Manhattan Massacre (The Assassin) by Peter McCurtin

Author:Peter McCurtin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mafia, crime fiction, the mob, mystery action, piccadilly publishing, peter mccurtin, pulp fiction ebook, mario puzo, mens action
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter Seven

BRIGANTI GOT BACK to East 42nd Street at 3:10. The tapes were on their way, and now there was nothing to do but wait. Waiting wouldn’t come easy; the suppressed tension of the past twenty-four hours was beginning to saw at his nerves. Walking along the wide, deserted street from the subway station, he slowed his stride when a police car passed him and stopped in front of the hotel. Two cops got out and went inside, but they didn’t run and their guns stayed in their holsters. It could be nothing much—a half-hearted suicide with a full bottle of pills but not enough nerve, some sex nut beating up on a fag or a girl.

The stencil on the door of the patrol car said it belonged to the Emergency Service Division. Probably it did, but Briganti walked to the end of the long crosstown block, crossed the street and came back on the other side. On that side of the street the only place open was a small, dark bar sandwiched in between two office buildings. It was so dark and quiet that he didn’t know it was still open until he passed it. He turned quickly and went in.

The bar area was long and narrow before it opened out into a room with tables in back. Two men and a girl sat on bar stools; the men were together, the girl by herself. Nobody sat at the tables, but the piano player was still running his hands lazily across the keyboard, stitching together a medley of old show tunes. A muted blue spotlight over the pianist’s head made him the brightest thing in the place, and somehow the spot made his bleached hair blue, his indoor face yellow.

Briganti slid onto the empty stool next to the window, the stool next to the girl. “Hey there!” she murmured, and when his eyes got used to the semidarkness he saw that she was young and pretty and more than a little drunk. Her skirt was short and tight, and when she swiveled the bar stool around, her legs came at Briganti like her best asset. Briganti guessed she was proud of her legs. Women were always ready to show off their best points.

“Hey there!” she said again, and Briganti detected a slight Southern accent. On the other side of the street the cop car was still there, and the cops hadn’t come out. Briganti looked from the window to the girl. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“You tell me,” she decided.

At the other end of the bar the bartender finished counting empty bottles and wrote something in a notebook. “Yeah,” he said when he got to Briganti.

“Bourbon and water,” he repeated, pausing to look at the girl before he reached for the bottle.

“Vodka with a twist,” the girl said without waiting for Briganti’s nod.

“Okay?” The bartender was short, dark, irritable. And maybe he was pimping for the girl.

Briganti nodded and moved his stool back a little so he could check the street without turning his head.

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