"Fuck." Spector reached for his beer and knocked it over. Foam spread slowly over the bar. "They have to come on the goddamn TV about that. Couldn't have kept their ugly mouths shut. "
"… that terrible tragedy. In an apparently unrelated incident Frederico Macellaio was killed in an automobile accident earlier this afternoon. Macellaio, also known as 'the Butcher' and reputed to be a major figure in the city's underworld, was dead at the scene."
"It's just not my fucking day," Spector muttered.
He pulled out his wallet and motioned to the bartender, but the man was looking at the door. Spector turned. There were three punks standing just inside the doorway. They all had black hair cut like Moe of the Three Stooges. The words BEDTIME Boys were emblazoned in red on the backs of their leather jackets. Each carried a fiberglass skateboard. The leader, who was a head shorter than the other two, wore mirrored sunglasses.
"Shake everybody down," said the little boss, blowing on his fingertips.
Spector's barstool creaked loudly as he swiveled to face them. He was worried about the kid with shades; his power was no good unless his victim's eyes were visible. The other two he could handle.
"Nice of you to get that out for us," said one of the stooges, eyeing Spector's wallet. "Iland it over."
Spector shoved his wallet back into his pants pocket. "Fuck off, you little shit. While you still can."
"Feed 'im his teeth, Billy," said the leader. "It'll save time with everybody else."
Billy whipped the board around his body a couple of times, then swung it up into an attack position. It reminded Spector of the Chinese bench fighters he'd seen in kung fu movies. These guys obviously knew what they were doing. He'd have to take them out in a hurry. He locked eyes with Billy. Spector's death flowed into him. Billy fell face first into the bar-rail.
"Shit, get him, Romeo." The little punk was still directing traffic.
Romeo looked at Billy's body, then at Spector. Mistake. Five seconds later he was dead on the floor.
Spector sensed movement and raised his arm, reaching for the Ingram with his other hand. The skateboard slammed into his forearm, jolting him hard enough to knock him over and send the gun flying. He bounced off a table and landed on the floor. The gun was several feet away. The punk dropped his skateboard and grabbed the pistol. He centered it on Spector 's chest and smiled. A cue ball caught him in the side of the head as he pulled the trigger.
Spector rolled as the bullets tore up the table and floor. He felt bits of wood dig through his clothes and into his flesh. He crawled to the remaining Bedtime Boy. The kid sat up and shook his head. The sunglasses were gone.
"Good-bye," Spector said.
The punk met his eyes and gasped, then keeled over. Spector grabbed the Ingram and holstered it, then stood. The bartender was looking at him, afraid but annoyed. Nobody was talking.
"Some people got no manners at all. These boys are doing the big sleep now. Serves them right," Spector said, rubbing his arm.
The bartender gestured tentatively toward the door. "Don't worry. I'm gone."
"Hey, tough guy. Throw us back our cue ball." A short, well-built man in a white tank top pointed at Spector's feet. He picked up the ball and tossed it back. "Nice shot." The bartender coughed.
Spector walked out into the sunlit street, reaching inside his shirt to tug the splinters out. The fight with the skateboard punks had momentarily made him forget about the Astronomer. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth. With Butcher dead, the job was probably off Couldn't hurt to find out, though. He pulled a quarter from his pants pocket.
He found a pay phone just down the street from the Bottomless Pit. There was no answer at the Dime Museum, so Spector called the Twisted Dragon and asked for Danny Mao.
After waiting for a few moments a young Oriental came on the line.
"Danny Mao. Who's this?" The voice was smooth and assured, with only a trace of accent.
"My name's Spector. I was born in the year of the fire horse. I need to get in touch with one of your people. Guy with a Boston accent, sharp, careful."
There was a brief pause. "Mr. Spector, I'm not familiar with you. Who gave you my number?"
"A joker named Eye. Look, I was contacted this morning about a job. Things have changed, I have to find out what he wants done. Can you help me or not?"
"Possibly, but he's a very busy man, particularly today. Perhaps I can have him contact you later."
"Fine. I'll take the notebooks to someone else." He figured the lie would get Mao's attention.
"Ah, I see. Where are you now?"
Mao had bitten hard. The notebooks must be even more important than Spector had originally guessed. "You just give me the number, or I'll make sure the word goes around that you held up delivery on these babies."
"Call 555-4301. It's his private line. You'd better not be jerking us around…"
Spector hung up on Mao in midsentence. A chic young couple was standing behind him, obviously waiting to use the phone. He stared at the woman, grabbed his crotch, and licked his lips. They hurried away. Spector dropped another quarter into the slot and punched in the number.
He answered on the first ring. "Latham."
It was the person who'd called that morning. No question. The only Latham he was aware of was a big-cheese lawyer. "This is Spector. Have you heard about Butcher?"
"Of course. His death does alter a few things." Latham didn't act surprised to hear from him. There was the sound of fingers on a keyboard.
"So everything's off, right?"
"Let me see. I think it would be best for you to have dinner at the Haiphong Lily in any case. The Gambione Family is extremely vulnerable right now. I don't think they could stand to lose any more leadership. It could destroy the Family entirely."
"So, you want as many senior members killed as possible. Right?" Spector looked around to make sure no one was in hearing distance.
"Yes. We might be able to work out a bonus situation for you based on how many you neutralize."
"Fine. Eye said you'd set it up for me to get in with no trouble. Is that right?"
"I'm sure that's the case. By the way, who gave you my private number?"
"Smooth punk named Mao." Spector hoped they gave the kid bamboo shoots under the fingernails.
"I see. Thank you, Mr. Spector. We'll be in touch. Good hunting."
Spector hung up the phone. The quarter dropped into the change box. He looked up and down the street; if the Astronomer got hold of him there wouldn't be a bonus. There wouldn't even be a tomorrow.
Out on the street again, Jennifer took stock of her situation. She wasn't wearing much in the way of clothes. She had no shoes. She'd spent her last dime on the taxi that brought her back to Manhattan. What to do next?
Before she could make up her mind, though, things were decided for her.
They came out of nowhere. Two men emerged from the pedestrians milling around her, gripped either arm, and hustled her down the street.
"Make a sound and you'll die," one whispered to her, and she swallowed the instinctive scream welling in her throat. The crossed the street and went into a small park across from the Dime Museum. There were three other men there, waiting. One of them was the reptilian joker she'd first seen in Kien's condominium.
"The booksssss," he hissed, coming close to Jennifer. "Where are they?"
She flinched backward from the long forked tongue that lolled from his mouth.