Peril

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.

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.