Inside Out

22

Saint Jean, Louisiana

Johnny Russo had one more thing to do before he could call it a night and be in bed to get his normal five hours of sleep. His driver, Spiro, steered the speeding Lincoln Towncar out of River Road while Johnny stared at the passing white tanks, fifty feet tall and twice as wide. The International Liquid Storage tank terminal operation was completely legitimate and belonged not to Sam but to a consortium of foreign investors. At any given time, there was everything from food-grade vegetable oil to gasoline stored in the tanks. The product was pumped directly from, and into, vessels moored at ILS's dock on the Mississippi River, just over the levee. Their clients paid for storage and, if they somehow failed to pay, the company held the product as collateral against storage costs, and then sold the liquid for a nice profit. Sam Manelli was a consultant. If there was a problem requiring a political or unorthodox solution, Sam saw that it was handled. As compensation for his help, the corporation gave Sam the duck-hunting lease on sixteen hundred acres of swampland behind the tank farm. Sam had built a lodge and boat shed on the property, where Spiro and Johnny were now headed.

Spiro pulled up in front of the shed, where two of his enforcers waited inside beside a naked man whose hands and ankles were lashed together. The man sat in a chair on a sheet of plastic, beside a table whose wood surface had also been covered with the same material. When Russo jerked the duct tape from the bound man's mouth, it took a good deal of his goatee with it. The man took several gasping breaths and his eyes blinked anxiously.

Russo stood over the shivering man and studied him silently. Spiro covered a yawn with his open palm.

“How much did you skim, Albert?” Russo said, finally.

“I di-di-di-didn't… short Sam!”

“Didn't short me, you mean? Do you see Sam in here?”

“I wouldn't du-du-do that, Johnny!” The panicked words tumbled from Albert's mouth, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Sheri said different, not four hours ago in this very room. She said you took at least ten large from the girls this year that you didn't pass along. She said she begged you not to do it.”

“No, I never!”

“She's your main girl, Albert-mother to your children. Why would she make something like that up?”

“She's l-l-l-lying!” Albert's eyes were fevered circles, futilely blinking back tears.

“That's a problem, because I believe her.”

“Let me talk to her! She's l-lying. Lying. Lying. She'll cu-cu-cu-come clean!”

“Okay, I'll let you talk to her.”

Johnny Russo walked over to the fridge directly opposite the man and lifted out, by its thick black hair, a woman's head. The dry brown eyes were unblinking, the mouth frozen wide open as if in midscream.

Albert's expression changed until it mirrored that of his late girlfriend's.

“How much of my money did Albert skim, Sheri?” Russo asked the severed head. He took Sheri's jaw in his free hand and worked it up and down. “Lots and lots,” Johnny said in a high voice. “If I'm l-l-lying, may I g-g-give head.”

The men in the shed burst into laughter.

Russo returned the head to the fridge. “What you are going to do, Albert, is go back to work and pay me back everything you stole.”

“But, I never-”

Russo slapped him so hard the chair Albert sat in fell over on its side. “Stop lying, or you can join Sheri and fatten the crabs. You will make me an additional fifty grand over last year's numbers or you'll wish you were dead a long time before you will be. Do you understand me? You'll pay me back the ten large at reasonable interest of two points a week.”

Russo took a wad of money out of his pocket and peeled off a fifty. He bent over, pressed the bill into Albert's mouth, pushing it between the man's teeth with his fingertip.

“Albert, you take that and buy your kids a little something and tell them it's from their uncle Johnny. What do you say?”

“Thank you,” Albert said weakly.

“You're welcome. Boys, get Albert dressed and take him home.”