had indeed been crazy before.
The Client
35
BARRY THE BLADE ENTERED THE WAREHOUSE ALONE. Gone was the swaggering strut of the quickest gun in town. Gone was the smirking scowl of the cocky street hood. Gone were the flashy suit and Italian loafers. The earrings were in a pocket. The ponytail was tucked under his collar. He’d shaved just an hour ago.
He climbed the rusted steps to the second level, and thought about playing on these same stairs as a child. His father was alive then, and after school he’d hang around here until dark, watching containers come and go, listening to the stevedores, learning their language, smoking their cigarettes, looking at their magazines. It was a wonderful place to grow up, especially for a boy who wanted to be nothing but a gangster.
Now the warehouse was not as busy. He walked along the runway next to the dirty, painted windows overlooking the river. His steps echoed through the vast emptiness below. A few dusty containers were scattered about, and hadn’t been moved in years. His uncle’s black Cadillacs were parked together near the docks. Tito, the faithful chauffeur, polished a fender.
He glanced up at the sound of footsteps, and waved at Barry.
Though he was quite anxious, he walked deliberately, trying not to strut. Both hands were stuck deep in his pockets. He watched the river through the ancient windows. An imitation paddle wheeler hauled tourists downriver for a breathtaking tour of more warehouses and perhaps a barge or two. The runway stopped at a metal door. He pushed a button and looked directly into the camera above his head. A loud click, and the door opened. Mo, a former stevedore who’d given him his first beer when he was twelve, stood there, wearing a dreadful suit. Mo had at least four guns either on him or within reach. He nodded at Barry, and waved him on. Mo had been a friendly guy until he’d started wearing suits, which happened about the same time he saw The Godfather, and he hadn’t smiled since.
Barry walked through a room with two empty desks, and knocked on a door. He took a deep breath. “Come in,” a voice said gently, and he entered his uncle’s office.
Johnny Sulari was aging nicely. A big man, in his seventies, he stood straight and moved quickly. His hair was brilliantly gray, and not a fraction of the hairline had receded. His forehead was small, and the hair started two inches above the eyebrows and was slicked back in shiny waves. As usual, he wore a dark suit, with the jacket hanging on a rack by the window. The tie was navy and terribly boring. The red suspenders were his trademark. He smiled at Barry and waved to a worn leather chair, the same one Barry had sat in as a child.
Johnny was a gentleman, one of the last in a declining business being quickly overrun by younger men
who were greedier and nastier. Men like his nephew here.
But it was a forced smile. This was not a social call. They’d talked more in the past three days than in the past three years.
“Bad news, Barry?” Johnny asked, knowing the answer.
“You might say so. The kid’s disappeared in Memphis.”
Johnny stared icily at Barry, who, for one of the few times in his life, did not stare back. The eyes failed him. The lethal, legendary eyes of Barry the Blade Muldanno were blinking and watching the floor.
“How could you be so stupid?” Johnny asked calmly. “Stupid to leave the body around here. Stupid to tell your lawyer. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
The eyes blinked faster and he shifted his weight. He nodded in agreement, now penitent. “I need help, okay.”
“Of course you need help. You’ve done a very stupid thing, and now you need someone to rescue you.”
“It concerns all of us, I think.”
Johnny’s eyes flashed pure anger, but he controlled himself. He was always under control. “Oh, really. Is that a threat, Barry? You’re coming into my office to ask for help and you’re threatening me? Are you planning to do some taUdn’? Come on, boy. If you’re convicted, you’ll take it to your grave.”
“That’s true, but I’d rather not be convicted, you know. There’s still time.”
“You’re a dumbass, Barry. Have I ever told you that?”
“I think so.”
“You stalked the man for weeks. You caught him sneaking out of a dirty little whorehouse. All you had to do was hit him over the head, coupla bullets, clean out his pockets, leave the body