Shock Waves(29)

A man like Bolan.

All he had to do was try his damnedest, give his utmost to the cause, retaining nothing for himself.

And he would keep on trying, sure, until his time ran out.

If necessary, he would die trying.





13




Bobby D'Antoni drew deeply on the cigar, bringing it to life, and finally waved the houseman back. The sterling-silver lighter snapped shut close to his ear and then was gone.

"Awright, go on. So what's your point?"

The consigliere, Joe Marcellino, leaned across the table toward him, talking with his hands.

"I don't like all this shit that's going down next door, is all. I say it stinks, and this is no time for a sit-down, when they're in the middle of a war."

D'Antoni spread his hands and blew a cloud of smoke toward the penthouse-apartment ceiling.

"War? I don't know anything about no war." He glanced around the table at his caporegime. "You boys know anything about a war?"

They glanced at one another, shook their heads, gestures that rippled around the table, counterclockwise.

"People's gettin' killed," Marcellino told him, bending forward so far that his chin was almost scraping on the tabletop. "No matter what you call it, now, the shit is in the fan."

"So stand upwind." The capo waited until his underbosses chuckled dutifully. "I don't see any blowin' our way yet."

"Why push it, eh? The meet's been waiting this long, it can wait another day or two."

D'Antoni bristled.

"Wait, nothing. Don Minelli's counting on me to be there. I give my word. I don't show up, somebody's gonna take it hard... and I don't want them bastards makin' any plans behind my back."

"Minelli, hmm..." The little consigliere made a sour face. "I never trust him. You're smart, you don't trust him, either."

"As far as I can see him, Joe. If he's got anything in mind for us, I wanna see it coming from a long way off."

One of the under bosses raised a hand.

"Yeah, Paulie."

"Hey, I think Joe's onta somethin' there, with this Minelli business. Nobody seems to know that much about the guy, you know? An' I been checkin' since this trouble started, too. Seems like his family is the only one not takin' any hits."

D'Antoni chewed that over for a moment, puffing rapidly on his cigar, his eyes screwed tight against the rising smoke.

"Okay. So, le's imagine that Minelli has a thing against his neighbors. Could be the best thing ever happened to us, if the five families start chasin' each other in circles. Could make for lots of opportunities across the river, there."

"Could make for lots of headaches, too," Marcellino grumbled.

"So, I keep my date with Don Minelli, listen close to what he says. I take along some extra muscle for security... nothin' threatening, just common sense. I don't like what I hear..."

The massive picture window on D'Antoni's left, overlooking downtown Newark, appeared to shiver momentarily, the center of it puckering as if an invisible finger was being poked through frozen cellophane. The illusion collapsed in the space of a heartbeat, along with the window, and everyone was scrambling for the far side of the room, all tangled up in chairs and table legs, recoiling from the shower of fractured glass.

Everyone, except Joe Marcellino.

D'Antoni saw his consigliere die, the gray hair lifting as a bullet took him from behind, the time-worn face exploding like a melon with a cherry bomb inside. His brains were on the table, glistening wet, and then D'Antoni felt the contents of his stomach coming up as he was diving toward the floor.

His houseman took a little two-step toward the shattered window, dropping the lighter, one hand inside his jacket as he fished for his side arm. He almost made it, had his hand around the weapon's grips when he was lifted off his feet and hurled against the wall ten feet away. He hung there for an instant, crucified, and when he slithered down, he left a crimson track behind him on the paneling.

D'Antoni heard the gunfire then, as distant as the street sounds coming up to him from twenty floors below. A big-game rifle, the bullets traveling ahead of sound; their work was completed long before the victim had a chance to realize he had been shot.

The capo wriggled on his belly through a littered mess of broken glass and blood. Overhead, the rounds were coming in with mechanical precision, smacking into walls, furniture and flesh with fine impartiality.

One of his underbosses broke from cover, stumbled, finally found his balance halfway to the door. He took two strides before a spectral fist struck him hard between the shoulders, driving him face-first into the floor. He crumpled there, his leaking body serving as a doorstop, keeping out the gunners who were hammering to gain admittance.

Almost as an afterthought, the sniper answered them with two rounds through the center of the door, big elephant loads blasting holes the size of baseballs and driving back the rescue squad outside. A voice was screaming in the anteroom, and Bob D'Antoni wished to hell someone would pull the plug on that one.