bring tonic and fresh limes. We’ll need clean glasses and ice.”
Shy Sal brushed some crumbs off his wrinkled suit and straightened his tie. Walking behind the desk, he tidied up the pens, papers, and ledgers, and pushed the leather chair into place. “It’s not every day you get to meet the captain. You and your brother should feel honored.”
Eddie leaned toward Everett, not looking at him. “Sorry about this.”
Everett made himself take a deep breath and exhale. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just get out of here first chance we get.”
Paulie’s cell phone rang. Its bluish glow reflected off his wide face momentarily. Then he slipped it back into his pants pocket. “Mr. B’s arrived. They’re on their way in.”
“Places, everybody.” Mike motioned Eddie and Everett toward two chairs near the big desk. They crossed to them and sat down. “Stand up!” Mike shot a glance at the door. “What are you, crazy?” The card players, now stationed around the perimeter of the room, took several steps toward Everett and Eddie—who immediately stood.
The bells at the front door jingled. The door slammed shut. And Everett’s heart drummed. Lord, I give myself to You right now. I’m in Your hands…
First through the curtains ducked a towering dude with dark green sunglasses, short brown hair, and thin sideburns and mustache. Without acknowledging anyone, he marched sternly across the room to the rear of the desk, where he assumed the posture of a Secret Service agent. “Black Bear, in position,” he spoke toward a tiny mike on his lapel, then tilted his head and adjusted a clear device in his ear. “Affirmative.”
Seconds later another bodyguard—this one short, old, and wiry—came through the red curtain and, in a gravelly voice, announced, “Gentlemen, Mr. B.”
Dividing the curtains with black leather gloves, Mr. B glided into the room. His black camel hair coat—with its wide shoulder pads—swished behind him like a cape. He strutted for the main seat at the desk as if he owned New York City. Paulie awaited him with outstretched arms, taking his gloves, scarf, and coat, then disappearing into another room.
“Mike. Sal.” Mr. B nodded as the two men stood anxiously in front of the chairs next to the desk. “Boys,” he acknowledged the three men dotting the perimeter of the room. “Sit.”
As everyone except the border police eased into their chairs, Everett turned to Eddie for reassurance but got none. Eddie’s attention was fixed on the mesmerizing mob captain, who was running one of the Honduran cigars he’d found in the wooden box on the desk under his short nose.
“Light, sir?” Paulie asked, dashing back into the dark room with a fresh gin and tonic, which he set on a coaster in front of the captain.
“Thank you, Paulie.”
The flame in Paulie’s shaking fist illuminated Mr. B’s tanned face and what Everett assumed were expensive porcelain veneers. The mobster had short, tightly curled hair that was way too jet-black for his age; must have been dyed. Mr. B’s weighty rings flashed in the dim light as he toked the cigar, rolling it in his mouth with manicured fingers.
Out of the corner of his eye, Everett detected movement from Mike. The man’s eyes darted frantically toward Paulie, whom he was gesturing toward with a tapping finger, trying to signal him to fetch an ashtray—but the plea was too late.
“Ashtray.” Mr. B flared, then relished a swig of his drink.
Mike’s head and eyes rolled, as Paulie raced from behind the desk, grabbed one of the ashtrays from the clean poker table, and hurried it back to the captain.
“Eddie,” Mr. B tapped the oily-looking cigar above the glass ashtray, “we appreciate your business. You’ve been a good customer for some time. I think you would agree that these fellas—Mike, Sal, Paulie, and the boys—have been fair to you. They’ve taken good care of you.”
The captain’s wide cheeks collapsed as he took a
Shy Sal brushed some crumbs off his wrinkled suit and straightened his tie. Walking behind the desk, he tidied up the pens, papers, and ledgers, and pushed the leather chair into place. “It’s not every day you get to meet the captain. You and your brother should feel honored.”
Eddie leaned toward Everett, not looking at him. “Sorry about this.”
Everett made himself take a deep breath and exhale. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s just get out of here first chance we get.”
Paulie’s cell phone rang. Its bluish glow reflected off his wide face momentarily. Then he slipped it back into his pants pocket. “Mr. B’s arrived. They’re on their way in.”
“Places, everybody.” Mike motioned Eddie and Everett toward two chairs near the big desk. They crossed to them and sat down. “Stand up!” Mike shot a glance at the door. “What are you, crazy?” The card players, now stationed around the perimeter of the room, took several steps toward Everett and Eddie—who immediately stood.
The bells at the front door jingled. The door slammed shut. And Everett’s heart drummed. Lord, I give myself to You right now. I’m in Your hands…
First through the curtains ducked a towering dude with dark green sunglasses, short brown hair, and thin sideburns and mustache. Without acknowledging anyone, he marched sternly across the room to the rear of the desk, where he assumed the posture of a Secret Service agent. “Black Bear, in position,” he spoke toward a tiny mike on his lapel, then tilted his head and adjusted a clear device in his ear. “Affirmative.”
Seconds later another bodyguard—this one short, old, and wiry—came through the red curtain and, in a gravelly voice, announced, “Gentlemen, Mr. B.”
Dividing the curtains with black leather gloves, Mr. B glided into the room. His black camel hair coat—with its wide shoulder pads—swished behind him like a cape. He strutted for the main seat at the desk as if he owned New York City. Paulie awaited him with outstretched arms, taking his gloves, scarf, and coat, then disappearing into another room.
“Mike. Sal.” Mr. B nodded as the two men stood anxiously in front of the chairs next to the desk. “Boys,” he acknowledged the three men dotting the perimeter of the room. “Sit.”
As everyone except the border police eased into their chairs, Everett turned to Eddie for reassurance but got none. Eddie’s attention was fixed on the mesmerizing mob captain, who was running one of the Honduran cigars he’d found in the wooden box on the desk under his short nose.
“Light, sir?” Paulie asked, dashing back into the dark room with a fresh gin and tonic, which he set on a coaster in front of the captain.
“Thank you, Paulie.”
The flame in Paulie’s shaking fist illuminated Mr. B’s tanned face and what Everett assumed were expensive porcelain veneers. The mobster had short, tightly curled hair that was way too jet-black for his age; must have been dyed. Mr. B’s weighty rings flashed in the dim light as he toked the cigar, rolling it in his mouth with manicured fingers.
Out of the corner of his eye, Everett detected movement from Mike. The man’s eyes darted frantically toward Paulie, whom he was gesturing toward with a tapping finger, trying to signal him to fetch an ashtray—but the plea was too late.
“Ashtray.” Mr. B flared, then relished a swig of his drink.
Mike’s head and eyes rolled, as Paulie raced from behind the desk, grabbed one of the ashtrays from the clean poker table, and hurried it back to the captain.
“Eddie,” Mr. B tapped the oily-looking cigar above the glass ashtray, “we appreciate your business. You’ve been a good customer for some time. I think you would agree that these fellas—Mike, Sal, Paulie, and the boys—have been fair to you. They’ve taken good care of you.”
The captain’s wide cheeks collapsed as he took a
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