?He did. When I had an investigative agency in New Orleans. But not now.?
?I think he does.?
?Sir??
?Do I need to speak louder??
?Hugo Cistra
nos is not with me any longer. That?s what I?m saying to you. What?s the issue, Mr. Collins?? Artie Rooney cleared his throat as though the last word had caught in his larynx.
?You know who I am??
?I?ve heard of you. Nickname is Preacher, right??
?Yes, sir, some do call me that with regularity, friends and such.?
?We just moved into this office. How?d you know I was here??
?Made a couple of calls. Know that song ?I Get Around? by the Beach Boys? I get around, albeit on crutches. A woman put a couple of holes in me.?
?Sorry to hear about that.?
?Some other people and I got stuck with a piece of wet work. Supposedly, it was initiated by a little fellow who runs a skin joint for middle-aged titty babies. Supposedly, this little fellow doesn?t want to come up with the money to pay his tab. His name is Nick Dolan. Know who I?m talking about??
?I?ve known Nick for thirty-five years. He had a floating casino in New Orleans.?
Preacher chewed on a hangnail and removed a piece of skin from his tongue. ?I got to thinking about this little fellow, the one with the titty-baby joint about halfway between Austin and San Antone. Why would a fellow like that have a bunch of Asian women shot to death??
Artie Rooney had crossed one leg over his knee and propped one hand stiffly on the edge of his desk, his stomach swelling over his belt. ?You?re talking about that big slaughter down by the border? I?m not up on that, Mr. Collins. To be frank, I?m a little lost here.?
?I?m not a mister, so don?t call me that again.?
?I didn?t mean to be impolite or insult you.?
?What makes you think you have the power to offend me??
?Pardon??
?You have a hearing problem? Why is it you think you?re so important I care about your opinion of me??
Rooney?s eyes drifted to the elevator door.
?I wouldn?t expect the cav?ry if I were you,? Preacher said.
Rooney picked up his phone and pushed a button. After a few seconds, he replaced the receiver without speaking into it and leaned back in his chair. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin on his thumb and forefinger, his pulse beating visibly in his throat. There was a bloodless white rim around the edge of his nostrils, as though he were breathing refrigerated air. ?What?d you do with my secretary??
?A little Mexican girl across the river said I might have to go to hell. You want me to tell you what I did??
?To the girl? You did something to a little girl is what you?re telling me?? Rooney?s hand seemed to flutter at his mouth, then he lowered it to his lap.
?I think you worked some kind of scam on this Dolan fellow. I?m not sure what it is, exactly, but it?s got your shit-prints on it. You owe me a lot of money, Mr. Rooney. If I?m going to hell, if I?m already there, in fact, how much you reckon my soul is worth? Don?t put your hand on that phone again. You owe me a half million dollars.?
?I owe you what??
?I?ve got a gift. I can always tell a coward. I can always tell a liar, too. I think you?re both.?
?What are you doing? Stay away from me.?