Read Online Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) by Edward Lee - Free Book Online Page B

about to comment
when someone tapped on his shoulder. Oh. . . . no . Very slowly, then,
he turned to the ruddy and none-too-happy face behind him. “Vito!
My man! I was just downtown looking for you.”
“Yeah.” Vito wore a tan leather jacket and white slacks— Italian slacks. They called him The Eye, since only his right eye could be
seen. A black patch covered the left. “Your marker’s due Friday,
paisan. You wouldn’t be forgetting that, huh?”
“Oh, hey, Vito,” Rudy stammered. “I remember.”
“That’s six large. The Boss Man ain’t happy.”
“Barkeep,” Rudy changed the subject. “Get my good friend Vito
here a beer on my tab, and one for this guy, too,” he said,slapping the
ludicrous man on the back.
Vito jerked a thumb. “I’ll be over at the booth marking my books.
Come on over if you got anything you want to talk to me about.”
“Actually,” Rudy seized the opportunity. “I was wondering if
like you could maybe give me a little extra t—”
“I ever tell you how I lost my eye? About ten years ago, I ran up
a big marker on the Boss Man’s tab, and I made the big mistake of
asking him for a little extra time.”
Rudy gulped. When Vito disappeared to the back booth, Beth
jumped in to complain. “That’s great, Rudy. We’re nearly broke,
you’re six thousand in debt to a mob bookie, and now you’re buying
beers for people. Jesus.”
“Guys like Vito like to see generosity. Part of their machismo.”
“And now look what you’ve done!’ she whispered.
    The insane, toothy grin
floated forward; its owner took the stool
next to Rudy. “Innumerable thanks, sir. It’s not ald; however, I’m
grateful to you.”
    “What the hell is ald?” Rudy asked.
“A high and might liquor indeed, and a favorite of the
mashmashus. We invented it, by the way, though your zymurgists
of today refuse to acknowledge that. You see, the great grain mounds
would accumulate condensation in the sun. The dregs, then, seeped
into pools of effluvium, which were squeezed off into the casks.” He
sipped his beer, crosseyed. I am Gormok. And you are called?”
Gormok? What kind of fruitloop name is that ? Rudy wondered.
“I’m Rudy. This is Beth, my fiance.”
Beth frowned again, and Rudy supposed he could see her point.
Nothing he’d promised her had come true. His gambling was like a
ritual to him, an obsessive act of something very nearly reverence,
and it kept a monkey on their backs the size of King Kong. The stress
was starting to show: tiny lines had crept into Beth’s pretty face, and
a faint veneer of fatigue. She’d lost weight, and the lustrous long
caramel-colored hair had begun to take a tint of gray. She worked
two jobs while Rudy sweated bullets at the track. And now mob men
were calling. No wonder she’s always pissed. I’m gonna get my eye
poked out next Friday and here I am buying beers for a shylock and
some loose-screw named Gormok .
“And I affirm,” Gormok went on in his creaky, sinitic voice, “that
your generosity will not go unrewarded. If I can ever be of service to
your benefit, I implore thee, make me aware.”
“Forget it,” Rudy said. Nut . He drained his beer. “Where’d the
barkeep go? I could use a refill.”
“Our humble servitor, I believe,” Gormok offered, “is at this sad
moment seeking to contact his unfaithful paramour.”
Rudy
spied the keep down the other end of the bar, talking on
the house phone. Suddenly the guy turned pale and hung up. “I just
called the fuckin’ trailer,” he muttered. “My girlfriend ain’t there.
Then I ring my buddy down at The Anvil, and he tells me Stacy left
after happy hour . . . with some guy.”
    “Agentleman, too,” Gormok reminded, “unthus known and of a
formidable endowment of the groin.”
“Shadap, ya whack.” The keep went back to the phone. Beth
maintained her terse silence. But Rudy was thinking
“Gormok. How about doing that salt thing for me.”
“An alomance! Yes?” came the grinning reply.
Rudy