Peril

Labriola stopped and stared at Tony brokenly. “Then fuck you,” he said with a curious sense of defeat. “Fuck everything.” He stepped back and slumped down on the sofa. For a moment he seemed to retire into his own dark cavern. Then abruptly, he threw his head back and a vicious laugh broke from him, so loud and hellish, it seemed to rattle the teardrop crystals of the overhanging chandelier.

“Mr. Labriola?” Caruso asked.

Labriola’s voice broke from him like a smoking belch. “You find her yet?”

“What?” Caruso asked.

“You heard me,” Labriola screamed. “You find her or not?”

Caruso felt a line of sweat form on his upper lip. “Well . . . I mean . . . uh . . .”

Labriola’s eyes were leaping flames. “Yes or no!” he bellowed.

“Yes,” Caruso blurted.

Tony looked at Caruso, astonished. “You know where Sara is?”

Caruso glanced helplessly at the Old Man. “You want me to . . .”

Labriola laughed madly. “Vinnie found her,” he cried, his gaze now on Tony. “Well, hell, let’s go pay her a little visit.” He snatched a wrinkled blue shirt from the floor and began to put it on. “You’re gonna get your little wife back, Tony.”

Tony’s eyes shot over to Caruso. “Where is she?”

Caruso glanced at Labriola, found no direction there, then returned his gaze to Tony. “The city.”

Labriola suddenly slapped his hands together. “The city,” he shrieked. “The little woman has gone back to the city.” His eyes bore into Caruso. “Where in the city, Vinnie?”

Caruso stared at Labriola and all but shivered. “The Village,” he answered softly. “I got a tip she’s working at some bar there.”

Labriola’s eyes blazed with delight. “Back in the Village, ain’t that nice.” He snatched a sport jacket from the sofa and plowed like a warship toward the door.

Tony didn’t move.

Labriola stopped, turned to face him, and laughed tauntingly. “What’s the matter, Tony? Now’s your chance to get her back.” His eyes shifted over to Caruso. “Ain’t that right, Vinnie?”

Caruso felt the pistol stir lethally, like a creature awakening. “Right,” he said.

Labriola nodded toward the door. “Okay, let’s go,” he said, motioning Tony forward and out the door, then holding back so that Caruso stepped up to his side, the two of them walking together toward the door just as Tony went through it and out onto the porch.

“You bring your piece?” Labriola whispered.

Caruso nodded.

Labriola draped his huge arm over Caruso’s shoulder and tugged him violently to his side. “Good boy,” he said.

ABE/SARA

They left the restaurant and headed back toward the bar, the focus of their conversation now on the songs she’d prepared. He went over the lead-ins, which would be brief, and how they had to be attuned to each other, singer and accompanist, to speed up if the other one got ahead, slow down if the other one fell behind, allow as much as possible for each other’s inevitable missteps, and above all, cut each other enough slack for a little improvisation.

“What time would be good for you?” he asked as they turned onto Twelfth Street.

“The sooner the better, I guess,” she answered.

At the bar, Abe introduced her to Jake, Susanne, and Jorge. After that, they took a table near the back, talked briefly, then, as if on a signal, Abe glanced at the clock. “So, ready?” he asked Sara.

“I guess I have to be,” she replied.

Abe walked to the piano, and standing beside it, introduced Sara as Samantha Damonte.

Then she sang, and as she sang Abe could feel it happening, how the people grew silent as they listened, grew silent and wrapped their hands around their glasses and hoped that just for a time, just for the few minutes during which her voice poured over them, the old devouring monster would leave them be.

MORTIMER

Stark sat in the living room, stern and upright in the leather chair, his eyes on Mortimer as the two men faced each other silently.

Finally, Stark said, “What was the arrangement? The one you made with Labriola?”

“Just that you would find this woman,” Mortimer said. “His daughter-in-law. She run out on his kid. He wants to talk to her.” He shrugged. “He offered thirty grand.” He dropped his head slightly. “I was gonna give you fifteen, keep the rest. But things got screwed up. This other guy you had. Complicated, you know? So the thing is, I figure I’ll just tell Labriola that the deal’s off. That you’re out of it. Maybe you got sick, something like that. Dying. Anyway, you can’t do the job.”

Stark studied Mortimer’s face a moment, then rose, walked to a small wooden cabinet, took two glasses, and poured a splash of scotch in each of them. “The whole thing reminded me of Marisol,” he said as he handed one of the glasses to Mortimer.

Mortimer took a quick sip. “Yeah, I figured you thought it was maybe like that.”

Stark returned to his seat, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his legs. “Is it?”

Mortimer took another sip from the glass.

“You know where she is, don’t you?” Stark asked.

Mortimer looked up from the glass.

“I want to see her,” Stark said sternly.