“Which shipment? The one next week?”
He shook his head. “The big one. The guns. The one arriving in three months. That’s what they want. They want the guns.”
But Leo was frowning. “How the fuck would he know about that?” he asked.
“We had to tell him. You understand, boss.” Pomp appealed to Mick. “We had no choice. They were threatening our families and shit. They were going to kill our little children, our babies, if we didn’t give them what they wanted!”
“Bullshit!” Leo shot back. “You were more afraid of what fucking Provensano would do to your little children than what Mick Sinatra would do to them? Bullshit!”
Mick continued to stare at Pomp. “How much?” he asked him.
“Just that one shipment. That’s all we told them.”
“How much did they pay you?” Mick asked.
Pomp swallowed hard.
“HOW MUCH?” Mick yelled so loud that Pomp jumped.
“A hundred thousand,” Pomp said quickly. “And two hundred thousand every time we brought him juice. He said he was going to make us rich.”
All of Mick’s men were stunned. That kind of money didn’t pass around unless it had value beyond the value. Something else was at work here.
“Who were the men that approached you?” Mick asked Pomp.
“It was a blind run. We never saw nobody. They just told us who they were working for and they gave us the hundred grand up front.” Now it was begging time. “But I can be your inside man, boss. I can give them wrong information and make sure---”
Mick shot Pomp straight through the head. Another fucker who wanted to be inside once he got caught outside. Mick was tired of this shit. And he watched Pomp fall the same way his snitching partners fell. Like the rats they were, as far as Mick was concerned.
His men looked at him. “What do we do now, boss?” Silvio asked. “Maybe we could have worked him as an inside man.”
Mick looked at Silvio with cold eyes. “You think Provensano’s stupid enough to give that prick his inside information?”
Silvio shook his head. “No.”
“Then stop making stupid-ass comments.”
Leo shook his head. “This shit getting serious,” he said. “We’re gonna have to stop that shipment.”
“Like hell we are,” Mick said. “That shipment remains a go. Provensano’s men will get there early. Maybe even a day early, a week early, to set up. But my men will get there now. Three months early. Already set up.”
“What do you mean, boss?” Leo asked. “Do you mean that every one of Provensano’s men will be taken out before the shipment even arrives?”
“Not taken out,” Mick said. “Watched. Shadowed. Provensano won’t know he’s been hit until after that shipment has come and gone. Then we’ll deal with the men. And then I’ll deal with Provensano.”
Mick’s men relaxed. Because once again, Mick was around the world before they could get around the corner. He had them beat.
Roz walked out of Mick’s home in a beautifully tailored gray and gold form-fitting dress with her matching clutch and heels. Deuce was waiting at the limousine and opened the door for her. He smiled when he saw her. He knew she would pull it off. “You look elegant, Miss Graham,” he said as she approached.
Roz smiled. “Thank you, Deuce. But you know you can call me Roz.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can. If I don’t mind Mr. Sinatra knocking me into next week. But since calling you Roz is not worth that particular pain to me, I’ll stick with Miss Graham.”
But Roz was dumbstruck. “Why would you say that? Mick wouldn’t,” she stared to say, but then caught herself. Because she didn’t really know what Mick would or wouldn’t do. Deuce, who’d been with him for years, did. And it didn’t look as if Deuce was kidding. It looked as if he really believed Mick would knock him into next week if he thought he was being disrespectful to Roz. It pleased and unnerved Roz all at once. What manner of man was she dealing with here? But she didn’t pursue it. That was why she was here. To find out for herself. She got into the limo, Deuce got behind the wheel, and they drove away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The owner of Raphael’s was waiting at the curb when Mick’s limousine drove up. Mick did not immediately step out, as he was on the phone with some of his anxious partners who had been told about the breach. The driver kept the door closed during this time, which made the owner peeved, but the driver didn’t see where that was his fault. Nobody told him to come out here anyway. But when Mick did hang up and got out, buttoning his suit coat, the Spanish owner smiled as if there was no ill will at all, and extended his hand.
“Mr. Sinatra, welcome back to Raphael’s!”
He said it the way Ricardo Montalbon would have said it, and Mick smiled. “Thank you,” Mick said, and shook the owner’s hand. “How are you this evening?”
“I am fantastico, sir! And you?”
“I’m very well.”