Part 47 (1/2)
”I don't know what his name is,” Ketcham replied.
”He was an undercover narc. Probably from that special squad of narcs.”
”And what did he do to your lady that made her so upset?”
”He made her blow him,” Ketcham said.
Ca.s.sandro looked at Mr. Savarese. His face was expressionless, but tears ran down both cheeks. When he saw Paulo looking at him, he gestured with his hand for him to continue.
”He made her what?” Ca.s.sandro asked.
”First he made her take off her clothes, and then he made her blow him.”
”What did this cop look like?” Paulo asked.
”I don't know,” Ketcham began, and then, quickly, to ward off another kick to the head or jab at his s.c.r.o.t.u.m, went on. ”White guy. Thirty years old. Average size-”
”What's his name, motherf.u.c.ker?”
”I told you, I don't know. I never saw him before.”
Paulo Ca.s.sandro, sensing movement, turned to look at Mr. Savarese. Mr. Savarese was walking out of the room.
Ca.s.sandro went after him. Mr. Savarese stopped walking halfway down the corridor, took the white Irish linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, and dabbed at his eyes and cheeks with it.
”What do you want me to do with this bag of s.h.i.+t, Mr. S.?”
”Nothing,” Mr. Savarese replied.
”Nothing?” Ca.s.sandro parroted incredulously.
”Get Pietro. Make sure we will leave nothing behind that belongs to us, and then close the door.”
”Whatever you say, Mr. S.,” Paulo said.
Mr. Savarese nodded, then walked down the corridor toward the door and the Ford flat-tire truck outside.
They were almost back at Cla.s.sic Livery, Inc., before Paulo finally understood what Mr. S. had in mind for Ketcham.
Nothing didn't mean nothing. Nothing meant that the miserable f.u.c.king c.o.c.ksucker who had dishonored Mr. S.'s granddaughter would have a long f.u.c.king time in the f.u.c.king dark to think over what he had done before he died. And there wasn't even anything in that f.u.c.king room he could use to kill himself, unless maybe he could bang his f.u.c.king head against the f.u.c.king wall until his brains came out.
That's really better than what I was going to do to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.
Paulo Ca.s.sandro had taken the crowbar with him, thinking it would be the thing to use to break Ketcham's fingers and arms and kneecaps and legs before he put an ice pick in his ear.
He considered Mr. Savarese's decision on how to properly deal with Ketcham one more proof of Mr. Savarese's profound wisdom.
SEVENTEEN.
After a long time in the bathroom-much of it looking at her reflection in the mirror, as if there was going to be some kind of answer there-Susan finally came out, wrapped in a hotel-furnished terry-cloth robe.
Matt was propped up against the headboard of the bed, naked except for a corner of the sheet over his groin, the telephone to his ear.
Matt said ”Thank you” into the telephone and hung it up and looked at her.
”Who were you talking to?” Susan asked.
”Room service. You were in there so long, I got hungry. I told them to send up oysters and a bottle of champagne.”
Been watching a lot of Cary Grant movies, have you, Matt? A little elegant counterpoint to hot and heavy s.e.x?
”Oysters and champagne?”
”Yeah. It seemed appropriate under the circ.u.mstances.”
”I don't like oysters,” Susan said.
He reached for the telephone and dialed. The sheet over his groin was dislodged.
He either didn't notice or doesn't care.
”This is Mr. Payne,” he said. ”If it's not too late, make that one dozen oysters.”
He hung up and moved back to his propped-up-against-the-headboard position and looked at her. He did not pull the sheet over his nakedness.
Why does that annoy me so much? What is he doing, exposing himself like that? Saying, ”Now that I know what a hot-blooded b.i.t.c.h-what a good f.u.c.k-you are, why worry about decency?”
”You apparently have a lot of experience in circ.u.mstances circ.u.mstances like this,” Susan heard herself say. like this,” Susan heard herself say.
”Actually,” he said wryly, ”I have absolutely no previous experience in a circ.u.mstance even remotely like this one.”
”Would you mind covering yourself?” she heard herself ask in the voice of a b.i.t.c.h.
”Sorry,” he said, and grabbed for the sheet.
”I can't believe I did this,” she said.
Matt shrugged. The shrug-his whole att.i.tude-infuriated her.
He made it worse by asking, ”You ever hear the expression 'These things happen'? Or, 's.e.x is what makes the world go around'?”
”G.o.dd.a.m.n you!” Susan said.
He looked at her without expression.
”What if I'm pregnant?” she heard herself blurting.