“We can’t let-”
“This is why the whole white race is going to hell,” Fred said, exasperated. “You can get just as dead rumbling over who gets to sell reefer in your part of town as you can over who stepped on a piece of sidewalk without permission. You take the same risks. You go to the same prison if you get caught. If the Vice Lords decide to come to Locke City, it’ll be like someone spread hot black tar all over the North Side, and then brought in a steamroller. The only way to keep them out is to show them it’s not worth the risk.”
“I… How could we…?”
“You got how many zips in your arsenal?”
“Three good ones. There’s a few more, but I’m not so sure they’ll-”
“And the niggers?”
“Who knows what they’ll bring. Last time, they didn’t even have one, I don’t think. Nobody got hit, anyway.”
“Wednesday, that all changes,” Fred said. He took a chrome-plated revolver out of his jacket, laid it on the table in front of the gang leader. “Ever use one of these, Ace?”
“I once-” the young man began, then cut himself off to speak the truth. “No.”
“Nothing to it,” Fred assured him. “Now, this here is a quality piece. Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, exactly like the cops use. Soon as the niggers even see it, they’re going to run. And when it goes off-boom!-it’s not like hearing that little pop from a zip gun; this thing sounds like a cannon.”
“It’s beautiful,” the gang leader said, not reaching to touch the pistol, willing his hands to calmness.
“Wednesday night, you walk toward each other, all in a line, right? Side to side? You in the middle, the leader. The leader from the Kings-what’s his name, Preacher?-he does the same. You wait until you get close before you pull this out, Ace. And two seconds after that, the whole world changes. That is, if you’ve got the heart to-”
“Me?” the young man said, torn between anger and fear. “Me!?”
“Come on! What are you talking about?” Milt said to his partner. “Ace wouldn’t be leader of the Hawks if he hadn’t proved himself.”
“Sure, that’s right,” Fred apologized. “I know you’re the man for the job.”
“How much for the pistol?” the young man said, tight-jawed.
“Consider it a gift,” Fred said. “From your friends.” He brought out a box of bullets. “There’s twenty-four in there. More than enough for you to practice with, and have plenty left for Wednesday.” He released the revolver’s cylinder and sighted down the barrel, holding his thumb at the front end to reflect light. “That’s how you check, to make sure it’s clean, okay?”
The gang leader nodded, watching closely.
Fred loaded the pistol, each step a slow-motion demonstration. “You only put five in, okay? So the hammer always rests over an empty chamber.” He snapped the cylinder into place.
“You with me?” he asked.
The gang leader nodded again, realizing that he wouldn’t like the way his voice would sound if he spoke aloud.
Fred reopened the cylinder, turned the pistol upside down, and caught the cartridges as they spilled into his open palm.
“They come out real easy most of the time. But if they stick, you just use the extractor, like… this, see?”
Another nod.
“First thing, you get used to the trigger pull,” he said, handing over the empty gun.
The gang leader hefted the pistol, surprised at its weight.
“Aim it over there… at the wall. Good. Now squeeze the trigger. One long, steady pull. Don’t ever jerk it.”
The gang leader felt the resistance of the trigger, pulled steadily. As the hammer came down, his face twitched, so slightly that it would have gone unnoticed if the others hadn’t been expecting it.
“Now, you could cock it first,” Fred said, taking the pistol back and demonstrating, “and then shoot.” The hammer dropped-Ace flinched at the sound. “And that’s more accurate, if you’re only going to shoot once. But you don’t want to be doing that. You want to be able to squeeze all five off, bang-bang-bang, nice and smooth. Understand?” he asked, handing the pistol back.
“Will it kick?” the gang leader asked.
“A little bit. Nothing much. That’s why you have to practice. Get used to it. So it doesn’t make you jump when you go into action.”
“Okay.”
“There’s no safety on this piece,” Fred said. “But if you don’t walk around with it cocked, it’s never going to go off accidentally. And, anyway, you’re always on an empty chamber, like I showed you, all right?”
“Yes.”
“This is it, Ace,” the man he knew as Mr. White said. “After Wednesday, the Hawks aren’t going to be small change anymore. You’re going to be the real thing.”
1959 October 04 Sunday 17:06
The knock on the hotel-room door pulled Dett from the easy chair as if attached by invisible wires. He said, “Yes?” in a calm, polite voice, slid the derringer from his pocket, and padded silently across the room so he was standing to the side of the door.
“It’s me, sir. Rufus. Thought I’d just freshen up that ice bucket for you before I went off my shift.”
Dett opened the door, his right hand in the pocket of his slacks. Rufus smiled his way inside, and made straight for the top of the bureau.
“Yes, sir, this one ain’t but water now.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Yes, sir. You know, like I said before, anytime you want something, all you got to do is ask for me.”
“Thanks.”
“You okay with your liquor supply, sir? ’Cause it just take me a minute to-”
“I’ll be fine,” Dett said.
“Mix you one now, if you like?”
“Yeah, okay.” Thinking, He’s working way too hard for a lousy dollar.
“I notice, a lot of the gents, they like to have a little taste before dinner, ‘specially if it’s going to be a real spread.”
“You must be a mind reader,” Dett said, half-smiling. “I’ve got a big date later, and a big date starts with a big dinner, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes sir, I sure do!” Rufus said, grinning as he handed over the drink he had prepared. “Gonna be out late tonight, I bet.”
“If things work out the way I plan, all night,” Dett said, holding up the glass of bourbon in a silent toast.
1959 October 04 Sunday 17:11
“In this life-our life, I mean-you know what’s the best thing you can have going for you?” Salvatore Dioguardi said.
“People you can trust?” the scar-faced man sitting across from him replied.
Dioguardi nodded his concurrence. “I know guys, you know guys, right in this thing with us, been from the beginning, guys who wouldn’t give you up even if they had to walk into the death house,” he said. “We got a dozen men fit that description, right in our own outfit back home, G.”
“More,” the scar-faced man said.
“But that’s not enough to make a man trustworthy,” Dioguardi said. “A man could have a solid-steel pair on him, but that don’t make him smart. Some guys, you couldn’t beat their own name out of them, but you put them in the right situation, you could get them to tell you anything you want to know.”
“You mean, like with a broad?”
“With a broad. Liquored up. Or even just plain okey-doked-tricked, scammed, chumped. They’d be spilling their guts, and they wouldn’t even know it.”
“So you’re saying the best thing a man can have is a good brain?” the disfigured man asked, waiting patiently for the punch line.
“No, Gino. The best thing, for what we do, for our life, is when people think you’re stupid. When they underestimate you.”
“Nobody underestimates you, Sal.”
“When did you turn into an ass-kisser, G.?”
“Hey!” the older man said, his voice dropping an octave.
“What else should I say, you pouring the olive oil over me like I’m a fucking plate of pasta, Gino? You know me all my life. I always looked up to you. When I started to make my own moves, you were the man I wanted with me, from the beginning.”