get and simply laid his head back down on the pillow, folded his hands across his chest, and waited. He didn’t close his eyes. He just lay there in the queen-sized bed with the dust ruffle, surrounded by the cherry colored bedroom set and the Crate and Barrel curtains, and waited.
It was the same with Mel Castro a month before Paul Bruno. Staying late at his barber shop in Montgomery, Alabama, he was sweeping the floor when he heard the chimes on the door. He turned to see Hank in the doorway and knew the game was up without saying a word. He turned to sprint out the back, slipped on the pile of hair he’d just collected, and went down so hard Hank could hear the man’s wrist snap against the cold tile. But Hank wasn’t in a hurry. He walked slow as Mel fled down the hallway to find the back door blocked by the front end of Hank’s rented Jeep. After ramming his shoulder against the door, he knew it was over. Mel Castro just turned to face Hank and stood like a man about to receive a sentence, resigned to the finality of it.
And it was a sentence. At least that’s how Hank saw it. They might all live outside the law, but that didn’t mean there weren’t rules. His job was no different than any police officer. It was only that the penalties were more severe—usually because the infractions were of the worst kind. Breaching the trust. Turning on your fellow man. He had heard the arguments before—murder is murder; it’s always wrong—but Hank dismissed them as childish. It wasn’t murder if it was consensual, if everyone agreed to the rules on the front-end. And they all did, just as everyone else agreed to the rules of the road when they got in their cars. Starting the engine was an act of consent. Working for Fazioli was the same damned thing.
Once a guy crossed the line, he knew what he was in for and he knew there was no going back. It was an all or nothing deal, you couldn’t just choose the parts you liked. Just like a guy who drove his car on the left side of the road couldn’t defend himself by saying it was legal in England, a guy who worked for Fazioli couldn’t turn his back on the society he was a part of, he couldn’t cross back over and claim the protections of the regular system.
Everyone knew that, especially the guys who did it. The Paul Brunos and Mel Castros of the world always knew what they were in for. They always knew that one day a guy like Hank would walk up to them and turn their head inside out without even giving them a chance to say good-bye. That was just the way it was. The fundamental ethos of their tribe.
Hank checked his watch and wondered where the woman was. He wasn’t eager to sit in the lounge all night, letting every asshole in town get a good long look at him. Then some guy with glasses, dressed in a suit without a tie, took the stool next to him and looked around like he was trying to figure out how he got there. Hank guessed everyone in the place knew each other and knew who wasn’t local and this guy would attract even more attention. Hank tried not to look at the guy, but he couldn’t help himself. Then their eyes met—two strangers on the road, bellying up to the local bar—and the guy nodded at Hank and said, “Hey, how’s it going?”
One of those, Hank thought, and then said, “Not bad.”
“Food any good in this place?”
“First time here.” Hank smiled, debating whether to slide off the stool and find the gal in the real estate office in the morning. Then the guy glanced down at Hank’s empty plate, so Hank added: “I had the chicken chow mein. It was alright.”
The guy grinned back at him and seemed uncomfortable, like he wasn’t sure how to behave around people. “Oh, great.” He nodded. Then, when the bartender finally came over, the guy ordered a beer and said, “And give this gentleman here another of what he’s having.”
Great. Now he was stuck. Hank thanked the guy and checked his watch again. Then looked back over his shoulder at the pool table and everyone else who had nothing better to do on an otherwise normal weeknight. The guy next