Lobster Johnson: The Satan Factory by Sniegoski Thomas E

Author:Sniegoski, Thomas E. [Sniegoski, Thomas E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Itzy, Kickass.so
ISBN: 9781621154440
Amazon: B00A7H2EBE
Publisher: Dark Horse Books
Published: 2009-07-21T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

—

Bill watched the Delacorte Hotel from his perch atop the office building across the way. The image below of the front entrance was slightly blurry so he used the center dial on the binoculars to make it clearer.

“You okay with those?” Lester asked, leaning back against the base of a water tower, his communications gear laid out in front of him.

Normally it would have been only Lester up here on the roof in charge of surveillance, but with one of the kid’s flippers out of commission, he needed some assistance.

Which Lester hated to admit.

“I’m fine with it, kid,” Bill told him. “Relax, this isn’t my first time on a stakeout.”

“I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Lester said. “Just hate being treated like an invalid is all.”

Bill took his eyes off the scene for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at Lester, who was struggling to adjust his sling.

“From the looks of it, you got stuck pretty good,” he said. “Give yourself a chance to heal up. Remember, we ain’t all got constitutions like the boss.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lester agreed, as Bill returned his attention to the street below them.

“Remember that bit a bad business with the Bombay death cults? He was stabbed like, what, twenty times in the chest, and still—”

There was movement across the street.

“Hold the phone,” Bill announced. “I think we’ve got somebody comin’ out.”

He watched as Fazzina came through the door, one of his goons nipping at his heels. They headed toward a dark sedan parked out in front, but Fazzina stopped, turning to motion at someone up the street.

“He just gave somebody a signal,” Bill said.

“Who?” Lester asked, already flipping the switches on the radio to call the boss.

“Fazzina. He’s in his car now, but he just signaled to somebody up the street.”

Bill turned the binoculars in that general direction, and caught sight of a truck driving down the street toward the building. It looked like a delivery truck.

And the man had to wonder, what kind of a delivery would somebody be making now?

—

“Can you believe the pair on that guy?” Salvatore Decante said to his boys, but loud enough for the other bosses to hear.

McDonough leaned against the bar, silently staring into his drink, as if looking for an answer.

In a way, that punk Fazzina wasn’t too far off track. They were going to need to band together if an opposing force was going to try to take a bite out of what was theirs.

Decante looked over to Zenna, who had taken a seat at the head of the table. He had picked up the rosary beads that Fazzina had so disrespectfully thrown to the floor and had laid them on the table.

“Big balls or not,” Zenna said, moving the black beads around with his finger, “the guy might’ve had a point.”

He looked up, his dark eyes intense.

“I was thinkin’ the very same thing,” McDonough slurred. He moved from the bar to approach the table.

Decante walked to the table and retrieved his rosary.

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