Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,38
I have a question.”
Mr. DeNunsio raised an eyebrow. “Only one?”
“One to begin with.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Why us? I mean, why my family and not some professional?”
He took a last drag off of his cigarette and dropped it in a coffee mug. “Two reasons. The first is your family isn’t part of the mob. You hear all this stuff about honor and vows of silence, but it’s a myth. Everybody talks. It wouldn’t matter if I was in freaking Afghanistan, two minutes after I asked a goombah to whack Fat Nicky, ten guys would be talking about it on Mulberry Street. Second, and the main reason, is I can’t afford anyone else. Sure, I’ve got a few bucks in the bank, but this place is expensive, and I plan on living a lot longer. A real hit would wipe me out. Any more questions?”
“Not for now.”
“Good.” He reached into his nightstand and pulled out a photograph. “Okay, this is where he lives.”
I stared at the photo, and something about the house looked familiar. “Where is this place?” I asked.
“About three miles from here.”
“On Pine Wood Drive?”
“You know it?”
Of course I knew it. Fat Nicky lived less than five blocks from the Cheshire Arms, the apartment complex I had almost burned down as a kid.
“Yeah, my mom and I used to live nearby.”
“Damn. That complicates things. You’re a known quantity there.”
I shook my head. “It was a long time ago. Besides, I know the area like the back of my hand. The yards, the canals, everything.”
“Canals?”
“Yeah, the backyards go straight to the water and are connected by canals instead of alleyways.”
“No kidding?” he said. “That might work in our favor. You can swim, right?”
“Like a fish.”
“Good deal.” He pulled out a second photograph and handed it to me. “That’s him.”
I took the picture and sized up the man I was supposed to kill. Fat Nicky was around seventy-five years old and his face was dotted with age spots. He looked tired and frail, and the first word that popped into my head was “grandpa.” I tried to hand back the picture, but Mr. DeNunsio refused take it.
“Look a little longer,” he said. “Memorize it. Because after tonight, neither of us can have a picture of him in our possession.”
I stared at the photo and asked, “How come they call him Fat Nicky? He doesn’t look that fat to me.”
“He lost a lot of weight after he got shot.”
“Then why do they still call him fat?”
“Once you get a nickname you’re stuck with it.”
“What’s yours?”
“Sally Broccoli.”
“Sally Broccoli?” I said with a laugh. “How did you end up with a name like that?”
“I used to work with my pop selling vegetables at the Hunts Point Market. Some wiseass came up with the name and it stuck.”
“I guess it’s better than Tony Toe Cheese.”
“You can say that again.” He took the picture and tore it into little pieces. “And just to give you a taste of the kind of person we’re dealing with here, the first thing Fat Nicky made me do after I joined his crew was shake down my pop for protection money.”
“Did you do it?”
“You don’t say no to these guys.”
“What happened?”
“He made me break three of my father’s fingers. One at a time.”
“Jesus.”
Mr. DeNunsio sighed and reached for the anisette bottle. “Trust me, son. Jesus had nothing to do with it.”
19
AS MUCH FUN AS IT WAS HANGING OUT WITH MR. DENUNSIO and planning a make-believe murder, I was totally exhausted by the end of my shift. I wanted to visit my mother, but there was zero gas left in my tank, and I was worried I’d fall asleep on the bus ride home. I was so tired, in fact, I didn’t notice the scruffy guy with tattoos hanging out near the employees’ entrance.
“Hey,” he said.
“What the hell?” I said, jumping back. “Don’t scare a person like that.”
“Sorry. You Roy?”
“No.”
“They said the new guy’s name was Roy.”
“It was. But Roy got in a car wreck, and I’m the new new guy. Who are you?”
“I’m the old old guy.” He stuck out a hand. “Frank Quinn.”
I shook his hand and said, “Skip O’Rourke. How come you quit?”
“I didn’t quit. I got fired.”
“Why?”
“You tell me. They said it was for stealing drugs, but that’s bullshit. I mean, I was stealing drugs, but I’d been doing that for years. Somebody must have said something.”
“Who?” I asked.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to Roy about, but since he’s not here I’ll ask you.” He got in my face