Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER FOUR

Name: Dino Crocetti

Year: 1936

Age: 19

Clink. God, I hope no one heard that. I move my foot as slowly as I can within my oversized loafers to move the silver dollar out of the way and underneath my foot. Once it slides beneath my heel, I sigh inaudibly, the cool surface of the coin for a moment taking away the dull ache of having to stand for hours on end.

As I palm a stack of silver dollars and slide it over to one of the players sitting across from me with his hat blocking the light from hitting his face, my large hand easily covers the coin I hold onto.

Once their attention is all diverted back to their cards, I drop my hand behind the table, angling it before letting go of the coin. Thud. It lands perfectly in my shoe, and I once again slide it underneath my foot. Tonight's going to be a profitable night, to say the least. A flash of last night's incident passes through my mind without my control; the clinking of silver dollars raining from my shoes to the ground as I watch helplessly from the loop-de-loop, and it brings a flush to my cheeks. But only for a moment. Then it is gone as soon as it comes.

###

"I hear you like to dance." Shit. That slow, gravelly voice from behind me that has caused many-a-crooks to shudder makes a muscle jump in my jaw, and I square my shoulders before turning around to face Cosmo, the harsh light casting an ugly shadow on his hardened face. He brings up a Parodi to his lips, with his forefinger and thumb upturned, taking a big huff before blowing a billow of foul smelling smoke in my face.

I try my best not to make a sound, but my breath catches in my throat.

"Where'd you hear that?" I manage in an indifferent voice. What was a hundred bucks gonna do to this guy? I was an honest dealer, I don't know what else he wanted. A fella's gotta make a living someway.

"That's what they tell me. I'd like to see you dance."

"What?" I meet his dark, beady eyes in disbelief.

"I'd like to see you dance in dem shoes you got there."

"Look, Cosmo, I don't see what a couple dollars—" In a split second I find myself pinned against the wall, collar digging into my throat as Cosmo somehow lifts me off the ground despite my being six inches taller than him.

"Those are my couple dollars." He growls, puffing on his cigarette with his free hand.

"I—I know. That's what—what I meant." I gasp out, spots dancing across my vision.

"I know that's what you meant. Now be a good boy, and don't do it again. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah—yeah, I understand." He lets me go, and my legs buckle beneath me as I catch my breath, gasping and sputtering. I hear his footsteps as he walks away, and I curse myself under my breath before standing and straightening my suit.

###

Name: Dino Crocetti

Year: 1938

Age: 20

"Aren'tyoualooker?" The words tumble out of Costanzo's mouth without pause, and the blond dame whose scrawny arm he's grabbed yanks herself away from him, nose crinkling at his acrid breath. Costanzo stumbles, grabbing at a nearby lamppost for support. The girl looks a little wobbly herself, and wipes the back of her hand across her mouth disorientedly, smearing her scarlet lipstick.

I take the opportunity to put my arm under hers for support, and she glances up at me gratefully, pupils dilated. I've been drinking too, but not nearly as much as Costanzo—yet—and this broad could be a lot of fun.

The whiskey feels like it's burning a hole in my throat as I take a big, exaggerated swig, dropping the bottle below the table as the server brings our food over. I burst into peals of what sounds like distant laughter when he leaves, and so does everyone else at the table, though I'm not sure why. I just feel like laughing.

"S—s—smells goooood!" I exclaim, bringing my nose a mite too close to the plate. Costanzo groans, dropping his head on his arms.

"I think I'm gonna be sick . . . "

"Let's get outta here, Dino—maybe the clip joint!" Luca says excitedly.

"No, not the clip joint . . . let's go to the s—spables."

My head is cleared almost as soon as Rocky breaks into a gallop, and I lean forward in the stirrups, an odd feeling of almost floating washing over me. I can't really see what's in front of me as the dusty wind whips past my face with a sharp sting. However, in my imagination I can see exactly where I am.

Dark shrubbery atop rocks that seem at some points a bright red, and at others a violet sort of color; a bright sky that seems to go on forever and ever. My hand moves from clutching Rocky's mane to my hat, tracing the almost impossibly long kettle curl brim with a dimpled grin. The distinct hoot from behind me sends a thrill through my body that ends with my hand reaching for my revolver. Without hesitation I send a shot in that direction, arm taut to diminish the jerk of the gun as it fires.

Easing Rocky to a stop, I turn back triumphantly, hoping to catch sight of dark arms and legs splayed out against the rocks, further darkened by the scarlet blossoming across a still chest. My smile fades. No Indian, only a tree with one of its branches unfortunately broken off by the shot of a boy who thought he was Tom Mix. A bitter chuckle escapes my lips.