“It’s like thinking the worse is over,” Mick said, “and you’re walking in the middle of the street celebrating that fact. Only to find yourself face to face with a Mack truck. So yes, my former friend, you’re fucked. Even bullshit cannot help you now.”
Tonk looked at Mick. He had to throw himself on the mercy of a man who never showed any. But he knew there was no other way. “Give me one more chance,” he said. “I’ll be a plant for you. You can use me any way you want, Mick. We go back too far for it to end like this. I wasn’t trying to rat you out. I was . . . Don’t do me this way. You owe me, Mick. Don’t do me this way!”
Mick stared at him. Tonk thought it was because he might have gotten through to him, and he was interested in reasoning with him. Bernardo thought so too.
“Everybody out,” Mick said.
Tonk’s heart swelled with hope. Did he say the right words? Finally he said the right words!
Bernardo, Leo, and Rossi got out of the Town Car and closed the doors. It was now Tonk and Mick alone. And Tonk was ready.
“I can be your plant,” he said again. “I’m not the only member of your inner circle who ratted you out. I can’t be! There’s other poison pills. But I can sniff them out for you, Michello. And nobody will know the wiser. All those fuckers will think I’m on the outs with you. But I’ll be your inside man!”
It sounded wonderful to Tonk. He was making it up as he went along, but he knew he was clever enough to do that. And Mick was falling for it. He felt Mick was falling for it lock, stock, and barrel.
Until he felt Mick grab him by the head and move him as if he was floating underwater, until his head was crashing into the side glass of the car. And then he hit his head against that glass again.
“You’re going to snitch on me,” Mick said, hitting Tonk’s head against the glass again. “You’re going to go to the Feds to rat me out.” Another hit. “And you expect me to let you get away with that shit? I owe you? What the fuck do I owe you?”
Mick was just as offended now as he was angry. He rammed Tonk’s head and rammed Tonk’s head until it broke the glass.
Tonk was fighting for his life, but he was no match for Mick. Because as soon as the window crashed, Mick’s fist took over. He beat Tonk and beat Tonk until blood covered his once handsome face. Tonk managed to open the door and then fall out of the car, but Mick the Tick fell out with him. And he was on top of him, still beating the shit out of him. He hit him and hit him and hit him. He wanted no mercy and showed none. His men couldn’t even watch. It was just that brutal.
But that was why they loved their boss. He never let another man do his dirty work. He never put blood on their hands until he put it on his own first. And his hands were bloody. He was beating Tonk Maggio to within an inch of his life. He was down in the dirt doing it himself. He was no Mafia. There was no honor in him. When it came to exacting revenge, Mick was a ticking time bomb. Mick the Tick was a thug.
Tonk Maggio was still holding on. His face was raw meat as his skin had separated and bones were showing. He was on the doorstep of death. And that was when Mick stopped. And sat there. And watched Tonk Maggio slowly show some signs, flicker, and then fade away.
Mick stood up. His men stared at him with terror in their hearts. One of them, Rossi, handed Mick a handkerchief. He wiped his hands as he stared down at Tonk. “That’s what happens to a fucker,” he said to them, “when they cross me.” He looked at his men, as if he wanted Tonk’s horrible death to be a warning to them. Then he handed the handkerchief back to Rossi, walked to his limo, and Deuce let him in.
When he got inside, and the door slammed shut, he leaned back, gripping the armrest. He was not a man who hated this part of his life, because he knew it was a necessary part of his life. He’d been in it too long to hate it. What he hated were the people who thought they could get away with backstabbing him and face no retribution. What he hated were the snitches and the plants and the flimflammers trying to bring down his organization. That was what he hated. That was what he was going to stomp in the ground every time it rose up. Mick Sinatra might have been an upstanding businessman. But Mick the Tick was a thug. That was why he was still standing today. He would have been dead if he wasn’t as tough as he was. And he made no apologies for it.