Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,31
employees’ parking lot.
“What’s up?” I asked as we climbed into his Lexus. “Something tells me you didn’t come here to give me a ride home.”
“Of course not. We have to plan the job.”
“Oh goody. I’ve been wondering how we’re going to pull off this magic trick without Mr. DeNunsio finding out Fat Nicky is still alive.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Roy replied. “DeNunsio wants this done on the down low. Part of the deal is that we’re supposed to make the body disappear after we cap him.”
I held up my hand like a traffic cop. “Wait a minute. You just said we? Mr. DeNunsio doesn’t know I’m involved in this, right?”
“That would be correct.”
“Good, because like I told your dad, I don’t want anyone outside the family knowing I’m part of this thing. One word gets out, and I’m gone. You understand?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Good.”
I didn’t believe Roy for a second, but at least I’d drawn a line in the sand. If someone in my family crossed it, I now had the perfect excuse to quit the job and flush my life down the toilet forever.
“Just out of curiosity,” I asked. “With no body and no pictures in the paper, how do we prove we killed Fat Nicky? Or is Mr. DeNunsio just going to take our word for it?”
“Of course not. He wants a scalp.”
“He wants us to scalp the guy? How do we do that without killing him?”
“No, doofus. A scalp is something that absolutely, positively belongs to the victim. In this case, DeNunsio wants a picture.”
“What kind of picture?”
“An autographed picture of Frank Sinatra.”
“The singer?”
“Old Blue Eyes himself. Sinatra was like a god to these guys. They practically worshipped at his feet.”
“That doesn’t sound very hard,” I said. “There must be a million pictures of Frank Sinatra on the Internet. Let’s just print one out and autograph it ourselves.”
“Not so fast. The picture DeNunsio wants is a Polaroid of Fat Nicky and Frank Sinatra taken backstage at Caesars Palace. It’s Fat Nicky’s most prized possession, and there’s only one like it in the world.”
“That makes things a bit more challenging.”
“Only a little. But don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out. Fat Nicky has a hard time breathing from all the lead in his chest, and twice a month he gets these big oxygen tanks delivered. I slipped the guy who drops them off fifty bucks, and he told me the picture of Frank Sinatra is hanging above the TV in the living room. It’s the perfect setup. All we need is a van, some uniforms, and a couple of oxygen tanks. That way we can pretend to work for the oxygen company and steal the picture when Fat Nicky isn’t looking.”
I thought about it a second and said, “That’s the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard.”
“Why?” Roy replied, looking hurt. “What’s the matter with it?”
I held up a finger. “One, uniform or no uniform, Fat Nicky isn’t letting a total stranger into his house. The first thing he’s going to do is call the oxygen company and—boom—we’re busted. Two, let’s say we do get lucky and steal that picture. All roads still lead back to the oxygen company, and do you really think your guy will keep quiet if Fat Nicky puts a gun to his head? And three, there’s no way I’m letting Fat Nicky see my face. Sorry, cuz, your plan stinks.”
“Fine. You got a better one?”
I thought about it for a minute and said, “Why don’t we just break into Fat Nicky’s house and steal the picture while he’s asleep.”
“You can do that?”
“Not me. You.”
“No way.”
“Why not? You’ve broken into a thousand houses. Why should Fat Nicky’s be any different?”
“Because the guy’s a mobster.”
“I thought you said he was retired. And besides, he’s hooked up to an oxygen tank. How dangerous could he be?”
Roy chewed on a thumbnail. “You know,” he said after a minute. “You might be on to something here.”
16
THE ONLY GOOD THING ABOUT TAKING ROY’S JOB WAS THAT my old cell phone started working again. I’m not saying Uncle Wonderful had anything to do with it, I’m just saying that the person responsible for it was probably named Uncle Wonderful.
“Hello,” I croaked a couple of mornings later when the phone in question rang and woke me from a sound sleep.
“Yo, Skip. It’s Vinny.”
“What’s up?”
“Bad news, man.”
“What?”
“Roy was in a wreck last night.”
I sat up in bed and tried to force myself into something resembling consciousness. “Is he all