Dead Man's Grip

the handgun permanently strapped to his calf and black Chelsea boots. So far, to their mother’s dismay, he had remained single. He had a constant succession of brainless bimbos in tow, but tonight he had come alone, as his particular way of showing respect.
    ‘You done business with this guy before?’ Fernanda asked.
    ‘He’s recommended.’ Ricky gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘By an associate of mine. And there’s a bonus. He knows this city, Brighton. He did a job there one time. He’ll do what you want done.’
    ‘He’d better. I want them to suffer. You told him that, didn’t you?’
    ‘He knows.’ Ricky puffed on his cigar. ‘You spoke to Mamma? How was she?’
    ‘How do you think she was?’ Fernanda drained the rest of her Sea Breeze and got up, unsteadily, to walk towards the drinks cabinet.
    Ricky turned his attention back to the game. Within moments, he leapt out of his armchair, shaking a hand at the screen and showering cigar ash around him.
    ‘The fuck!’ he shouted. ‘These guys, the fuck they doing?’
    As he sat back down a series of sharp chimes came from the hall.
    Ricky was on his feet again. ‘He’s here.’
    ‘Mannie’ll get it,’ Lou said.
     
     
    Tooth sat in the back of the Lincoln Town Car, dressed casually but smartly in a sports coat, open-neck shirt, chinos and brown leather
loafers, the kind of clothes in which he could go anywhere without raising an eyebrow. His brown holdall lay on the seat beside him.
    The driver had wanted to put it in the trunk when he had collected him from Kennedy Airport, but Tooth never let it out of his sight. He never checked it in, it came inside the plane with him on every flight. The bag contained his clean underwear, a spare shirt, pants, shoes, his laptop, four cellphones, three spare passports and an assortment of forged documents all concealed inside three hollowed-out paperback books.
    Tooth never travelled with weapons, other than a quantity of the incapacitating agent 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate – BZ – disguised as two deodorant sticks, in his washbag. It wasn’t worth the risk. Besides he had his best weapons on the end of his arms. His hands.
    In the beam of the headlights he watched the high grey electric gates opening and the rain pelting down. Then they drove on through, until ahead he could see the superstructure of a showy modern mansion.
    The driver had said nothing during the journey, which suited Tooth fine. He didn’t do conversation with strangers. Now the man spoke for almost the first time since he had checked Tooth’s name at the arrivals lobby at the airport.
    ‘We’re here.’
    Tooth did not reply. He could see that.
    The driver opened the rear door and Tooth stepped out into the rain with his bag. As they reached the porch, the front door of the house was opened by a nervous-looking Filipina maid in uniform. Almost immediately, she was joined by a mean-faced, pot-bellied man in a fancy black cardigan, jeans and black boots, holding a big cigar.
    Tooth’s first reaction was that the cigar was a good sign, meaning he could smoke in here. He stepped inside, into a huge hall with a grey flagstone floor.
    A wide circular staircase swept up ahead of him. There were gilded mirrors and huge, bizarre abstract paintings which made no sense to him. Tooth didn’t do art.
    The man held out a fleshy hand covered in glinting rings, saying,‘Mr Tooth? Ricky Giordino. Y’had a good journey?’
    Tooth shook the man’s clammy hand briefly, then released it as
fast as he could, as if it was a decomposing rodent. He didn’t like to shake hands. Hands carried germs.
    ‘The journey was fine.’
    ‘Can I fix you a drink? Whiskey? Vodka? Glass of wine? We got just about everything.’
    ‘I don’t drink when I’m working.’
    Ricky grinned. ‘You haven’t started yet.’
    ‘I said I don’t drink when I’m working.’
    The smile slid from Ricky’s face, leaving behind an awkward leer. ‘OK. Maybe some water?’
    ‘I had water in the car.’
    ‘Great. Terrific.’ Ricky checked his cigar, then sucked on it several times, to keep it burning. ‘Maybe you want something to eat?’
    ‘I ate on the plane.’
    ‘Not great, that shit they give you on planes, is it?’
    ‘It was fine.’
    After five military tours, some of them solo, fending for himself behind enemy lines, eating beetles and rodents and berries sometimes for days on end, anything that came on a plate or in a bowl was fine by Tooth. He wasn’t