“They’re not interested in you. They’re after the Harrelson money. Stay out of their business and they’ll stay out of yours. You also need to stay away from Grady Harrelson. Do that and all this will pass. It’s not a complicated idea.”
“I’m not in their business. I never wanted to be around Grady. He was abusing Valerie at a Galveston drive-in. That’s how I got involved with him.”
“I’m trying to tell you about the world you’ve stumbled into, son.”
“How do you know these people, sir?”
“I know them. What difference does it make?”
“Valerie told me why the government let Lucky Luciano out of jail.”
“Yes?” he replied, folding his hands.
“So Luciano could keep the shipyard workers broke. That’s how you know these guys? You or your friends worked with the Mafia?”
He told the waiter to bring us two Nesbitt’s oranges.
“Why don’t you answer the question, Mr. Epstein?” I said.
“Luciano was let out of jail to stop espionage on the docks.”
“I read there was no espionage. Luciano ordered a ship burned so hi
s people could get him released and transformed into a patriot. He introduced heroin to the Negro slums. He murdered people for two decades.”
Mr. Epstein leaned forward, his brow knurled. His skin was dark, his hair like a curly gold wig, his pale blue eyes as mirthless as ice at the bottom of a cocktail glass. “Deal with the world in kind or be its victim, son. But you won’t take my daughter down with you.”
“Krauser called me that.”
“Called you what?”
“Son.”
“I’m not getting your point.”
“It was an insult,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I think all this stuff you’ve told me sucks pipe, Mr. Epstein.”
“Sucks pipe? I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”
The waiter put down our drinks. Mr. Epstein watched him walk away, then his gaze moved back to my face. “Merton Jenks showed you photos of the two men who poured gasoline on Valerie?”
“Yes. They were naked. Their hands were gone.”
“But they had it coming, didn’t they?”
“I can’t make that kind of judgment.”
“You’re still not hearing me. I’m saying they made a mistake.”
I could feel my mouth drying out. Under the table, I kept clenching my thighs with my hands, unsure whether I was more scared than angry. “I don’t know if I want to hear more. Who would cut off a man’s hands?”
“That’s the world you walked into. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Maybe I don’t want to hear any more about it.”