Free Angel Face by Stephen Solomita Page B

truth?’
    â€˜Absolutely.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t go more than nine-fifty.’
    Angel jabs a finger into his belly. ‘Damn, you’re hard everywhere. It’s amazing. The men I’ve known in my life? If they had a body like yours, they’d be wearing sleeveless T-shirts tight enough to pass for girdles.’
    When Carter doesn’t 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 she’s 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 man’s fantasy come to life? Carter feels like someone nailed his eyes to her ass.
    â€˜Here, this’ll do.’
    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, Carter’s thinking, yes, the ship has definitely sailed; yes, it’s in the deep water; no, I can’t see the goddamned shore. But then he realizes there’s 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, there’s nothing new here, except for Angel, except for him flopping on the bed like a hooked fish.
    And then there’s the money.

NINE
    B obby Ditto’s pissed, as usual. He’s pissed about the steady drizzle, the unseasonably low temperatures, the traffic, a car that stalls at every light (‘What? I bought a fuckin’ Audi for this?’) and especially the situation. Bobby’s traveling from his home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to Paulie Margarine’s house in Astoria, Queens, and he’s coming alone, hat in his hand. He’s scared, too, though he can’t admit it.
    Bobby parks the car in Paulie’s driveway, a liberty which makes him feel slightly better about himself. Then he walks into the house without being invited when Paulie’s kid, Freddy, answers the door.
    â€˜You could take a seat in the living room.’ A year out of prison, Freddy’s not all that impressed. ‘My father’s with his nurse. He’s havin’ a treatment.’
    And there he is, Bobby Ditto, cooling his heels on a couch that’s seen better days, in a room that hasn’t 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 skin’s the color of puke and he’s so weak he can barely take Bobby’s hand.
    â€˜So?’ Paulie says after Freddy makes an exit. ‘What’s up that couldn’t wait till after my funeral?’
    â€˜Hey, Paulie, I’m sorry for your illness. And you could trust me on this, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.’ 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, Bobby’s the physical opposite of his deceased brother. He’s terminally ambitious, as well, and prefers to get his way through intimidation whenever possible. But he has no juice here, not with Paulie Margarine. Paulie’s old school. He doesn’t scare. In fact, right now,