truth?â
âAbsolutely.â
âI wouldnât go more than nine-fifty.â
Angel jabs a finger into his belly. âDamn, youâre hard everywhere. Itâs amazing. The men Iâve known in my life? If they had a body like yours, theyâd be wearing sleeveless T-shirts tight enough to pass for girdles.â
When Carter doesnât reply, Angel jumps up, walks naked across the room and begins to rummage in a chest of drawers. Her movements seem perfectly natural, as if sheâs totally unaware of the predictable effect her bouncing buttocks have on Leonard Carter. But then she looks back over her shoulder, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
The face of an angel? The soul of a whore? Every manâs fantasy come to life? Carter feels like someone nailed his eyes to her ass.
âHere, thisâll do.â
Angel spins around to display a summer-weight pajama bottom. She jumps on the bed, her breathing shallow, and works the pajama legs through the slats on the headboard. Then she ties his wrists. This is all play, of course, and Carter knows he can pull his hands free at any time. But then Angel lays a pillowcase over his eyes, tucks the ends beneath his head, and the game becomes more interesting. Carter holds his breath while Angel runs a fingernail across his chest, gently, slowly. Then she takes his left nipple into her mouth and gives it a tug.
Even as the inevitable, inescapable groan passes his lips, Carterâs thinking, yes, the ship has definitely sailed; yes, itâs in the deep water; no, I canât see the goddamned shore. But then he realizes thereâs nothing new here. His ship has sailed many times: when he left the military, when he left Iraq after the collapse of Coldstream Military Options, when he left Africa with the blood money in his pocket. No, thereâs nothing new here, except for Angel, except for him flopping on the bed like a hooked fish.
And then thereâs the money.
NINE
B obby Dittoâs pissed, as usual. Heâs pissed about the steady drizzle, the unseasonably low temperatures, the traffic, a car that stalls at every light (âWhat? I bought a fuckinâ Audi for this?â) and especially the situation. Bobbyâs traveling from his home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to Paulie Margarineâs house in Astoria, Queens, and heâs coming alone, hat in his hand. Heâs scared, too, though he canât admit it.
Bobby parks the car in Paulieâs driveway, a liberty which makes him feel slightly better about himself. Then he walks into the house without being invited when Paulieâs kid, Freddy, answers the door.
âYou could take a seat in the living room.â A year out of prison, Freddyâs not all that impressed. âMy fatherâs with his nurse. Heâs havinâ a treatment.â
And there he is, Bobby Ditto, cooling his heels on a couch thatâs seen better days, in a room that hasnât been dusted in a month. And no coffee, either. Just sit your ass down, keep your mouth shut and wait.
Bobby only recovers his equilibrium when Freddy wheels his father into the room. Paulie halfway to dead, maybe more than halfway. His skinâs the color of puke and heâs so weak he can barely take Bobbyâs hand.
âSo?â Paulie says after Freddy makes an exit. âWhatâs up that couldnât wait till after my funeral?â
âHey, Paulie, Iâm sorry for your illness. And you could trust me on this, I wouldnât be here if it wasnât important.â Bobby leans forward to place his hands on his knees. An exercise fanatic who ups the ante with a steroid soup injected by his trainer, Bobbyâs the physical opposite of his deceased brother. Heâs terminally ambitious, as well, and prefers to get his way through intimidation whenever possible. But he has no juice here, not with Paulie Margarine. Paulieâs old school. He doesnât scare. In fact, right now,