Thomas Cook - Peril

“You bring your piece?” Labriola whispered.

Caruso nodded.

Labriola draped his huge arm over Caruso’s shoulder and tugged him violently to his side. “Good boy,” he said.

They left the restaurant and headed back toward the bar, the focus of their conversation now on the songs she’d prepared. He went over the lead-ins, which would be brief, and how they had to be attuned to each other, singer and accompanist, to speed up if the other one got ahead, slow down if the other one fell behind, allow as much as possible for each other’s inevitable missteps, and above all, cut each other enough slack for a little improvisation.

“What time would be good for you?” he asked as they turned onto Twelfth Street.

“The sooner the better, I guess,” she answered.

At the bar, Abe introduced her to Jake, Susanne, and Jorge. After that, they took a table near the back, talked briefly, then, as if on a signal, Abe glanced at the clock. “So, ready?” he asked Sara.

“I guess I have to be,” she replied.

Abe walked to the piano, and standing beside it, introduced Sara as Samantha Damonte.

Then she sang, and as she sang Abe could feel it happening, how the people grew silent as they listened, grew silent and wrapped their hands around their glasses and hoped that just for a time, just for the few minutes during which her voice poured over them, the old devouring monster would leave them be.

Stark sat in the living room, stern and upright in the leather chair, his eyes on Mortimer as the two men faced each other silently.

Finally, Stark said, “What was the arrangement? The one you made with Labriola?”

“Just that you would find this woman,” Mortimer said. “His daughter-in-law. She run out on his kid. He wants to talk to her.” He shrugged. “He offered thirty grand.” He dropped his head slightly. “I was gonna give you fifteen, keep the rest. But things got screwed up. This other guy you had. Complicated, you know? So the thing is, I figure I’ll just tell Labriola that the deal’s off. That you’re out of it. Maybe you got sick, something like that. Dying. Anyway, you can’t do the job.”

Stark studied Mortimer’s face a moment, then rose, walked to a small wooden cabinet, took two glasses, and poured a splash of scotch in each of them. “The whole thing reminded me of Marisol,” he said as he handed one of the glasses to Mortimer.

Mortimer took a quick sip. “Yeah, I figured you thought it was maybe like that.”

Stark returned to his seat, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. “Is it?”

Mortimer took another sip from the glass.

“You know where she is, don’t you?” Stark asked.

Mortimer looked up from the glass.

“I want to see her,” Stark said sternly.

Mortimer stared at Stark silently, helpless against the fierce nature of his purpose, the odd nobility he added to every word he said.

“Where is she?” Stark asked.

Mortimer put down his glass. “She’s working at a bar in the Village.”

“Who else knows this?”

“The guy, the one who works for Labriola.”

“How does he know?”

“I told him.”

“Why?”

“To get you out of the deal,” Mortimer said. “He wouldn’t do it otherwise. But he won’t tell Labriola where she is.”

“What makes you think he won’t tell Labriola?”

“He won’t,” Mortimer said. Suddenly he heard Caruso’s voice, the tone of finality within it, the sense that something had changed. “I mean, he told me he wouldn’t let Labriola… hurt her.”

Stark’s gaze would not be turned aside. “Hurt her?” He leaned forward. “Mortimer, is this woman in danger?”

Mortimer saw Sara as she made her way down the block, toward the florist shop on the corner, so utterly exposed. He knew how it would go down, that Caruso would watch her in the rearview mirror of his car, wait until she reached a predetermined distance, then fall in behind her, steadily increasing his pace, reaching for his pistol as he did so, finally pressing the barrel so close to the back of Sara’s head that a wisp of her hair actually touched it.

“Mortimer, is this woman in danger?” Stark’s eyes bore into him.

Mortimer shuddered with the vision of what happened after that, Sara Labriola stumbling forward, a geyser of blood shooting from the back of her skull.

“Is this woman in danger?” Stark repeated.

Mortimer could scarcely imagine how badly things had gone or how out of control they’d now become. He took a moment to retrace the steps that had gotten him to this place. A death sentence from a doctor, a need to leave Dottie a few bucks, then a ridiculous bullshit scheme to cheat Stark, all of it finally leading to the terrifying truth that Sara Labriola, his best friend’s woman, was in dire peril.

“Yes,” Mortimer answered softly.

Stark grabbed the telephone and thrust it toward Mortimer. “Call Labriola, or whoever this guy is who works for him,” he said. “Tell him I want to have a meeting with the two of them.”

“I ain’t got a piece,” Mortimer said weakly.

Stark looked at him darkly. “I do,” he said.

Caruso glanced back to where Labriola sat sprawled in the backseat of the car. “Batman wants to have a meeting,” Caruso said, the cell phone held a couple of inches from his right ear. “Wants us to come over to his place.”

Labriola laughed. “You hear that, Tony? The guy I hired to find your wife, he wants to have a meeting. Ain’t that interesting?”

Tony said nothing, but merely sat, tense and agitated, like someone who’d set upon a course he now doubted.

Labriola chuckled. “What’s the matter, Tony? You don’t look all that sociable.”

“I just want to talk to Sara,” Tony answered weakly.

“Sure you do.” Labriola laughed. “But first I want to see the guy I forked all that cash over to.” He turned to Caruso. “Tell him okay. Tell him we’re on our way.”

Minutes later they were rumbling over the Brooklyn Bridge, the skyline of Manhattan a glittering wall before them.

Labriola drew in a long breath. “I hate Brooklyn,” he said quietly. He leaned forward and squeezed Caruso’s shoulders. “I hate Brooklyn, Vinnie.”

“Yes, sir,” Caruso told him.

Labriola dropped back in the seat, his gaze curiously lost and bleary. “Tremont was nice,” he added.

Ten minutes later, Caruso guided the Lincoln over to the curb on West 19 Street.

Labriola rolled down the window, thrust his huge head out into the night, and glared at the building, his anger returning suddenly, burning off the oddly meditative mood that had briefly settled over him. “I ain’t walking up five fucking flights to meet this asshole,” he snarled.

“He lives on the first floor,” Caruso told him quietly.

Tony jerked open the back door. “Come on, let’s get this over with. I just want to talk to Sara.”

“Talk to her,” Labriola laughed, his great bulk still slouched in the backseat. “You need to fuck her is what you need.”

Tony whirled around. “Why do you talk like that?” he asked fiercely. “Why do you say things like that to me?”

Labriola’s eyes caught fire. “What a worthless piece of shit you are, Tony,” he sneered.

Tony’s face stiffened, and for a moment the two men stared silently at each other. Then Tony turned around and headed up the stairs.

Labriola watched him briefly, then turned to Caruso, grasped his shoulder and gave it a painful squeeze. “Don’t fuck up.”

“I won’t,” Caruso promised.

Labriola jerked open the door and surged out into the night, his heavy bulk lumbering up the stairs.