Robin Cook - Blindsight

“I can’t sit here any longer,” Tony said. “I’ve got to get out of the car.” He reached for the door latch.

Angelo put his hand on Tony’s arm. “Relax!” Angelo said with enough threat in his voice to restrain Tony. Cerino had been right to pair them up, in a way. Angelo, the “dude,” made an excellent foil for brash Tony. He looked older than his thirty-four years. Where Tony was short, Angelo was tall and gaunt, his features sharp and hatchetlike. If Tony was sensitive about his height, Angelo was sensitive about his skin. His face bore the scars of a near-lethal case of chicken pox at age six and severe acne from thirteen to twenty-one. Where Tony was wild and impulsive, Angelo was cautious and calculating: a seemingly calm sociopath whose character had been molded by an endless series of foster homes and a final stint of hard time in a maximum security prison.

Both men were rather vain when it came to their wardrobes. Yet Tony never quite cut the figure for which he aimed; his suits, no matter how expensive, were always ill-fitting on his disproportionately muscled body. On the other hand Angelo gave even Dapper John Gotti a run for his money where sartorial elegance was concerned. He wasn’t flashy, just meticulous. He wore exclusively Brioni suits, shirts, ties, and shoes. As Tony’s muscle building was in response to his short stature, Angelo’s fastidious attire was in response to his complexion, a subject about which he did not brook any reference.

Tony leaned back in his seat. He glanced in Angelo’s direction. Angelo was one of the few people Tony feared and respected, even envied. Angelo was connected, a made man whose reputation was legendary.

“Paulie told me that Frankie DePasquale would show up at this grocery store,” Angelo said. “So we’re going to spend the next month waiting here if need be.”

“Christ!” Tony muttered. Instead of getting out of the car, he reached into his baggy jacket and extracted his.25 caliber Beretta Bantam. Releasing the spring-loaded catch in the butt, he slid out the magazine and counted the bullets as if one of the eight shells could have disappeared since he last counted them half an hour ago.

When Tony pulled the empty gun’s trigger, Angelo rolled his eyes. “Put the gun away,” he said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“All right, all right!” Tony said, pushing the magazine home and returning the pistol to its shoulder holster. “Take it easy, will you.” He glanced at Angelo, who stared back at him for a moment. Tony held up his hands. He knew Angelo well enough to know he was irritated. “The gun’s away. Relax already.”

Angelo didn’t say anything. He resumed looking toward the entrance of D’Agostino’s, watching the people coming and going.

Tony sighed heavily. “It’s been a freaking month since the mothers threw the acid in Paulie’s face. Maybe the bums have split, skipped town. That’s what I would have done. The next day I would have been outta here. Gone down to Florida or out to the coast. We might be sitting here for nothing. Have you thought of that?”

“Frankie has been seen,” Angelo said. “He’s been seen here at D’Agostino’s.”

“So how did it happen?” Tony asked. “How’d they get close to Cerino in the first place?”

“It wasn’t complicated,” Angelo said. “Vinnie Dominick called the meeting with Cerino. There were to be no weapons. Everybody had to leave his piece in his car. We even used a metal detector that Cerino had taken from Kennedy Airport. When Terry Manso started to serve coffee, he threw a cup of acid in Paul’s face. The reason we know Frankie was involved was because he came with Manso.”

“How’d Frankie get away?” Tony asked.

“The moment Paulie got the acid the lights went out,” Angelo said. “Then the place went crazy with Paulie screaming and everybody diving for cover in the dark. I was by the front window. I threw a chair through it and dove outside. That was when I saw Manso come out the front door. Frankie was already climbing into a car. It all happened so fast, few people could react.”

“How did you manage to get Manso?” Tony asked.

“It was a race,” Angelo said. “Manso lost. My car was directly in front of the restaurant with my piece on the front seat where I could get to it fast if something went wrong. I got off two shots as Manso tried to get into his car. He never made it. Both slugs went into his back.”

“How many people were involved?” Tony asked. He’d been curious about the acid episode since he’d heard about it, but he’d been afraid to bring it up.

“The way I figure it, at least two more besides Manso and DePasquale,” Angelo said. “Knowing for sure is one of the reasons we want to talk with Frankie.”

“God, it blows my mind,” Tony said with a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine how much the Lucia people promised to pay for this kind of hit.”

“Nobody knows for sure,” Angelo said. “In fact, word has it that the punks did it on their own, thinking they’d be rewarded by the Lucia people for their balls. But as far as we can tell the Lucia people haven’t even acknowledged it.”

“So disrespectful,” Tony muttered. “Acid in the face. Christ!”

“That reminds me,” Angelo said. “Did you get that battery acid?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony said. “It’s in Doc Travino’s old doctor’s bag on the backseat.”

“Good,” Angelo said. “Paulie is going to like that. It’s a nice touch.”

Tony stretched. He was quiet for a minute. Then he cleared his throat. “What do you say to my getting out of the car for just a second? I’d like to do a set of push-ups. My shoulders are tight.”

Angelo swore under his breath and told Tony that being in the car with him was like being locked up with a two-year-old kid.

“I’m sorry,” Tony said with arched eyebrows. “I’m used to more activity than this.” Locking his hands together, he did a series of isometric exercises. In the middle of one of these maneuvers he stopped and stared out the side window.

“Holy crap, isn’t that Frankie DePasquale coming along beside us?” Tony said excitedly.

Angelo leaned forward to see around Tony. “It sure looks like him.”

“Finally!” Tony exclaimed as he fumbled to withdraw his gun and reach for the door latch. He felt Angelo’s hand on his arm. He looked at his mentor in surprise.

“Not yet,” Angelo said. “We have to make sure the kid’s alone. We can’t screw this up. It might be our only chance and Paulie doesn’t want more trouble.”

Like an eager hunting dog restraining himself with difficulty from some flushed prey, Tony watched as Frankie DePasquale disappeared into the crowded grocery store. To his surprise, Angelo started the car. “Where are you going?” he demanded.

“I’m just backing up a bit,” Angelo explained. “It appears that Frankie is alone. We’ll take him when he comes out again.”

Angelo angled back to the curb at a bus stop. He left the engine running. They waited.

Twenty minutes later, Frankie came out of the store with bundles in both arms. Angelo and Tony watched as he walked directly toward them.

“He looks like a teenager,” Angelo said.

“He is,” Tony said. “He’s eighteen. He was in my sister’s class before he started hanging around with the wrong people and dropped out of school.”

“Now!” Angelo said.

In a flash both Angelo and Tony got out of the car and confronted the surprised Frankie DePasquale. Frankie’s eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped.

“Hello, Frankie,” Angelo said calmly. “We need to talk.”

Frankie responded by dropping his groceries. The bags split when they hit the wet sidewalk and a number of cans of tomato paste rolled into the gutter. Frankie turned and fled.