"Who was 'at?" the young woman asked when the government car had driven off.
"Just a guy," said Bert.
She knew from the way he said it there was more to it than that, and she knew she shouldn't ask.
It was getting hot. The Shirt plucked moistening silk away from his collarbones. Hawkins's pass had succeeded in annoying him. "Little town like this," he said, "island, like, on'y problem is, it don't take much for the place ta feel crowded."
Debbi thought briefly, guiltily, of the pleasure of Gino's absence, and said, "Funny—for me the town feels a lot less crowded all of a sudden." She petted the chihuahua one last time, then put a hand on Bert's shoulder and began the slow and dicey process of rising from the seawall.
She pushed off on a skate and lurched away. Her knees turned inward, her arms flailed for equilibrium, her narrow butt stuck out behind her, seeming not quite part of either legs or torso, a province on its own. She twitched and wobbled as though the earth were moving underneath her, and Bert could not suppress an ungallant image of the old circus trick in which a poodle dances on a beach ball. He watched her till she was lost in the general blur of runners and walkers, and then he reminded himself to wonder just what the hell had become of Gino, what kind of mess he'd blundered into this time.
30
The forklifts had started in at 6 a.m.
They made a droning, buzzing sound as they wheeled in and out of the tall aisles of boxed seafood; the drone rose to a shrill whine as the forks strained to lift the heavy pallets from the stacks. The engines ran on propane, and the exhaust carried a sweetly nauseating smell, a mix of bakery and farts.
The fumes crept under the door of the office where Gino Delgatto, his ankles tied to the legs of a desk, was trying to get a little sleep on the freezing floor, while the thugs in pearl-gray suits took turns napping in squeaky chairs. The propane exhaust mingled with the baked electric smell of the space heater; there seemed to be no room left for oxygen. The prisoner strained for air; each breath hurt as it whistled through his broken nose. Greenish purple bruises were spreading under both his eyes, the lids were puffy. He dozed off and on as the winter wind slammed in from the river and made the warehouse sing a warped note, like a shaken sheet of tin.
Around eight Aldo Messina returned, along with Pretty Boy and Bo. Bo, freshly shaved, looked uglier than before, the scar along his jawbone buffed to a high luster. Pretty Boy's morning bennies were just kicking in, he was getting antsier by the moment. The three men carried big containers of coffee; they brought coffee for their colleagues in the pearl-gray suits but not for Gino. This was a small thing, but it made the captive want to weep with tender pity for himself. He badly wanted some coffee. And aside from that, being denied what everyone else had, being excluded from the morning ritual—it rubbed his nose in his isolation, made him realize how disconnected he'd become from all things comforting, familiar.
Bo untied the captive's ankles and he got stiffly to his feet. Pretty Boy grabbed his chin and examined the discolored face with the eye of a specialist. Messina moved slowly toward the desk and leaned against it.
Today the boss was wearing a black turtleneck that deepened the funereal gloom of his gaze. He warmed his delicate hands around his coffee cup, huddled over it like a refugee. He took a sip, then got down to business. "Gino," he said calmly, "after careful consideration, after sleeping on it, I've come to the conclusion you're a fuckin' liar. You're going in the river."
After all the bad smells of the last day or so, the aroma of other people's coffee was pushing Gino beyond despair. That and the fear of death made his puffy eyes fill up. "I ain't lyin'," he whined. "How could I make up somethin' like that?"
Messina sipped his coffee. "I thought about that," he said. "I thought you were probably too stupid to make it up. That was a point in your favor." "So—"
"But I've known your father a lotta years," the somber boss continued. "That was a big point against you. Very big point."
The manic Pretty Boy snapped his fingers. "Bottom line, Gino: Kiss your hairy ass goo'bye."
Messina told him to shut up; then there was a pause. Everyone but Gino drank coffee. The forklifts buzzed and the building rang. In his mind, Gino scratched and groped like a cornered mouse, still looking for some gap in the world, some hole in the baseboard, to escape through. "I ain't sayin' take my word for it," he rasped at last. "Check it out."
Pretty Boy's coffee cup had been halfway to his mouth when Gino spoke. Now, instead of drinking, he gave in to a twitch and flung it in the captive's face. The hot liquid stung Gino's eyes; he managed to lap a few sweet drops as they trickled down. Then Pretty Boy grabbed him by the shirt and shook him hard. "Crumbfuck," he said. "Disgusting asshole. Wantin' ta get your own father clipped."