City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(72)

“I didn’t come here to do business, Maddy,” Pasco says. “Just to show respect.”

“Of course.” As if, she thinks, showing respect isn’t part of doing business.

The party finally dies down, the guests drift off; the cleanup crew starts its work, tearing down tables, taking down tents, hauling out garbage.



Later that night, Madeleine lies in bed and strokes the young man’s cheek.

It’s soft, almost downy.

“That was nice,” she says.

Kelly smiles. Straight, white, perfect teeth. “I was hoping for something a little better than ‘nice.’”

“You didn’t get sufficient praise when I was moaning your name?” she asks. “You need more affirmation than that?”

He shouldn’t, she thinks. He’s a lovely, lovely young man and he knows it. The quarterback for the local college football team, he must have cheerleaders and coeds all over him, and yet, for some reason, he likes to come and bed me.

It’s not just the gifts she gives him—the clothes, the watches—it’s also something in him that likes older women.

And thank God, she thinks.

Madeleine has no illusion that she’s exclusive, she doesn’t want to be, and she certainly doesn’t want him falling in love with her. All she wants is a regular, reliable, good fuck with a beautiful body, and Kelly is all of that.

His physique is perfection.

It’s been a good thing, and she’d like it to continue, but he’s starting to get a little needy.

And arrogant.

Right on cue, Kelly says, “I made you come like a rocket and all you can say is ‘nice’?”

She props herself up on an elbow and looks at him. “Kelly, do you know the difference between you and a vibrator?”

He looks puzzled, and a little scared.

“The vibrator can twirl,” Madeleine says, “and it costs far less to maintain.”

She’s about to elaborate when the phone rings.

It’s Terri.

She’s crying.





Thirty


Sal knows he’s gotta do something and do it quick.

Right now he has Peter’s support, but that ain’t gonna last forever. Peter Moretti is the original “what have you done for me lately” boss, and with rumors swirling that Sal is gay, he wants something done for him lately. Already guys are starting to turn their faces when Sal comes into a room. He hears the whispers as he walks past them at a bar, sees the smirks from the corner of his eye, knows that Frankie V has been running his mouth.

Fucking Frankie. Sal had tried to apologize, but Frankie was having none of it. Sal sent over a beautiful basket to his house—prosciutto, bresaola, soppressata, abbruzze, auricchio, Cerignola olives, Biancolilla oil, a bottle of Ruffino Chianti—but it came back unopened.

The hell does Frankie want?

The guy has some balls on him, going around saying I’m a fag. After I do Marvin, I might decide to do Frankie.

Problem is, Marvin ain’t playing by the rules. If you know a contract’s been taken out on you, there are certain ways you’re expected to behave—you’re supposed to go to ground, keep your head down, even leave town.

But Marvin ain’t doing any of those things. Exactly the opposite: he’s showboating, making himself conspicuous, going out to clubs, to dinner, hanging on the corner and in the parks, shoving it in Sal’s face.

Like You want me? I ain’t hard to find, am I?

Part of this hide-in-plain-sight bullshit is tactical, Sal knows: you stay in public because your would-be killer doesn’t want to do you in front of witnesses. But still, it’s showing Sal up, making him look bad.

Especially when Marvin sent a pound of fudge to Sal at American Vending with the note Heard you liked packing this. Sent it there deliberately, knowing it would humiliate Sal in front of the guys, force Peter’s hand.

People are supposed to be afraid of Sal Antonucci.

He loses that fear factor, he’s lost a lot.

Some wannabe might take a run at him.

So if he has to hit Marvin in front of witnesses, Sal’s going to make sure they’re witnesses who won’t talk.

Marvin’s own boys.

He could gun Jones down in plain sight in front of all of them and not one would dime him to the cops. They’ll come after him themselves, because—Black or white—that’s the code.

He decides to do Marvin on the ball court.

Do it the way the moolies do it.

Drive-by style.



Everything that Sal knows, Marvin knows.

And as bad as Sal wants to do Marvin, Marvin wants to do Sal. Because he’s heard whispers, too. About himself. That he’s getting soft, that as he’s climbed up the ladder he’s forgotten what it’s like to be on the ground. Street cred is like any other commodity, you got to refresh it every once in a while or it loses its potency.

So he sets up every opportunity for Sal to come at him.

To remind his people why Marvin is Marvin.



“Even the moolies know Sal is a fag,” Paulie says, sitting at the office. “Everyone’s laughing at us now.”

“They don’t know anything,” Peter says, looking at the box of fudge on the table. “They only know what they’ve heard.”