“But you’re willing to go up against him,” Quirk said.
“Oh, sure,” Z said. “Indians are always optimistic.”
“And with so little reason,” Quirk said.
“If you’re right,” I said to Z, “he may bring others.”
“So did Custer,” Z said.
48
“I don’t think he’s changed,” Susan said. “You know him better than I do, but I think he has gotten rid of a lot of stuff that wasn’t really Zebulon Sixkill.”
“How’d he do that?” I said.
“He seems finally to have someone he can emulate,” Susan said.
It was Sunday morning, and we were having a breakfast that extended into the afternoon.
“Me?” I said.
“You,” Susan said.
She had drunk a small fruit smoothie, which had brought her past noon, and was now eating a single soft-boiled egg, with whole-wheat toast, which would probably take her to mid-afternoon.
“Well, who wouldn’t emulate me?” I said.
“Everyone at Harvard,” Susan said.
“Oh, them,” I said.
“Z is, from my admittedly limited vantage, becoming more like you every day,” Susan said. “Which suggests to me that he was probably a good deal like you to start with.”
“Big and handsome, with a magnificent physique?” I said.
“Sure,” Susan said. “It may be why he came to you in the first place.”
“Because he was like me?”
“Because at some unconscious level, he may have sensed that he might be,” Susan said.
“Think maybe that might be why I took him on?”
“Yes,” Susan said.
“Seeing beyond the magnificent-physique similarities,” I said.
Susan nodded.
“He did well at the shoot-out,” she said.
“Just fine,” I said.
She nodded.
“And so did you,” she said.
“Good as ever,” I said.
“In neither case was that because of how you looked,” Susan said.
“Who you are is not always how you look?” I said.
“Not usually,” Susan said.
“You look like a hot Jewess,” I said.
“I’m the exception,” she said.
“I’ll say.”
“Perhaps the booze and the broads and the bully-boy posture are all a kind of costume. If he learns what you know, and behaves as you behave, then it allows him to slough off the costume.”
“So I haven’t helped him change as much as I’ve helped him get out.”
“Might be the case,” Susan said.
“You Ph.D.’s,” I said.
Susan smiled.
“We both spend our professional lives mucking around in the human condition,” she said. “There is very little in there to be dogmatic about.”
“I know,” I said.
“Have a drink after the shooting?” Susan said.
“Quirk, Z, and I had two scotches each in my office, after everything was over with.”
“He seem to want more?” Susan said.
“Hell,” I said. “I wanted more.”
“But you didn’t have any,” Susan said.
“No.”
“I wonder if he did?”
“Did he go back to his room at Henry’s gym and drag a bottle out from under the mattress?”
I shrugged.
“No way to know,” I said.
Susan nodded.
“And if he did,” I said, “nothing to be done.”
“No,” Susan said. “He has to do it himself, but if you matter enough, you may be able to help him simply by mattering. For what it’s worth, I’m betting he didn’t.”
“I think he can do it,” I said.
“Do you think he’s right about Stephano Whatsisname?”
“Need to be ready for it, at least,” I said.
“Have you talked with Mr. del Rio about him?” Susan said.
“I thought I’d do that tonight.”
She stuck a piece of toast into her soft-boiled egg and bit off a corner.
“Good,” Susan said.
49
“I know of no one in Los Angeles who does not fear Stephano DeLauria,” del Rio said on the phone when I finally got through.
He paused for a moment. I waited. The way he paused, I knew it wasn’t my turn yet.
“Except Chollo,” del Rio said. “To the best of what I know, Chollo isn’t afraid of anything.”
“If it gives him trouble, he assumes he can shoot it,” I said.
“Exactly,” del Rio said.
“And Bobby Horse?” I said.
“On his own,” del Rio said, “yes, Bobby Horse would be cautious of Stephano. But with Chollo... He would go with Chollo into a working volcano.”
“And you?” I said.
“I fear my wife,” del Rio said. “Everything else Chollo and Bobby Horse take care of.”
“So tell me about DeLauria,” I said.
“He is an excellent hand fighter, a fine shot with handguns and long weapons. He is skilled with explosives. He is expert with a knife. Even a cudgel.”
“Cudgel?” I said.
“I have worked very hard all my life to perfect my English,” del Rio said.
“Lot of people have those skills,” I said. “What makes Stephano especially fearsome?”
“His willingness,” del Rio said. “He has been known, without malice, to kill a man, his wife, children, and dog.”
“To make a point?” I said. “Or just because they were there?”
“Either,” del Rio said.
“It doesn’t bother him,” I said.
“I believe he likes it,” del Rio said.
“A skilled sadist,” I said. “Who’s found a profession suited to him.”
“Yes,” del Rio said. “Oddly, he seems devoted to his wife, and is thus entirely loyal to her father.”
“Nicky Fellscroft,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Does he ever freelance?” I said.
“Stephano?” del Rio said. “No. He is Nicky Fellscroft’s personal assassin.”
“So if he went after somebody, it would be because Fellscroft told him to?”
“Or his wife told him,” del Rio said.
“Fellscroft’s daughter,” I said.
“Yes,” del Rio said. “And she would never point him at anyone without her father’s agreement.”
“Close family,” I said.
“Very,” del Rio said. “And one to which Stephano is very pleased to belong.”
“It’s worked out well for Stephano,” I said.
“Do you expect him to come for you?” del Rio said.
“Possible,” I said.
“Would you like me to have Chollo kill him for you?” del Rio said.
“You’re very kind,” I said. “But no, I need to deal with him myself.”
“Yes,” del Rio said. “You probably do.”
50
It was Sunday morning, in the full flower of early June. Susan and I were having brunch at a Boston restaurant called Mooo. The brunch was the stuff that dreams are made of, and so was Susan. I was sipping a passionfruit Bellini and having a very nice time when Tony Marcus slid into an empty chair next to me.
“Morning, Dr. Silverman,” Tony said.
“Good morning, Mr. Marcus,” Susan said.
“Call me Tony,” he said.
“Call me Susan,” she said.
He smiled. I checked the room. At a table for two a few tables removed was a young woman who looked like Halle Berry. She smiled at us. Jittering at the bar was a skinny little youth named Ty-Bop who always looked like he was on something, and probably was. Whatever he was on didn’t seem to impede him. He could shoot nearly as good as Chollo, or Vinnie Morris. Beside him was Junior, who was the approximate size of a 747 but organized differently. They were always in sight when Tony was around. At the other end of the bar, Z was drinking orange juice and eyeing Junior speculatively. Dueling bodyguards.