“Thing I liked about him,” said Jojo, “he was fair. The man never tried to short you. He thought about the future. Keeping your friends, friends.”
Coluzzi pushed the dish away from him. “That right?”
“You ought to try it sometime.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you pay your partners what you promise.”
“So it’s true. You were talking behind my back.”
“And now I’m saying it to your face.”
The door of the kitchen swung open. Two men Coluzzi recognized entered.
“Or tell it to Bobby or Claude,” Jojo went on.
“Yeah,” said Bobby, who was squat and stocky with a neck like a tree trunk and hands as big as cleavers. “Tell us.”
Claude nodded. He was a “hitter”—a killer for La Brise—slim and oily with long black hair and a yellowish cast to his skin. If he said ten words in a day, it was a lot.
“What is this?” said Coluzzi. “I asked you earlier if there was a problem. Come on, Jojo. You can’t be serious.”
“Knowing you, I’m pretty sure you’ve already spent what you owe us. We’ll take payment in a different currency.”
“I paid you your share.”
“No,” said Jojo. “You didn’t.”
Coluzzi saw there was no point in arguing. “So what are you going to do? Bust my legs? Grow up.”
“For a start,” said Jojo. “Then I’ll let Bobby and Claude get creative on you. Unless, of course, you want to settle up.”
“How much do you think I owe you?”
“A hundred grand.”
“Not likely.”
“Then it is what it is.”
Coluzzi shrugged, giving Jojo one last chance. “Come on. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“Yeah,” said Bobby. “It does.” He stepped toward Coluzzi, his fat hand going into his jacket for his gun, Claude casually picking up a carving knife, testing it for weight.
“Hey, hey,” said Coluzzi, standing from his stool, eyes wide, trying to make them think he was pissing his pants, that his time in Paris had softened him up, turned him into a pussy who shied from a fight.
Bobby cleared his gun, a snub-nosed .38. “You greedy…”
Coluzzi drew his stiletto from his sheath and slashed it through the air, the tip slicing Bobby’s fleshy neck, releasing a spray of arterial blood. Bobby fired a shot, even as he dropped the pistol and reached for his ruined neck. Claude lunged at him, the carving knife aimed at his belly. Coluzzi had always been the fastest guy around. He jumped to one side, the blade missing him by a long shot. In the same motion, he thrust the stiletto into Claude’s chest, just below the sternum, giving the handle a vicious twist when he felt the blade tear through something heavy and fibrous, probably the lung or the liver. Claude opened his mouth and blood seeped out over his lousy teeth.
Coluzzi yanked the blade free and turned on Jojo, who just then launched a pounding hammer straight at his head. Coluzzi ducked, the hammer bouncing off the wall and clattering onto the floor. In his other hand, Jojo held his stubby chopping knife. Realizing it wasn’t any kind of weapon, he searched the counter for something he could use, settling on a rolling pin. He came at Coluzzi like a barroom brawler, swinging the rolling pin and jabbing with the knife.
Coluzzi backed up as much as he could in the cramped area, hemmed in by counters and shelves and the ovens and stoves. He had to be careful. No one cared about Bobby or Claude. They were both Italians, not even real members of La Brise. But Jojo…he was royalty. Should Coluzzi lay a hand on him, do any real damage, there would be hell to pay.
Coluzzi ducked and dodged the wild blows, shouting for Jojo to calm down. But Jojo liked a fight and there was no doubting the blood in his eye.
Jojo lurched at him, the knife catching Coluzzi on the forearm—nothing serious, but a cut nonetheless. The rolling pin swooshed angrily at his head, barely missing.
