Red Right Hand

11.

SAL LOMBINO TOOK a breath to steady himself and plucked the handset from its cradle. He dialed the number of the chairman’s latest burner from memory. Sal had a head for figures. It used to come in handy when he had to calculate the vig back in his loan-shark days.

The phone rang seven times before the chairman answered, the voice mail, as ever, disabled.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me today. Don’t you watch the news?”

“I do, Mr. Chairman,” Sal replied. “In fact, that’s why I’m calling.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“That old guy on the cell-phone video they been showing every ten seconds? That’s Frank Segreti. As in-”

“I know who he is,” the chairman snapped, irritated that Sal had broken his cardinal rule: never use a name when talking on an unsecured phone line.

“Then you know the damage he could do to all our efforts if he were to resurface. Which means we need to find him and ensure he never does.”

“Then convene a meeting. Take a vote. And leave me out of it.”

“There isn’t time, and even if there were, there’s no guarantee that the vote would go our way.”

“So, what, then? You want my approval to spend Council funds to go after him? You’ve got it.”

“Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid I need more than money.”

“Like what?”

“We’ve got an asset in our pocket who stands to lose at least as much as we do if the, uh, gentleman in question reappears. But right now, he’s otherwise occupied, so I wouldn’t dare call on him without your say-so.”

“Are you kidding me? Do you realize what you’re asking? We need him to stay on task. If he’s burned now, a key component of our endgame will be compromised.”

“I’m aware of that, sir. And I won’t lie-it’s a possibility. But our endgame’s in jeopardy either way if we don’t neutralize this threat. Besides, under the circumstances, I’d say he owes us big.”

“On that, we are agreed-but are you sure that he’s the right man for the job? You know what a goddamn mess he made the last time, and apparently, he still managed to miss his fucking target.”

Sal knew all too well. He’d seen the coroner’s reports. Limbs torn from bodies. Flesh and hair reduced to ash. Shattered fragments of tooth and bone picked out of ceiling joists. “I don’t think we have much choice-but this time, I’ll insist on video confirmation.”

There was a long pause on the chairman’s end. “Fine. Do it. And leave me out of this from here on in. I don’t want to hear another peep from you until Segre-until the matter is settled,” he said carefully. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Good. Because your continued…employment…depends on it.”

The chairman disconnected. Sal sat there for a moment listening to the hiss of the dead line. Then he returned the phone’s receiver to its cradle and let out a ragged sigh.

“Who was that, Daddy?”

Sal looked up to see his daughter, Izzie, in the doorway. He’d left her finger-painting in the kitchen, her reward for half an hour’s piano practice. Her hands were smeared with paint in every color of the rainbow. There was a dot of glossy green on her nose.

“Nobody, sweetheart. A wrong number. C’mon, let’s get you washed up.”