He never finished the sentence. Kramer’s fist brought it to a premature conclusion. Donny fell to his knees, his hand pressed against his face, tears in his eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?”
It was Mario, standing just behind them.
“Just handlin’ a little discipline problem,” Kramer replied. “Nothin’ important.”
“He hurt me!” Donny cried, rubbing his jaw. “He’s just mad because—”
“Silence!” Mario bellowed. “I’ve had all the petty bickering I can bear. Mr. Kramer, if I ever decide to hire you to enforce discipline within the family, I will let you know.”
Kramer muttered something under his breath.
Mario bent down and retrieved the notes, glanced at them, then dropped them in a trash can. “Donny, surely you didn’t think I needed you to set me straight?”
“I just wanted to keep a record. So you’d know why Kramer keeps screwing up.”
Kramer’s eyes widened, enraged. “You candy-assed son of a—”
Mario cut Kramer off with a wave of his hand. “If you ever hope to become a lieutenant, Donny, you must learn to follow instructions and observe the chain of command.” He turned to face Kramer. “I must admit, however, that to a large extent I share Donny’s concerns. Mr. Kramer, you have a reputation for efficiency that knows no bounds. As a result, you have been trusted with matters of great delicacy.” His voice swelled in volume. “So why the hell can’t you take care of one third-rate crook and one fucking lawyer?”
Kramer stuttered uncertainly. Mario interrupted before he could complete a word. “I don’t care to hear your excuses.” He placed his hand roughly against Kramer’s chest, shoving him back. “One more chance, Mr. Kramer. That is all that remains to you. One more failure, and you will no longer have any association with this family. You will be invisible to us. Transparent. A ghost. Do you understand?”
Kramer didn’t answer. His teeth were clenched tightly together.
“I said, do you understand?”
Kramer nodded his head slowly. “I understand.”
“Perfect.” Mario extended his hand to help Donny up, who was still lying on the floor.
“Thanks, Uncle Mario. I told you what a screwup he was—”
“Donny, shut up. You’ve been no more successful than Mr. Kramer. Indeed, I have to wonder whether your forced association with Mr. Kramer is the reason for his atypical incompetence.”
“Uncle Mario!”
“I’m shipping you back to your mother, Donny. It pains me, but I must tell Monica you have no place in this family. Not as a lieutenant, not even as the lowliest foot soldier. Perhaps we can reconsider when you have matured, say, in thirty or forty years. But for now, I want no part of you. Goodbye.”
“But, Uncle Mario!”
It was no use. Mario was already down the hall and out of sight.
Donny stared at Kramer, who was standing stiff as a board, obviously seething. He’d never seen anyone talk to Kramer like Mario just did. Served the bastard right.
He decided to run back to his room before Kramer snapped out of it and started slugging again. He wasn’t going to pack, though. He couldn’t believe Mario would really ship him back home. This was a warning, that’s all. Shape up or ship out.
So he would shape up. He would prove to Uncle Mario that he could be a valuable asset to the organization. By accomplishing what Kramer could not.
He would kill Travis Byrne stone-cold dead. And not make a mess of it.
FRIDAY
April 19
37
1:00 A.M.
TRAVIS HAD RECOUNTED EVERYTHING that had happened since Al Moroconi called him the night before. Cavanaugh listened quietly and patiently to the entire story—not that she really had any choice.
“So you see where I am,” Travis concluded. “There’s nowhere I can go. There’s no one I can trust. Visiting friends would be fatal, both for them and me. So I came here.”
Cavanaugh leaned forward, the dishrag still wedged in her mouth. “Mmmwhtantfmmmeeee?”
“I’m sorry,” Travis said. “I missed the last part.”
Cavanaugh kicked up her heels, sending the chair within inches of capsizing.
“For the millionth time, I’ll take the rag out of your mouth if you won’t scream. You don’t have to help me. Just promise you won’t try to attract any attention.”
He waited a long time. Eventually, her head moved slowly up and down.
Travis crawled over beside her. “This is going to sting a little. Should I do it all at once, or slowly?”
She rolled her eyes.
In a quick jerk, he ripped the duct tape off her face. Cavanaugh made a noise, but it was muffled by the dishrag. He yanked it out of her mouth. “Does this mean you believe what I told you?”
“No,” she replied curtly. “It means I’m tired of having a dirty dishrag in my mouth. Blech!” She rubbed the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You could at least have used something clean.”
“You didn’t allow me much time to look around.”
“That was the same towel I used to mop up the spilt soup!”
“So? I thought the soup was delicious.”
“It’s better on a spoon than a dishrag. I think you’re totally delusional, Byrne. But even if what you say is true, what do you want from me?”
“I told you. I just need a place to crash for the night.”
Cavanaugh glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’ve half-accomplished that goal already.”
“Of course,” he added, “any recommendations you could make would be greatly appreciated.”
“I recommend counseling, Byrne. Intensive, psychiatric counseling. Shock therapy, perhaps.”
Travis ignored her. “Didn’t you say you used to be a skip tracer? You must know all kinds of dodges for finding people who have disappeared.”
“That was a long time ago, Byrne.”
“So? I’ve seen you in the courtroom. You have a great memory.”
“For some things, yes. For others, no. That’s a part of my life I try to block out.”
“But this is an emergency—”
“Don’t you hear what I’m saying, Byrne? This is not a part of my life I wish to remember. Do you have any idea what that might be like?”
Travis looked down suddenly. “I have … some idea, yes.”
“Good. Then leave me alone. And get me the hell out of this chair.”
“Do you promise not to try to get away?”
“Get away? I live here Byrne, remember?”
“I can’t untie you unless you promise not to leave.”
“Why not? Christ!” She struggled against the tape strapping her to the chair. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid this hundred-and-five-pound woman will overpower you?”
“Frankly, yes. You damn near got away the last time we struggled. I’m not taking any chances.” He smiled slightly. “After all, you are a martial-arts expert.”
“This is probably how you get your cheap thrills. Bondage. S-and-M fantasies.”
“Oh, please—”
“I bet that’s it. I’m surprised you haven’t been sitting over there jerking off.”
“Such language. Next time I’ll put a bar of soap in your mouth.”
“Sicko.”
This was the drawback to overpowering people and taping them to the kitchen furniture: they tended to be somewhat hostile afterward. “Look, I understand how you feel. Some guy you only know from the other side of the courtroom breaks into your apartment, and for all you know he may be a … a …”
“Psychosexual sadist who likes to tie women up?”