Sunburn(48)

Arty put his pen down, sipped wine, and discreetly observed Vincente in his funk. It made him wonder about the boundaries of a ghostwriter's job. Where did his duties and his privileges begin and end? Should he only listen, or should he probe? Concern himself only with his subject's words, or with his moods, his quirks, his sadnesses? Be a scribe, an employee, or presume to believe that by dint of the affection that comes from paying close attention he could perhaps become a friend?

"Vincente," he said softly, "is there more we wanna talk about?"

The Godfather stared away a moment longer and then just shook his head. Arty had the feeling that he didn't speak because he was afraid that if he spoke he would begin to cry.

"Call it a night then?"

The old man nodded. Arty closed his notebook, then scooted forward in his seat, put his elbows on his bare knees, and said, "Vincente, maybe it isn't the perfect time, but can I tell you something before I go?"

By way of answer, Vincente only cocked his head. There was something resigned and automatic, priest-like, in the gesture. He might be weary, he might be crammed full of evil stuff, but he would listen, it was his job to listen; he would never have the luxury to stop his ears.

"Two guys from the FBI came to my office," Arty said. "They wanted to talk about you."

Vincente raised a finger to a bushy eyebrow, scratched it lightly, nodded. "Thanks for tellin' me, Ahty. Lotta guys, they wouldn'ta had the balls ta tell me."

"Why not?"

The Godfather seemed to find the question amusing. He braced his wrists against the arms of his chair and squirmed to a less forlorn position. "I like you, Ahty," he said. "It's a dumb question, but I like ya for askin' it. Ya really don't know?"

Arty said nothing.

"Lotta guys," Vincente went on, "they'd think it was dangerous if the Feds were on to them and I knew it. They'd think I'd see them as a whaddyacallit, a liability, that I'd doubt them, ya know, be worried that they'd turn on me. . . . That never even occurred to you, did it, Ahty?"

The ghostwriter just shook his head.

"A clear conscience," said the Godfather. He said it wistfully. "Fuckin' amazing. . . . You think the best about people, don't'cha, Ahty?"

The younger man just shrugged.

The Godfather mulled a moment, then said, "Mus' make ya a lousy journalist."

The ghostwriter stood up. It was time to go; he left Vincente with a small gift of candor. "Little secret?" he said. "I am a lousy journalist."





28


It was snowing in New York, a thin wet snow that was white against the streetlights but turned gray and glassy by the time it squashed itself on the windshields of the cars. From the Verrazano Bridge, the Manhattan skyline was a ghostly smudge. It was the middle of the night. There should have been no traffic, but cars still crawled behind trucks spreading salt and sand between the stanchions; the delay juiced up Pretty Boy's crankiness to the level of psychosis.

"I feel like I got fuckin' curry in my bladder," he said.

"The pills," said Bo. "They're burnin' y'up inside."

"Ya know what's wrong with this fuckin' country?" said Pretty Boy. "Too fuckin' big. Little country, Puerto Rico like, we'd be home already."

"Puerto Rico ain't a country."

"Fuck you too, Bo. I'm sicka you."

On the Brooklyn side they turned off toward the west, following the Belt Parkway as it wound around the crammed, offended shoreline. They exited at Red Hook and slid down steep cobbled streets toward the warehouses and the docks. Disused railroad tracks were everywhere, they arced and looped among the paving stones, standing out like scars. The wet snow made them slick as polished marble, and the Lincoln fishtailed now and then, its rear end whipping crazily. Gino Delgatto, slightly blue and barely conscious, flopped around the trunk like a caught fish in the bottom of a boat.

At the docks, Pretty Boy maneuvered through the narrow opening of a high metal gate and drove to a hangar-like steel building that backed onto the river. He pulled through an open portal to a loading dock, and there, finally, he stopped the car.

He got out, stretched, and opened the trunk. He saw Gino lying curled around the spare tire.

The captive struggled to turn over, his red-rimmed eyes blinking spastically against the sudden light. His arms were still cuffed behind him, his legs were trussed up like a veal. Pretty Boy produced a switchblade and cut the ropes around his thighs and ankles. "Get up, shit-head," he commanded.

But with the bonds removed, Gino's legs were no more mobile than before.

Bo reached down and turned him by the ankles; the stiff body pivoted on its hipbones but stayed in the shape of a chair. Finally the two Fabretti thugs grabbed Gino by the armpits and settled him like a dummy on the lip of the trunk. Pretty Boy yanked the duct tape off his face; it came away with a sound like ripping cloth. Then, for no reason in particular, he backhanded him hard across the cheek and said, "Welcome ta New Yawk."