Fear Her Wrath

Chapter 9

Dalton Reaves and Frankie Markopolos were usually careful about talking business around me. Even when one of their associates stopped by—Nick Tomassi, Billy the Comb, Phony Charlie—everything was strictly informal as long as I was in earshot. It was the old prejudice of made men against "frails"—a suitable reminder that in some ways, the Montagnese wiseguys were about as sophisticated as middle school boys.

I was just starting to wonder whether my visits to Joey's were ever going to pay off when Albert Rosinski, flanked by two bodyguards, made his dramatic entrance to the pool hall and limped over to Frankie.

Good thing too, because I was losing.

Albert Rosinski was barely five feet tall. He wasn't called the Boyar back then—if he had been, the nickname would've been ironic. His signature black beard was patchy, and oily, and didn't do much to offset his smooth, bald head. He had a hooked nose and beady, watery eyes that seemed to be constantly searching the room. His fur coat and tailored shirt looked expensive, but could've used a trip to the dry cleaners. Precious stones set in silver or platinum glistened on his fat fingers, and a heavy gold chain hung from his thick neck.

In other words, he was trying too hard, but it kinda worked. I believed him as a dangerous gangster, at least. Frankie didn't seem so sure.

"You want to explain this to me?" His voice was as thin and greasy as his beard, and his clipped, Slavic accent made it a pretty safe bet that he ran with the Polish mob. Frankie and Dalton shared the slightest of meaningful glances.

"There's nothing to explain, Rosinski. The call was made. It's outta my hands and it's outta yours. Leave it that way."

"I am trying to run an honest business," said Rosinski, his voice dangerously low. "Honest business in partnership with... a certain gentleman, in which we agreed that a mutual friend would play a role."

He shot a suspicious glance at me. I picked up my pool cue to leave, but Frankie caught me by the shoulder.

"Maybe you should talk with him," said Frankie. "It was his move."

Albert Rosinski bared his yellowing teeth.

"That's not what my friend tells me!" he snarled. "You know what he says? He says, 'Frankie has done this. Frankie went to the big boss. Frankie is upset because his own man was bumped off.' Pah!"

He spat on the wooden floor.

"You interfere with my business, I come to you."

"And when you interfere with my business, I talk to my boss," said Frankie calmly. "You cause trouble for us with your 'mutual friend,' and for what? It doesn't work, and you wanna try it again? You know how much crap I had to deal with? Tomassi getting picked up for questioning, police detectives coming to my place of business. Next time you pull a stunt like that, Rosinski, I'm not covering for you."

Well, that tied everything up nicely. Frankie had gone to Augusto Vaccari, the Montagnese caporegime, and got him to blackball another hit by Icemane against the Muslim businesses on Runyon Street. Albert Rosinski, clumsy and self-important oaf that he was, had taken it as a personal slight. One of Rosinski's burly bodyguards was feeling for the gun in his coat pocket. Frankie was leaning against the pool table, looking down at the Polish mobster with undisguised contempt. For a moment, I wondered why he wasn't worried. A long pause had followed Frankie's little speech, and it was the kind of pause that usually ended with gunfire—at least if Mom's mob movie collection was any guide. But then I saw the cruel smile cracking across Dalton's lips. They wouldn't dare. Not with him. Behind those round, mirrored lenses, Dalton Reaves was studying each of them closely. If one of Rosinki's men pulled a gun, it would be over before he touched the trigger.