Free The Birthday Girl by Stephen Leather

close to the stairs which led down to an emergency exit and with his back to the wall. Two of his bodyguards, big men in dark suits, sat at a table by the entrance to the dining room, sharing a bottle of mineral water and trying to look as if they had nothing more sinister than deodorant under their arms. One of the men was chewing on a small unlit cigar. He saw Sabatino looking his way and raised an eyebrow, the only indication that he'd noticed. Sal Sabatino loved his food, but he preferred to eat alone. He toyed with his knife as the waitress returned and opened a bottle of white wine with a flourish. She poured a splash into his glass and he tasted it, rolling it around his mouth before swallowing. He nodded his approval. Sal Sabatino loved everything Italian. He loved the food, he loved the wine, he loved the music, he loved the dark-haired fiery women. He loved it all. Sal Sabatino's one regret in life was that he hadn't been born Italian.
    He was refilling his glass for the second time when Maury Anderson appeared in the doorway, mopping his forehead with a large red handkerchief. The bigger of the two bodyguards reached inside his jacket and got to his feet, but Sabatino waved his hand, a large gold ring flashing under the overhead lights, and the man sat down again.
    Anderson walked over to Sabatino's table, shoving the handkerchief back into his trouser pocket. He made no move to shake hands and he waited until Sabatino nodded at the vacant chair before sitting down. The waitress scurried over with a menu but Sabatino shooed her away. 'My guest won't be staying,' he said. Sabatino picked up his glass and scrutinised Anderson as he drank. The man was clearly nervous, though the sweat was probably the result of the night's high humidity. 'So, Maury, how did the meeting go?'
    Anderson's eyes darted from side to side as if he were frightened of being overheard. 'Not good,' he said.
    'What do you mean?' Sabatino's voice dropped an octave and about twenty degrees.
    Anderson shivered. 'The bank's putting its own representative on the board. A guy called Nelson.'
    'So?'
    'So he's going to be going through the books.'
    Sabatino screwed up his face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. 'Where's this guy based?' he asked.
    Anderson slipped a business card across the table. 'This is his card.'
    Sabatino picked up the pristine white card and studied it like an entomologist examining an unusual specimen. 'What's he like?' he asked.
    'Late twenties. Aggressive. Ambitious. African American.'
    Sabatino smiled to himself. Political correctness was so pervasive in modern-day America that it had even become part of a clandestine conversation. 'Yeah? I bet he's only ever seen Africa in an atlas,' he said. 'If he's black, why not just say he's black?'
    Anderson sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. 'Yeah. He's black. Sorry.'
    'You wanna know what's wrong with this fucking country?' Sabatino asked, though the question was clearly rhetorical. 'People are scared to say what they really think. They self-censor, that's what they do. You know those three guys that've been doing those robberies in Guilford? You know the ones? Picking on old folks, raping the women, beating the husbands and stealing everything that's not nailed down? You know they're black, I know they're black, but what does it say in the papers? Three assailants, that's what they say. And why do they say that? Because it's politically incorrect to say that they're black, that's why. What's the world coming to, Maury? Tell me, what's the world coming to?'
    'I've no idea, Mr Sabatino.' 'It's a hell of a world, Maury. A hell of a world. So this Nelson, he's gonna be sniffing around, is he?'

The Birthday Girl
    Anderson nodded. The waitress appeared with Sabatino's fettuccini carbonara. Sabatino unfurled his napkin and placed it on his lap. 'Okay, Maury, I'll give you a call if I need anything else. You keep an eye on this Nelson for me, okay?'
    Anderson hesitated.