Disneyland for drunks, Cruz had heard it called.
He leaned against an ornate light post on Decatur Street, watching the people move along. He wore khaki pants and a large colorful Hawaiian shirt that hung down below his waistband. He slowly sipped from a plastic bottle of lime seltzer.
A young guy in gym shorts and a t-shirt peeled off from a group of college kids, boys and girls, all-Americans. The guy wore a baseball cap backwards. His shirt – pulled tight to a chest inflated by many hours in the gym – said DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS. He had a big plastic tumbler of a fruity drink. He came toward Cruz, stumbling just a bit and grinning. He was four or five inches taller than Cruz, and probably outweighed him by seventy pounds. It looked like a lifetime of mild success at sports had convinced the kid he was immortal. He reminded Cruz of one of those kids he had seen on TV, the ones that threw the cheerleaders in the air at college basketball games.
“Hey Scarface,” the kid said. “How ya doing?”
He stuck his hand out. Cruz ignored it.
“The girls over there? They think you’re cute. They want you to come out with us.”
Cruz glanced over at the gaggle of college kids across the street. The group looked over at him. A couple of the girls laughed. He turned back to the kid.
“I’m busy.”
The kid poked Cruz’s shoulder.
“Didn’t you hear me? They think you’re cute. The way you got your hair all greased up. It’s cute.” He poked Cruz again. It was more of a push the second time.
“I want you to do something,” Cruz said. He hadn’t moved from the post.
“Yeah? What’s that?” The kid smirked.
“I want you to look right here, into my eyes, and listen to what I tell you. Okay? Look right here.”
The kid did so, and already the wild light was dying from his own eyes. In an instant, he saw something there, something Cruz well knew. It was the reason Cruz rarely looked directly into the eyes of the straight world. It did him no good to go around scaring grocery cashiers and rent-a-car clerks.
“You’re a good kid, right? Grew up in a nice house? Gonna have a nice life, sell stocks or some shit. Right?”
The kid nodded. He looked down at his sneakers.
“No, don’t look away. I want you to look right here.”
With some effort, the kid lifted his gaze again. Cruz spoke quietly, his voice raising just above a whisper – but loud enough for the kid to hear.
“Good. That’s good. Now I’m only gonna tell you this once, but I think once will be enough. I said I was busy, and I meant it. You stay here any longer and I’m gonna cut you up and feed you to my dogs. You understand, right?”
The kid looked down again, nodded.
“Okay. Now get lost.”
An hour passed.
It was after midnight. The streets were still jammed. Cruz had hardly moved since the kid had left. No one had spoken to him since then. He watched the door of the hotel across the street, trying not to grow annoyed.
He had called upstairs a few minutes ago. Carmine was still up there in his room. When Carmine had answered, Cruz had affected an accent, looking for Pablo, and Carmine told him to go fuck himself, he had the wrong number. Rather, he had slurred it. Carmine was drunk again.
Carmine Giobbi. Carmine the Nose.
Carmine had money problems. He had borrowed so much that he had no way to pay it back. It was okay when he owed it somewhere else. But once you started burning your own people for money, the game was over. Carmine couldn’t even pay the juice anymore. Half a mil, the dossier said he owed.
Half a mil? Cruz suspected it was more than that.
Carmine had already been gone a month with no contact. That was way too long.
Now it looked like he had no plans of coming back. It looked like he was going to stay down here and drink. Cruz had watched him two full nights so far, and by the end of them, Carmine had been so drunk the whores he picked up could hardly keep him standing. Carmine was a big heavy man. He had a goddamn big nose, too.
They couldn’t have Carmine down here, drinking every night with strangers. The time had come to send him home.
Here came the big lug now. He stepped out onto the street from the hotel and started down the block. No surprise, he looked just like an enforcer on vacation. White silk shirt, top three buttons open, showing his hairy chest and his gold crucifix, hanging loose at the bottom as if to cover a piece in his waistband. There was no piece, at least, not the night before.. Cruz had crept close enough to Carmine the night before to thoroughly examine the area at the bottom of his shirt. Carmine might be loaded with weapons in his hotel room, but he went out at night unarmed. Khaki pants and alligator shoes rounded out Carmine’s clothing ensemble.
His gold watch sparkled. Of course it was a Rolex. Cruz had gotten an up close look at it in a bar the night before. It was a wonder nobody had rolled Carmine for it yet, for the watch and that fat billfold he kept whipping out.
What was wrong with this guy?
He was drunk already. Sure. He had probably been knocking them back in his room since whatever time he woke up. Sitting on the balcony, drinking, watching the day pass into evening, watching the evening pass into night, the crowds gathering, the streets glowing with excitement.
Cruz pushed himself away from the light post and started walking.
Up ahead, Carmine weaved through the crowded streets. His big shoulders bumped a couple of people out of his way. Carmine was a handful, all right.
Cruz kept a safe distance. He watched as the Nose entered an open air bar, grabbed a woman’s ass, then got in a shoving match with the woman’s boyfriend. He nearly shoved the guy through the wall. The bouncers, three of them, walked him out of there, consoling him with pats on the back. Big guys were all the same, and they liked to see those pushy, big guy traits in each other. A guy Cruz’s size pulled that kind of shit in that bar? Those bouncers would take him outside and tap dance on his skull.
Carmine stumbled on. He went into another bar and grabbed another woman’s ass. This ass grabbing, this was something new.
After an hour, Cruz had had enough.
The streets were still crowded, but the tone had changed. People were very drunk now. Women screamed for no reason at all. A man leaned over and puked into the gutter. A small crowd gathered around a young man who had fallen down and lay sprawled on the concrete, unable to stand. Carmine staggered along through it all like the monster from Frankenstein. Then he stopped, looked around and turned down an alley.
Shrewd Carmine, making sure the coast was clear.
Cruz surveyed the scene from across the street. No cops anywhere. Lots of people milling about, going this way and that. A darkened alley between buildings. And Carmine down there, probably taking a piss.
Cruz crossed the street and walked toward the mouth of the alley. As he did so, he took two thin leather gloves out, one from each of his front pockets, and slid them onto his hands, like a doctor preparing for surgery.
Down the alley, just twenty yards down, big Carmine leaned up against the wall, bracing himself with a hairy arm. The other hand had worked his whanger out of his pants. A steady stream emanated from it, soaking the wall and splashing back on Carmine’s pants and shoes.
Jesus, the guy was a mess.
“Carmine.”
“Yeah, just a minute here. Gotta water the flowers.” Carmine’s lower lip hung down.
Cruz worked the stunted black Glock pocket pistol – the. 40 caliber M-27 – from the back of his pants. Cruz always demanded the M-27. It was smaller than the standard Glock, it was light, it was concealable even with a longer, threaded barrel attached so it could take a silencer. Nine rounds was more than enough for Cruz,. 40 cal was excellent stopping power, and the gun itself always worked – rain, heat, cold, snow, it didn’t matter. The Glock worked.