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Authors: Collin Wilcox
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Maranzano used his right hand to unbutton his jacket, exposing the revolver thrust in his belt.
“Hey!”
The flashlight was falling away, leaving sudden darkness between them. Maranzano’s hand was on the butt of his revolver, jerking it from his waistband. The policeman was crouching, an indistinct blur after the flashlight’s glare. Maranzano fired point-blank: one shot, and another, double action.
“Ah.” It was a sharp, sudden sigh. “Ah, Jesus. Don’t.” Now the policeman was trying to keep his balance, keep standing. He raised his left hand, as if to ward off a third shot. His right hand was pawing awkwardly at his revolver, still in its holster. Maranzano took a step forward, pulling the trigger with the muzzle of his pistol less than a foot from the policeman’s torso, lined up on the heart. With the third shot, the policeman dropped instantly to his knees, then fell heavily on his face, lying motionless. Standing over the body, Maranzano decided on a fourth shot to the temple. “The insurance shot,” Bacardo called it. “The executioner’s pop.”
TUESDAY, MAY 24th
10:15 P.M., EDT
“N O DESSERT?” BACARDO ASKED . “You sure?”
Maranzano raised an affable hand, then patted his hard, flat stomach. “Thanks, no. The first time in my life, I’m starting to watch what I eat.”
“What d’you weigh?”
“Stripped, a hundred seventy.” He smiled. “That’s on a good day.”
“A hundred seventy, though …” Bacardo looked over the younger man sitting across the table. “Your height and build, that’s okay.”
“That’s okay. No more, though. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Well, what about a brandy?”
“How about an espresso?” Maranzano countered.
“Espresso. Fine.” Bacardo waved to the waiter, ordered two espressos. Then: “You’re probably wondering why I asked you tonight. And the answer is just—you know—get acquainted, let some of the guys see us together, get them used to the idea, now you’re a capo. Diplomacy, I guess you’d say.”
“And it’s appreciated, Tony. It’s appreciated very much.” As he said it, Maranzano was conscious of the satisfaction, the privilege, calling Bacardo Tony.
“Also,” Bacardo said, “I wanted to tell you that Don Carlo appreciated it, how you took care of that thing for him.”
“That cop—” As if to thrust the thought angrily away, Maranzano gestured, a quick chop of his muscular hand. “A rube cop. Jesus.”
Bacardo was ready with a reassuring smile. “The difference between rube cops and New York cops, you know, there’s not much juice out in the sticks. So they got no choice but to be honest. The other way, there’s no advantage.”
Maranzano nodded, smiled appreciatively, waited for the waiter to serve the espresso. Then, looking around the restaurant, he asked, “Where’s Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without Eddie.”
“He had a root canal today. He wanted to come, but I said no. He’s on painkillers, feels like shit. And there’s something I’ve got to do tomorrow, I need him. So I told him to stay home tonight, take it easy.”
“Does Eddie live out on Long Island, too?”
“He lives fifteen, twenty minutes away from me. Most of the time he’s got my Caddie, keeps it overnight.”
“Ah …” Approvingly, Maranzano nodded. “Yeah, I see. That’s good. Perfect.”
Bacardo sipped the espresso, frowned, added sugar. “Jesus, this stuff stands right up, eh?”
“I know.”
Bacardo stirred in the sugar, asking, “What about Fabrese, speaking of drivers? How’s he working out?” The question was casually asked, but Bacardo’s eyes flicked quickly, catching the other man’s reaction.
“Well,” Maranzano answered, “you want the truth, it seems to me that he asks too many questions.”
“Yeah …” Heavily, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. What d’you want to do, keep him on for another couple of months, then put him back on the street, something like
“Hey!”
The flashlight was falling away, leaving sudden darkness between them. Maranzano’s hand was on the butt of his revolver, jerking it from his waistband. The policeman was crouching, an indistinct blur after the flashlight’s glare. Maranzano fired point-blank: one shot, and another, double action.
“Ah.” It was a sharp, sudden sigh. “Ah, Jesus. Don’t.” Now the policeman was trying to keep his balance, keep standing. He raised his left hand, as if to ward off a third shot. His right hand was pawing awkwardly at his revolver, still in its holster. Maranzano took a step forward, pulling the trigger with the muzzle of his pistol less than a foot from the policeman’s torso, lined up on the heart. With the third shot, the policeman dropped instantly to his knees, then fell heavily on his face, lying motionless. Standing over the body, Maranzano decided on a fourth shot to the temple. “The insurance shot,” Bacardo called it. “The executioner’s pop.”
TUESDAY, MAY 24th
10:15 P.M., EDT
“N O DESSERT?” BACARDO ASKED . “You sure?”
Maranzano raised an affable hand, then patted his hard, flat stomach. “Thanks, no. The first time in my life, I’m starting to watch what I eat.”
“What d’you weigh?”
“Stripped, a hundred seventy.” He smiled. “That’s on a good day.”
“A hundred seventy, though …” Bacardo looked over the younger man sitting across the table. “Your height and build, that’s okay.”
“That’s okay. No more, though. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Well, what about a brandy?”
“How about an espresso?” Maranzano countered.
“Espresso. Fine.” Bacardo waved to the waiter, ordered two espressos. Then: “You’re probably wondering why I asked you tonight. And the answer is just—you know—get acquainted, let some of the guys see us together, get them used to the idea, now you’re a capo. Diplomacy, I guess you’d say.”
“And it’s appreciated, Tony. It’s appreciated very much.” As he said it, Maranzano was conscious of the satisfaction, the privilege, calling Bacardo Tony.
“Also,” Bacardo said, “I wanted to tell you that Don Carlo appreciated it, how you took care of that thing for him.”
“That cop—” As if to thrust the thought angrily away, Maranzano gestured, a quick chop of his muscular hand. “A rube cop. Jesus.”
Bacardo was ready with a reassuring smile. “The difference between rube cops and New York cops, you know, there’s not much juice out in the sticks. So they got no choice but to be honest. The other way, there’s no advantage.”
Maranzano nodded, smiled appreciatively, waited for the waiter to serve the espresso. Then, looking around the restaurant, he asked, “Where’s Eddie? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without Eddie.”
“He had a root canal today. He wanted to come, but I said no. He’s on painkillers, feels like shit. And there’s something I’ve got to do tomorrow, I need him. So I told him to stay home tonight, take it easy.”
“Does Eddie live out on Long Island, too?”
“He lives fifteen, twenty minutes away from me. Most of the time he’s got my Caddie, keeps it overnight.”
“Ah …” Approvingly, Maranzano nodded. “Yeah, I see. That’s good. Perfect.”
Bacardo sipped the espresso, frowned, added sugar. “Jesus, this stuff stands right up, eh?”
“I know.”
Bacardo stirred in the sugar, asking, “What about Fabrese, speaking of drivers? How’s he working out?” The question was casually asked, but Bacardo’s eyes flicked quickly, catching the other man’s reaction.
“Well,” Maranzano answered, “you want the truth, it seems to me that he asks too many questions.”
“Yeah …” Heavily, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. What d’you want to do, keep him on for another couple of months, then put him back on the street, something like
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