"I'm the butler," said the man.
When Hooks entered the room, and when he saw who sat on a large couch, he found himself unable to deny guilt. This was because the room spun around him and his legs were not beneath him and he was looking up. If he were looking up, he reasoned, his back must be on the floor. And who was giving him water?
Don Salvatore Massello himself. That's who was pressing a glass of water to his lips and asking if he were all right.
"Oh, Jesus," said Hooks. For now he was sure this was Massello. He had seen pictures in the newspapers and on television when Mr. Massello, surrounded by lawyers, had declined to talk to reporter?.
There was the silver hair, the thin haughty nose, the immaculate dark eyebrows and the black eyes. And they were looking down at him and the lips were asking him if he were all right.
"Yes. Yes. Yes sir," said Hooks.
"Thank you for coming," said Mr. Massello.
"My pleasure and anytime, Mr. Massello, sir. An honor."
"And it is an honor to see you also, Mr. Basumo. May I call you Donald?" said Mr. Massello, helping Hooks to his feet and sitting him in a stuffed velvet chair and personally pouring him a glass of thick, sweet yellow Strega.
"Donald," said Mr. Massello, "we live in dangerous times."
"I didn't do it, sir. On my mother's sacred heart, I didn't do it."
"Do what, Donald?"
"Whatever, sir. I swear it."
Mr. Massello nodded with a tiredness that suggested the wisdom of the world.
"There are things men of respect must do to survive and I respect you for whatever you have done. I am proud to call you a friend, a brother."
Hooks offered to knock off any newsstand in the city for Mr. Massello, owned by a sighted person or not.
Don Salvatore Massello expressed gratitude for the most gracious offer but there was more important business at hand.
And he asked questions about the television set Donald had tried to sell to a fence. Had Donald seen it? Where was it? How did Donald hear of it? And getting an answer, Don Salvatore Massello asked about the girl, Janet Hawley, where she lived, where she worked and all manner of things concerning the girl.
"She don't mean shit to me, sir," said Hooks.
Mr. Massello understood that Donald was too serious a person to let his life be ruined by a skirt. Mr. Massello said this with a knowing smile. Mr. Massello led him to the door, assuring young Donald Basumo his future was secure. He would be a rich man.
And to show his good faith, he provided Donald with a room aboard the yacht that night. And two servants. They followed every instruction Hooks gave them, from bringing in booze and food and a young girl, except one request. Hooks wanted to take a walk in the fresh air. That they could not allow.
"You got everything you want right here. You're not leaving."
During the night, they awakened him and told him he could have his fresh air now. He didn't want it now. They told him he was taking it now.
It was 4:15 a.m. and quite dark. Hooks sat in the back seat of a car again and when they were well down the road headed toward St. Louis, he saw the marina lights come back on. He had left in darkness.
The car left the asphalt road and drove to the yard of a small construction firm. Hooks was surprised to see Janet Hawley waiting for him. She wore a bright yellow print dress covered from the waist up with mud. She was resting. At the bottom of a ditch, with a very big dent in her head.
Hooks started to question the servants about this when one of them interrupted by banging a baseball bat into Donald (Hooks) Basumo's auditory cortex in his temporal lobe. It went crack. And made a very big and final dent in his skull.
Don Salvatore Massello was not around to hear the crack. He was on a plane bound for New York City where he would have something very important to report at the national meeting of the crime families.
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo and he must have been cheating. James Merrick was praying for strength to complete his twentieth mile and the skinny bastard in blue had just passed him for the second time.
The next time would be three. Merrick's mind flitted back to the old sea adage of going down for the third time and he giggled hysterically. Suddenly his mirth turned bitter and he squeezed out, through clenched teeth:
"Hey, you. You, skinny. You, the guy in the tee shirt."
The man who had "Remo" written on his number card with a red magic marker turned his head back toward the huffing Merrick and pointed at himself.
"Who, me?" he said.
"Yeah. You. Remo. Wait up."
Remo slowed down and Merrick pulled his anguished legs, back and forth, back and forth, seemingly faster and faster. But he wasn't catching up; the distance between the two remained the same, no matter how hard he pushed his aching body.
"Come on. Slow down," yelled Merrick, in pain.
A moment later, Remo was no longer in front of him. He was directly beside Merrick, smiling distantly, running alongside him stride for stride.
"What do you want?" Remo said lightly.
Merrick stared at him, his eyes fogged with tears of exertion mingling with salty beads of sweat. The guy isn't even breathing hard, he thought.
"What's your number?" Merrick gasped.
Remo didn't answer. He just kept pace as they passed the Danvers town line.
Dammit, who was this maniac who wasn't even sweating? "You see this?" Merrick asked, jabbing the blue number six on his chest.
"Yeah," said Remo. "It's nice. That's called an Arabic number. Roman numbers are like they use for the Super Bowl. You know, x's and i's. Why do they call it an Arabic number? If Arabs could count real well, why don't their wars last more than a few days? Of course, maybe they'd rather lose fast than lose slow. I don't know."
The man was a loon, Merrick realized. "This is my number," Merrick puffed. "This means… I'm the sixth… person… to sign up for… this marathon. See? Now… what's your number?"
Remo did not answer. Suddenly Merrick felt a light touch across his front and then a cool breeze ruffling his graying chest hair. He looked down and saw a hole in his shirt where his number used to be clipped.
He looked back toward Remo but the man was gone. He had lengthened his stride and was pulling away from Merrick as if Merrick had been standing still. Remo's hands were busy at the front of his shirt and Merriclc knew he was pinning on number six. James Merrick's number six.
This was all he needed. Four years of work and this bum was walking away with his race. And his number.
Merrick had wanted to run in the Boston Marathon ever since he was a youth. But four years before he had decided to plan for the Bicentennial Marathon. If he won that one, he would be remembered. For the better part of four years, he worked himself into condition. And then, starting in February, he really turned it on.
Every day after work, he would run the seven miles home, briefcase clutched to his well-tailored chest. He'd arrive to the barely concealed smirk of his wife, Carol, sweat soaking through his Arrow Pacesetter shirt and Brooks Brothers' suit.