I toss down another bill and follow him out, glancing at the blonde who is looking at her phone with an irritated expression. She got stood up, I decide. New York is like that. You can pass a hundred people in a day and never see them again, never know their stories or struggles.
“Where to, boss?” I ask. I notice the way Little Al swells when I call him that, the way his shoulders square just a bit, and he stands a little taller.
“Gonna pay a little visit to Jimmy the Nose,” he says. “He’s late with the rent again.”
“Okay.” I took a taxi here, as most people in the city do, but he must have driven, as he heads for the nearby parking garage. It smells like exhaust and tar cooking under the sweltering summer sun.
“You don’t say much, do you?” he asks.
“When I’ve got something to say,” I answer honestly. “I’ve got a lot to learn before I run my mouth.”
“Then watch and learn, kid.” Little Al gets behind the wheel of a flashy, souped up Porsche, and I slide into the passenger seat. “Two rules when you ride in my car,” he says. “Don’t touch nothin’ and don’t say nothin’ about the music unless you’re givin’ up the pussy tonight.”
I nod in agreement and watch the streets go by, memorizing the way. Uncle Al showed me a map with our territory marked out with pins, real old-school, to show me the places we do business. But being here makes it real, and I want to get a feel for the real place.
“I hear you’re tying the knot with Eliza Pomponio,” Little Al says as we make our way into a smaller neighborhood with little shops along each side of the street.
“So I’m told.”
“Makes me wish I wasn’t married,” Al says with a grin. “I’d pop that cherry so hard you’d hear it in the next county.”
I tense. “What?”
“All the daughters gotta be virgins, bro,” he says. “It’s our reward for services rendered, you know?”
“I didn’t know.”
He laughs and slaps the steering wheel. “Don’t tell me you been fuckin’ around,” he says. “You gotta save yourself for her, too.”
I don’t say anything.
“You have been saving yourself, right?”
“No,” I say, glowering at him.
He hoots with laughter and reaches over to slap my shoulder. “I’m just kidding you. Relax. How you supposed to show them who’s boss if you don’t know what you’re doing? I got so much pussy before I was married. Still do, if you know what I mean. But Eliza Pomponio? Shit, man. I’d love to make that bitch bleed.”
“That’s my wife you’re talking about,” I growl, wanting reach over and knock the shit out of this guy. I’ve never met my socialite fiancé, but that doesn’t mean I want her disrespected.
He just laughs and whips the Porsche into a parking spot. “Relax, bro. You know her?”
“No,” I admit, still glaring as he throws the brake and hops out.
Little Al laughs again and shakes his head as we approach a nearby shop. “You’ll understand once you do,” he says. “I would tap that ass in a sec, but marry her? Nah, man. That bitch is nothing but trouble.”
He stops at the end of an alley and gestures down it. “Jimmy the Nose likes to run like a little bitch,” he says. “You take the back door. I’ll go in the front and flush him out. Don’t get any ideas about being a big shot. Number one rule in our business: A dead man don’t pay. We’re just here to collect.”
“And if he doesn’t have the money?”
“Of course he don’t have the money,” Little Al says. “You think he’d hold out on us if he did? Get hard or get had, kid. We can’t be soft on nobody. They’ll all take advantage the moment you show weakness. If Al wants him gone, he’ll send an Enforcer. Then you’ll meetIl Diavolo.”
I nod, heading down the alley while Little Al goes in the front. I hear shouting, and not two seconds later, the back door bursts open and a forty-ish guy with a beer gut and crazy eyes comes shooting out like he’s propelled by rocket fuel. I grab him and throw him to the grimy asphalt without thought, catching him around the neck before he can move. That’s when I see where he got the nickname. His nose is blunted, the nostrils showing like a skull’s, a scar forming the end of what’s left of his nose.
“Don’t kill me,” he shouts, grabbing at my arms and flailing wildly.
“Nice job,” Little Al says, stepping out the door. “We ain’t here for your life, Jimmy. We just want our money.”
“I don’t got it,” Jimmy says, his voice going high with terror when he sees what Al’s holding, some kind of clippers, like a small pair of garden shears you could hold with one hand. My stomach starts to turn, and I’m glad I didn’t eat.