"What guys?" The mobster felt his irritation mounting, and he let it show.
"You got a visitor downstairs. He's waiting in the library. Says his name's Omega."
Sacco felt a prickling of the scalp, as if his hairs were slowly standing up on end.
"What kind of name is that, for chrissakes?"
"Well, he gave me this."
A card materialized in Solly's hand and he was offering it to Sacco, holding it between his thumb and index finger as if fearing further contact might contaminate him.
Sacco stared at it, recognizing it for what it was, reluctantly accepting it from Cusamano. It was fashioned like a playing card, but smaller, and the symbol printed on its face was staring back at Sacco like a solitary, disembodied eye.
It was an ace of spades.
The death card.
Symbol of the Mafia's own elite gestapo.
In the old days when the Talifero brothers, Pat and Mike, were alive and operating from the New York headshed, the black aces were a law unto themselves within the closed fraternity of Mafia. They answered only to the brothers, and the brothers answered only to La Commissione.
It had been said that Pat and Mike, or any of their lethal emissaries, had the power to ice a capo on their own initiative, providing they could justify it later to the mob's commissioners. And they had used that sweeping power once, to Sacco's knowledge, right there in the open city of Miami.
That had been while Mack The Bastard Bolan was in town and kicking holy shit out of the brotherhood. A lot had changed since then, and little of it for the better, but the aces had been hardest hit of all. They were in flux, their status vague and ill-defined. Almost certainly, their sweeping powers had been radically curtailed. And yet....
You never know about these guys.
Damn right.
"He give you any idea what he wants?''
The houseman shook his head.
"Just said he needs to see you. Right away."
"Let's go see him, then. I wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
Solly trailed him out along the landing, down the curving staircase to the first-floor library and den. A sentry was on station at the door. He nodded curtly at a sign from Cusamano, stood aside to let them enter.
Sacco's uninvited visitor was standing with his back toward the door, examining a shelf of first editions. He did not turn immediately, although he must have heard them enter, and the capo took the opportunity to look him over.
He was tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and an athlete's body. He was wearing an expensive suit, the tailored jacket cut to give him room for undercover hardware.
"What's this all about?"
The stranger turned to face them. Despite the hour, he was wearing sunglasses, his eyes invisible behind the lenses. The face was ageless, etched in stone.
A gravestone, right.
"It's all about your life, Phil. Want to save it?"
Phil? The bastard had an overdose of nerve.
"We know each other?"
"I know you," the stranger said. "I know you've got a major problem on your hands."
"That so? I musta missed it."
"Heard from Tommy Drake tonight?"
The capo frowned. That goddammed prickling of the scalp again.
"I haven't heard from anyone tonight," he answered. "Everyone I know's asleep right now."
"I'll give you odds that Tommy won't be waking up."
The mafioso stiffened as an icy finger traced his spine. His fists were tightly clenched inside the pockets of his robe. He turned to Solly Cusamano.
"Get Tommy on the phone."
The houseman hesitated, glancing back and forth from Sacco to the ace.
"Hey, boss..."
"Go on," he snapped. "I'm covered here."
"Okay."
When they were alone, the mafioso moved to pour himself a drink, sipping it and deliberately ignoring the intruder, waiting for the liquid warmth to drive away his inner chill.
"You're wasting time," Omega told him. "And you haven't got a lot to spare."
"I'll take the chance."
Omega smiled and settled on the edge of Sacco's spacious hand-carved desk. Another silent moment passed before the houseman made his reappearance. Sacco raised an eyebrow.
"Well?"
"No answer. Want me to keep trying?"
Sacco thought about it, shook his head.
"I want somebody over there. Take care of it."
As he left, Cusamano spared another parting glance at the intruder. Phil Sacco waited for the door to close before he spoke.
"You sure?"
Omega nodded. "So are you."
"All right. So what's the story? Who's behind it?"
"You should know."
He stiffened, biting off the first obscene retort that came to mind.
"I give my people room to breathe. They handle any trouble on their own."
The ace responded with a crooked smile.
"I wouldn't say that Tommy Drake was handling it. He isn't even breathing."
The capo did not have an answer and Omega was not waiting for one.
"We've been hearing you've got problems with the Cubans."
Sacco snorted, downed another swallow of his whiskey.
"Everyone's got problems with the Cubans. I can handle it."
"We hope so."
We? A look of puzzlement appeared on Sacco's face.
Omega did not leave him guessing.
"You've got friends on the commission, Phil. They're concerned about your welfare. Most of them would like to see you pull it out.''
Most of them, right. The mafioso knew a few old bastards in New York who would love to see him take a fall. Uh-huh. A few of them would dance around his casket when he bought the farm.
But Philip Sacco was not buying anything just yet.
"You tell my friends up north that everything is fine."
"They want a sign," the ace informed him.
"They'll have one," Sacco answered flatly.
"Good." Omega slithered off the corner of his desk and moved in the direction of the door. He reached it, hesitated with his hand upon the doorknob. "You ever deal with termites, Phil?"
Sacco frowned.
"Can't say I have."
Omega shook his head reflectively.
"They get inside a house like this, you never see them till it's too damn late. There's only one way to get rid of them for sure."
"Oh, yeah?"
"You torch the house, smash the ones that try to make a break. Kill everything that moves and start all over, fresh." He paused, regarding Sacco from behind the shades. "I hope you don't have termites, Phil."
"I can handle things at this end," Sacco said again, and he despised the sudden tremor in his voice.
"Okay." The door was open now; the ace was halfway through it. "You might start off with Jose 99."
The capo arched an eyebrow.
"What the hell is that? Some kind of Cuban beer?"
Omega laughed, and Sacco felt the color rising in his cheeks.
"I like a sense of humor," the stranger told him, growing serious again within an instant. "Check it out, Phil. Find out what your boy was doing with his breathing room. Don't let the termites bring your house down."
Philip Sacco clenched his teeth.
"I'm good at pest control," he told the closing door. If the intruder heard him, he gave no sign.