John Locke - Lethal Experiment

You’d think Sal would have been grateful, but it took all this time for him to forgive me. One reason he finally began trusting me is because, with Victor and Hugo’s help, I took down Joe DeMeo. I seized several of Joe’s off shore accounts, worth millions of dollars, and gave Sal half of everything I stole.

Money may not buy happiness but enough of it buys loyalty.

As we stepped away from the bar, I spotted Sal and Marie holding court on the far end of the terrace. One by one, criminals approached him, kissed his cheeks, and handed him envelopes. Sal shook their hands, appeared to make some small talk, and spent a lot of time smiling. As the mugs left, Sal looked in the envelopes and said something to either T-Bone or Big Bad, his bodyguards. T-Bone seemed to be writing something in a small ledger book, probably recording the size of each man’s contribution. Then Sal deposited each envelope into a large wooden box on a bar table that Big Bad was guarding.

Kathleen and I were particularly impressed with the backyard.

At the center of the terrace, eight wide steps down led to the sun deck and swimming pool, which had been covered for the occasion with an enormous dance platform. An eight-piece swing band had set up in the gazebo, next to the pool house, but hadn’t started playing yet. For now, the music was provided by an unlikely pair of very old men. One, the violin player, had a shock of white hair and wore the thickest black glasses I’d ever seen. He moved through the crowd while playing, pausing occasionally to whisper something in the ear of each pretty lady he encountered. The other guy, the guitar player, squinted and scowled at the guests like a jealous lover, and did his best to keep up with the violinist, both musically and spatially.

“I love the musicians,” Kathleen said. “They’re so cute!”

“Cute,” I said.

“Well, just look at them. They must be eighty years old.”

I did look at them, in fact, I knew them. And “cute” didn’t seem an appropriate description. Johnny D and Silvio Braca were a pair of octogenarians who could play a romantic ballad one minute and break your knee caps the next.

“I wonder what he’s whispering to all those women,” I said.

Kathleen flashed a grin at me. “Maybe I’ll just walk over there and find out,” she said.

Chapter 12

Sal caught my eye and motioned us over. We worked our way over to him.

“This is my wife, Marie,” he said to Kathleen.

“And this is Kathleen,” I said.

I nodded at Big Bad and T-Bone and they each gave me a short, tight nod in return.

Sal made a great show of bowing and kissing her hand. Then he took a step back and appraised her body like a meat inspector deciding between choice and prime. Prime won.

“Ah,” he said, licking his lips. “You done good with this one here, Creed.”

Marie said, “Stop it Sal. You’re making the poor girl uncomfortable.” To Kathleen she said, “Don’t pay any attention to him. He thinks he’s a stallion.”

Kathleen smiled.

Marie’s eyes turned fierce. “I mean it,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention to him!”

Kathleen flashed me a look of confusion.

Sal said, “Marie, this is Creed’s girlfriend.” He emphasized the word by arching his eyebrows.

Marie showed skepticism.

“They’re adopting a kid, for Crissake,” he said.

Marie’s demeanor changed instantly. “Really, Donovan?”

“It’s true,” I said.

Marie beamed at Kathleen. “You’ll have to let me help you plan the wedding!”

Sal laughed. “Hell, they ain’t gonna exchange—whatcha call—nuptials. They’re going to keep living in sin like we used to do.” He gave her a wink.

“We did nothing of the kind,” Marie huffed. She turned to Kathleen. “That true? No marriage?”

Before Kathleen could think of a response, Marie shook her head and left us to chat with some guests.

Sal said, “You bring an envelope?”

“Better than that,” I said, “but we have to go inside to get it.”

“No shit?” Sal said. “Then let’s go!”

He told T-Bone to guard the stash and motioned to Big Bad to follow us. We started making the journey through the crowd of well-wishers and glad handlers. As we walked I said, “How’d you know about the adoption?”

Sal smiled. “I got my—whatcha call—sources.”

To Kathleen, Sal said, “You ever see this one fight?”

“I heard him once.”

Sal said, “Heard him? What’s that mean?”

She gave me a look. I said, “Nellie’s Diner. Joe DeMeo’s goons.”

Sal said, “You was there?”

Kathleen nodded. “Sort of,” she said. “I was in the restaurant, hiding under a table.”

We entered the great room. Santo Mangano waved from the foyer and yelled, “Hey, Sallie!” Sal returned the wave.

“Thing of beauty,” Sal said, “the way Creed—whatcha call—inflicts physical damage. We was in a place one time, some martial arts guy was drunk and comes at me for no frickin’ reason. Before Big and T have a chance to react, Creed goes after this guy and I swear to Christ, it looked like a cyclone fightin’ a water bug!”

Kathleen squeezed my arm. “You think that’s something, you should see him in the sack.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Except in the sack, I’m the water bug.”

Sal started to laugh but a thunderous voice suddenly took over all the speakers in the house. He flinched slightly, but stood his ground. All around us, gangsters hit the floor, pulling their wives down with them. Women screamed as their husbands scrambled for cover. Guns were produced from ankle and shoulder holsters. Servers brandished knives, proving me right about the brandishing.

The voice was masculine, and powerful, like the wrath of God.

The voice boomed: “The mightiest warriors are not the most physically impressive!”

The lights went out and circles of blue lasers started flashing at the far end of the foyer. The giant voice spoke again.

“Behold the mightiest warriors of all time!”

A giant cloud of smoke appeared and the lights came back on. A wheelchair stood where the smoke had been. Not an ordinary wheelchair, but one fashioned from space age materials. It was equipped with a series of roll bars, lights, and all manner of electronic equipment. Navigating the chair was a little person with enormous dreadlocks, wearing an electrified shirt.

Victor.

At Victor’s side, the ever-present, always angry Hugo, “The Little General,” stood guard. Hugo was Victor’s aide, confidante, and advisor in all things military. Victor and Hugo were little people who dreamed of conquering the world with their midget army. If they ever succeeded it truly would be a small world, after all.

All eyes turned to Sal.

“Relax,” he said. “The little guys wanted to make a—whatcha call—entrance. I told ‘em, knock yourselves out.”

Dozens of gangsters sheepishly holstered their weapons and dealt with their angry spouses with severe, whispered threats.

Victor made an adjustment on the arm of his chair and the loudspeaker voice softened. “Could I have the honor of Salvatore Bonadello’s presence for one moment?”

Sal said, “Let’s—whatcha call—indulge the little guy.” We started walking toward Victor and Hugo.

“I need to check my makeup,” Kathleen said, just the way we’d rehearsed. “Can you point me to your powder room?”

“Powder room?” Sal said. “Now that’s class!” He pointed the way and Kathleen headed there.

“At first I thought she meant gunpowder,” Sal said, studying her ass as long as he could before she disappeared from view. “That there’s a winner. I envy you, wakin’ up to that every morning.”