Savvy smiled, his feet propped on his desk, twitching in their alligator leather shoes. "You were right. The girl did the trick. No pun."
"Of course, Salvadore."
Savvy frowned. "That's Savvy."
Dirk Fallows grinned. "Of course, Savvy. That's why we let her escape this morning. We knew they'd find her or she'd find them. The rest was easy."
Cruz lumbered across the floor, his shoulders hunched from the short ceiling. The trailer rocked slightly with each heavy step. He flopped onto the leather couch and the trailer groaned in protest. "But you still didn't get Ravensmith." His tone was mocking.
"I didn't expect to. That wasn't the plan. Eric is more a student of mine than he realizes. It would have been fatally naive of him to have risked his wife's and son's lives for a girl he didn't even know. Not at these odds. At least now we've separated him from his troops, not that they'd have been much help anyway against my men."
Cruz snorted. "We'd have stomped the shit out of them."
"What are you going to do with them now?" Savvy asked.
Fallows shrugged. "You can keep them. As payment for playing your part so well. The women look fit enough for your kind of work. The man, well, kill him."
"What about Ravensmith?"
"I've sent some men south to make tracks for him to follow. In a day or two we'll-"
"Where'd you get those fairy shoes?" Cruz interrupted, pointing at Savvy's feet. "I knew a nurse who wore shoes like that."
Fallows was impatient. "What difference does it make?"
Cruz stared at Fallows, his eyes darkly threatening. "'Cause I want to know. I get tired of hearing you talk about how clever you are."
Fallows flashed a splendid smile, like a politician who's been drafted to run for the presidency. "Savvy?"
Savvy smiled nervously, glancing back and forth between the two. "W-well, we tapped into a warehouse for some big department store. The Broadway. Sometimes I send Flex over in a wagon to bring something back."
Cruz grunted. "Why the fuck would you want sissy shoes like that? They ain't any good for walking."
"I don't walk much."
"Yeah, I guess not. You got everything you need right here, huh? If you ever decide to get rid of that faggot Flex, let me know. I might be interested."
"Uh, sure, Cruz. Right." He avoided Fallows' eyes.
"Well, Cruz," Fallows said, his smile still intact. "If we've satisfied your sartorial curiosity, maybe we can haul ass out of here."
Cruz thought it over, nodded his huge head, and rose.
"I'll walk you out," Savvy said, less to be polite than to make sure they were gone.
"Goodbye, Salvadore," Fallows saluted from the edge of town as he, Cruz, and Timmy Ravensmith marched into the night.
Savvy didn't bother to correct him. He just smiled and waved and hurried back to the safety of his trailer.
When the door closed behind him, he sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. His stomach was fluttering, his heart clattering like a teletype machine. He'd had to deal with some heavyweight executives in his tenure at Bambino Frozen Foods, but nothing like those guys. Cruz was a mean mother, like Flex only a hundred times tougher. But Fallows was worse. Icy stare, dead voice rumbling up from some tomb. Smart enough to plan anything, tough enough to make it work. Like Ravensmith.
But, hell, so was he in his own way. Salvadore Pascalli from Sullivan Street. Too square to have his own nickname. Now he has a fucking town named after him, And bikers with goddamn tattoos following his orders. He laughed, remembering how he once walked out of a restaurant because the only available seat was next to a man with a tattoo.
What was that going on between Cruz and Fallows? Something nasty. Cruz had been insulting. And Fallows had let him. It didn't figure. He'd seen Fallows with his men before, seen him break his own soldier's hand because he'd said a wrong word or didn't move fast enough. But what could you do with a man like Cruz? He was like those St. Bernards that are so obedient when they're young, but often go mad when they get older. You'd have to be mad to fuck with Fallows that way. But then you'd have to be mad to fuck with Cruz. The hell with it, he was just glad they were gone. Now they were Ravensmith's problem.
Savvy opened the drawer and pulled out his tape recorder. He opened the second drawer and rummaged through it, piling objects on the desk while he searched:.32 Remington Model 51, a wad of hundred dollar bills he kept around for laughs, a switchblade that Flex had promised him had killed two people. Ah, there it was, a spare tape cassette. This was going to be the greatest damn autobiography of the century. He couldn't wait to see it in print. Tomorrow he was going to question the girls and see if any of them knew how to type. They might like the change of work, he chuckled. He might even send Flex and Lido out to dig up a typewriter.
But right now he needed a title. Every day he thought about titles, trying to decide on a good one. One that had vitality and class. How about, Confessions of a Self-Made Man?
He said it aloud. "Confessions of a Self-Made Man." Shook his head. Too… clinical. Passive. Hmm. "Island King. Island God. No, no. This Man Is an Island. Too Hollywood. Sounds like something starring Vincent Price." He stared at the desk, absently spun the gun like a top.
Then there was an arm around his neck, a hand clamped over his mouth. Another arm twisting his head.
"How about, This Man Is Dead?" Eric said.
Savvy's left hand tried to pull Eric's arm away from his neck. His right hand tapped across the desk top, found the gun, closed around it.