Halfway to Hell

Halfway to Hell Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

I’ve been in enough cellars to know that this wasn’t one of the good ones. Bare concrete floor and walls. A bare light-bulb hanging from a flex above my head. The smell of mould and rat droppings. The back of my head was wet from where I’d been sandbagged and my skull felt like it had been split apart and put back together again in the wrong order. I figured I wasn’t alone, so I opened my eyes real slow and saw nothing but dust and shadows between my feet. My arms and legs were tied to the arms of a wooden chair. A drop of blood fell from the wound on my forehead and hit the concrete, turning grey as it mingled with the dust. I must have groaned because someone said: ‘Hey, Sleeping Beauty’s awake at last.’

            Footsteps. Someone crossed in front of me. Nice shoes. Expensive. Grey pants legs. I raised my head. It was like raising the Titanic. The rest of the suit was as expensive as the shoes. Crisp white shirt. Silk probably. Heavy gold cuff links. Didn’t like the tie. I tried a smile on for size, but it felt more like the grin of a lunatic who’s just seen a juicy fly.

            ‘Hey, Gimp, how’s tricks?’ I said.

            Anthony Francini Jr. Looking spiffy in his big boy suit. Face going purple at the insult. Me and my big mouth. He let fly with a back handed slap that rocked my head back. I began to see stars. His pinky ring split my lip and I spat blood onto the floor. I had the satisfaction of seeing him dance back a step or two to avoid spatters on his shiny shoes.

            ‘Funny guy,’ he muttered. ‘Laugh it up all you want. You won’t be laughing when we’re through with you.’

            ‘We?’ I mumbled. ‘Who else got invited to this party?’

            He crooked a finger and something roughly the size of a house ambled into view. He had a face that looked like it belonged on Mount Rushmore and not because he resembled Honest Abe. ‘This is Sal,’ Little Tony said. ‘Say hello, Sal.’

            Sal did as he was told. ‘Hello,’ he said and his voice sounded like three bags of rocks going down a garbage chute. I recognised him. If I hadn’t been so busy blacking out, I would have recognised him sooner. Salvatore ‘Sal’ Buscemi. Long time right hand of Big Tony Francini. I figured he’d been told to keep an eye on the kid and keep him out of trouble. He was doing a lousy job.

            ‘Who sent you? LT asked.

            ‘Got sent from Heaven,’ I told him. That got me another slap.

            ‘Who sent you?’ he asked again.

            ‘Guy name of Whistler told me to look you up.’ What the Hell. I didn’t owe Whistler any favours.

            ‘You think I’m an idiot?’

            I couldn’t think of an answer to that that wouldn’t get me another slap so I kept my mouth shut.

            ‘It was Whistler who told us you’d be here, bird brain.’

            Figures. Whistler was more scared of LT than he was of me. Right now, I can’t say I blamed him.

            ‘Who you working for?’ he asked.

            I could have told him. But I figured hearing that his fiancé thought he was in cahoots with her step-dad and had done something nasty to his soon-to-be sister in law would have got me nothing but a one way ticket to the bone yard.