Deadly Lullaby Read Free

that,” and nods and shrugs as if he would never allow a stand-up guy like me to dishonor himself, like he is only accepting the money for my benefit.
    He finally picks up the envelope and peeks inside it, thumbs through the bills absentmindedly like he knows it is all there. He looks up. “I demanded that both of you be here in person so I can make something very clear.” He points a fat finger at my son. “The only reason you’re not dead or at least seriously fucked-up is because I’ve known your father for years. This is the only pass you get. Ever welsh on another betting tab with one of my guys? I’ll have you slaughtered like an Easter lamb—Crucci or no Crucci, cop or no cop. Understood?”
    My son barely nods.
    Macky looks at me.
    I nod.
    Macky appears satisfied.
    I rise and prepare to say,
We now have no conflicts and no debts between us,
a take on a line from
Godfather III
that I know will make Macky want to hug me again.
    But Macky does not stand. Instead he leans back in his chair, picks up the revolver and rests it on his bloated stomach. “Not yet, Babe. I want to talk about something else.”
    I sit.
    “You need work?” Macky says.
    My son rustles in his seat.
    I am not surprised by the question, because my so-called employment with Joe Sacci, the man I have worked with for years, is the subject of much talk and conjecture on the street. “Why do you ask?” I say.
    Macky smiles. “Sacci says you’re not on his full-time payroll no more.”
    “That is correct.”
    This is a true statement.
    “He says you’re available to the open market.”
    “I am.”
    This is also a true statement.
    “Good, I have plenty for you to do.” A grim smile. “You know about Viktor Tarasov?”
    “Very little.”
    This is
not
a true statement.
    Macky turns solemn and his face becomes even more inflamed than usual. “Tarasov’s a Russian who’s been establishing a presence here in LA for about a year now. I thought me and him were becomin’ friends, but now it looks like that ain’t gonna happen. Last week we had some disagreements, and—well, let me be frank—eliminate me from the face of the fuckin’ planet is what he wants to do. I need good men like you to protect my interests. Men who will permanently see to it that Tarasov will no longer present a competitive threat.”
    He winks as if a wink is necessary for me to understand the underlying meaning of the latter comment.
    I pause as if I am thinking it over—though I am really savoring the irony of all this—then we talk amicably about money, about fees, the expenses he will cover, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Then I say, “Sure, on those terms I will help you address this Russian menace.”
    This is not a true statement.
    I say further, “I have admired and respected you from afar these many years,” which is not true either, “and swear upon the soul of my dead mother that I will be loyal to you ’til my bones turn to dust.”
    Ditto.
    Macky is so clearly moved by this goombah bullshit, the likes of which I have heard uttered only in movies, that his eyes mist up.
    He rises from his chair, places the revolver on the desk, and walks around the desk to give me The Welcome-Aboard Hug. “I’ve always wanted you in my family. C’mere, you big wop, you’re one of us now.”
    I am relieved he does not hold out his fucking hand for me to kiss, which would have sent me into such a fit of uncontrolled laughter that it would have spoiled everything.
    He gives me The Hug and I enthusiastically return it.
    We separate a few inches and look into each other’s eyes. I pat his cheek affectionately. “Macky?”
    He smiles. “Yeah, Babe?”
    “Viktor Tarasov wanted me to say goodbye to you on his behalf,” and I clutch his trachea by sticking three fingers just below his voice box on one side and poking the thumb behind the other side, then squeeze my fingers together and twist with all my might.
    To learn how to crush a trachea, surround a fat