Maybe the guy was able to flip the whole kilo between the time our people left and the time the murderer arrived. Hey, maybe the cops stole it. Maybe the package grew wings and flew across the street into the ocean. What do you think?”
He wasn’t waiting for answers, Negrito getting downright rhetorical.
“Or maybe, just maybe, somebody who had inside information on this deal let his friends in on his secret, and they got themselves an idea. Let’s steal it. C’mon, who’s gonna know? Negrito’s too stupid to figure it out, so let’s tie his operation to the murder of a man who was no trouble to anybody. Bring a blast furnace of heat right down on Negrito. Let’s make an asshole of Negrito. Fuck El Negrito.”
“I swear to Christ and on my mother’s grave I did not rob that guy and I had nothing to do with his murder.”
Negrito raised his fist and swung it down in an arc, slamming the table top. The cup jumped off the saucer and tipped, spreading espresso out on the glass. That earlier nausea Leo was feeling crept further down his intestinal tract. He was struck with the overwhelming urge to shit.
Negrito took a breath and collected himself, letting the red go out of his face. “This is a complicated situation, Leo, but all life is situations. Some you can get around, and some,” he paused, and Leo wasn’t liking the sound of this silence, “you can’t.”
“Man, that is so weird,” Leo interrupted. “I was just thinking that exact same thing —” He was about to say “on the way over” but Negrito cut him off with a ringing slap that made his eyes water up again.
“I’m responsible for this particular situation. That’s lucky for you.” He was totally calm, not a note of emotion in his voice. “Because if it was up to my uncle” — he shrugged to show Leo there’d be nothing he could do — “or the Quiet Man, forget about it.” He shook his head. Slowly. “You hear me?”
“I think I do,” Leo said.
“You might never be completely forgiven,” Negrito said, “but I’m gonna give you the chance to right this wrong. And if I were you, I’d be hoping Negrito was pleased with my solution. Understand what I’m saying?”
Leo understood. He was getting a reprieve, but it wouldn’t last long. He wondered if the solution Negrito was referring to meant he was supposed to kill Fernandez, too, but his voice got smothered with fear, and he didn’t want to seem so stupid he had to ask. This was the difference between Negrito, a genuine tough guy that people were afraid of if people were smart, and that shit bucket JP Beaumond, always fronting how tough he was. Negrito didn’t need to act crazy or dangerous because he was crazy and dangerous.
It wasn’t that long ago, two, three days, Leo’s luck was running hot. He thought about it, walking back to where his car was parked. He was calling the shots, sketching the plan for Beaumond and Fernandez, finding out when Harry would be getting out, sending him to Manfred. Admittedly, meeting Harry in the first place had been pure, unconscious providence, but figuring out how to take advantage of it — that had all been Leo, and he’d been on fire. So when had it all gone to shit?
Then he thought of something else. What if Negrito was using him to take care of Beaumond, or Beaumond and Fernandez, he hadn’t decided yet, and then planned to kill Leo anyway? He started feeling sick again.
This was a situation that had taken a dark, dark turn. It was like getting shelled in the ninth when you’d been cruising through the line-up all day. There was definitely something to this, his baseball-situations theory. Once this whole mess was finished and his mind wasn’t cluttered with so many other things, Leo was going to start carrying a pen and a pad. He got a lot of ideas. He’d write them down. Work them out.
Chapter Four
When operating under an alias, Harry felt it was best to hang on to your own first name. For example, if you
He wasn’t waiting for answers, Negrito getting downright rhetorical.
“Or maybe, just maybe, somebody who had inside information on this deal let his friends in on his secret, and they got themselves an idea. Let’s steal it. C’mon, who’s gonna know? Negrito’s too stupid to figure it out, so let’s tie his operation to the murder of a man who was no trouble to anybody. Bring a blast furnace of heat right down on Negrito. Let’s make an asshole of Negrito. Fuck El Negrito.”
“I swear to Christ and on my mother’s grave I did not rob that guy and I had nothing to do with his murder.”
Negrito raised his fist and swung it down in an arc, slamming the table top. The cup jumped off the saucer and tipped, spreading espresso out on the glass. That earlier nausea Leo was feeling crept further down his intestinal tract. He was struck with the overwhelming urge to shit.
Negrito took a breath and collected himself, letting the red go out of his face. “This is a complicated situation, Leo, but all life is situations. Some you can get around, and some,” he paused, and Leo wasn’t liking the sound of this silence, “you can’t.”
“Man, that is so weird,” Leo interrupted. “I was just thinking that exact same thing —” He was about to say “on the way over” but Negrito cut him off with a ringing slap that made his eyes water up again.
“I’m responsible for this particular situation. That’s lucky for you.” He was totally calm, not a note of emotion in his voice. “Because if it was up to my uncle” — he shrugged to show Leo there’d be nothing he could do — “or the Quiet Man, forget about it.” He shook his head. Slowly. “You hear me?”
“I think I do,” Leo said.
“You might never be completely forgiven,” Negrito said, “but I’m gonna give you the chance to right this wrong. And if I were you, I’d be hoping Negrito was pleased with my solution. Understand what I’m saying?”
Leo understood. He was getting a reprieve, but it wouldn’t last long. He wondered if the solution Negrito was referring to meant he was supposed to kill Fernandez, too, but his voice got smothered with fear, and he didn’t want to seem so stupid he had to ask. This was the difference between Negrito, a genuine tough guy that people were afraid of if people were smart, and that shit bucket JP Beaumond, always fronting how tough he was. Negrito didn’t need to act crazy or dangerous because he was crazy and dangerous.
It wasn’t that long ago, two, three days, Leo’s luck was running hot. He thought about it, walking back to where his car was parked. He was calling the shots, sketching the plan for Beaumond and Fernandez, finding out when Harry would be getting out, sending him to Manfred. Admittedly, meeting Harry in the first place had been pure, unconscious providence, but figuring out how to take advantage of it — that had all been Leo, and he’d been on fire. So when had it all gone to shit?
Then he thought of something else. What if Negrito was using him to take care of Beaumond, or Beaumond and Fernandez, he hadn’t decided yet, and then planned to kill Leo anyway? He started feeling sick again.
This was a situation that had taken a dark, dark turn. It was like getting shelled in the ninth when you’d been cruising through the line-up all day. There was definitely something to this, his baseball-situations theory. Once this whole mess was finished and his mind wasn’t cluttered with so many other things, Leo was going to start carrying a pen and a pad. He got a lot of ideas. He’d write them down. Work them out.
Chapter Four
When operating under an alias, Harry felt it was best to hang on to your own first name. For example, if you
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