Free The 25th Hour by David Benioff

and waits while Slattery locks the door. ‘I’m not saying happy . I’m just saying—;’
    ‘You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Tough? How do you know from tough? What do you think, because he wins a couple fights at Campbell-Sawyer, that means he’s a tough guy in Otisville? You don’t understand the trouble he’s in. You don’t get it. Monty’s got three choices, and none of them are good.’ They walk down the blue-carpeted hallway, Slattery twirling his key chain.
    ‘Three choices,’ says Jakob, impatient. Slattery always talks to him as if he were a dense child, not quick enough to understand the world’s complexities.
    ‘Okay. One, he can run. Get on a bus going to wherever and just hope they never catch up with him. That’s number one.’
    ‘He won’t do that. His dad’s bar—;’
    ‘I’m not saying what he will do. I’m saying what his choices are. Number two—;’ Slattery makes a gun with his thumb and index finger and points it at his temple.
    Jakob’s eyes go wide. ‘Kill himself? Not a chance. So what’s the third option?’
    ‘The third option?’ Slattery thinks for a moment. ‘Oh, the third option is he goes to prison.’
    Jakob nods. ‘That’s what’s going to happen. He’ll go, and he’ll make it through.’
    ‘Okay. Maybe. But no matter what, it’s bye-bye Monty.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    Slattery raises his thumb. ‘If he runs, he’s gone. You’ll never see him again.’ He raises his index finger, the top joint crooked from wrestling days. ‘If he pulls the trigger, he’s gone. They’ll keep the casket closed.’ He raises his middle finger. ‘If they lock him away, he’s gone. You’ll never see him again.’
    ‘I’ll see him again,’ says Jakob. ‘I’ll see him when he gets out.’
    The elevator doors open and Slattery steps inside. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. You think you’re still going to be friends? You think you’ll kick back with a couple beers and reminisce? Forget it, Jake. It’s over after tonight. You getting in?’

Seven
    ‘What’s good here?’ asks Monty, reading the menu from a blackboard on the wall.
    ‘The veal,’ says his father. ‘The veal’s good. That’s what I usually get.’
    ‘Okay.’ Monty leans back in his chair and surveys the restaurant: a low-ceilinged relic just north of Houston Street, one of the last of the old-school Italians, where they still serve spaghetti and meatballs, eggplant parmesan, chicken cacciatore.
    ‘Taking off Thursday night,’ says Monty. ‘That’s big of you. Who’s minding the place?’
    ‘Kennelly’s taking care of it.’
    ‘Kennelly? He’s going to drink all your rum. You trust Kennelly?’
    ‘It’s only a couple hours. You said you were meeting your friends, so I figured ten o’clock—;’
    ‘That’s fine,’ says Monty. He plays with the label on their bottle of red wine. The waitress, an old woman with a face like a crumpled paper bag, takes their order. She wears a platinum-blond wig and false eyelashes; she beams when she hears Monty’s selection.
    ‘Good pick,’ she says, her front teeth red with lipstick. ‘Veal’s the best thing here.’ She shuffles away and Monty thinks, She’ll be dead before I get back here .
    ‘So I talked to Sal—;’
    ‘Ah, come on, Dad.’
    ‘See if he can help with anything.’
    ‘Dad, come on, what are you thinking? Sal? The guy’s been out of the picture for twenty years.’
    ‘He might know some people in there.’
    ‘The guy’s about a hundred years old. He sits around playing gin rummy all day. What’s Sal going to do for me?’
    ‘He still knows people. He could put in—;’
    ‘Dad, would you please? I’ll be all right. Just, please, don’t get involved in this. Okay?’
    ‘You’re still going to be a young man when you get out. I know,’ says Mr Brogan, raising his hands, for Monty is shaking his head. ‘I know you don’t think so. But listen to me. You keep your head down in there.