As he came toward Roland, he took in his surroundings, a smirk of derision on his face, as though amused by all the finery. “You wanted to see me?”
Roland didn’t deign to reply. Instead he turned to his maître d’ and gave his approval of the seating chart for tonight’s mostimportant diners. He then headed for his office, assuming the kid would follow, which he did.
“Shut the door.”
After doing so, El Paso, without invitation, flopped into the chair facing Roland, who had sat down behind his desk. “Niiiice,” El Paso said after surveying the office.
Roland wanted to smack him on principle. “There’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve cleared it with Oz, and he—”
“Who is he anyway? This Oz character.”
Roland gave him several slow blinks, then continued as though the kid hadn’t spoken. “Oz gave his approval.”
El Paso shot him a sly grin. “The head honcho’s identity is a big secret, huh?”
Roland leaned back in his chair and rotated his ring around his pinkie several times as he stared at the younger man. “Maybe you’re not suitable to work in this organization, after all.”
“Naw, naw. I was just—”
“You were being an arrogant dickhead, which you can’t afford to be. Lots of people would like to know your current whereabouts. David.” He kept his cold stare fixed on the kid, who’d suddenly become a lot less smug.
“David Rodriguez,” Roland continued. “DOB October twenty-sixth, 2005. You think I believed that bullshit story about a girl you knocked up?” He rolled his ring around his finger. “Don’t fuck with me again.”
El Paso chewed the inside of his cheek through an uncomfortable silence, then, with more civility, asked, “What do you want me to do?”
He explained the problem and what he wanted done about it.
“Keep it low-key. Simple,” he said, using Oz’s word. “Nogrand gestures, nothing that would draw the cops. Just get the message across that these lowlifes are to steer clear of Ristorante Italiano.”
El Paso nodded. “Sure. I can do that. When do I start?”
“You know the neighborhood?”
“Not good. I just got here.”
“Take tonight to scope it out, get a feel for the area. Strike tomorrow night.”
El Paso shrugged. “Sure, okay. Is that it?”
“That’s it. Now get the hell out of here.”
He snuffled a laugh, said, “Yes, sir,” rolled out of the chair, and saw himself to the door. He made an exaggerated effort to close it without making a sound.
Turd.
But as soon as the kid was gone, Roland focused his thoughts on the more complex matters raised during his conversation with Oz. Of all the people working for Oz in one capacity or another, Roland was the only one who knew his identity. And that had happened more or less by accident.
The first time Allen Busby had come into the restaurant for dinner, Roland had recognized him as the carnival barker on TV, but hadn’t made out like he knew him. Busby had eaten alone and had spent a lot of time on his cell phone.
Then, Roland hadn’t known that Busby was exchanging texts with a swarthy, elegantly dressed diner who was at another table. Also a first-timer at the restaurant.
The two hadn’t acknowledged each other at all. As Busby left, he’d shaken Roland’s hand, complimented him on the food and service, and promised to return soon.
After all the staff had left, Roland had gone around checking locks. Through the door into the alley, he’d heardraised voices and had opened the door just in time to see the South American type produce a pistol and aim it at Busby’s forehead.
Never one to miss an opportunity to make friends with a celebrity, Roland had his garrote out and around the man’s neck in under a second. He’d struggled, of course. But Busby had done nothing to dissuade Roland, had just stood there and watched, and, when the tension on the garrote was released, the man dropped to the alley pavement, dead.
Busby had taken a breath, patted down his hair, and straightened his necktie. “Much obliged.”
