The Murderers (Badge of Honor 6)

“Look, you’ll understand, Mr. Smith, that what you hear about something isn’t always what really happened,” Cassandro said. “I mean, I understand that you would be reluctant to talk about a job. But on the other hand, for one thing, nobody’s going to hear a thing that’s said in here but you and me, and from what I hear we’re in the same line of business, and for another, you’ll understand that, with what I’ve got riding on this, I have to be damned sure I’m not dealing with no amateur.”

“I know what you mean, Mr. Jones,” Frankie said.

“You want to check me, or the room, for a wire, I’ll understand, Mr. Smith. I’ll take no offense.”

Jesus Christ, I didn’t even think about some sonofabitch recording this!

“No need to do that,” Frankie said, feeling quite sophisticated about it. “I trust you.”

“That’s good. I appreciate that trust. In our line of work, trust is important. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“So tell me about the job you did on Atchison and Marcuzzi.”

And Frankie Foley did, in great detail. From time to time, Mr. Cassandro asked a question to clarify a point, but most of the time during Frankie’s recitation he just nodded his head in what Frankie chose to think was professional approval.

“In other words, you think it was a good, clean job, with no problems?”

“Yeah, I’d say that, Mr. Jones.”

“You wouldn’t take offense if I pointed out a couple of things to you? A couple of mistakes I think you made?”

“Not at all,” Frankie said.

“Well, the first mistake you made, you fucking slimeball, was thinking you’re a tough guy,” Paulo Cassandro said.

He pushed himself off the desk and walked to the door and opened it.

Joey and Dominic Fatalgio came into the office.

“Break the fingers on his left hand,” Paulo Cassandro ordered.

“What?” Frankie asked.

Joey wrapped his arms around Frankie, pinning his arms to his sides. Dominic pulled the fingers of Joey’s left hand back. Frankie screamed, and then a moment later screamed much louder as the joints and knuckles were either separated from their joints or the finger bones broken or both.

“Oh, please, Mr. Cassandro,” Frankie howled. “For Christ’s sake!”

“That was another mistake,” Paulo said, and punched Frankie in the face while holding a heavy cast-metal stapler in his hand.

“You never seen me in your life, you understand that, asshole?” Mr. Cassandro said.

Frankie now had his left hand under his right arm. When he opened his mouth to reply, he spit out two teeth. His whole arm seemed to be on fire. He wondered if he was going to faint.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“One of the mistakes you made, you pasty-faced Irish cocksucker, was going around saying untrue things, letting people think, telling people, that you were working for some Italian mob. For one thing, there is no mob, and if there was, there wouldn’t be no stupid fucking Irish shit-asses in it. The Italians in Philadelphia are law-abiding businessmen like me. You insulted me. Worse, you insulted my mother and my father when you started spreading bullshit like that around. You understand that, you fucking Mick?”

Frankie nodded his head to indicate that he was willing to grant the point Mr. Cassandro had just made.

Mr. Cassandro struck Mr. Foley again with the heavy cast-metal stapler, this time higher on the face, so that the skin above Mr. Foley’s eye was cut open, and he could no longer see out of his left eye.

“Say ‘Yes, sir,’ you fucking Mick scumbag!”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Foley said.

Mr. Cassandro, with surprising grace of movement, then kicked Mr. Foley in the genital area.