Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty Five
Luca
The shop squats at the end of a service road, cinder block painted the color of old gum. The bay doors are half down despite the heat, music low inside, one compressor whining like a mosquito.
We park across the alley. Vito kills the engine. Giovanni checks the sightlines once and nods.
“Owner?” I ask.
“Carlo DeSantis,” Giovanni says. “Keeps two sets of books and has a nephew on parole.”
“Good.”
We walk.
The bell above the side door gives a weak jingle when Vito pushes it open. Three heads come up—kid with a spray mask around his neck, a stocky man at the parts counter, and a skinnier man wiping his hands on a rag.
The skinny man sees me, and all the blood leaves his face. “We’re closed.”
I don’t bother to respond; just keep walking.
“Bring DeSantis,” I tell Vito, and he peels off toward the office, a gleeful smile on his face.
Vito disappears through the glass door. I hear a chair scrape, a yelp, then silence.
The stocky man tries on a brave face. He fails. The kid with the mask stares at the floor, pale.
Vito reappears first, holding the door with two fingers.
Carlo DeSantis stumbles out of the office, ill-fitting navy suit, shirt half-unbuttoned.
A chain thick as an anchor line tangles in a patchy chest of hair.
A pinky ring big enough to tip the small man over.
The toupee is crooked, front edge lifted like it’s trying to take off.
His cheek bears a fresh bruise about the size of Vito’s fist. He’s breathing hard.
“Mr. Conti,” he says, trying for swagger and landing on wheeze. “If I’d known you were coming—”
“What?” I ask softly.
He swallows. The room goes absolutely still.
“My men are me, Carlo,” I say, still using the soft voice that’s far more effective than a shout. “When my men come around, asking questions, that’s me asking them.”
“The Tahoe is gone,” Giovanni says. “It was here a couple of days ago.”
“Who drove it?” I ask DeSantis.
He shakes his head too fast. “Walk-in. Cash. No name.”
“Same old story,” Giovanni says, pulling a single photo from his pocket and sliding it across the counter. “Who was it?”
“Never saw him myself,” DeSantis says, eyes jumping to the office.
The kid with the mask starts edging toward the back; Vito sends a look in his direction, and the kid stops.
“Carlo,” I say, and he jerks at his own name.
He opens his mouth, closes it. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Then don’t make any,” I say. “Tell me what I want to know.”
He shakes his head, hands up like he’s warding off heat.
Vito moves in close, catches Carlo’s jeweled hand, and plants it flat on the counter. The pinky ring gleams stupidly.
“Please—” Carlo starts.
I walk slowly to the wall and peruse my tool options.
My fingers trail the pegboard—pliers, mallet, pry bar—until they close on a torque wrench.
I lift it off the hook, testing the swing like I’m deciding if it’s balanced.
Carlo can’t look away.
I walk back slowly, hitting it lightly against my palm a couple of times.
Back at the counter, I tap the wrench against my palm again, then bring it down gently toward his pinky, right above his ridiculous ring.
He flinches hard and starts struggling, curling his fingers in.
Vito simply puts his knee into the man’s back and straightens his hand back out.
I tap the wrench on each of his fingers in turn.
“Now. The Tahoe,” I say conversationally. “Who brought it in?”
“Capri,” he blurts in a panic, his voice cracking. Sweat gathers on his skin, soaking his collar. “He said his name was Capri.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a runner for the Russos!” he shouts, trying to struggle away again.
“Who hired him?” I ask, keeping my tone mild.
Carlo’s eyes dart, looking for a lie that won’t cost him fingers. He doesn’t find one.
“Nello,” he pants. “Nello Morante is the go-between for Russo’s nephew, Gabe. Gabe Russo.”
“What else?”
“Nothing, I swear!”
I bring the wrench down again, not hard enough to do damage, but enough to make a point.
“I swear! That’s all I know!” DeSantis spits out, his eyes wide with fear.
I step back and nod, setting the wrench down on the counter.
To Vito and the two men hovering at the door, I say, “Make sure that’s true.”
“Got it, boss,” one of them says with a smirk.
The other pulls the half-opened garage door all the way down.
I walk out the door, Giovanni trailing me.