The Venetian and the Rum Runner - L.A. Witt Page 0,109

said they work for Agosto il Sacchi.”

Carmine’s spine turned to ice. “Are you sure?”

The kid seemed to think about it, then nodded. “Yeah. Agosto il Sacchi.”

Carmine swore under his breath. “And he just, what? Wants me to pay for his liquor, and then he’ll give me back the crew?”

“That’s what he told me.” The boy shrugged gingerly. “I don’t remember nothing else.”

Carmine chewed the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t imagine this kid could remember much or think very clearly. Not after he’d been beaten and terrorized.

But there were three men in his house who hadn’t been beaten or terrorized—yet—and even if they couldn’t give him more information, they could send a message for him. That was what he really needed right now.

So he left the boy to rest from his ordeal, and he went out to the toolshed where Paulie and Nicolo were keeping an eye on the three men who’d dropped off the Irish boys.

They were sitting in chairs with their hands bound behind them. One had had a bloody nose earlier. Now two of them did. Carmine couldn’t say he was all that broken up over it. He asked his men, “They say anything?”

Paulie and Nicolo shook their heads.

“Nothing useful.” Nicolo glared at the man with the more recent nosebleed. Well, that answered that.

Carmine turned to the bound men. “Who do you boys work for?”

One scowled. “We ain’t telling you a damn—”

“Agosto il Sacchi,” said the one whose nose had been bleeding from the start. His boys glared at him, but he added, “He told us to drop off the kid because he had a message for you.”

“Uh-huh. And he gave me that message. Now I need one of you to take a message back to your boss.” Pointing at the man who’d spoken up, Carmine said, “Untie him.”

“What?” the uninjured one asked. “What about us? What are you gonna do with us? Il Sacchi won’t stand for—”

“Shut up.” Carmine leaned out the door and sharply beckoned to a couple of other men who were standing around smoking. “Keep an eye on these two.” Nodding toward the untied man, he added, “We’re taking this one for a walk.”

They all looked well and truly scared now. Good.

He turned to the unbound man. “What’s your name?”

The man stared at him.

Carmine sighed. “I am not in the mood for this. Tell me your name before I have someone beat it out of—”

“Marcello.” The idiot swallowed. “Marcello Corsetti.”

“Right. Marcello. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He slung an arm around the wise guy’s shoulders and looked at the other two. “I want you boys to keep his name in mind. Because if anything bad happens to you—” He patted Marcello’s chest hard enough to make him grunt “—it’ll be because he didn’t do what he was told.”

The seated men shot their buddy plaintive looks.

Then Carmine led Marcello out of the toolshed. “Where’s their car?” he asked his men.

“Few blocks from here.” Paulie gestured vaguely, as if indicating something up the road. “We can take you to it.”

“Yes. Do that.”

In front of the house, Nicolo shoved Marcello into the back of Paulie’s car. Carmine joined Paulie in the front. No one said a word as Paulie drove them down a few streets and took some turns, eventually leading them to the abandoned roadster. It was close enough they could have walked, but this was far less conspicuous than walking down the sidewalk with a gun to a man’s back.

At the place where the car had been abandoned, they all got out. Marcello regarded them uneasily. “Listen, I don’t want no trouble, all right? I just—”

“No trouble?” Carmine laughed humorlessly. “You drop a wounded man and a corpse at my home—at my mother’s home—and you say you don’t want trouble.” He came closer and grabbed the back of the man’s neck, glaring right into his eyes as Marcello cringed. “You brought the trouble, so now it’s your trouble.”

Without waiting for a response, Carmine tightened his grip on Marcello’s neck, turned him, and slammed his face down on the hood of the car with a satisfying crunch, the impact pulling a grunt of pain from the man and leaving a smear of blood on the gray finish. For good measure, he did it once more, and he thought he saw a tooth go skittering off the side and into the gutter. Marcello sputtered and choked, spitting more blood onto the smear he’d left on the finish.

Then Carmine shoved Marcello up against the car and