“All right, smart guy,” he said when the man answered in Florida. “First off, I don’t know any Zuboni brothers.”
“I never said they was brothers.”
“You didn’t?” Shit, thought The Salamander, I gotta pay closer attention. “Look, never mind. Just hurry up and tell me what’s so important.”
“There’s this creep in the Witness Relocation Program, you know who I’m talking about. He testified against the Zuboni brothers, the ones you never heard of. Anyway, they gave this creep a new name, new Social Security, the whole nine yards. He’s doing real nice for himself. In fact, he’s worth a couple million bucks is what I hear.”
Sal Delicato said, “You’re a dreamer.”
“Well, maybe I got the wrong man. Maybe I got some bad information. I was under the impression you people were looking for Frankie King, am I wrong?”
“I don’t know no Frankie King.”
“Fine. Nice talkin” with you—”
“Hold on,” said The Salamander. “I probably know somebody who might be interested. What’d you say your name was?”
“Schwartz. Buddy Schwartz. I was with Gino’s brother at Lake Butler, Florida. You can check it out.”
“I will.”
“In the meantime, you oughta talk to Mr. Gotti.”
“I don’t know no Gotti,” said The Salamander. “I definitely don’t know no fucking Gotti.”
“Whatever.”
Over the phone Bud Schwartz heard the din of automobile horns and hydraulic bus brakes and jackhammers and police sirens. He felt glad he was in Miami instead of on a street corner in Queens. At the other end, Sal Delicato cleared his throat with a series of porcine grunts. “You said they gave him a new name, right? This Frankie King.”
“Yep,” said Bud Schwartz.
“Well, what name does he got at the moment?”
“See, this is what I wanna talk about.”
“Sounds like you’re playin’ games, huh?”
Bud Schwartz said, “No, sir. This ain’t no game.”
“All right, all right. Tell you what to do: First off, you might already got some problems. The phone lines to my shop aren’t so clean, understand?”
Bud Schwartz said, “I’ll be gone from here in a few days.”
“Be that as it may,” said The Salamander, “next time you call me at the shop, do it from a pay booth—they got pay booths in Florida, right? And don’t say shit, either. Just say you want five dozen lamb chops, all right? That’s how I know it’s you—five dozen lamb chops.”
“No problem,” said Bud Schwartz.
“Thirdly, it don’t matter what phones we’re on, don’t ever mention that fucking name.”
“Frankie King?”
“No, the other one. The one starts with ‘G.’ ”
“The one you never heard of?”
“Right,” said Salvatore (The Salamander) Delicato. “That’s the one.”
Later, drinking a beer on the porch, Danny Pogue said, “I can’t believe you done that.”
“Why not?” said Bud Schwartz. The asshole double-crossed us. Tried to rip us off.”
“Plus what he done to Molly.”
“Yeah, there’s that.”
Danny Pogue said, “Do you think they’ll kill him?”
“Something like that. Maybe worse.”
“Jesus, Bud, I wouldn’t know how to call up the Mafia, my life depended on it. The Mafia!”
“It wasn’t easy finding the right people. They’re not in the Yellow Pages, that’s for sure.”
Danny Pogue laughed uproariously, exposing cheese-spackled teeth. “You’re a piece a work,” he said.
“Yeah, well.” Bud Schwartz had surprised himself with the phone call. He had remained cool and composed even with a surly mob heavyweight on the other end of the line. Bud Schwartz felt he had braved a higher and more serious realm of criminality; what’s more, he had single-handedly set in motion a major event.
Danny Pogue said, “How much’ll they give us for turning the bastard in?”
“Don’t know,” said Bud Schwartz. “The man’s checking it out.”
Danny Pogue drained his beer and stared at his dirty tennis shoes. In a small voice he said, “Bud, I’m really sorry I ran away at the monkey place.”
“Yeah, what a surprise. You taking off and leaving me alone to get my brains knocked out. Imagine that.”
“I got scared is all.”
“Obviously.” What the hell could he expect? Like all thieves, Danny Pogue was low on valor and high on self-preservation.