The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“You asked for it,” Grady said. He crooked his finger at his friends. “You got to hear this, y’all. Tell Vick to come, too. This guy here wants to repeat something he just said about Italians.”

Saber knew how to do it.

“Your beef is with me, Grady,” I said.

“No, it isn’t. You’re out of the picture and out of the saddle, Broussard. Got it? Anything you had going with Valerie is over.”

“I don’t believe you were at her house. I don’t believe she would let you in.”

“You need a blow-by-blow? She put

s her tongue in your mouth when she comes. She likes to get on top. She can have three climaxes in one session. Sound familiar? Or did you get that far?”

I stood up from the chair, knocking it backward, and hit him across the face with the flat of my hand, hard, snapping his chin on his shoulder. He stepped back, a smear like ketchup on his mouth. I had never seen anyone’s eyes look at me the way his did at that moment, as though I had awakened a darkness in him that no one else knew about.

Vick Atlas stepped in front of him. He was short and thick-bodied and looked full of contradictions. He had a damaged lip and whiskers like a patina of steel filings etched with a razor, as though he cultivated an unshaved look; he wore elevator shoes and a pressed suit without a tie and a rumpled white shirt with a belt and suspenders. He was probably in his early twenties but could have passed for forty. “That’s my friend you hit,” he said to me.

“He asked for it,” I said.

“Wrong thing to say, kid.”

“Who are you to call anybody kid?” I said.

“You know who you’re wising off to?” he said. “You just get in town from the South Pole? You got a penguin stuck up your ass?” A drop of his spittle struck my chin.

“I’ll take care of this later, Vick,” Grady said.

“You made a crack about Italians?”

“His friend called you Mickey Mouse, Jr.,” Grady said. “Believe me, Vick, this guy is going to be walking on stumps.”

“I think y’all came in here to make your bones,” Vick said.

I wanted to believe he was a caricature, that his black satinlike hair was a wig, that the mindless ferocity in his glare was a reflection of the light and not an indicator of bottomless rage because of his father’s abuse or a plastic surgeon’s failure. Minutes earlier we had been worried about dealing with a collection of spoiled rich kids; now we were a few feet away from men who fixed prizefights and trafficked in narcotics and prostitution and committed murder for no other reason than greed.

“Grady slandered my girlfriend,” I said. “What would you do in my situation?”

“I wouldn’t ever be in your situation. You and your friend mouthed off about Italians. A lot of my friends are Italian. So there’s principle involved. The question is what we should do about it. Hey, you listening to me?”

“Yeah, and we’re leaving,” I said.

Vick Atlas looked at Saber. “You’re the one called me Mickey Mouse, Jr.?”

Saber squinted at him. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“A guy with slits for eyes shouldn’t be calling other people names.”

“I apologize.”

“You looking at my lip? You think I’m a freak? The sight of me offends you?”

“No,” Saber said.

“You’re saying you feel pity? That’s why you got a change of attitude? You think that’s going to save you? Don’t look away from me. I’ll pull your nose off.”

“I told you I’m sorry. If you won’t accept my apology, blow me,” Saber said.

I saw Frankie Carbo turn in his chair and snap his fingers at the uniformed police officer by the men’s room. The officer was a huge man, one shirt pocket stuffed with cigars, his shield pinned to the other. He walked toward us, an avuncular smile on his face.