Jasper checked the gun, unloaded it shell by shell, and then took hold of the barrel. He raised the gun about a foot and a half and dropped the butt end onto Wayman’s shoulder blade. Wayman shouted out something wild and started struggling, cursing even as Dominic’s hands tightened around his neck. Jasper lifted the gun again, just a foot and a half, and let it drop. He hammered at the shoulder blade again, and again, raising the gun a foot and a half and dropping it, over and over and over.
There was a loud crack, Wayman let out a howl and his right arm went dead.
Calmly, methodically, raising the gun the same height of a foot and a half and then dropping it over and over, Jasper went to work on the other shoulder. There was a practiced air about his movements, the fulfillment of a familiar and somewhat pleasant chore.
“Jesus, this feels good,” said Dominic, still atop the struggling Wayman. He couldn’t help but smile again, a smile filled with satisfied blood lust.
I rubbed at my neck, my hand came away slick with my own blood.
“It’s not too often us old goombahs get a chance to work out,” said Dominic.
“What we need,” said Jasper as he kept hammering at the collarbone, “is a gym, you know, a few weights, a ring to spar in, a punching bag.”
“You got the punching bag right there,” said Dominic.
“I need something tougher, something with heft,” said Jasper over Wayman’s shouts. “Something to give me a real workout.”
Across the street Giovanni was slamming the drummer’s head into the side of a construction dumpster once, twice, thrice for good effect. Then he lifted him like a sack of lime and threw him in.
“What is going on, Victor?” said Beth, who was also out of the car. “What just happened?”
“We’ve been saved by the cavalry,” I said. “Beth, I want you to meet some friends. The young kid is Giovanni, the fellow banging on our friend Wayman is Jasper.”
Just then there was another sickening crack and Wayman let out a desperate wild howl.
Wayman had killed Chuckie, had stuck the point of his knife far enough into my neck to draw blood, had promised to kill me, but even still I couldn’t help but wince.
“And this here is Dominic,” I continued. “Don’t play poker with Dominic, Beth, he’s a shark.”
“A weekend player,” said Dominic as he rose from the helpless Wayman, slapping his hands clean. “Here you go, pal,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing me a handkerchief.
I wiped my hand and neck clean. So I had become Dominic’s pal. We had fought the common enemy and come through as blood brothers.
“He’s bawling like a goddamn baby,” said Jasper. “What’s this scumbag’s name, Sport?”
“Wayman,” I said. And then on the spur of the moment, like some all-powerful don, I added, “Don’t kill him.”
“What are you, an idiot? I wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of hurting him if I was going to kill him,” said Jasper over Wayman’s moans. “Now – Wayman,” he shouted, loud and slow as if he were talking to a Frenchman. “I – don’t – want – you – should – bother – Victor – no – more – do – you – understand?”
Wayman let out a little shriek of assent.
“I – don’t – want – I – should – hear – that – he – is – troubled – or – that – he – is – dead – because – then – I – will – be – angry – do – you – understand?”
Another shriek of assent.
“That’s – good – Wayman,” said Jasper, patting his cheek. “You’re – in – no – condition – to – drive. – We’re – going – to – let – your – friend – drive – you – home.”
Giovanni shrugged and reached into the dumpster, pulling out the dazed and bleeding drummer by his collar and his crotch. The drummer collapsed to the ground and tried to half crawl away. Giovanni kicked him in the ribs so hard the drummer shook uncontrollably for a moment before letting out a breathless cry. Then Giovanni lifted him to his feet by his neck and kicked him in the rear, sending him lurching for the car. He fell on its hood like a drunken beggar at an intersection offering to clean the windshield. Dominic opened the front door for him. He took hold of the drummer, pulled him around the front of the car, and shoved him inside. Jasper lifted Wayman by his belt. Wayman, bent and bowed, cradling both arms into his chest, hunched his way over to the car. I opened the passenger door. Without looking at me, he dropped onto the seat.
“Stay the fuck out of South Philly,” said Dominic. When there was no movement from the battered occupants, he shouted, “Get out of here. Now.”
The car didn’t speed away from the scene, it sort of staggered. First it swerved to the right, then stopped suddenly, then drifted to the left, sideswiping a maroon meat van parked in front of a store. There was the loud crinkle of metal bending and plastic cracking. The car dipped back to the right before it shot forward and stopped and moved slowly forward again.
“Where did they come from?” asked Beth as she stood beside me, watching the silver BMW painfully make its way down 7th Street. “And how are they your friends?”
I shrugged. “Poker buddies. Remember the phone call I made just before we left the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“That’s who I called.”
Just then a great white Cadillac, rear windows tinted so dark it was impossible to see inside, slid to a stop right in front of us. Lenny was driving. He waved at me. With a hum, the rear window opened and the ugly pitted face of Enrico Raffaello appeared.
“Everything is all right, I see,” he said.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Raffaello,” I said. “He would have killed me if you hadn’t stepped in.”
“You’re welcome, Victor. Protection is what we do, but generally we don’t do it for free.”
“I’m very grateful.”
“Well, grateful is something, yes, but it doesn’t pay for the ricotta. Consider this a favor, Victor. We take pride in doing favors for the citizens of this city. We expect, of course, that the favor will be reciprocated when the time comes.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Now about that project you were to do for me. I hope you haven’t disappointed.”
I gestured at the silver BMW slowly making its way down 7th. “If you follow that car it will take you right to the money, Mr. Raffaello. A man named Norvel Goodwin ended up with it.”
“Now that’s almost too ironic, Jimmy’s money ending up with a drug kingpin. There must be quite a story in this. You will tell it to me sometime, Victor, but not now. Now I think we’ll follow that car. Come here, son, I have something for you.”
Sheepishly I stepped forward. Raffaello lifted a white bag out of the window. I took it from him and stepped back.
“We’ll be in touch, Victor, you can be sure.”
He nodded his head and the window rose, concealing his face. Dominic, Jasper, and Giovanni slipped into the car and slowly, carefully, it drove off.
Beth stepped to my side. She was staring at the car. “Was that who I think it was?” she managed to say.
“Yes,” I said. I opened the bag and looked inside. “What kind of custard do you like in your cannoli, Beth, chocolate or vanilla?”
“Vanilla,” she said.
I reached into the bag and took out the vanilla cannoli and gave it to her and then reached in and gave her the chocolate one too. “Hold this for me a moment, will you?”
With the bag in hand, I walked a bit down 7th, scanning the street, searching. Finally I found it. It had slid up against the curb and was resting there, its blade pointing due north like a compass. I took one of the paper napkins graciously supplied by my new liege Enrico Raffaello and, with the napkin between my fingers, took hold of the blade, lifting it carefully before dropping it into the bag. I figured Slocum would be delighted to get hold of the knife that had killed Chuckie Lamb, complete with a clean set of prints. I just wanted to be sure that the prints on the knife weren’t mine.