‘He can’t even stand in a breeze, never mind head up an operation.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘In fact, the kid incapacitated all my best people. They’re on a dental plan too. It’s going to cost me a fortune. No, I need some outside help on this one.’
‘You want to contract the job to us?’
‘Exactly. But it’s got to be the right people. Ireland is an old-world kind of place. Wise guys are going to stick out a mile. I need guys who blend in and can persuade a kid to accompany them back here. Easy money.’
Carla winked. ‘I read you, Mister Spiro.’
‘So, you got guys like that? Guys who can take care of business without drawing attention to themselves?’
‘The way I see it, you need a metal man and a monkey?’
Spiro nodded, familiar with Mob slang. A metal man carried the gun, and a monkey got into hard-to-reach places.
‘We have two such men on our books. I can guarantee they won’t attract the wrong kind of attention in Ireland. But it won’t be cheap.’
‘Are they good?’ asked Spiro.
Carla smiled. One of her incisors was inset with a tiny ruby.
‘Oh, they’re good,’ she replied. ‘These guys are the best.’
THE METAL MAN
THE INK BLOT TATTOO PARLOUR, DOWNTOWN CHICAGO
Loafers McGuire was having a tattoo done. A skull’s head in the shape of the ace of spades. It was his own design and he was very proud of it. So proud, in fact, that he’d wanted the tattoo on his neck. Inky Burton, the tattooist, managed to change Loafers’ mind, arguing that neck tattoos were better than a name tag when the cops wanted to ID a suspect. Loafers relented. ‘OK,’ he’d said. ‘Put it on my forearm.’
Loafers had a tattoo done after every job. There wasn’t much skin left on his body that still retained its original colour. That was how good Loafers McGuire was at his job.
Loafers’ real name was Aloysius, and he hailed from the Irish town of Kilkenny. He’d come up with the nickname Loafers himself, because he thought it sounded more Mob-like than Aloysius. All his life, Loafers had wanted to be a mobster, just like in the movies. When his efforts to start a Celtic mafia had failed Loafers came to Chicago.
The Chicago Mob welcomed him with open arms. Actually, one of their enforcers grabbed him in a bear-hug. Loafers sent the man and six of his buddies to the Mother of Mercy Hospital. Not bad for a guy five feet tall. Eight hours after stepping off the plane, Loafers was on the payroll.
And here he was, two years and several jobs later, already the organization’s top metal man. His specialities were robbery and debt collection. Not the usual line of work for five-footers. But then, Loafers was not the usual five-footer.
Loafers leaned back in the tattooist’s adjustable chair.
‘You like the shoes, Inky?’
Inky blinked sweat from his eyes. You had to be careful with Loafers. Even the most innocent question could be a trap. One wrong answer and you could find yourself making your excuses to Saint Peter.
‘Yeah. I like ’em. What are they called?’
‘Loafers!’ snapped the tiny gangster. ‘Loafers, idiot. They’re my trademark.’
‘Oh yeah, loafers. I forgot. Cool, havin’ a trademark.’
Loafers checked the progress on his arm.
‘You ready with that needle yet?’
‘Just ready,’ replied Inky. ‘I’m finished painting on the guidelines. I just gotta put in a fresh needle.’
‘It’s not gonna hurt, is it?’
Of course it is, moron, thought Inky. I’m sticking a needle in your arm.
But out loud he said, ‘Not too much. I gave your arm a swab of anaesthetic.’
‘It better not hurt,’ warned Loafers. ‘Or you’ll be hurting shortly afterwards.’
Nobody threatened Inky except Loafers McGuire. Inky did all the Mob’s tattoo work. He was the best in the state.
Carla Frazetti pushed through the door. Her black-suited elegance seemed out of place in the dingy establishment.
‘Hello, boys,’ she said.
‘Hello, Miss Carla,’ said Inky, blushing deeply. You didn’t get too many ladies in the Ink Blot.
Loafers jumped to his feet. Even he respected the boss’s god-daughter.
‘Miss Frazetti. You could have beeped me. No need for you to come down to this dump.’
‘No time for that. This is urgent. You leave straight away.’
‘I’m leaving? Where am I going?’
‘Ireland. Your Uncle Pat is sick.’
Loafers frowned.
‘Uncle Pat? I don’t have an Uncle Pat.’
Carla tapped the toe of one stiletto.
‘He’s sick, Loafers. Real sick, if you catch my drift.’
Loafers finally caught on.
‘Oh, I get it. So I gotta pay him a visit.’
‘That’s it. That’s exactly how sick he is.’
Loafers used a rag to clean the ink off his arm.
‘OK, I’m ready. Are we going straight to the airport?’
Carla linked the tiny gangster.
‘Soon, Loafers. But first we need to pick up your brother.’
‘I don’t have a brother,’ protested Loafers.