“He did,” Sonny said. “I swear it, Billy.”
“Good. Because if you two killed that old woman without clearing it first, Forrest would drop the hammer on you.” Billy looked pointedly at his father. “It don’t mean a thing to Forrest that you’re blood, either. You know that.”
“Did Forrest call you about Viola?” Sonny asked anxiously. “Did he say something?”
“No discussion of Forrest,” Billy said. “Not even here.”
Sonny nodded quickly, but Snake looked furious. “I came here to ask permission, goddamn it—on Glenn and Henry—and all you’ve done is sit there and jabber about being careful. And now you threaten us?”
Billy wondered if his father’s posturing was a front, if Snake had actually killed Viola and simply lucked out that Dr. Cage had somehow been implicated. But unless Sonny betrayed Snake and told Billy the truth, he’d never know for sure. It didn’t matter now. So long as Dr. Cage went to jail for Viola’s murder, the threat to his organization would be neutralized.
“Uncle Sonny,” Billy said, returning to the reason for their meeting. “No Double Eagle has ever talked to any reporter. Do you really believe Glenn Morehouse wants to be the first?”
Sonny made a point of not looking at Snake. “God help us, Bill, but I’m afraid your daddy’s right. Glenn’s done got religion. He’s scared. What does he care about prison? Or us? He’s tryin’ to get right with God. Wilma says he’s been ravin’ when he’s on his medication. I think he’ll probably spill every gol-dern thing he knows before he’s done. He might’ve already done it. We’re liable to read our whole life stories in this Thursday’s Beacon.”
“If we don’t have FBI agents knocking on our doors tonight,” Snake added.
At this prospect, the first worm of anxiety burrowed into Billy’s gut. He fished a Xanax from his pocket and crushed the bitter tablet between his teeth.
“I wish I felt different,” Sonny concluded, “but there it is. Glenn could put us all in Angola, Bill. You and Forrest, too. Even Mr. Royal.”
“All right,” Billy said, swallowing the powdered pill with a grimace. “All right. What do you old outlaws want to do?”
“An oath is an oath,” Snake declared. “There’s rules. Prescriptions and proscriptions, as Frank used to say.”
Billy stirred at the mention of the blood oath his uncle had created back in 1964. “Let me get this straight. Poor Glenn has one foot in the grave, but you two want to carry out some medieval penalty on him? One that’ll make the front page of every paper from here to Los Angeles?”
“That’s the law,” Sonny said with imperious certainty. “That’s what Frank laid down for traitors, and everybody agreed.”
“Well, that’s not gonna happen. If Glenn is a traitor, he’s got to die. But dead is dead, no matter how you get there.”
“Of course it matters,” Snake argued, shaking his head with exaggerated passion. “Glenn was one of us. Don’t you see?”
“No. I don’t.”
Snake’s eyes widened in indignation. “What about honor, boy?”
“Honor don’t cover the payroll, Pop.”
Snake’s face had gone so red that Billy feared he might burst a blood vessel. “We’ve got to make an example for everybody else.”
Billy thought this over. His father had a point, but on balance, the risk wasn’t worth it. “The goal here is survival. However Glenn dies, the people who matter will get the message. But he’s not going to die unless you can confirm you’re right. I’ll do some checking on my end. You guys can confront Glenn directly. But”—Billy pointed at Sonny—“he only dies if you believe he’s betrayed us. Got it?”
Sonny gave him a casual but sincere salute.
“And even if Glenn has crossed over, you’ve got to forget all that code-of-silence crap. He needs to go gently into that good night.”
Snake looked perplexed. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
“He needs to choke to death on a Hall’s Mentho-Lyptus, or fall down in the shower. He doesn’t need his throat cut by two guys who think they’re costarring in a sequel to Goodfellas.”
Snake gritted his teeth, then said defiantly: “This ain’t the way Frank would have handled it.”
Billy was glad he’d eaten the Xanax. “Uncle Frank’s dead,” he said mildly. “Been dead thirty-seven years.”
“That don’t matter,” Snake said softly. “You know it don’t.”
“Forrest isn’t dead,” Billy said more firmly. “You want to take this up with him?” Billy slid his chair to the right, opening their line of sight to the big razorback. “’Cause I can tell you exactly how he feels about it.”
Sonny swallowed audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his wrinkled throat.
“This ain’t right,” Snake said, but the defiance had gone out of him.
“Are we clear on what’s going to happen and not happen?” Billy asked.
Sonny nodded. Snake took longer, but he eventually nodded his assent, as Billy had known he would. These men had had their time in power, but that time was long gone. Mentioning Forrest to them was like a Wehrmacht officer mentioning the Gestapo to a German line soldier.
Billy pushed back from the table with a frustrated sigh. “We’re done here, boys. Let me know how it goes.”
Snake slid his half dollar off the table, slipped it back over his head, then gave his son a sullen glare. “You figure Brody feels the same way about this as you and Forrest?”
Anger flashed through Billy like a stroke of lightning. He stood and looked down at his father. “What the hell does Brody Royal have to do with any of this?”
Snake said nothing, but Billy saw more smugness in the curl of his father’s lip.