Fear City Read Free Page A

time they’d come out on top and had bet heavy. But no. Un-fucking-believable.
    More knocking. He opened his top drawer and gripped the handle of his .45.
    â€œCome in, dammit!”
    A guy in dark blue warm-ups with white piping poked his head inside. His hands were empty but that didn’t mean he didn’t have something hidden in the small of his back.
    â€œMister Donato?”
    â€œYeah. Who wants to know?”
    â€œI drive for Mister C. He wants to talk to you.”
    Tony C? C as in Campisi? That Mr. C?
    â€œHe usually just calls.”
    â€œHe’s downstairs in the car.”
    Shit! His crew boss had come here?
    â€œYou telling me straight?”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    Vinny pulled on a Windbreaker but didn’t bother zipping it up. No way would it close over his gut. He followed the guy in the warm-up outside and down the open stairway to the parking lot to where Tony’s silver Continental waited. The driver opened the door and there, slumped in the far corner of the backseat, sat his capo, Tony “the Cannon” Campisi.
    He looked like shit.
    Vinny hadn’t seen him in a while and had kinda figured he wouldn’t be the picture of health—not after getting diagnosed with the Big Casino—but he hadn’t expected him to look this bad. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, his yellowish skin looked like it had been painted onto his skull.
    â€œHey, Vinny, thanks for meeting me here. Those stairs are a little much for me, you know?” His voice sounded like he’d been gargling sand. “Sorry we couldn’t do this at Amalia’s or someplace nicer.”
    Vinny did a shocked double blink. Tony saying “thanks” and “sorry” back to back? In all the years he’d been in Tony’s crew he couldn’t remember hearing either one. Ever. Had the cancer spread from his lungs to his brain?
    â€œUh, yeah. No problem, Tony. I’da come over if—”
    â€œNah. Better this way. Siddown.” As Vinny eased his bulk into the rear, Tony waved off his driver. “Rocco, why don’t you take a walk while we talk.”
    He said, “Sure, Mister C,” and closed the door.
    Tony pointed to a small white paper bag on the seat between them.
    â€œI brought those for you.”
    The grease stains that dotted the bag gave Vinny a pretty good idea what was inside, but he looked anyway. He acted surprised at finding sugar-coated pastries.
    He said, “Zeppole?” but was thinking What the fuck? Tony the Cannon did not bring gifts.
    Okay, something was going on. The whole family had been a mess since Gotti got convicted on a slew of murders and a laundry list of other charges. Sammy the Bull, of all people, had ratted him out and the Chief had wound up sentenced to life with no prayer of parole. He was still trying to run things from inside but that wasn’t working out. The “administration” he’d set up with his brother and son and a couple of others was no substitute for one guy calling the shots from the front lines. Lots of infighting and maneuvering and ego wars going on at the top.
    â€œI know you like them, but you ain’t ever had any like these. They’re from Fratello’s in Ozone Park—best bakery anywhere.”
    Vinny had been trying to cut back but these smelled so damn good … he pulled one out and took a bite. Powdered sugar rained on his lap but who cared? They didn’t call him Vinny Donuts for nothing.
    He offered the bag to Tony who shook his head. “Nah. I’m off my feed.”
    Vinny tried not to stare as he chewed. “How’re you doing, Tony?”
    â€œHow’s it look like I’m doing? I’m fucking dying.”
    â€œBut I thought—”
    â€œThe chemo? The radiation? Didn’t do shit. Burned my skin and made me sick as a fucking dog and that’s about it.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œDon’t be sorry.