Free Carnival of Shadows by R.J. Ellory Page A

to jab that finger into Michael’s breakfast—the egg, the oatmeal, the corn bread.
    “And this is your first meal in general, right?”
    Michael knew precisely what he was dealing with then. “Looks like it’s your meal now,” he said.
    Scarapetto smiled. “You ain’t gonna complain, little man?”
    “Not a word,” Michael replied. He could see the edges of his own internal shadows, not as if they were moving toward him, but as if he were moving toward them.
    “Is that ’cause I scare you?”
    “Absolutely,” Michael said. “You scare me more than anyone has ever scared me before.” His voice was calm, but inside he was truly disturbed. Little more than two weeks earlier, he’d been helping his mother wash dishes. Now he was here, seated across from someone who seemed intent on violently assaulting him while the world looked away.
    And then it came, that sense of his father, the certainty of how his father would have dealt with such a situation. But he was not his father. He did not dare rise to the bait.
    Scarapetto started to smile, and then he frowned, and then he lunged forward and grabbed Michael’s wrists. He pulled Michael forward suddenly, and the edge of the table slammed into Michael’s rib cage. Michael exhaled painfully, but he did not look away from Scarapetto.
    “You messin’ with me, kid?” Scarapetto asked. “You jibin’ me, fuckin’ with me, playin’ smart-mouth with me?”
    Michael shook his head ever so slowly. His heart was twice its size, and it thundered uncontrollably in his chest. He could feel the rage building inside him, the desperate need to strike back, to lash out, to destroy. He also knew that whatever happened now, it was going to hurt. Still he did not look away from Scarapetto.
    “Well, that’s good,” Scarapetto said. “That’s very good, little man, ’cause you don’t wanna get me riled, you know? Folks who get me riled always regret it. They always regret it.”
    Michael was aware then that the surrounding tables were quiet. People were watching him. People were seeing how he dealt with this guy.
    Scarapetto released Michael’s wrists and leaned back from the table, proud and arrogant now.
    He pulled the cuffs of his shirt as if he were checking himself in the mirror at Brooks Brothers, and he smiled a cruel smile that said all that needed to be said. He’d put the new kid in his place. He’d made a mark, scared the little runt, and that was how it should be.
    Michael understood then that if he did nothing, he would always be at the bottom of the ladder, right there for anyone to step on if they so wished. He could not fight someone such as Scarapetto. He would not have a prayer. He had to do something decisive, and he had to do it now.
    In that moment, Scarapetto turned around to look at the faces that were watching him.
    As he did so, Michael Travis took his own life in his hands. He leaned forward slightly and dribbled a mouthful of saliva into the oatmeal on his tray.
    When Scarapetto turned back, he was wearing that self-same crooked smile. Look at me , it said. Cock of the walk, I am. Big boss of the hot sauce.
    Scarapetto reached out and slid Michael’s tray toward himself. He took a spoon from his pants pocket, breathed on it, polished it on his shirttail as if for effect, and then started eating the oatmeal.
    There was silence around that table, but inside the head of every person watching was a groan of disgust.
    Scarapetto was aware of nothing.
    Michael watched him eat the oatmeal, his own expression blank and implacable.
    Once Scarapetto was done with the oatmeal, he ate the corn bread, the egg, and then shoved the tray back at Michael.
    “I think you finished your breakfast, kid,” Scarapetto said.
    “Looks like I did,” Michael replied.
    “Good, was it?”
    “Excellent. The best ever.”
    Scarapetto looked at Michael sideways. Was this kid smart-mouthing him? Was that actually a dig? Better have not been a dig;