Deal Breaker
Page 29

Edward’s eyes narrowed again. “What do you mean?”
“Kathy had an affair with her high school English teacher. Senior year.”
More silence. Jessica was not so sure it was stunned.
“The teacher, a maggot named Gary Grady, has admitted it.”
“No,” her mother said weakly. She lowered her head, her crucifix dangling like a pendulum. She began to weep. “Sweet Jesus, not my baby …”
Edward stood. “That’s enough, Jess.”
“It’s not enough.”
Edward grabbed his jacket. “I’m out of here.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“Good-bye.”
“We need to talk this out.”
“The hell we do.”
“Edward—”
He ran out the back door, slamming it behind him.
Jessica turned back to her mother. Her sobs were gut-wrenching. Jessica watched for a minute or two. Then she turned and left the kitchen.
Roy O’Connor was already in the back booth when Myron arrived. His glass was empty, and he was sucking on an ice cube. He sounded like an aardvark near an anthill.
“Hey, Roy.”
O’Connor nodded to the seat across the table, not bothering to stand. He wore gold rings that disappeared under the folds of flesh in his chubby unstained hands. His fingernails were manicured. He was somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five years old, but it was impossible to tell where. He was balding, wearing the ever-desirable swept-over look, parting his hair just below the armpit.
“Nice place, Roy,” Myron said. “A table in the back, low lights, soft romantic music. If I didn’t know better—”
O’Connor shook his head. “Look, Bolitar, I know you think you’re a regular Buddy Hackett, but give it a rest, okay?”
“I guess flowers are out, then.” Pause. Then: “Buddy Hackett?”
“We need to talk.”
“I’m all ears.”
A waitress came over. “Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”
“Another,” Roy said, pointing to his glass.
“And for you?”
“Do you have Yoo-Hoo?” Myron asked.
“I think so.”
“Great. I’ll have one.”
She left. Roy shook his head. “A fucking Yoo-Hoo,” he mumbled.
“Did you say something?”
“Your goon visited me last night.”
“Your goons visited me first,” Myron said.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
Myron gave him his best “come off it” look of pure skepticism. The waitress put down the drinks Roy scooped up his martini as if it held a life-saving antidote. Myron, by contrast, sipped his Yoo-Hoo daintily. Ever the gentleman.
“Look, Myron,” O’Connor continued, “it’s like this. I signed Landreaux. I gave him money up front. I gave him money every month. I kept my part of the bargain.”
“You signed him illegally.”
“I’m not the first guy to do it,” he said.
“Nor the last. What’s your point, Roy?”
“Look, you know me. You know how I operate.”
Myron nodded. “You’re a chicken-shitted crook.”
“I might have threatened the kid. Fine. I’ve done that before. But that’s it. I’d never really hurt anybody.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Word would get out to the athletes. I’d be ruined.”
“Damn shame that would be.”
“Bolitar, you’re not making this any easier.”
“I’m not trying to.”
O’Connor grabbed the drink again. He finished it and signaled to the waitress for another. “I’ve gotten involved with the wrong people,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I worked up some big-time gambling debts. Debts I couldn’t pay off.”
“So they took a piece of your business.”
Roy nodded. “They control me now. Your—your friend from last night.” A Geiger counter could have registered the quake in his voice when he mentioned Win. “I want to do just what he said, but I don’t have the power anymore.”
Myron took another sip of his Yoo-Hoo, hoping he wasn’t getting one of those chocolate mustaches. “My friend won’t be pleased to hear that.”
“You have to tell him it’s not me.”
“Then who is it?”
Roy sat back, shaking his head. “I can’t say. But I can tell you they play for keeps. And they don’t understand a thing about this business. They think they can just scare everyone into compliance. They want to make an example out of someone.”
“And Landreaux is the example?”
“Landreaux. And you. They want to hurt Landreaux. They want to kill you. They’re putting out a contract on your head.”
Another cool sip. Myron said nothing.
“You don’t seem very worried,” Roy said.
“I laugh in the face of death,” Myron replied. “Well, maybe not laugh. More like a snicker. A quiet snicker.”
“Jesus, you’re a lunatic.”
“And I wouldn’t do it directly in death’s face. So it’s more like a quiet snicker behind his back.”
“Bolitar, this isn’t funny.”
“No,” Myron agreed. “It’s not. I strongly suggest you call them off.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? I got no control here.”
“If something happens to me, my friend will be very upset. He’ll take it out on you.”
Roy swallowed. “But I’m powerless. You have to believe that.”
“Then tell me who’s calling the shots.”
“I can’t.”
Myron shrugged. “Maybe we can be buried next to one another. One of those romantic tragedy things.”
“They’ll kill me if I say anything.”
“What do you think my friend will do to you?”
Roy shuddered. He sucked on the ice again, trying to salvage the last remnants of the whiskey. “Where is that damn bimbo with my drink?”
“Who’s calling the shots, Roy?”
“You didn’t hear it from me, right?”
“Right.”
“You won’t tell them?”
“Mum’s the word.”
One more ice suck. Then Roy said, “Ache.”
“Herman Ache?” Myron asked, surprised. “Herman Ache is behind this?”