Target on Our Backs
Page 61
He grabs a hold of Killer instead, throwing him across the room, into a living room table, knocking a lamp off. It crashes to the floor, and gives me enough of a distraction and dash out of the room. I run, as fast as my legs can carry me, but I'm no match for his strides. Two steps later, he's on me, grabbing my shirt, yanking me around by it, fisting my hair. I feel a tug on my neck as the chain on my necklace snaps.
He pulls me through the kitchen, limping, and opens the garage door, dragging me outside. Twisting me around by my hair, I flinch, pain ricocheting around my skull, as he forces me to look at him.
"You gonna play nice with me, little lady?" he asks.
I sneer. "I wouldn't play nice if you were the last man on earth."
The second I say it, he pulls out a red handkerchief and shoves it right in my face, covering my nose and mouth. I inhale sharply. Oh God, it burns. It reeks.
That stench.
That's it.
I struggle, I fight him, I try to breathe, but nothing I do can stop the darkness.
I can feel it.
It's coming quickly.
T he pink-trimmed house is locked up.
Seems they found a body inside of it just the other night. It managed to grace the newspaper, barely getting a small blurb. Another hoodlum murdered in Bensonhurst.
Nobody seems to care anymore.
It was curious, though... they called it unoccupied. The house was empty when the police arrived. According to them, nobody had lived there for a long time. Lorenzo had moved out fast, right under people's noses, just like he'd move into it without raising any alarms.
Sounds like Lorenzo.
The black BMW isn't anywhere in the neighborhood. I park across the street and get out of my car, but I don't approach the house, standing on the sidewalk instead, waiting.
He'll show his face.
After all, he's the one who called me here.
"Shame, isn't it?" a voice says behind me. "I liked that place."
Turning my head, I spot Lorenzo as he appears on the stoop of an adjacent townhouse. The white cookie-cutter building looks like half the others on the block. "Seems as if you've already moved on."
He glances at the townhouse behind him, shrugging. "Actually had this one first. But that one across the street? I thought it was charming. Nobody was using it, so I figured, hey... why not?"
That, in itself, says all you'd ever need to know about Lorenzo. He takes whatever he wants, and he uses it, and abuses it, and then he walks away when it serves no purpose to him anymore.
"It was too pink for my liking," I tell him.
"It wasn't pink... it was peach," he says. "You must be colorblind."
"Must be."
He steps down onto the sidewalk, coming to a stop right beside me. He's got an orange in his hand, and he casually runs his fingertips along the thick rind. "Did you know oranges show up in something like twenty-two scenes in The Godfather saga? They're symbolic."
"For what?"
"Death," he says, holding his orange out to me. "Violence."
I stare at it for a second before turning away, looking back at the other house. "That makes no sense."
"I think the point is things are what we make of them." He shrugs off my snub and starts peeling the orange. "They mean what we want them to mean. We see what we want to see. Signs are all around us... you just have to pay attention."
"If there's some kind of threat in those words, I'm not hearing it."
He laughs. "No threat. Just making small talk."
"I don't like small talk."
"You never did."
"So why don't you get to the point," I tell him. "I doubt you called me here to share movie trivia."
He laughs to himself. "No, you're right... I called you here to help you out."
"And how, exactly, are you planning to help me?"
He seems to consider that... maybe reconsider... as he throws some of his peel to the ground. "I got a call from a friend down in Florida. He told me something interesting."
"What's that?"
"He's been working with these guys down in Cuba, you know... the import-export business. Started a long time ago, back when my stepfather was still around. They'd smuggle things in, anything there was a market for, and they'd store them at the grove for safekeeping. Made a pretty penny off of it back then."
I know all this.
He's telling me nothing new here.
"These days, there's not such a demand. They still do it, you know, still bring it in, but the way the economy is, nobody wants to pay. But this friend of mine, he's still got a few lucrative clients, guys willing to shell out the cash for something special."
He pauses to eat a piece of his orange.
"You got a point here?" I ask. "If I wanted a lesson on economics, I'd go to business school."
He ignores my comment and waits until he swallows before continuing on. "There's this one particular guy, he's got this thing for cigars... and not just any cigars. He wanted the top of the line, these special Montecristo ones. He was willing to pay a couple hundred bucks each. So my friend, he's been bringing them in every few months, making a killing."
"Good for him."
"Good for me, too," he says. "He still runs it all through the grove, so I get a piece of it... and dare I say, I think it's good for you, too."
"Are you trying to recruit me? If so, you're wasting your time."
"This isn't a sales pitch."
"Then get to the point."
He shakes his head, eating another wedge of the orange. "This client of his lives here in New York. Old guy, high profile, been smoking these particular cigars for years, since back in the day, when he got them from my stepfather. He's a bit of a recluse, though, doesn't like to go out, so he sends someone else to pick them up for him and deliver them straight to his house in Long Island."
As soon as he says that, I know exactly who he means. There's only one man around who would sell his soul for a decent Cuban. "Genova."
"Bingo."
He stops there, like any of this even means anything. So, what? His cigars are illegal? What about the man's life isn't? "Well, I appreciate the info. If I ever want to buy him a gift, I know where to get it."
I turn, annoyed, and take a step toward my car. I don't have the patience for this. He's wasting my time.
"Whoa, you're not going to ask the magic question?" Lorenzo looks at me, cocking an eyebrow. "Not going to ask who he sends to pick them up?"
"Okay, I'll buy it... who?"
"A big guy, I'm talking massive. My friend says he's got a memorable name, like that guy in some sitcom, but he goes by the nickname of—"
"Fat Joe."
Son of a bitch.
Again, he smiles. "Bingo."
I wish I could say I was surprised, or even that I was disappointed, but this is right up Genova's alley. The bastard has been toying with me.
"I need a favor, Lorenzo."
"I just did you one."
"I need another," I say. "I want a meeting with the five families."
"And you think I can help you with that?"
He pulls me through the kitchen, limping, and opens the garage door, dragging me outside. Twisting me around by my hair, I flinch, pain ricocheting around my skull, as he forces me to look at him.
"You gonna play nice with me, little lady?" he asks.
I sneer. "I wouldn't play nice if you were the last man on earth."
The second I say it, he pulls out a red handkerchief and shoves it right in my face, covering my nose and mouth. I inhale sharply. Oh God, it burns. It reeks.
That stench.
That's it.
I struggle, I fight him, I try to breathe, but nothing I do can stop the darkness.
I can feel it.
It's coming quickly.
T he pink-trimmed house is locked up.
Seems they found a body inside of it just the other night. It managed to grace the newspaper, barely getting a small blurb. Another hoodlum murdered in Bensonhurst.
Nobody seems to care anymore.
It was curious, though... they called it unoccupied. The house was empty when the police arrived. According to them, nobody had lived there for a long time. Lorenzo had moved out fast, right under people's noses, just like he'd move into it without raising any alarms.
Sounds like Lorenzo.
The black BMW isn't anywhere in the neighborhood. I park across the street and get out of my car, but I don't approach the house, standing on the sidewalk instead, waiting.
He'll show his face.
After all, he's the one who called me here.
"Shame, isn't it?" a voice says behind me. "I liked that place."
Turning my head, I spot Lorenzo as he appears on the stoop of an adjacent townhouse. The white cookie-cutter building looks like half the others on the block. "Seems as if you've already moved on."
He glances at the townhouse behind him, shrugging. "Actually had this one first. But that one across the street? I thought it was charming. Nobody was using it, so I figured, hey... why not?"
That, in itself, says all you'd ever need to know about Lorenzo. He takes whatever he wants, and he uses it, and abuses it, and then he walks away when it serves no purpose to him anymore.
"It was too pink for my liking," I tell him.
"It wasn't pink... it was peach," he says. "You must be colorblind."
"Must be."
He steps down onto the sidewalk, coming to a stop right beside me. He's got an orange in his hand, and he casually runs his fingertips along the thick rind. "Did you know oranges show up in something like twenty-two scenes in The Godfather saga? They're symbolic."
"For what?"
"Death," he says, holding his orange out to me. "Violence."
I stare at it for a second before turning away, looking back at the other house. "That makes no sense."
"I think the point is things are what we make of them." He shrugs off my snub and starts peeling the orange. "They mean what we want them to mean. We see what we want to see. Signs are all around us... you just have to pay attention."
"If there's some kind of threat in those words, I'm not hearing it."
He laughs. "No threat. Just making small talk."
"I don't like small talk."
"You never did."
"So why don't you get to the point," I tell him. "I doubt you called me here to share movie trivia."
He laughs to himself. "No, you're right... I called you here to help you out."
"And how, exactly, are you planning to help me?"
He seems to consider that... maybe reconsider... as he throws some of his peel to the ground. "I got a call from a friend down in Florida. He told me something interesting."
"What's that?"
"He's been working with these guys down in Cuba, you know... the import-export business. Started a long time ago, back when my stepfather was still around. They'd smuggle things in, anything there was a market for, and they'd store them at the grove for safekeeping. Made a pretty penny off of it back then."
I know all this.
He's telling me nothing new here.
"These days, there's not such a demand. They still do it, you know, still bring it in, but the way the economy is, nobody wants to pay. But this friend of mine, he's still got a few lucrative clients, guys willing to shell out the cash for something special."
He pauses to eat a piece of his orange.
"You got a point here?" I ask. "If I wanted a lesson on economics, I'd go to business school."
He ignores my comment and waits until he swallows before continuing on. "There's this one particular guy, he's got this thing for cigars... and not just any cigars. He wanted the top of the line, these special Montecristo ones. He was willing to pay a couple hundred bucks each. So my friend, he's been bringing them in every few months, making a killing."
"Good for him."
"Good for me, too," he says. "He still runs it all through the grove, so I get a piece of it... and dare I say, I think it's good for you, too."
"Are you trying to recruit me? If so, you're wasting your time."
"This isn't a sales pitch."
"Then get to the point."
He shakes his head, eating another wedge of the orange. "This client of his lives here in New York. Old guy, high profile, been smoking these particular cigars for years, since back in the day, when he got them from my stepfather. He's a bit of a recluse, though, doesn't like to go out, so he sends someone else to pick them up for him and deliver them straight to his house in Long Island."
As soon as he says that, I know exactly who he means. There's only one man around who would sell his soul for a decent Cuban. "Genova."
"Bingo."
He stops there, like any of this even means anything. So, what? His cigars are illegal? What about the man's life isn't? "Well, I appreciate the info. If I ever want to buy him a gift, I know where to get it."
I turn, annoyed, and take a step toward my car. I don't have the patience for this. He's wasting my time.
"Whoa, you're not going to ask the magic question?" Lorenzo looks at me, cocking an eyebrow. "Not going to ask who he sends to pick them up?"
"Okay, I'll buy it... who?"
"A big guy, I'm talking massive. My friend says he's got a memorable name, like that guy in some sitcom, but he goes by the nickname of—"
"Fat Joe."
Son of a bitch.
Again, he smiles. "Bingo."
I wish I could say I was surprised, or even that I was disappointed, but this is right up Genova's alley. The bastard has been toying with me.
"I need a favor, Lorenzo."
"I just did you one."
"I need another," I say. "I want a meeting with the five families."
"And you think I can help you with that?"
