House of Blues

motorcycle parked in
front. Carlini must work out of his house.
    A black maid answered the door, in uniform and
looking cross about it. Skip didn't think being a cop was going to
get her anywhere.
    "I work for the mayor," she said, which was
borderline true if you considered that he appointed the
superintendent of police, for whom Skip could arguably be said to
work.
    "There's something we need to speak to Mr.
Carlini about."
    The maid looked alarmed. "I'll get him,"
she said, and disappeared. She came back alone. "He says show
you into the living room."
    Was it safe? She thought so. He wasn't going to try
anything in front of this woman.
    She was shown into a living room that looked exactly
like a Henredon ad in Architectural Digest. In fact, it was eerie,
the sense of d éja vu it gave. Gold and burgundy print sofa, dark wood coffee table, even a
phalaenopsis in a brass pot on a desk at the side, exactly as if a
decorator had said, "Okay, let's do design 122. I'm going to the
beach; wake me when the check's signed."
    Or maybe there had been no decorator. Maybe Mrs.
Carlini had simply torn the ad from the magazine and systematically
set out to re-create it.
    In a moment, a tall man who did nothing to dispel
gangster stereotypes joined her. He had dark hair to which some sort
of grease had been applied, a too-studied tan, white slacks, and
white polo shirt. His arms looked as if he might work out now and
then, but his waistline looked as if he ate out even more. He had
probably been a looker ten years ago, but now he had pouches under
his eyes, and a couple of chins; it wasn't so much a look of
dissipation as of giving up, of saying good-bye to a piece of
himself. If Skip had seen him in a lineup, she would have said he was
depressed, but it seemed an odd description to apply to a gangster.
Behind Carlini—if that was who it was—was Manny Lanoux, as ornery
as his picture, and twice as ornery as the last time Skip saw him. He
wore jeans and a black T-shirt. He was too heavy, with a neck so
thick mice could nest in its folds, but he looked powerful. Perhaps
he was Carlini's bodyguard. He probably had an IQ about like Angel's,
but in case he remembered her, Skip didn't want to say her name.
    "Hello, Mr. Carlini," she said instead, and
stuck out her hand. As Carlini gripped it and began pumping, Manny's
face, over Carlini's shoulder, registered horror. He mouthed
something: "Shit," Skip was pretty sure; and headed for the
door.
    Skip couldn't move. "What his problem?" she
said to Carlini, hoping he'd turn around and let her hand go, but he
did only the former.
    Manners were no longer appropriate. She broke away
and raced after Manny, who by this time was flinging a leg over his
motorcycle.
    "Manny! Stop!" she hollered, knowing he'd
as soon send her a taped confession whenever he mugged an old lady.
    She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. However,
she'd slowed him down enough that she was able to fling a leg over
the hog herself. She attached herself to his back, arms around his
neck, just as the chopper took off. She reached for footholds and
tightened her grip on his neck, having no choice. He tried to shake
her off, tried to get his speed up enough to unbalance her, and it
worked.
    The problem was, he unbalanced himself and the
machine as well. Skip was thrown off, onto a grassy area. Manny wiped
out on the street. Naturally, he hadn't stopped to put on a helmet.
    Carlini rushed out. "What the fuck is going on?"
    " Police. You better call an ambulance."
    Skip was shaky, but in one
piece. Manny was out cold, and she couldn't find a pulse.
    * * *
    It was a couple of hours before he was conscious and
recovered enough to be interviewed. He had scrapes on his face and an
IV in his arm, but otherwise he looked mean as ever.
    " Manny, how's it going?"
    " You're the bitch got me for that thing with Pam
Kansco."
    "Language, Manny. You're looking kind of
helpless today."
    "Bitch," he said again.
    "Sticks and stones, big boy. Pam looked kind of
bad when you got through with her."
    "Fuck!" he yelled, "I don't have to
take this shit."
    Skip heard a scurrying outside, hospital personnel
coming to quiet them. She reassured them and closed the door.
    " Now we're alone and, like I said, you're kind
of helpless. You gonna be good?"
    Skip, you sadistic bully.
    Yeah, I guess so. Second time today.
    But she had no intention of stopping.
    "I don't have to talk to you," he yelled
again.
    She smiled sweetly. It was delicious having a