“And if I refused to offer him my obedience, I would be seen as a danger to his operation. If that’s not a threat, then I don’t know what is.”
“You’re mistaken. That was simply…” He shrugs. “A display of logic? You’re a well-respected man, Zeth. People in this town won’t fuck with you. If you say something is law, the people selling drugs, guns and women in this town accept that it’s fucking law. If you say the Italians aren’t allowed to expand their business to the west coast, then people are going to rebel against it. They’ll get ideas about how they can and can’t interact with us. My employer, Mr. Barbieri, he doesn’t like friction, see. He’s a man that likes things to run smoothly at all times. No dissention. No civil wars or insurgency. He used to be in the military back in Italy, once upon a time, and he’s retained that military mindset all his life. You can imagine how something messy and unfinished might make him uneasy. And this situation with you is definitely both messy and unfinished.”
“I don’t see it as either of those things,” I tell him. “I think it’s very clear cut. I’m not working for some psychotic bastard in New York. I’m not going to align myself with someone like him. My last boss was unhinged, and I’m sure yours is, too.”
The guy makes a noncommittal grunting sound. “All men who lead are just a little crazy.”
“Yes. And those who follow are even crazier. I’m done being a follower.”
Leaning against the side of the car, the Italian takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, removes one and places it between his lips. His polished silver lighter makes a loud schink-ing sound as he strikes the wheel against the leg of his pants. The flame flickers, almost guttering out before the cigarette is lit. “So, I go back to New York, and I tell Mr. Barbieri what? That I came all the way out here and you turned me down flat? That ain’t gonna fly, big man. It’s one thing being rude to my boss on the phone. Being rude to an envoy? That’s gonna piss him off beyond all belief.”
“Damn. Now I feel bad. How pissed off is he gonna be when he sees what I’ve done to your face?”
The Italian draws on his cigarette. Blows out the smoke as he laughs. He scratches his temple with the slide of his gun. “You’re a ridiculous human being, Mr. Mayfair. You’ve got balls. I don’t get to meet many guys like you in my line of work. Hard men on the east coast…well, they’re only hard until you point something sharp and shiny at them. After that, they’re pissin’ all over themselves and trying to sell their own mother in order to find their way into your good graces. You, on the other hand…I like you. You’re not the kind of guy to back down from a fight, even when you know you can’t win.”
“Who says I can’t win?”
The Italian holds up the gun in his hand, head angled to one side—forgot about this, did you, jackhole? He favors me with another one of those friendly, aren’t-we-having-the-best-time bouts of airy laughter. “I heard some pretty intense things about you, man, but I’ve never heard anyone claim you’re superman. Ain’t no outrunning a bullet, Zeth.”
“It’s not a question of outrunning anything,” I say. “More a matter of aim. And focus. And nerve.” I take a step toward him, ignoring the gun he has outstretched in his hand once more. The Italian takes another drag from his cigarette, blowing the fumes down his nose in twin plumes of smoke cloud around his head.
“I don’t miss, Zeth. If you want to find that out for yourself, be my guest.”
I do want to find out for myself. To be fair to this guy, whoever the fuck he is, he has some balls himself. We’re out in the open in the middle of the day, in a neighborhood not known for it’s high crime rate. He’s standing here like he hasn’t got a care in the world, waving a gun around like it’s his rolled up morning newspaper. I don’t doubt for a second that he will shoot. I don’t doubt for a second that he’s a good shot; the familiarity and ease with which he holds his weapon says he’s spent a lot of quality bonding time with it. I do think he has underestimated me, though. See, I’m a big fucking guy. I’m tall and I’m broad, and I’m built like a motherfucking Sherman tank. Guys like this average height, narrow-chested Italian take one look at me and they see a great, lumbering force that, once within arms reach, will knock your fucking head off. They figure as long as they don’t let me get close enough, they’re safe, though. But they don’t factor into the equation the fact that I am really fucking fast. I spend an hour a day sprinting on a goddamn treadmill. It’s my job to be quick, unbelievably light on my feet, as I toss guy after guy around like ragdolls in the cage.
And so, this visitor from the Big Apple is about to get a lesson in humility. He’s not likely to underestimate another of his opponents again, that’s for sure.