Wolfkind

By Stephen Melling

In Los Angeles the question on everyone’s lips... “Who is the Invisible Assassin?” The elusive hit man who has the authorities baffled, the general public intrigued and the local gangland highbrows hiding behind razor wire and hi-tec weaponry.

With the city’s second most powerful crime family slaughtered, Joshua Grenire is pressed into action by his mentor, Max Barlow: hunt and kill the assassin. Though burdened by social inexperience and the crushing responsibility of his mission, he is at the same time buoyed with child-like wonder at the prospect of finally interacting with ordinary people.

Once in L.A. Joshua infiltrates the Durant crime syndicate and acquaints himself with the mobster’s spirited civilian daughter, Genna Delucio. He finds himself breaking one of the rules by falling for the girl. While after nightfall he searches coldly for the assassin, during daylight hours he steals time to explore the simple rites of passage that long-term seclusion has denied him.

In a modern society blood-stained with intolerance and prejudice, street violence and contract killing, Invisible Assassin is a story about love and innocence struggling against the corrupting nature of power.

“Good story and good read, well-managed conclusion with all the right things happening in the right order. The characters were fresh and thought-through and although the 'they live among us' notion has been done before, the setup and the back-story were persuasive and felt newly-minted. I really liked the idea of the Wolfkind community living like the Amish or the Moravians, the whole moral-responsibility issue of their attempts to contain their 'virus', and the destructive nature of the religious guilt Barlow uses as a tool. Nice that Barlow did what he did for the best, but harm still came of it... quite a subtle and truthful-feeling outcome.”....... “I was impressed by the ending, which was very sure-footed and, as I've said, hit all the right notes in the right sequence.”

Stephen Gallagher, best selling author of White Bizango, Red,Red Robin and The Boat House.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Melling
• Release date: Jul 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465876249

Stephen Melling

Before discovering the likes of Ramsey Campbell, Stephen King and Clive Barker (to name a few) my first real encounter with any kind of dark or speculative fiction was a collection of Hans Anderson’s fairy tales my sister got for Christmas. I was gripped by stories like The Tinder Box – those huge and enigmatic dogs with eyes as big as mill wheels; and the Brothers Grimm tale of Rapunzel locked in the tower by her wicked stepmother (Rapunzel Rapunzel – let down your hair!) Pretty spooky stuff, and though I read them avidly during the day, at night I would lie awake in fear of what lurked under the bed... A few years later my first junior school teacher was Miss Williamson, possibly the most influential of all my early years teachers – or even later years. Her passion for reading out stories and holding attention was, in my opinion, legendary among the kids at Blessed Sacrament. If you’re out there, my hat comes off to you, Miss Williamson. Her classroom renditions of The Land of Green Ginger and the C.S. Lewis stories resonate for me even today. Miss Williamson would enthusiastically narrate the story and provide fitting voices for each character, and throughout her readings not a single child would stir until she was done. Gripping stuff! My first attempt at actually writing stories resulted in carbon copies of stories I’d already heard or read – I don’t think I even bothered changing character names. I once rewrote The Tinder Box using dinosaurs instead of dogs. Ah well. It was in my early teens I discovered that writing stories people might actually want to read was possible. A friend of mine had written a werewolf story using his friends as the characters and our neighborhood as the setting. I read it and I loved it. I had a go and the literary infant I produced indeed had an idiot for a father. But it was a start. After several failed attempts at getting published I began to lose heart. I started and aborted several novels; even finished a couple but they were too hackish ever to see the light of submission, let alone publication. In the late eighties and early nineties I wrote several screenplays and even had one optioned for production but alas, like the great majority of optioned screenplays, never saw that shining light of production. Which brings me to FUSING HORIZONS. A new small press mag that promised great stories from both established and new writers. I promptly submitted by E-mail – a very convenient method! Editor Gary Fry promptly rejected it – and rightly so, but I felt lifted by his personal response and declaration that he’d like to see more from me. I sent him something I thought more suited to his predilection for existentialism. The story was called HOME, and he published it. My first and one of my favorites. Wolfkind is my first novel. I felt passionate about the subject matter and I sincerely hope it translates well to the page. . Other Stuff: Married, two kids, one mortgage and two dogs.

Book preview

Wolfkind

The Invisible Assassin

A novel

by

Stephen Melling

Wolfkind

By Stephen Melling

Copyright© by Stephen Melling 2011

Published at Smashwords

Dedications

This book is dedicated:

To Elaine, my wife and best friend, for her patience and no nonsense approach.

To my children, whose innocence always serves to set me free.

To my mother and my late father.

Big thanks go to Alan I'Anson, Stephen Gallagher, Bev Jackson, Nick Hogg, Joe Standing and Jill Wells for their readings and helpful criticism and suggestions.

Prologue

Fox Hills, Los Angeles. Fletcher Regan.

All quiet on the Northern front? the metallic voice filtered through the radio clipped to Nate’s belt, the words crisp and clear in the still twilight.

Nate Kellerman reached for his radio. Everything here’s quiet. He almost said too quiet. But he remained tight-lipped. In the brutal realm of the LA underworld anything less than cold dedication was a liability. Kellerman had no liabilities.

Amid the chirp of crickets and the distant drone of traffic on San Diego Freeway he made his way lightly along-side the perimeter fence. On the westward horizon the soft orange glow turned purple as the hot California day departed, leaving behind an equally balmy evening. The absence of the infamous smog left the air redolent of Star Jasmine and Mimosa instead of carbon monoxide: the LA of which people dreamed – balmy, fresh, picturesque, and a tad offbeat.

His shoes crunching the gravel and his radio clasped in his left hand – he always kept his gun hand free – Kellerman re-checked the surveillance cameras, the gates and guard posts. In the growing darkness he watched their silhouettes wax and wane beyond the trees at the perimeter.

On the driveway inside the front gates Kellerman said. Finished my sweep. But as he lowered his radio he felt an icy shiver and snapped alert. Motionless, not breathing, he sniffed the air like a bloodhound. The beat of his heart quickened. Hairs on the back of his neck stood erect.

All at once he felt watched.

Nate Obadiah Kellerman had been alive for forty-two years, the last eleven spent in the employ of crime boss Fletcher Regan, who recruited him from the military. Nate was extremely efficient, a true professional who remained fiercely loyal, yet equally was a disciple of self-preservation. His devotion had kept him alive, whereas many of his colleagues were now cautionary tales in mob lore.

But Nate’s continued survival was not due entirely to Special Forces training, or that he kept in terrific shape. It was intuition – plain old hunch-play, perhaps primal instinct; the biological alarm that warned of impending danger.

He might argue that his fear was irrational, that he had succumbed to the hysteria fast infiltrating the underworld. Fletcher Regan’s mansion boasted top dollar surveillance, and the largest ratio of guards to square feet of ground Kellerman had ever seen – an urban fortress. No elite force on the planet could breach the security undetected.

Nevertheless, standing on the driveway of Regan’s Fox Hill’s mansion, Kellerman felt those bio alarm bells tolling ominously at the outermost limit of his senses. A worm of superstitious terror squirmed in his mind. He lifted his radio. I’m coming in.

In the bowels of Regan’s mansion the dim, windowless surveillance room flickered with a dozen monitor images. Head controller Ray Ulrich, still pissed about being assigned permanent graveyard shift, tossed aside the remnants of his Chinese supper and belched with aplomb. On his screen he noticed Kellerman behaving oddly by the front gates. Hey Rogers, Ulrich nudged his partner. Check out G.I. Joe here.

But his partner wasn’t listening; Rogers was eyeing his own console, switching camera viewpoints, pushing buttons. He fumbled for his radio. Oswald, he said, spittle flying from his lips. You left your goddamn post.

Ulrich swiveled his chair. What’s up?

Rogers jabbed a finger at a monitor that displayed a deserted stretch of fence. Oswald’s not there – he’s…he’s gone.

Ulrich leaned in and gave a disinterested look at the screen. Relax, he said. This cradle’s strapped tighter than the Pentagon.

Rogers ignored him. Oswald, where in the hell are you? Come back. When all he got back was static, he reached for the alarm.

Ulrich’s outstretched hand stopped him. Wait a goddam minute. He flicked on his own radio. Kellerman, has Henry been by you? Can’t see him on the screen and he isn’t answering his radio. Over.

He was there a minute ago. Kellerman’s voice crackled over the air. Give me one second.

A moment later Kellerman appeared on Henry Oswald’s monitor, glancing warily to his left and right. Then he saw something and dropped to his knees.

Oh shit. Rogers said. "Shit shit shit."

Can it, will you. Ulrich said. I ain’t hitting the siren ‘cause one of the guys went to take a piss.

A burst of static from the loudspeakers. Control! Control! It was Kellerman. I’ve found Oswald. The perimeter’s breached. Repeat. The perimeter’s breached.

Rogers tore free of Ulrich and slapped the alarm button hard enough to crack the red plastic casing. The shrill, whooping siren penetrated the complex.

In Western California the sun finally dipped below the horizon. Darkness settled over the land like a shroud.

Under the motionless fronds of a palm tree, Kellerman leaned over Oswald’s body. The guard’s head appeared to be missing. A pool of blood spread from his decapitated body. On the grass beside him lay his unfired weapon. Kellerman bent to retrieve it. The barrel was crushed and bent upwards. A man’s finger, torn out at the knuckle, hung from the trigger guard.

Kellerman’s intuition crashed in with dreadful finality.

Sshhhffffff.

It was the stealthiest of sounds, followed by a fleeting shadow, which sprang up behind him. Kellerman’s military-sharp instinct kicked in and he dived like a trained gymnast over Oswald’s body, high forward rolled and twisted so he faced whatever cast the shadow, his weapon un-holstered and ready to spit poison.

Back in the control room the sound of automatic gunfire tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tatted over the air. Then a piercing cry.

On each of the monitors the hitherto well-disciplined guards stampeded in monochrome silence. Gunfire, muffled by distance, broke out in several parts of the grounds; dogs barked; guards yelled at one another; someone shrieked; then someone else. One of the monitor images shook, fragmented, as if something had crashed into one of the camera poles.

Ulrich’s eyes snapped from screen to screen. He grabbed his radio. Kellerman? Kellerm- He threw down the radio for his weapon and stuffed spare ammunition clips into his waistband.

Rogers was staring with child-like fear at one of his screens. Mother of God…

The hell you talking about? Ulrich fumbled with his weapon. This is no drill, sweetheart, grab some steel.

But Rogers slumped in the chair, arms limp at his sides. Ray, he said, not turning to his partner. We’re all dead.

The monitor images flickered.

All the lights went out.

Part One

Of Mice and Men

Ahead lay only darkness.

The Camaro’s headlights cut the night as two drizzle-specked beams, heading straight as arrows in a westward direction. Though no other cars were on the highway, Joshua Grenire kept his foot easy on the gas. The needle twitched at the fifty-five mark. If ever it crept beyond, he eased on the gas.

Since leaving the old man and the ramshackle wood-framed house over a day ago, his fears of being unmasked had started to fade. When he had first set out, he had half expected the public at large to see through his masquerade and point at him, screaming and hollering. A torch-bearing mob would quickly assemble, carry him shoulder-high to a hastily erected funeral pyre, and burn him at the stake while dancing in the fire glow.

But in the last twenty-four hours he had moved among the general population unchallenged; shared highways with other motorists, pulled in at gas stations, stopped at red lights and queued in traffic. Although a few people had looked at him, no one had looked at him twice; no one had pointed and screamed. No chants of unclean! Unclean! Like the rest of the faces he dissolved into the population.

Why should I not? He dared to think. At twenty-five years old, in faded Wranglers, new loafers, a western style open throated shirt, he cut the figure of a young all-American guy. The only fashion tilt which separated him from the mainstream was his longer than average hair. Barlow told him he looked like a Rock Singer, but Joshua liked to think of himself as an undercover agent, like 007. After all, like James Bond, he was on a mission for the common good. And he was the good guy…wasn’t he?

He took his attention off the road and smiled at his reflection in the rearview mirror, but his eyes remained haunted by the reason for his journey – his own raison d’être - and the smile soon died. So he returned his gaze to where the Camaro’s high beams opened a capsule of light in the all-encompassing gloom.

Up ahead on the right, about half a mile distant, faint light from a truck-stop twinkled in the darkness at the roadside. Soon the name Mel’s Diner asserted itself in a blaze of orange neon. A small, self-contained restaurant, it was the only building on this stretch of highway, set back twenty or so yards from the road behind a pock-marked parking area.

The meager food supplies he had brought along with him from New Hampshire were little more than crumbs and discarded cellophane on the back seat. Over eight hours had gone by since his last meal and his hunger pangs were more like stomach cramps. Well here goes, he thought as he neared the diner, the moment for him to take the next step.

Time to interact.

He eased on the gas and maneuvered onto the puddle-filled parking lot, where dirty water hissed against the underside of the car. On the deserted west side of the lot the Camaro came to a halt, rocking gently on its springs. He shut off the engine and killed the lights. But didn’t get out. Not right away. For a moment he stared hard at his reflection. Let’s do it, he said at last and eased himself out of the car.

The night air was cool against his skin. Faint strains of a golden oldie came from within the building. A pleasant, inviting sound. A broad ribbon of steam floated skyward from a rooftop vent, which the wind caught and spread like fog across the other vehicles in the lot: a huge semi, an Oldsmobile, a hot rod with flames painted on the doors, and a brown Winnebago. Soft light from the diner’s windows reflected in the puddles. The air surrounding the diner smelled nothing less than divine, beckoning, inviting him to come on in, the water’s fine.

I’m about to interact with people right now, he told himself, and took several deep breaths. Act like the natives and all will be well. He skirted the puddles and approached the entrance, deliberately rattling his car keys – which seemed the proper thing to do. He tried whistling, but no sound came from his pursed lips. Just hot breath. I’ll never pull it off, he thought inwardly. I’ll eat dirt at first base. And then the crowd will assemble...

The glass door creaked open and as music drifted out, Joshua drifted in, hesitating only briefly at the threshold. The interior appeared reasonably clean, a tad warm for his comfort, the air heavy with cooking aromas. Over at a jukebox against the wall the golden oldie faded.

At the first table a truck driver was eating a steak dinner, the smell of which clawed at Joshua’s stomach. The trucker nodded perfunctorily and then returned his gaze to his plate. Joshua opened his mouth and almost said: "Howdy, partner", when a girl’s high-pitched laughter three tables along distracted him.

Three young people. A bleach-blonde girl and an unshaven guy who wore ripped denims. Joshua pegged these as the owners of the Hot Rod. Another guy who could have been a twin of the first sat slightly apart from them.

Joshua started toward the order-counter with his head slightly bowed. As he passed the table he glanced sideways. The girl looked at him. She had almost white blonde hair that she pinned back with a bright blue slide. Around her neck she wore a silver crucifix similar to the one Barlow wore back in New Hampshire. Only Barlow’s was tarnished and fixed to a length of string rather than a chain.

You want something, boy?

And whereas this girl appeared to wear the chain for decoration, Barlow wore his because he truly believed his soul was reliant upon it.

Hey boy, I’m talking to you.

Joshua hadn’t realized the guy sitting beside her was addressing him. Indeed was rising to his feet. You got wax in your ears?

His buddy shook his head gravely. I don’t think he hears you, Earl.

Joshua came back to himself and stepped away. The girl grabbed Earl’s arm and pulled him back toward his chair. Set your butt down, cowboy.

Earl reluctantly returned to his seat, scowling and puffing out his chest like a prize peacock. I’ll kick his country ass all over the- His girl stuffed a handful of french-fries into his mouth, truncating his speech. The trucker watched them over the top of his spectacles, chewing soundlessly on his steak.

Get you something, pal? Joshua turned around and saw the short-order cook around this side of the counter, a dripping spatula in his hand. Several greasy handprints stained his otherwise clean apron. The man stood six four and probably tipped the scales at twice Joshua’s weight. His forearms were thick as a man’s calf.

Excuse me? Joshua said.

Can I get you something?

Oh. He pointed at the trucker. I’ll have what he has, please.

The cook grunted and returned to his grill.

Joshua selected a booth against the far wall, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He kept his eyes fixed on the table, his fingers drumming the Formica, trying desperately to remain upbeat. But with a sinking kind of certainty he feared every pair of eyes in the diner rested on him. He resisted the urge to look up, and got his first real inkling of how difficult was the task ahead.

Instead he scrutinized his distorted reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser on his table. Wondered what kind of persona he presented; whether his disguise was as transparent as it now felt. He poked his fingers inside his shirt and pulled out the small gold wolf’s head fixed to a chain around his neck. The trinket felt solid and weighty between his thumb and forefinger; he caressed it, drew strength from the contact.

A morose young waitress brought over coffee. Spilled a drop on the table and immediately wiped it up with a jiffy cloth. Oops. She said tonelessly and waddled back to the kitchen. Joshua tucked the amulet back inside his shirt and watched the waitress saunter off. His roving gaze found old buddy Earl.

Don’t eyeball me you long-haired freak.

Joshua quickly picked up a menu and shielded his face. Whilst pretending to read, he closed his eyes and sighed. Although he had always wanted away from the house in New Hampshire, part of him now pined for its comforting familiarity. He felt half naked, transparent, altogether ill-prepared to engage the public.

A couple of minutes later the waitress set down his meal in front of him. Blood pooled on the plate around the half cooked meat.

Bon appetite, she wrinkled her nose.

Joshua set about the steak without once lifting his eyes from his plate. During his meal, several screwed up napkin missiles landed on his table, and he did his best to ignore them until a French-fry bounced off the Formica near his plate. This brought another round of giggles from Earl’s table. Joshua snuck a glance their way. Both Earl and his buddy glared at him.

As soon as he finished his meal he paid, forgot to leave a tip, and then quickly made for the exit. Fresh air slapped him in the face. He inhaled deeply, grateful to be free of the diner. He moved in a straight line for his Camaro. Fumbling for his keys, he stepped in puddles up to his ankles.

Behind him the door of the diner squeaked open, letting out a truncated verse of a Garth Brooks tune. Heavy footsteps crunched through the gravel. Then the door opened again. Earl, a girl’s high pitched voice. Come on back here.

Although he felt like sprinting for his car and tearing out of the lot, Joshua looked over his shoulder. Earl was marching through puddles toward him. He was grinning. Wanna come look at my girl some more? he said. Staring at some other guy’s chick your thing? Earl’s buddy swaggered onto the lot to join them.

Look, I’m sorry if…. Joshua heard half the words before realizing he had actually spoken them himself.

Earl’s grin disappeared and he broke into a run, charging through the puddle like a water buffalo. With a grunt, he swung an almighty haymaker at Joshua’s chin. Kick his ass, Earl. his buddy yelled.

Joshua easily sidestepped the clenched fist. Earl’s special delivery haymaker found only fresh air, and without the resistance of Joshua’s face to counter-balance the force, all two hundred and forty pounds of his bulk helped his kneecap into the Camaro’s fender. "Motherfucker."

The girlfriend covered half her face. Earl…don’t.

Joshua circled away. Please, he said. I don’t want to hurt you.

Earl turned around. His face had gone purple and a string of spit looped from his teeth. He pushed himself away from the Camaro, limping now. Instead of re-launching his blitz attack, he reached into his jacket and pulled a switchblade. Get in the fucking car, Donette. He feigned a lunge and then threw himself forward proper, thrust out the six-inch blade like it were a fencer’s foil.

Joshua, feeling absurdly like he had perhaps wandered onto a film set, reacted to the switchblade’s wicked glint. Moving far more quickly that his adversary, he sidestepped again and grabbed Earl’s knife hand at the wrist; gave it a hard squeeze. Something in there broke like a dry stick. Earl sucked in air and he stiffened. The knife slipped through his fingers and with a plop, vanished beneath the oily surface of a puddle.

A scant second later, Joshua let him go. Earl did a fair impression of Oliver Hardy falling onto his backside, staring in disbelief at his wrist, which now boasted an extra joint. He retched twice before regurgitating a sticky glut of French fries into his lap.

His girlfriend followed his gaze and mirrored his expression.

Other diners spilled out onto the lot. Someone yelled: ‘Call the cops.’

Joshua looked at his own hands. I’m sorry…

Get out of here, the girl yelled from her boyfriend’s side, the knees of her jeans underwater, her make-up distinctly separate from her pallor. She reached into the puddle, retrieved the switchblade, and threw it into the rough grass. "Just go."

Heavy rain began to fall; no one ran for shelter. Joshua turned, hurriedly got into his car and rejoined the highway, racing through the gears. In the rearview mirror he saw the short-order cook leaning over Earl. The waitress joined them, her pale oval face angled at the highway, watching Joshua leave.

Fearing she was perhaps taking down his license plate, he shifted down to third and tramped the pedal. The Camaro bucked and screamed over the tarmac, happy to oblige, kicking up road spray. Within a minute the dim orange glow of neon dwindled with distance. When the light winked out altogether, Joshua shifted his focus to stare at his reflection. For a moment, the eyes of a stranger stared back. A touch of fear pricked the nape of his neck.

Shit, he said quietly.

A long sigh whistled through his pursed lips. If finding a bite to eat proved such hard work, how would he find a place to sleep? Barlow should never have burdened him with this responsibility. But of course Joshua was the only one left capable. Now Nathanial was gone it wasn’t so much a matter of choice. It was a lack of options.

Los Angeles

At eleven thirty pm the temperature in LA hovered at seventy degrees, and owing to substandard air-conditioning, the Peppermint Palace sweltered. But this hardly discouraged the clientele. At eleven-thirty-five the doormen refused further admission to the crowded basement. Though built to hold three hundred and fifty, tonight the glitzy nightspot played host to nearly five hundred people.

Beyond the queues a black limousine pulled in at the curb and a tall, pony-tailed man got out, his gold jewelry reflecting glints of neon. Divo Serefini quietly surveyed the bustling entrance like a general might survey a captured land. He stood tall as he could for a minute, swaying his arms and rolling his shoulders, like a boxer preparing to fight.

Keep it running, he said to the driver and stepped up grandly to the entrance. Like Moses’ parting of the Red Sea the crowd miraculously made way, as though he were an irresistible force pushing at their opposite poles. This suited him. Nobody got in his way. Nobody touched his cloth.

An obese man wearing a purple suit with the word MANAGER embroidered on the lapel greeted him with the offer of a sweaty hand. Serefini ignored it and looked past him, down the short corridor where strobe-lights from the dance hall reflected in his inky pupils. They here?

The manager mopped his brow with a cotton handkerchief. In the Booth at the far side of the floor, he said. Want a few of my boys to go with you?

Only if I want a door holding open.

Serefini skirted the floor toward the rear of the club. His expression a stark contrast to the smiles and pouts of dancers. At the far side of the dance floor he spotted the snot-nosed little pricks. Alone and silhouetted against the far wall, motionless as gargoyles, watching him approach.

It was the pick-up team all right. He recognized their manner as much as their appearance. Slouched low in their seats like piss-bored teenagers, while the strawberry tart lay across the table showing half of her ass.

Before going any further, Serefini took several deep and calming breaths. Swallowing the insults of others - no matter how hard he tried - was an art he could not master; particularly when dealing with those clearly unfit to tie his shoelaces. He sorely wished Durant had given this job one of the others. Divo’s specialty was dishing the shit – not eating it.

Safely in character, Serefini stepped up to the booth.

The principal wiseass who called himself Nathan swigged whiskey straight from the bottle; a longhaired freak who looked like he’d missed the bus to a heavy metal concert. He wore flashy leather pants, a clinging white tea-shirt and a leather waistcoat. But the look in this kid’s eyes. Anyone would think he had Jesus on his left and the archangel Gabriel on his right.

In the flashing strobes and colored lights the kid rocked his head to the booming beat. Not a care in the world. On his left, also moving his body to the music was a guy of similar appearance whom the other two called Blayne – long-haired, suntanned, same style in clothes. The strawberry tart – Melissa or Melinda – a girl so built-for-comfort she might have been manufactured, was gazing up at him. Serefini knew the type – wore beauty like a pair of torn Levis; a natural born slut.

Three young people. Two wiseass guys, one floozy.

This information encapsulated the whole of what the Durant syndicate knew about who they were hiring. An enigmatic hitman no one ever saw – or had even heard of six months ago – and used cocky youngsters to pick up contracts and collect payments. What was the underworld coming to?

Serefini reached into his jacket and produced a bulky manila envelope, which he dumped unceremoniously on the table. A corner of the packet burst open, revealing stacks of bundled bank notes. Count it.

Eyes never leaving Serefini, Nathan picked up the envelope and tossed it over to Blayne, who caught it deftly and slipped it into his jacket pocket. I’m sure it’s all there, messenger boy – only a fool would short-change my capo. You’re not a fool are you?

Serefini found he was rocking left and right, swapping his weight from foot to foot like a teenager spoiling for a fight. He tried very hard to remain still, but felt his skull vibrated, and he realized he was grinding his teeth. Aware that he was close to snapping, he took a long, slow breath. Wiseass punk, he heard himself say. You make me laugh-

"I make you angry, The younger man corrected. You want to kill me so bad your hands are shaking."

You are one puzzled little boy, Serefini said.

Riddle me this, Nathan said. The job’s done; you’ve delivered the green; yet you’re still standing here. Afraid of turning your back?

Maybe you forgot to tip the guy, Blayne said, punching his palm. Goddam if he isn’t sticking around for his gratuity.

Melissa leaned across the table and whispered something in Nathan’s ear. Without breaking eye contact with Serefini, he nudged Blayne toward the girl. She wants to dance.

Serefini blinked rapidly and felt blood rush to his face. When Divo Serefini entered a room, he remained the focus of fearful attention until he left. Not so