Jon Reskind - Sir Launcelot volume 1

"We'll see," the thin man replied, his evil leer never leaving his hawk-like face. "We'll see… won't we, baby…"

When he sat like that, staring off at nothing, his face almost a blank, Max Bovino gave Silk Weaver little gremlins in his belly. Ordinarily, you could see a guy's eyes and maybe figure some about what he was thinking. With Max Bovino, those dead slugs jerking in his head behind the dark glasses, you couldn't tell anything. He was expressionless.

Silk watched him, admiration for the handsome, broad-shouldered man in his small eyes. He was the perfect cut of the big-time, all right, the way he'd always pictured them, and just the manner he held his martini-glass… you could tell… if you knew anything at all, you could tell. Maybe, he was fifty… fifty-two, Silk wasn't sure, but one thing… he'd been there, on top of the heap, before the Godamned Boston Fintzerwold mob had made runny grape-pulp out of his eyes. And he'd bet his ass that Max had been tough… but then, the syndicate had put him out to pasture, setting him up in this jerk-water city for old-times sake when Max told them he'd picked a place… probably laughing up their safety deposit boxes, but the big-boy knew what he was doing. In less than a year, he fixed himself up strong, both politically and socially, playing all the angles perfectly. Hell, all a guy had to do was take a stroll through the casino during prime evening time to catch the elite with a fistful of chips and agog-eyed over the fixed roulette wheel… say nothing of the lawyers, judges, or city and state officials eagerly tossing the shaved dice. The big-man greased the right palms.

It was a fucking joke, that's what it was, and Max Bovino was pocketing the last laughs in healthy Swiss bank numbers. Not only that, but now his boss was about to satisfy the biggest unwanted debt in his life… the loss of his sight, and you had to give a guy credit for never giving up. That was Max Bovino, all right: that was the big-man, himself. He just wished that Max had listened to him before; then he would've had it all… full portion. Instead, Max had been contented to wait, like a man sipping rare-vintage wine, as he'd put it, just savoring the taste for awhile before he guzzled down the whole Godamned bottle. Anyway, that'd cost him; now he was going to have to get his charge from a half-bottle… Someone had already tapped the jug.

Silk swallowed at his scotch-soda and watched the big-man's blank face. What the hell, he thought, he had no complaints. Max had dragged him out of a New York gutter and lined his pockets with velvet, the way he'd never dreamed. Sure, he was a stooge… so what? If Max said, shit… he dropped his pants… and why not? The man paid. In the meantime, he, Silvan Weaver, learned… and in two years a guy learned a hell of a lot with Max Bovino for a teacher.

Booze, money, broads… what the hell else was there? He had 'em all; no broken-down bitches either, but sweet, tender little cunts like Lily Vance, once, the big-boy finished with them… and there wasn't much question but what he'd had it with her, Silk felt certain. The stuck-up little bitch, how she was going to wish she'd treated old Silk just a little kinder before this night was over. He snickered to himself as he thought of a few of the things he intended to do to her…

"What the devil are you simpering about, Silk?" Max snapped, without looking in his direction. Lonny, harnessed, and at his master's feet, growled in the scrawny man's direction at the mere tone of the blind-man's voice.

"Nothing, Boss. I-I was just…"

"Shut up and listen to me. I want you to deliver a message," Max cut him short. "Drive out to Quarrysite and tell that punk actor that I've waited long enough. Tell him I'm giving him… say, seventy-two hours to come up with the eighty-five grand he owes me… or I'm going to mount his nuts over my mantelpiece. Tell him I don't like guys who welch on their gambling debts and if you have to emphasize a few points, do it. Understand?"

"Gotcha, Boss," Silk replied, grinning sadistically.

"But… don't rough him bad, eh?" Max added, leaning back and sipping at his martini. "I don't want to louse anything up… I think I've got a pretty one going here. Maybe you better take Lou and Burke with you."

"Sure thing, Boss. Whatever you say."

"What time is it?"

Silk glanced at the diamond-studded watch on his thin wrist. "Four," he replied.

Max nodded and smiled. "Good. The Sheldon dame is due anytime."

"You want me here when she comes?" Silk questioned.

"No, that won't be necessary…" Then, on second thought: "Yeah… maybe for a few minutes, Silk. I want to taunt her a little. You can help me there." He pondered momentarily. "You're sure about her playing around with this Halo punk."

"Hell, yes," Silk answered. "No question about it. That's where he went last night… to her new place downtown."

"Good! Beautiful! Couldn't be better," the big-man said, running a hand over his heavy shock of greying, waved hair. He smiled to himself in his darkened world, then, held out his empty glass. "Get me another drink."

Silk moved quickly, taking the empty glass to the bar and refilling it. Max said to him: "Think maybe I'll let you have Lily, Silk. I don't believe there'll be room for her on my schedule anymore… after I meet Susan Sheldon, eh?" He chuckled lewdly to himself. "You like that?"

Silk swallowed tightly. "Sure… you bet I do, Boss. She's kind of… my type… if you know what I mean."

"Yeah? Well… I knew there was something about her that disgusted me. Come on, hurry with that drink for Chris'sake."

"Sorry, Boss," Silk said, placing it into his big hand. "Ahhhh… is that official? I mean, like tonight, maybe… me and Lily?"

Max laughed, looking straight ahead at nothing. "Suit yourself, boy. The cunt doesn't interest me any longer." He sipped at his drink. "Now… tell me again what Susan Sheldon looks like… and don't forget her kid…"

Susan wasn't surprised at her nervousness; in fact, she had expected it. She had spoken to Max Bovino only once before that morning on the telephone, and that had been when she'd served him one evening in the dining room. He customarily took his meals in his apartment and few of the employees on the first-floor ever got to see him. She didn't know if it was the same up in the casino, but imagined that it might be. His operating staff was extremely efficient, everyone answerable to someone else, just as she was subordinate to Mr. Blanchette, the Maitre d', and there seemed little need for any direct contact with his working people by the blind owner.

Susan couldn't help but wonder if she was doing the right thing, not going through channels, but calling him directly the way she had. After all, if her being transferred upstairs didn't materialize, Mr. Blanchette could make things unpleasant for going over his head. Well… it was a little late to be thinking about that now, wasn't it? She'd already made her move… and in five-minutes she was due for their appointment. At least, the big, handsome man had sounded quite receptive, not at all upset that she'd called him; she could only hope and keep her fingers crossed. God knows, she needed the additional money bad enough, with all of her plans for Nadine… and she could hardly make ends meet now, as it was.

She drove the ancient modeled Ford a little faster than she liked to with its smooth tires, speeding along Elmhurst Road toward the out skirts of the city where the old and beautiful three-storied plantation-type structure sat a half-mile back from the highway amidst well-kept, breathtaking grounds of giant elms, maples and weeping willow trees, along with fantastic gardens of flowers and shrubs. It had once been the home of Elliot Thackery Parks, the original settler of Parksburg, and when his last descendant, Anna Marie Parks, had passed away at eighty-seven some two-years before, Max Bovino had managed to acquire the property right out of the hands of the city fathers, who, as rumor had it, intended to establish an historical shrine there.