Middle Eastern heroin dealers usually act, I mean. I saw that the Mexicans were just decertified. If it comes out that they were somehow involved in this, life's going to get even worse for them. Maybe you can use that to get a little cooperation." "Maybe. . . . Let me think about this, Mark."
"Does it sound like something worth following up on?" "As much as I hate to admit it, it's probably the best lead I've got right now."
Chapter 12
"CARLO? What's up?" Chet said groggily. He stepped back from the door and let Gasta walk by him. "What time is it?"
"Get dressed."
"Why? What's going on?"
"Just get your clothes on. You've got three minutes."
Chet blinked hard, trying to clear away the remnants of the deep sleep he'd been awakened from. "Sure, Carlo. Sure."
He hurried into his bedroom and pulled on a pair of slacks, trying to run through the last few days in his head. Had he said or done anything that could have pissed anyone off? Had he confused any of the constant stream of lies that kept him alive? Getting woken up in the middle of the night and ordered to get dressed in three minutes was not a good sign in his business. The Mob didn't give warnings.
"Get a fucking move on!"
Chet looked away from the window he'd been thinking about crawling out of and saw Gasta standing in the bedroom door. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and his stare was clear and intense.
He seemed like an almost completely different person. First, he was completely sober. Second, he looked vaguely nervous. Gasta didn't get vaguely nervous; he had only two demeanors: overconfident arrogance and scared shitless arrogance. And finally, he was wearing a suit. Not the normal retro-gangster fashion he favored, but a normal, conservative suit. Like one a . . . Chet tried to stifle the thought but couldn't: like one an undertaker would wear. "What's going on, Carlo?" Chet said again as he slid a tie through his collar and hoped his hands weren't shaking too much to tie the knot. "Where are we going?"
Gasta just stood there.
When he was finished dressing, Chet reached for the .45 on his nightstand.
"You won't need that," Gasta said. "Let's go."
Chet had expected to be driving, with Gasta watching him and giving him directions to a secluded corner of the empty desert surrounding L . A . Instead he was in the passenger seat, looking out the window as Gasta maneuvered his Corvette through the nearly silent streets of Century City. Chet still had no idea where they were going or why, but if Gasta was going to put a bullet in his head, it seemed like he would find a more practical place to do it. Or would he? Chet kept his hand close to the door handle, just in case it became necessary to bail out and make a run for it.
"What's this?" Chet said as Gasta turned into the parking garage of a glass high-rise. Again, no answer.
They stopped in a dark corner of the nearly empty garage and Gasta got out. Chet didn't immediately follow, quietly swearing to himself in the deep leather seat. The building above would be empty this time of night. Maybe Gasta just didn't feel like driving all the way out in the desert. He'd do it here and have Tony pick up the body for disposal.
Chet jerked away from the sudden banging on the window. A moment later Gasta yanked the door open. "Jesus Christ, Chet, what's your problem? Get the fuck out of the car."
Chet did so slowly, looking around him for an escape route. He was unarmed but a hell of a lot faster than Gasta. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that he could make it to an exit before Gasta--well known for his poor marksmanship--could put a bullet in him. Or he could just use his college wrestling skills to try to get the gun away from the older man. That was probably a better bet. He moved to within a foot of Gasta, crowding him enough to make it difficult for the man to pull his gun. "I've worked my ass off for you, Carlo. I've been nothing but loyal. You taking me for a ride, here?"
Gasta's
"Does it sound like something worth following up on?" "As much as I hate to admit it, it's probably the best lead I've got right now."
Chapter 12
"CARLO? What's up?" Chet said groggily. He stepped back from the door and let Gasta walk by him. "What time is it?"
"Get dressed."
"Why? What's going on?"
"Just get your clothes on. You've got three minutes."
Chet blinked hard, trying to clear away the remnants of the deep sleep he'd been awakened from. "Sure, Carlo. Sure."
He hurried into his bedroom and pulled on a pair of slacks, trying to run through the last few days in his head. Had he said or done anything that could have pissed anyone off? Had he confused any of the constant stream of lies that kept him alive? Getting woken up in the middle of the night and ordered to get dressed in three minutes was not a good sign in his business. The Mob didn't give warnings.
"Get a fucking move on!"
Chet looked away from the window he'd been thinking about crawling out of and saw Gasta standing in the bedroom door. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and his stare was clear and intense.
He seemed like an almost completely different person. First, he was completely sober. Second, he looked vaguely nervous. Gasta didn't get vaguely nervous; he had only two demeanors: overconfident arrogance and scared shitless arrogance. And finally, he was wearing a suit. Not the normal retro-gangster fashion he favored, but a normal, conservative suit. Like one a . . . Chet tried to stifle the thought but couldn't: like one an undertaker would wear. "What's going on, Carlo?" Chet said again as he slid a tie through his collar and hoped his hands weren't shaking too much to tie the knot. "Where are we going?"
Gasta just stood there.
When he was finished dressing, Chet reached for the .45 on his nightstand.
"You won't need that," Gasta said. "Let's go."
Chet had expected to be driving, with Gasta watching him and giving him directions to a secluded corner of the empty desert surrounding L . A . Instead he was in the passenger seat, looking out the window as Gasta maneuvered his Corvette through the nearly silent streets of Century City. Chet still had no idea where they were going or why, but if Gasta was going to put a bullet in his head, it seemed like he would find a more practical place to do it. Or would he? Chet kept his hand close to the door handle, just in case it became necessary to bail out and make a run for it.
"What's this?" Chet said as Gasta turned into the parking garage of a glass high-rise. Again, no answer.
They stopped in a dark corner of the nearly empty garage and Gasta got out. Chet didn't immediately follow, quietly swearing to himself in the deep leather seat. The building above would be empty this time of night. Maybe Gasta just didn't feel like driving all the way out in the desert. He'd do it here and have Tony pick up the body for disposal.
Chet jerked away from the sudden banging on the window. A moment later Gasta yanked the door open. "Jesus Christ, Chet, what's your problem? Get the fuck out of the car."
Chet did so slowly, looking around him for an escape route. He was unarmed but a hell of a lot faster than Gasta. There was a chance, albeit a small one, that he could make it to an exit before Gasta--well known for his poor marksmanship--could put a bullet in him. Or he could just use his college wrestling skills to try to get the gun away from the older man. That was probably a better bet. He moved to within a foot of Gasta, crowding him enough to make it difficult for the man to pull his gun. "I've worked my ass off for you, Carlo. I've been nothing but loyal. You taking me for a ride, here?"
Gasta's
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