Peril

CARUSO

From behind the Columbus monument, he watched as Mortimer stepped out of Labriola’s car, a manila envelope in his hand. The car pulled away, and for a time Mortimer remained in place, the envelope dangling from his hand, looking curiously lost, like a guy who’d suddenly found himself in a foreign city. Then he seemed to come back to himself, glanced about, pocketed the envelope, and began walking south down Broadway until he stopped abruptly as if he’d heard something coming toward him from behind.

Caruso darted into a shop and stood, peering through the window as Mortimer cocked his head left and right like a guy listening to an argument in his brain. Fucking weirdo, Caruso thought, fucking creepy, this guy. He waited until Mortimer moved on down Broadway, then returned to the street, following at a somewhat greater distance now, his eyes peeled for the crooked shape of Mortimer’s black hat.

Where the fuck is he going? Caruso asked himself, already tired now, which only suggested that he was no better off than Morty Dodge when it came to staying in shape. He’d thought of exercise, of eating better, both of which he’d considered before. He’d actually bought a stationary bike at one point, then watched helplessly as it became the world’s most expensive clothes rack. He was thirty-six but looked at least five years older, a fact that wasn’t lost on the women he tried to pick up. He knew that they looked at his paunch, his thinning hair, the circles beneath his eyes, and thought to themselves, This guy is fucked. And why shouldn’t they think that? he wondered now. Here he was, a thirty-six-year-old guy, following this weird bastard who was probably going to lead him to yet another weirdo. The worst part was that while he and Mortimer both had to answer to Labriola, Batman didn’t because the Old Man had no idea who he was. But that would change soon, Caruso thought with sudden gleeful satisfaction, as if he’d just found a way to get even with this mystery man he had never met and yet envied for his freedom, and thus wanted to bring down. He smiled. Maybe Mr. Labriola would feel the same way. Maybe he’d think that this fucking guy, this Batman-arrogant asshole, needed to be taught a lesson. Caruso indulged himself in that fantasy, imagining the Old Man’s hand on his shoulder, giving him the Big Assignment. He could even feel Labriola’s lips at his ear, whispering the honored instruction, the one only the most trusted men ever received, Whack Batman.