the daybed an intercom. The have-around in a pink, short-sleeve shirt wasnât wearing a piece, although no doubt there was one within easy reach beneath the daybed.
The have-around blocked the way. âWhat do you want?â
âIâm here to see Riccio.â
âSure you are. Got an appointment?â
âYeah, Mitch Laughton.â
âFor this morning?â
âYeah.â
âI think not. Riccio ainât seeing nobody this morning. He told me.â
âLook on his agenda.â
âOkay, asshole, down you go.â The have-around crowded Mitch with his belly.
Mitch avoided it. âDonât contaminate me.â
âIâll break your fucking face, thatâs what Iâll contaminate.â
Mitch did a take that stopped everything. He focused his interest on the guyâs eyes, craned forward a bit, scrutinizing more closely.
âYou wearing eye shadow?â
âHuh?â
âItâs smudged. Your eye shadow. The left eye.â
âYou calling me a fagala?â
âYouâre also quick.â Mitch indicated the intercom. âCall up and tell Riccio Iâm here. Youâre bad for business. When I see Riccio Iâm going to tell him you cost him.â
âFuck you. All I got to do is press that red buzzer and three cowboys will come down and rip your head off.â
âAnd all youâd do is watch, right? What is it, you afraid youâll break a fingernail or something?â
The guy fisted his fat right hand and swung.
Mitch easily sidestepped it.
The momentum of the miss carried the guy forward in a sort of clumsy lunge, spun him on his fat legs so now his back was to the stairwell. While he was trying to recover his balance Mitch brought his foot up to the guyâs gut and shoved.
The guy grabbed at the air as he went over backwards, pitched down the steep stairway, caromed from wall to wall with the sharp edges of each of the fifteen steps hurting grunts out of him all the way to the bottom. He lay there face up.
Mitch peered down at him, thought the fat of the guy should have cushioned and prevented serious injury. Maybe not, though. The guy wasnât moving.
But then suddenly he was up and coming up, awkwardly clambering on all fours, gorilla-like.
Mitch had time to think how much he disliked this kind of guy, how this sort seemed to always bring out a mean part of him. It wasnât anything personal.
The guyâs hands got to the landing. He tried to grab Mitchâs leg.
Out of sympathy Mitch didnât kick him. A kick was in order and would have been easy, but, instead, Mitch merely gave the guyâs face a push.
The fall the guy took this time was about the same, looked and sounded just as painful. He lay sprawled in a contorted position at the bottom of the stairs and, from the sounds of his moans, it was doubtful heâd attempt another climb.
Although the way was cleared now, Mitch had second thoughts about continuing on up to see Riccio. Before getting to Riccio thereâd be more have-arounds to contend with and if he managed to get past those there would be Riccioâs routine.
All Mitch had wanted was to exchange a few words with the man and leave with him a set of the Kalali photographs. But Riccio would never allow only that. He was an advocate of old-mob ways, slow, snaky, respect and all that. Heâd insist on having espresso poured into merely rinsed cups and a couple of petrified anisette cookies placed on the saucers along with tiny stainless steel spoons.
Riccio would conversationally circle the reason for Mitchâs unscheduled visit with irrelevant observations and opinions and throw in a mob anecdote here and there. As though he had all the time in the world and Mitch wasnât suffering the place with its cheap, tasteless furnishings. Black synthetic carpet with such a high pile it looked like a million writhing worms and no telling what might be hiding in
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