Part 9 (1/2)

Tony stepped out of the bathroom and said, ”Like, s.h.i.+t. Wow.”

”Which drawer?” I asked Mo.

His eyes bulged in a frantic question.

”Which drawer is my money in, Mo?”

I eased my grip on his throat.

”Middle drawer.”

”It better not be a check.”

”No, no. Cash.”

I let him go and he lay there wheezing as I went around the desk, opened the drawer, and found my money wrapped in a rubber band.

Tony sat back in the chair and recuffed his own wrist.

Mo sat up and his bulk dropped his feet to the floor. He rubbed his throat, gacked like a cat spitting up a hair ball.

I came back around the desk and picked the newspaper up off the floor.

Mo's tiny eyes darkened into bitterness.

I straightened the pages of the paper, folded it neatly, and tucked it under my arm.

”Mo,” I said, ”you have a pimp's piece in the holster on your left ankle, and a lead sap in your back pocket.”

Mo's eyes hardened some more.

”Reach for either of them, I'll show you exactly how bad my mood is today.”

Mo coughed. He dropped his eyes from mine. He rasped, ”Your name is s.h.i.+t now in this business.”

”Gosh,” I said. ”More's the pity, huh?”

Mo said, ”You'll see. You'll see. Without Gennaro, I hear you need every penny you can get. You'll be begging me for work come winter. Begging.”

I looked down at Tony. ”You be okay?”

He gave me a thumbs-up.

”At Nashua Street,” I told him, ”there's a guard named Bill Kuzmich. Tell him you're a friend of mine, he'll watch out for you.”

”Cool,” Tony said. ”Think he'd bring me a keg every now and then?”

”Oh, sure, Tony. That'll happen.”