Chapter 45
THE MAN WEARING all black had mostly been a shadowy presence in my driveway, standing behind Ray Noccia when the don paid me a call. He was muscle, and I could see him better now: in his late thirties, handsome if you like his type, bulked up, and heavily armed.
Glenda smiled in his direction. “Do you know Francis Mosconi, Mr. Morgan? He’s in a related line of work,” she said.
“We’ve met,” I said. “Francis.” I nodded his way.
I also recognized the man directly behind Mosconi. He was Noccia’s driver, the fifty-something gentleman who’d maybe wisely advised me not to refuse a conversation with the boss. I placed him now. He was Joseph Ricci, the don’s cousin, I believed.
A third man followed Ricci and Mosconi out onto the patio. He was young, blond, tanned, and looked like a lifeguard in his yellow polo shirt and khakis.
Mosconi patted me down. A few feet away, Lifeguard was doing the same to Del Rio, who pushed his hands away and said, “Get your hands off of me. Right now.”
Lifeguard paid no attention, spun Rick around, and pushed him against the wall. I didn’t think that was a good idea.
The kid was younger and possibly more fit than Del Rio, but it didn’t matter. Rick hit him square in the nose with a jab and followed with a terrifying uppercut. The blond was out on his feet, and I felt like I ought to applaud.
But then Ricci lunged for Rick and hugged him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides while Mosconi put a nine-mil Beretta to Rick’s temple.
“Stop,” I called out. “We’re done.”
I raised my hands. Kept them high and in sight as Mosconi walked my way. Then he hit me hard with the Beretta. I guess we weren’t done.
I went down. Then we were done.