Peril

MORTIMER

He saw Caruso first, a thin, taut wire of a guy, the type who seemed always to be walking point. In the war, they were the ones who’d usually bought it first. Bought it so quickly, Mortimer had come to the conclusion that there was something about them, all that fidgeting perhaps, that God just didn’t like.

“Mr. Labriola should be here in a few minutes,” Caruso said as he scurried up to him. He glanced out toward the swirling traffic. “Drives a Lincoln.”

“There’s no place to park around here,” Mortimer said.

“Oh, he won’t park,” Caruso said, “the car will drive up and you’ll get in.” He glanced about nervously. “You better have your story straight. You don’t, he could take you to some fucking car-crushing joint and nobody would ever see you again.”

“You got a hell of a boss,” Mortimer said.

Caruso’s face turned threatening. “Speaking of which, Batman didn’t change his mind, did he?”

Mortimer shook his head as a stinging pain swept across his abdomen, bending him forward slightly.

“What’s the matter?” Caruso asked.

“Nothing,” Mortimer groaned.

“You’re pretty out of shape there, Morty,” Caruso told him.

Mortimer lowered himself onto the steps at the entrance to the park. “Yeah.”

“You should get on the old treadmill. Get rid of that fucking paunch you got.”

“One fifty-four, that’s what I weighed in the army,” Mortimer told him. He could not imagine how it had happened, the physical deterioration he’d undergone since then, not only the vanished hair, the spreading belly, and drooping, worthless dick, but the lethal forces that were consuming him now, his liver going south, dragging him into the grave.

“You was in the army?” Caruso asked. “When was this?”

“Sixty-seven.”

“ ’Nam?”

Mortimer gave no answer. “So, is Labriola gonna show up, or not?”

“He’s always on the dot,” Caruso said. “Why, you got a fire to go to?”

“Time is money.”

“Well, you should think of this, Morty,” Caruso said. “If Mr. Labriola is a minute late, you wait for him. And if he’s an hour late, you wait for him. You fucking stand here and starve to death, but you wait for him, Morty, because if you don’t…” Caruso’s eyes suddenly took on a look of animal fright. “There he is.” He nodded toward a Lincoln Town Car as it drew up to the curb. “Okay, go.”

Labriola was behind the wheel, and as Mortimer drew himself into the passenger seat, he felt something change in the quality of the light.

“So you’re the sidecar,” Labriola said.

Mortimer looked at him quizzically.

“The gofer.”

Mortimer nodded as the car pulled away. “Mortimer Dodge,” he said.

“I know your fucking name,” Labriola snapped. “I also know you owe me fifteen grand. Fifteen fucking grand but don’t want to do certain things I want you to do. For example, won’t bring this guy who’s working for me so I can get a look.”

“I would if I could,” Mortimer said.

“I like to look a guy in the eye,” Labriola muttered darkly. “I like him to know what he’s fucking dealing with when he’s dealing with me. You know why? ’Cause once he gets a look at me, he don’t have no fucking doubts about where I stand.”

Mortimer remained mute. It seemed the only safe response to a man like Labriola. You didn’t talk. You listened.

“So when I hear this guy won’t show, I figure, okay, I’ll take a look at the guy who’s setting this thing up. Which is you. So, okay, now I’m having a look, and what I see is a guy in a cheap suit, with dirty shoes don’t look like they been shined in ten years, and he’s got a look on his face like he just poked the boss’s wife. In other words, I don’t like what I see. So, what you got to do is tell me what I’m seeing ain’t quite right. So, go ahead, do that.”

Mortimer thought fast. “You remember Gotti? The way he liked being noticed? Fancy suits. Silk ties. Big talk. Shooting off fireworks when the mayor told him not to. Well, he got noticed. But me, I don’t want to be noticed like that. And that’s good for me. And it’s good for my guy. And it’s good for you too, Mr. Labriola. Because it means that when my guy finds this woman, she won’t even know she’s been found. No noise. No flash. He just sees her. He don’t sit down. He don’t chat. He don’t take no notice. He just finds her, and then he tells me, and then I tell you.” He shrugged. “After that…”

“It’s my business,” Labriola said.

Mortimer nodded.

Labriola stared at him for a moment, then a loud laugh broke from him, and he grabbed Mortimer’s left knee and squeezed. “Okay,” he said, all boisterous good cheer now. “Okay, we’ll do this thing.” He grabbed the wheel tightly and gave it a jerk to the right. “So, where you want I let you off?”

“Where you picked me up is fine.”

The car made an abrupt turn, cruised south on Twelfth Avenue, then swung east, Labriola silent, staring straight ahead, until the car came to a halt at Columbus Circle.

Labriola drew an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here’s that information your guy wanted.”

Mortimer took the envelope.

“Stay in touch,” Labriola said in a tone of grim authority.

Mortimer nodded, then opened the door and stepped out of the car. He could still feel the tremor in his fingers as it pulled away.