City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(67)

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“I don’t, either,” Terri says. “But someone’s making that money—it isn’t all going to Sheila, let me tell you, she’s struggling. So who? Liam? And what’s he doing for it?”

“Liam’s been around.”

Danny wonders why he’s defending Liam, fucking Liam, to his own sister. Yeah, Liam’s been around, but all he’s been doing is muttering about getting revenge for Pat, but then he doesn’t do shit.

Terri says, “All I’m saying is, my father owes you, and he knows it.”

Yeah, maybe he does and maybe he doesn’t, Danny thinks. If John does, he also does a good job of feigning ignorance when Danny brings it up to him.

“And Pat not cold in his grave,” John says.

“All respect,” Danny answers, “Pat’s been gone over a year . . . and I’ve been picking up a lot of the slack.”

“For the family.”

“I know that,” Danny says. “But I have a family to think about, too.”

Like your daughter, John? Your grandson? But Terri was never one of your pets, not like Cassie. Terri is that dutiful middle child, like Danny read about in the book that Terri got, who doesn’t get the attention because she just does the right thing.

“You need to earn, Danny, earn,” John says. “I’m not stopping you.”

Yeah, but you’re not helping me, either, Danny thinks. But he gets the message—John isn’t going to bump him up in the union or on the docks, or give him a taste of the gambling, the protection that was Pat’s. What John is saying is that Danny has a little crew of his own going now—so go ahead and earn and good luck.

Thanks for nothing, John.





Twenty-Eight


Sal Antonucci and Frankie V go into the Mustang Club.

Normally a couple of wop wiseguys wouldn’t get caught dead going into a gay bar, but the Mustang is on Sal’s turf and he goes once a month to collect his envelope.

The unspoken rule about that is you always bring another guy with you. Not for protection—for appearances, so no untoward rumors get started.

Anyway, they go in and get their envelope from the bartender and it turns out tonight is Ladies’ Night, which basically means lesbians get a discount on their drinks.

So in addition to the usual rough trade clad in vest and chaps, you got a lot of dykes, as Frankie V says, including a lesbian biker gang whose leathers proclaim that they’re—inevitably—the Amazons, dancing to the pounding disco music.

“Unreal,” Frankie says. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

“Let’s have a drink.”

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

“No, come on,” Sal says. “I mean, how often you see something like this?”

“Hopefully, never again,” Frankie says, disgusted.

“One drink,” Sal says. “Gives us a story to tell.”

He orders Seagram’s straight up for each of them, and then turns on his stool to gawk at the Amazons. He knows that Amazons were, what, like giants or something, and these women come close—most of them are stocky bull dykes but a few are tall, really tall with broad shoulders, and Sal, he can’t help himself thinking what it would be like to fuck one of them.

Frankie, he can’t shut up, keeps up a running monologue on how disgusting the whole thing is—the fags, the lesbos—how he wants to puke, how this whole place should burn down with everyone in it . . .

One of the biker chicks makes eye contact with Sal. He doesn’t look away, and a second later she walks over with one of her friends, a squat chick next to her tall buddy.

“What are you guys,” the tall one asks, “lookie-loos? Because you’re not gay.”

“Oh, we’re not gay,” Frankie says.

“You want to gawk at the animals,” the tall one says, “go to the zoo.”

“We’re just having a quiet drink,” says Sal.

“Have it somewhere else,” the tall one says. “You’re not welcome here.”

People are starting to look at them, get a little nervous. The bartender comes over, says to the tall one, “Leave it alone, Meg.”

Meg arches an eyebrow, smirks, and then says, “Oh, I get it. These are the wops you have to pay off.”

“Watch it,” Frankie says.

“You’ve had a little too much to drink,” Sal says. “Why don’t you just walk away now?”

“Why don’t you just walk away, cocksucker?”

“Whoa!” Frankie says. “You go down on your girlfriend with that mouth?”

“What would you know about going down?” Meg asks. Then she turns back to Sal. “This one does, though, huh? I think I was wrong about you. I think you got one of those big, gaudy guinea houses with pink flamingos on the lawn—”

“You going to let her talk to you like that?” Frankie demands.

“—and a big walk-in closet—”

Sal launches a tight, arcing overhand right to the jaw with his hips fully into it, and she goes down.

Out before she hits the floor, and she hits it hard.

“All right!” Frankie yelps.