Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

The salsa music seemed in direct conflict with the aroma of Bolognese sauce. Larson chatted up the hostess, slipped her a twenty along with the disposable camera, and gave her specific instructions. He then worked his way through the cluster of overly tall cocktail tables and chairs toward the back. The music changed to percussive Moroccan. He recognized Salvo from the simple description supplied him by Frank Cunetto.

Salvo wore his arrogance in the form of an overly starched, oversized yellow collar poking out of a black leather jacket unzipped to below the table. A thick gold chain showed through a forest of chest hair. His watch had to weigh a couple of pounds. He had the lazy eyes of some killers Larson had interviewed and the broken nose of someone who liked to use his fists, but something about him said more bark than bite. Dino also looked younger than he’d hoped. He wore his black hair slicked back with too much mousse. It shined in the overhead lights.

One small plate contained rolled dolmas, another, some kind of dumpling, and a third, shish kebab. The dipping bowl’s pool of black ink might have been responsible for the smell of cinnamon.

Without invitation, Larson sat down across from Salvo. He placed his identification wallet down next to the man’s wineglass and left it there long enough for Salvo to read it. He then slipped it back into his pocket, making sure that in the process Salvo would see he was packing.

“You like dolmas?” Salvo asked, without so much as a flinch. “Best dolmas in the city, right here.”

“Pass,” Larson said, “Dino.”

Dino remained impassive.

“We both know you made a phone call from Cunetto’s, and we both know who it was to, and that it came at the request of someone else like you: someone not worth my time.”

“If you don’t like tapas, they do a pretty fair toasted ravioli as well.”

“There are jobs worth taking, and there are jobs that aren’t worth taking, and this one falls into the latter category. You want to stay as far away from this one as possible. And all your friends do, too. You were put up to this because you’re expendable, Dino. Plain and simple. What you want to do is play this smart and let the Romeros do their own business.”

Dino wanted to think he was good at this, but with mention of the Romeros his eyes fluttered. Larson decided he hadn’t known who was behind the job he’d carried out. Just good money for placing a phone call.

“They told you what to say,” Larson said. “And chances are a man of limited intelligence, such as yourself, probably was dumb enough to write it down. And that means you threw a scrap of paper away, doesn’t it, Dino? You want to think about that. Are we going to find it in a car, in a trash can at Cunetto’s, tossed out on the street between here and there? It’s not still in your pocket, is it? ’Cause that could be really embarrassing.”

The man’s blinking and the tongue working told Larson he’d struck a nerve.

“The best thing you can do right now is get the word out that there’s federal heat on jobs coming from out of town. Even these small ones, like making a phone call. Big heat. Do yourself a favor, and take the money you made on that call and take a long vacation. Anyone found cooperating with these people will be looking at accessory charges- child kidnapping . Federal charges, federal courts, federal prison. It took us less than ninety minutes to find you, Dino. You need to do a lot better next time.”

All this served a simple strategy. If Larson could force the Romeros to negotiate directly with Hope, he had a chance of locating the child. But it was highly unlikely his talking tough would have much effect-there were plenty of Dinos waiting in line.

He lowered his voice, leaned in across the table, and stole a dolma. He ate it as he talked, the food blurring his words. “Whoever’s the first to provide information that connects to the Romeros is going to win a free Get Out of Jail pass as well as the daily number.” Larson wasn’t being facetious. State lotteries had been used for years to pay off informants. Ten thousand here, five thousand there-a low-level winning ticket in hand for all to see so there were no questions asked about where the money came from.

“You like the dolmas?” he repeated.

Larson’s BlackBerry rang. He finished chewing, swallowed, and as he took the call, he signaled the young hostess who carried his twenty.

He was told Salvo’s cell phone had received a call two hours earlier from a pay phone in Plano, Texas. Another evidentiary dead end, no doubt, but Salvo didn’t need to know that. He hung up and faced Salvo.

“So now I hear that the call that was made to you-the one giving you this job-came from Plano, Texas.” This much was the truth; the next part Larson invented. “We picked up your boy about a half hour ago.”

As the hostess arrived, Larson scooted his chair around right next to Salvo, who was mid-bite. He threw his arm around the man’s shoulders and then tossed his head back and said, “Cheese.”

She clicked off two flash shots before Dino Salvo had the good sense to break the embrace. Larson stood and took the camera before Salvo was to his feet. Twenty dollars well spent.

“How long will it take LL to identify me in that shot?” Larson asked Salvo. “How about the Romeros? How long to figure you’re hanging with federal heat?”

Concern creased Salvo’s brow. Larson knew he’d hit a nerve.

The hostess moved off, sensing the trouble she’d caused. Several nearby patrons stopped eating and watched.

“How much of a scene you want to make, Dino? How deep do you want to wade into this?”

“LL has nothing to do with this.”

“Then you’ll have no problem explaining to him a wave of new charges filed against him and the five thousand dollars-a cash deposit-that moved through your bank account the day after this picture was taken.”

“What five grand?” Dino Salvo wasn’t the fastest on the uptake.

Loyalty was the only currency for guys like him. No matter what excuses he might make for the photograph, its very existence would plant seeds of doubt. Larson might not be able to pull off the money stunt, but Dino couldn’t be sure of that.

Salvo told the waitress to leave his food as he followed Larson out of the restaurant. For a moment Larson believed the man stupid enough to start a fight. But as it turned out, he’d only sought to distance himself from the ears inside. Amid thick humidity and the distant hum of traffic, Salvo lowered his voice and warned, “You don’t want to fuck with me.”

“I’m already fucking with you, Dino. Gimme a break. You get the word out, and you get lost, and I’ll stop fucking with you. Make another phone call for whoever paid you to make that phone call, and you’ll regret it for twelve to twenty.” Larson pointed at the man’s yellow shirt. “You got a little spot there. Looks like sauce, maybe.”

He turned his back on the man and walked away, but used a parked car’s outside mirror to see Salvo already scratching frantically at the stain.

“This is not an official review,” Scott Rotem began. He faced Deputy Marshal Gilla Geldwig, an unusually attractive woman with dark, brooding features and haunting green eyes. Her body, a bit big and clunky by femme fatale standards, was nonetheless full at the top and lean in the leg, giving her an imbalanced look that would not have photographed well, but worked fine when she was sitting down, as she was now. It was her face, though, her eyes, that grabbed you, so Rotem tried his best not to look directly into her eyes, not to cave in to the compelling pull. He needed this interview-this interrogation-to be successful. For the sake of Markowitz, Laena , and his own career. Five protected witnesses had been executed in the past twenty-four hours. The bloodbath appeared to have started. Thousands of others were at stake. He hated her for what she represented.