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Authors: Stephen Leather
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about to strike.
“That’s pretty much what happened, Max,” he said quietly. He had no intention of explaining himself to Cilento. His feelings about vets and his responsibility to them was not something he could share with anyone, certainly not a muscle-bound, ranting thug who wouldn’t have been out of place in a boxing ring.
“And how do you think I’m going to explain to my fucking brother that I’m short 125,000 dollars?” Cilento shouted. He waved a gold-ringed fist under Lehman’s nose, pushed him back with his other hand, flat against his chest. He pulled back his fist and grunted, but before he could land the punch Lehman drew his knee up sharply and thrust it into Cilento’s groin. Cilento yelled and bent double and both of his hands instinctively went down between his legs as if they’d be able to massage away the pain. His head was level with Lehman’s chest and he was too close for Lehman to punch him so he used his elbow instead, banging it hard against Cilento’s temple and knocking him cold. Cilento slumped to the ground, his hands still clapped against his groin, blood trickling down his chin because he’d bitten his tongue when Lehman hit him.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” said a voice at the doorway.
Lehman looked up to see Dillman standing there. He hadn’t heard the door open, but Dillman had hold of the handle, the upper part of his body leaning in as if he was afraid to put his feet on Cilento’s carpet. Lehman rubbed his right elbow. “Be my guest,” he laughed.
“Nah, I’d never hit a man when he’s down. Not even a piece of shit like Cilento.” He peered down at the body. “He’s not dead, is he?” As if in answer Cilento rolled on to his side and drew his legs up to his stomach. “Nope, he’s not dead,” said Dillman. “Never mind, better luck next time. What are you going to do, Dan?”
Lehman ran his hand over his face and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I guess now would be a bad time to ask him for a raise, huh?”
Dillman laughed and slipped inside the door, closing it behind him. The upper section of Cilento’s cubicle was glass, the lower was aluminium panelling so the slammers outside couldn’t see Cilento’s body on the floor. “Seriously, Dan, you’ve got a mess of trouble here, you know that. Cilento’s brother isn’t going to let you get away with this. It’s a matter of honour. It doesn’t matter what a shit Max is, you attack him, you attack the family.”
“What if I were to say I was sorry?” asked Dan, grinning.
“I doubt it would do any good.”
“What if I were to say I was really sorry?”
Dillman laughed. “It’s good to see you’ve still got your sense of humour, Dan. But I doubt that you’ll be laughing when Mario Cilento gets hold of you.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I guess now’s as good a time as any to move on.”
“Why was he having a go at you?”
Lehman didn’t want to tell Dillman how he’d let Komer off the hook so he just said, “Money. He reckoned I wasn’t trying hard enough.”
“Hell, Dan, you’re doing better than anyone else out there. His brother must be putting him under pressure. You know that Mario has been using this operation to launder mob money?”
“No, I didn’t,” Lehman answered. So long as his commission cheque arrived each month, Lehman hadn’t given any thought to the workings of the boiler room.
“Just remember that Cilento is connected. It won’t be enough to get out of Los Angeles, or even Orange County. You’re only going to be safe if you leave the States, for a while at least. Cilento’ll move heaven and earth to get even.”
Lehman was beginning to realise what a hole he’d dug for himself. He’d reacted instinctively to Cilento’s threatened attack and hadn’t given any thought to the consequences. If he’d avoided hitting Cilento he could perhaps have worked out some sort of deal, taken a lower commission on the next few hits, promised to make
“That’s pretty much what happened, Max,” he said quietly. He had no intention of explaining himself to Cilento. His feelings about vets and his responsibility to them was not something he could share with anyone, certainly not a muscle-bound, ranting thug who wouldn’t have been out of place in a boxing ring.
“And how do you think I’m going to explain to my fucking brother that I’m short 125,000 dollars?” Cilento shouted. He waved a gold-ringed fist under Lehman’s nose, pushed him back with his other hand, flat against his chest. He pulled back his fist and grunted, but before he could land the punch Lehman drew his knee up sharply and thrust it into Cilento’s groin. Cilento yelled and bent double and both of his hands instinctively went down between his legs as if they’d be able to massage away the pain. His head was level with Lehman’s chest and he was too close for Lehman to punch him so he used his elbow instead, banging it hard against Cilento’s temple and knocking him cold. Cilento slumped to the ground, his hands still clapped against his groin, blood trickling down his chin because he’d bitten his tongue when Lehman hit him.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” said a voice at the doorway.
Lehman looked up to see Dillman standing there. He hadn’t heard the door open, but Dillman had hold of the handle, the upper part of his body leaning in as if he was afraid to put his feet on Cilento’s carpet. Lehman rubbed his right elbow. “Be my guest,” he laughed.
“Nah, I’d never hit a man when he’s down. Not even a piece of shit like Cilento.” He peered down at the body. “He’s not dead, is he?” As if in answer Cilento rolled on to his side and drew his legs up to his stomach. “Nope, he’s not dead,” said Dillman. “Never mind, better luck next time. What are you going to do, Dan?”
Lehman ran his hand over his face and rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “I guess now would be a bad time to ask him for a raise, huh?”
Dillman laughed and slipped inside the door, closing it behind him. The upper section of Cilento’s cubicle was glass, the lower was aluminium panelling so the slammers outside couldn’t see Cilento’s body on the floor. “Seriously, Dan, you’ve got a mess of trouble here, you know that. Cilento’s brother isn’t going to let you get away with this. It’s a matter of honour. It doesn’t matter what a shit Max is, you attack him, you attack the family.”
“What if I were to say I was sorry?” asked Dan, grinning.
“I doubt it would do any good.”
“What if I were to say I was really sorry?”
Dillman laughed. “It’s good to see you’ve still got your sense of humour, Dan. But I doubt that you’ll be laughing when Mario Cilento gets hold of you.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I guess now’s as good a time as any to move on.”
“Why was he having a go at you?”
Lehman didn’t want to tell Dillman how he’d let Komer off the hook so he just said, “Money. He reckoned I wasn’t trying hard enough.”
“Hell, Dan, you’re doing better than anyone else out there. His brother must be putting him under pressure. You know that Mario has been using this operation to launder mob money?”
“No, I didn’t,” Lehman answered. So long as his commission cheque arrived each month, Lehman hadn’t given any thought to the workings of the boiler room.
“Just remember that Cilento is connected. It won’t be enough to get out of Los Angeles, or even Orange County. You’re only going to be safe if you leave the States, for a while at least. Cilento’ll move heaven and earth to get even.”
Lehman was beginning to realise what a hole he’d dug for himself. He’d reacted instinctively to Cilento’s threatened attack and hadn’t given any thought to the consequences. If he’d avoided hitting Cilento he could perhaps have worked out some sort of deal, taken a lower commission on the next few hits, promised to make
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