I’ve earned it. I mean, you wouldn’t let me down?” There was urgency in his voice, but more. The hint of a threat, and Sollazo recognized it at once.
“My dear Paolo, have no fear. I’m really going to take care of you and much sooner thanyou think. Be patient.” He sat there thinking about it, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was picked up instantly.
Sollazo didn’t need to identify himself.
“In the matter of Salamone, we need a solution.
Get in touch with your man at Green Rapids and tell him you want a result, and I do mean now.’; “Consider it done.” Sollazo put down the phone, got his raincoat and briefcase, and left.
go5
THE GREAT SITTING ROOM IN RUSSO’S MAGNIFIcent house at Quogue seemed to stretch to infinity, glass sliding doors opening onto a kind of boardwalk platform above the water. In the dim light of early
evening, Ryan and Kathleen sat at a table by the rail.
“I can’t believe this,” she said.
“I know. I keep thinking.I’ll wake up and find it’s morning and I’m in my cell.”
Sollazo stepped out from the sitting room. “Ah, there you are. Allow me to introduce my uncle, Don Antonio Russo.”
The Don walked out behind him leaning on his cane, a cigar in his mouth. He extended a hand. “Mr.
Ryan, a pleasure, and Miss Ryan.” He turned to Sol-
lazo. “A celebration is in order, I think.”
“.Taken care of, Uncle.”
Mori came in with a bottle of champagne in a bucket and glasses on a tray.
“Ah, the hero of the–flour. You did well, Giovanni.”
Mori managed to look modegt. He opened the champagne and charged the glasses. The Don said, “Go and get another glass. We won’t drink without you.” Mori did as he was told. When he returned and filled his own glass, the Don said, “A toast. To you, Mr. Ryan, and your return to the land of the living and to our joint enterprise, the Irish Rose.” AT GREEN RAPIDS, SALAMONE WAS JUST FINISHing his nursing shift at the prison hospital. He went into the men’s room to wash his face and hands, and
one of the porters followed him in. When he looked up he saw it was Chomsky, who leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
“You heard anything else on RyanT”
“Not a word,” Salamone said.
“Boy, but the joint is-really humming.” Salamone dried his hands and-moved out and Chomsky followed.
“What worries me is that they could kill some
of our privileges, know what I mean7”
“I sure do.”
They reached the end of the hallway. There was a mirror, flowers on a stand in front of it at the side of the elevator. Salamone pushed the button for the ground floor and then saw Chomsky’s face in the mirror and knew he was in trouble. The elevator doors opened and there Was no elevator, only the shaft, and he slewed to one side as the other man rushed him, arms stiff, and went in headfirst. There was a’ strangled cry and then a thud as he landed six oors down.
Salamone didn’t hesitate. He went lttraight to the fire exit at the end of the hall, opened it, and went down the stairs two at-a time. He didn’t go to the ground floor. There would already be a fuss there so he stopped on the second and went to the nurses’ rest room, got himgelf some very black coffee and sat there, sucking on a cigarette.
He was in deep shit, he knew that, and there was only one direction it could be coming from, the only one that made sense. Chomsky had worked for the Family on too many occasions for there to be any other explanation. There was one other disturbing fact
to consider. It wouldn’t be left here. There were other guys like Chomsky only too willing to do the Russo Family a favor.
“I’ve got to get out of here,” he said aloud. “But where? I mean, what in the hell do I do?”.
He got up and paced up and down, pausing suddenly, an intent look on his face. “Johnson–Blake Johnson. Christ, if anyone can do anything he could.”