Wiseguys In Love by C. Clark Criscuolo

Tony to spare Michigan. His eyes slid over to him and he saw Tony watch the floor numbers light up as the elevator descended.
    If he could save Michigan, what about her boss?
    That would take more careful planning, and it would be one less murder he’d be in on.…
    His stomach suddenly went cold.
    Giuseppe Geddone. He couldn’t get out of that. But how could he do it? He wasn’t a killer. Not only wasn’t he a killer but to get payment for it—that’s what Solly had thrown in, more for Tony than for him. If Tony was in on it and he didn’t get his usual “bonus,” he’d get all confused, and Solly didn’t want that.
    Michael didn’t want that.
    Tony was more likely to go off half-cocked when he was confused.
    Jesus Christ! Why had Giuseppe done this? Michael couldn’t imagine he’d been skimming so much. Knowing Solly, it probably wouldn’t even buy him a suit each month, but it was “the principle of the thing.”
    Still, Geddone should’ve known better.
    Michael caught himself wincing. Two years with these guys and he was already beginning to think like them. They were talking about a human life here. This was something that seemed to elude these people. He needed a plan.
    They walked silently through the lobby. The guard was off somewhere.
    They walked out to the car and got in.
    â€œWe’re going to SoHo,” he said, and Tony grunted as he started the car.
    â€œHow you wanna do this?”
    â€œIt’s up to you.”
    â€œLook, you gotta call it. You wanna get him in his apartment or on the street?”
    *   *   *
    It was ten past eight. Henry walked into his closet and sorted through a rack of clothes he’d never worn. He selected a Bijan outfit, with a matching shirt that had never even been out of the bag it came in.
    Once he had realized that if he continually bought new clothes, he would never have to do laundry, life became a pleasure. God! Expense accounts were great!
    He stood, adjusting his tie and combing his hair, which dramatically fell into the same place every time. He should get it trimmed, but just a tiny bit. He liked the overgrown look. It read, Henry felt, like a man who was too dedicated and busy to get a haircut. Of course, he had to pay his stylist one hundred bucks a visit to maintain this degree of sloppiness, but he looked so devoted on Page Six.
    He rummaged through a box with eyeglasses in it. This was another affectation of which he was fond: the hardworking head of a magazine so staunch, his eyes were going on him. It added to the aura.
    He chose a large pair with Calvin Klein frames. He couldn’t remember who’d taught him the trick about plain glass in the frames. A lot of his memory seemed faulty these days. Even though he suspected it was his night-prowling schedule—a schedule he’d perfected at twenty-one and not changed even though he’d aged a decade—he preferred to think it was because he worked for a living.
    He left his hair loose—it wouldn’t do to have another picture of him with it pulled back, in case he ran into the press again—and stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the closet. This would be fine. And he could really let loose because, after all, this was Friday night.
    *   *   *
    Forty-five.
    Forty-six.
    Lisa squirmed and tried to concentrate on the count. The paper in her mouth was making her gag and the tape on her wrists was slightly pulling some hair on her arm, so it felt as if she was removing a Band-Aid horribly slowly. Her shoulders were all hunched up and pulled back by the chair. It was frighteningly uncomfortable.
    Forty-seven.
    Forty-eight. She continued counting in her head as she coughed on the towels.
    *   *   *
    â€œOkay, so we wait for him to come outta the building and we grab him, and, if we need to, we take him back to that office to do the