunter has his back to her, looking out over the backyard fence.  The sun is setting.  Clear sky, red and orange.  A wisp of breeze brings the scent of salt air inland sweeping away what's left of the humidity.  It's peaceful yet this is the home where tragedy struck this day.  Catastrophe dwelt here but a few hours ago.  Dee places her hands on Hunter's shoulders.  He leaps out of the chaise lounge, spinning around, dropping his brandy. The snifter shatters on the pool-side cool-crete.  He faces her, his MK22 Mod O in his hand, extended at her forehead in less than an eye blink.  He stops abruptly, his mind and reflexes registering the moment.  He  pauses.  Relaxes.  Drops the weapon to his side.  Exhales.
    Time seems suspended until he breaks the silence. "Not a good glass day."  He drops his chin slightly, and looking through the top of his eyes and shaking his head he rebukes, "You should know better."  Raises his head.  "At least so I've been told." His tone is icy and sarcastic.
    "I know."  Her complexion pales, cadaver-like.  She stands immobile, tense, like a gunfighter caught without a weapon.  She catches her breath.  "Hunter, relax.  Let's talk."
    "Talk? Okay, speak."
    "All right.  It's late.  Been a long day." Color returns to her face.  She says lightly, "How about dinner?"
    "Dinner?  Dinner?  Jesus!  Are you nuts, Mrs. Columbo?"  He dwells a moment, then blurts mockingly, "Partner."
    She slaps his face.  Hard.  Says, "Get your act together, Hunter.    It is what it is.  Now you know.  I know.  We know.  And now you're no longer clueless, Hawk."  She steps back, smiles, turns slowly around as if modeling, tempting some dense sailor.  "I am what I am.  Angelo is dead.  Years now.  I'm back working, only in a different capacity since I have children to care for and a family to worry about and an asset to ... to