Tooth shook the man’s clammy hand briefly, then released it as fast as he could, as if it was a decomposing rodent. He didn’t like to shake hands. Hands carried germs.
‘The journey was fine.’
‘Can I fix you a drink? Whiskey? Vodka? Glass of wine? We got just about everything.’
‘I don’t drink when I’m working.’
Ricky grinned. ‘You haven’t started yet.’
‘I said I don’t drink when I’m working.’
The smile slid from Ricky’s face, leaving behind an awkward leer. ‘OK. Maybe some water?’
‘I had water in the car.’
‘Great. Terrific.’ Ricky checked his cigar, then sucked on it several times, to keep it burning. ‘Maybe you want something to eat?’
‘I ate on the plane.’
‘Not great, that shit they give you on planes, is it?’
‘It was fine.’
After five military tours, some of them solo, fending for himself behind enemy lines, eating beetles and rodents and berries sometimes for days on end, anything that came on a plate or in a bowl was fine by Tooth. He wasn’t ever going to be a gourmet. He didn’t do fine food.
‘We’re good, then. All set. Do you want to put your bag down?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Come with me.’
Tooth, still holding his bag, followed him along a corridor furnished with a fancy antique table, on which sat ornate Chinese vases, and past a living room that reminded him of an English baronial hall in a movie he’d seen long ago. A bitch in navy velour was sitting on a sofa, smoking a cigarette, with an ashtray full of butts beside her, and a loser was sitting opposite her, watching a bunch of dumb fuckwits playing American football.
This is what I risked my life for, gave my all for, so assholes like these could sit in their swell homes, with their fancy phones, watching dickheads playing games on big television screens?
Ricky ducked into the room and reappeared almost immediately carrying a brown envelope. He ushered Tooth back along the corridor to the hall, then led him down the stairs and into the basement. At the bottom was an abstract painting, as tall as Tooth, covered in what looked like photographs with weird faces. His eyes flickered with mild interest.
‘That’s pretty special,’ the man said. ‘A Santlofer. One of the up-and-coming great modern American artists. You wanted to buy that now, you’d pay thirty grand. Ten years time, you’ll pay a million. The Reveres are great patrons. That’s one of the things my sister and my brother-in-law do, they spot rising talents. You gotta support the arts. Y’know? Patrons?’
The painting looked to Tooth like one of those distorting mirrors you saw in fairgrounds. He followed the man through into a huge poolroom, the table itself almost lost against the patterned carpet. There was a bar in one corner, complete with leather stools and a stocked-up wine fridge with a glass door.
The man sucked on his cigar again, until his face was momentarily shrouded in a billowing cloud of dense grey smoke.
‘My sister’s pretty upset. She lost her youngest son. She doted on the kid. You gotta understand that.’
Tooth said nothing.
‘You shoot pool?’ the man said.
Tooth shrugged.
‘Bowl?’
The man indicated him to follow and walked through into the room beyond. And now Tooth was impressed.
He was staring at a full-size, underground ten-pin bowling alley. It had just one lane, with polished wooden flooring. It was immaculate. Balls were lined up in the chute. All down the wall, beside the lane, was wallpaper that gave the illusion of rows of stacked bookshelves.
‘You play this?’
As his reply, Tooth selected a ball and placed his fingers and thumb in the slots. Then he squinted down the length of the lane and could see that all the pins, white and shiny, were in place.
‘Go ahead,’ the man said. ‘Enjoy!’
Tooth wasn’t wearing the right shoes, so he made the run-up carefully and sent the ball rolling. In the silence of the basement it rumbled, like distant thunder. It clouted the front pin exactly where he had aimed it, slightly off centre, and it had the desired effect. All ten pins went straight down.
‘Great shot! Gotta say, that’s not at all bad!’
The man drew again on his cigar, puffing out his cheeks, blowing out the heavy smoke. He hit the reset button and watched the mechanical grab scoop up the pins and start to replace them.
Tooth dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit one. After he had taken the first drag, the man suddenly snatched it out of his hand and crushed it out in an onyx ashtray on a ledge beside him.
‘I just lit that,’ Tooth said.
‘I don’t want that fucking cheap thing polluting my Havana. You want a cigar, ask me. OK?’
‘I don’t smoke cigars.’
‘No cigarettes in here!’ He glared challengingly at Tooth.
‘She was smoking a cigarette upstairs.’
‘You’re down here with me. You do business my way or you don’t do it. I’m not sure I like your attitude, Mr Tooth.’
Tooth considered, very carefully, killing this man. It would be easy, only a few seconds. But the money was attractive. Jobs hadn’t exactly been flooding in just recently. Even without seeing this house, he knew about the wealth of this family. This was a good gig. Better not to blow it.
He picked up another ball, rolled it and hit another strike, all ten pins down.
‘You’re good, aren’t you?’ the man said, a little grudgingly.
Tooth did not respond.
‘You’ve been to a place in England called Brighton? Like in Brighton Beach here in New York, right?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You did a job for my cousin. You took out an Estonian ship captain in the local port who was doing side deals on cargoes of drugs.’
‘I don’t remember,’ he said, again being deliberately vague.
‘Six years ago. My cousin said you were good. They never found the body.’ Ricky nodded approvingly.
Tooth shrugged.
‘So, here’s the deal. In this envelope are the names and all we have on them. My sister’s prepared to pay one million dollars, half now, half on completion. She wants each of them to suffer, real bad. That’s your specialty, right?’
‘What kind of suffering?’
‘Rumour has it you copied the Iceman’s stunt with the rat. That right?’
‘I don’t copy anyone.’
The Iceman had been paid to make a victim he’d been hired to hit suffer. The client had wanted proof. So he wrapped the man, naked, in duct tape, with just his eyes, lips and genitals exposed. Then he left him in an underground cavern filled with a bunch of rats that had been starved for a week, and a video recorder. Afterwards his client had been able to watch the rats eating him, starting with the exposed areas.
‘Good. She’d appreciate you being creative. We have a deal?’
‘One hundred per cent cash upfront only,’ Tooth said. ‘I don’t negotiate.’
‘You know who you’re fucking dealing with?’
Tooth, who was a good six inches shorter, stared him hard in the eye. ‘Yes. Do you?’ He shook another cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth. ‘Do you have a light?’
Ricky Giordino stared at him. ‘You got balls, I tell you that.’ He hit the reset button again. ‘How can I be sure you’ll deliver? That you’ll get all three hits?’
Tooth selected another ball from the chute. He lined himself up, ran, then crouched and sent the ball rolling. Yet again all ten pins scattered. He dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a plastic lighter. Then he held it up provocatively, willing the man to try to stop him.
But Ricky Giordino surprised him by pulling out a gold Dunhill, clicking it open and holding up the flame to his cigarette.
‘I think you and I – we’re pretty close to understanding each other.’
Tooth accepted the light but did not reply. He didn’t do understanding.