12. Tony
Tony
The chorus swells, the percussion resounds like the footsteps of doom itself, and then the trumpets come in, piercing through like angels from heaven, come to deliver God’s wrath. The climax comes, then… stillness.
There’s a discreet, hesitant knock at the door.
Dammit… I told them I did not want to be disturbed when I am listening to my music.
The knock comes again.
“Come.”
It’s Vinny, dressed—well… let’s say squeezed into—an expensive, handmade suit of Italian design, that does nothing to hide the rippling muscles and sheer bulk of the man.
His automatic pistol—a 9mm Glock that I insist my men use because they’re foolproof, and just about as reliable as you can buy for pretty much any price except stupid money—is bulging visibly from beneath his suit jacket.
Not the brightest, Vinny, but loyal as they come.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Boss, but you said I had to?—”
I extend a hand to cut him off.
“Get to the point, Vinny.” I allow a little ice to come into my voice. Loyalty pays dividends—my late papa taught me that—but it never harms to add a little fear into the mix as well.
“Sure thing, Boss. Well, you asked to be told if we heard anything about that woman… Maria somethink.”
I freeze in my chair, then I lean forwards, all ears. Suddenly, I’m keen to learn what Vinny has to say.
“Maria Contarini,” I say quietly. “Go on, Vinny. What about her?”
“Yeah, that’s the one, Boss… her.” He pauses, which does nothing for my stress levels. Why can’t the lumbering idiot just tell me what he knows?
“Well?”
“What? Er… oh, yeah. It’s information that just came in. About a car deal. Came from Johnny Gambini.
“What, you mean my mamma’s brother… Uncle Johnny?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Well, he has a son—Ritchie Gambini—who’s in the motor trade.”
“Yeah. My cousin Ritchie. Lives in North Carolina, by the coast somewhere. I’ve met him a few times—weddings, funerals—but I’ve never really got to know him. So what?”
“He goes around the country buying up cars that have been traded in for new ones from all the car dealers, then he does them up, gives them a service, and puts them on the market. Makes good money too. My brother says that?—”
“Fuck your brother, Vinny. Get to the point. Fast. Before I lose patience.”
“Yes, Boss, sure thing, of course.” He swallows hard, then continues his narrative.
“Well, we put out the word, just like you said. Older man, young, attractive brunette, silver ’95 Toyota Corolla, New York Registered.”
“I know all this.” I hiss. “For the love of God, Vinny, get to the point.”
“I’m doing my best, Boss, truly I am.”
I look up at him, realizing that incredibly, for once he’s right, he really is doing his best. Beating him up over his long-windedness isn’t going to get me anywhere, however satisfying it might feel right this moment to take out my Bligh 1911 Crocodile—an automatic pistol hand built from solid stainless steel, wrapped in genuine Caiman crocodile leather, chambered for 45 ACP rounds, only thirty ever made, and one of my most prized possessions—and blast the guy to pieces.
In any case the Bligh is far too good to waste on the likes of Vinny, and I’m damned if I’m paying to get my listening room redecorated again.
“Alright, alright, Vinny. I’m not mad at you. Tell me the rest of your story. You’re fine, really, everything’s cool.” I raise my hands in a gesture designed to show there’s no hard feelings between us, and Vinny visibly relaxes, breathes a little easier.
“Well, Boss, he got a call from one of the dealers on his regular round, with a couple of cars to sell him and guess what?” Vinny pauses.
“Go on, Vinny.”
“One of them’s a 95 Corolla in silver.”
“Interesting,” I concede. “Is that it?”
“No, Boss, there’s more.”
“Good. Let’s hear it.”
“Sure thing, Boss. So he goes up there to pick up the vehicles, and who do you think he does the trade for the Corolla with?
“A brunette?”
“You got it, Boss. An attractive young brunette. Italian looking. Brooklyn accent. So anyway, he takes the car and when he gets back home he gives his papa a call, and his papa gives us a call and, well… here we are.”
“Here we are indeed! Have we got the address?”
“You bet, Boss. It’s up in the mountains somewhere in the middle of nowhere in West Virginia. A place called Coyote Creek Falls. Some guy named Grant Naylor runs a repair garage and tow truck service outa there. The woman was with him.”
“Perfect.” I allow myself a smile. After a week of no leads, we have this. Not just a positive sighting, but an actual address. No doubt that fool of an old bastard Alessandro is with her there too. Perfect.
“Alright Vinny, you’ve done well. You may go.”
As the door shuts behind him, I light another Nostrano del Brenta and lean back in the leather armchair, pressing Play on the remote beside me.
I close my eyes, as the first notes from Puccini’s Nessun Dorma gently strum my heart, and Pavarotti’s rich tenor bursts out in all its dramatic glory.
Let her sit. I think to myself. Let her think she’s won. And then, when I’m good and ready…
The music swells to a glorious climax, thundering around me in an orgy of drumrolls and crashing cymbals.
…then… then, I will pounce. In my own time. Just like Papa taught me.