When Honor Dies: The Complete Series by Vaughan Robert

Author:Vaughan, Robert [Vaughan, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wolfpack Publishing
Published: 2020-09-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Steubenville, Ohio

When Joe got off the train in Steubenville, people who knew him well would have had to look twice to recognize him. Not only was his hair a little longer than he normally wore it, he also had it combed straight back and slicked down with a heavy hair oil. A pencil-thin moustache was over his lip. He was wearing a dark pin-striped suit, a black shirt and a white tie. A tiny red feather was stuck in the rather wide band of his hat. It wasn’t just his physical appearance that was altered; there was a change in his entire demeanor. He walked with a challenging, swaggering gait and he looked at people through insolent eyes that were half closed.

Joe lit a cigarette by snapping the match head with his thumbnail. With the cigarette lit, he blew out the fire, then flipped the match away. He walked over to one of the several taxis standing in line at the taxi stand. Many had brought passengers to the departing train, and now they, like the others, were waiting for arriving passengers.

“Where to?” the driver asked as Joe slid into the backseat of the closest cab.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Someplace where I can relax, you know what I mean?”

“We have several nice hotels in town,” the driver said. “Take your pick.”

“What are you, some kind of wise guy?” Joe snarled. “When I say relax, I’m not talkin’ about sleepin’. Where’s the action in this town?”

“I could maybe take you to a pool hall.”

“Yeah, a pool hall,” Joe agreed.

“Murphy’s or Lambretta’s. Take your pick.”

The side of Joe’s mouth curled into what might have been a smile. “Lambretta’s,” he said. “What the hell I look like, a goddamn mick?”

Lambretta’s may have been in Steubenville, Ohio, but as far as Joe was concerned it could have come right out of Little Italy in New York. A smell of spices pervaded the place: oregano, thyme and garlic. The smells weren’t overpowering, they were just enough to be familiar. A dozen or more ceiling fans hummed and rattled as they twirled from long suspended stalks. The fan blades cut through the overhead lights to create flickering effects on the green felt-covered tables. The flyblown walls were plastered with price lists and admonishments. (No Spitting On The Floor; No Gambling; No Cursing), a calendar and advertisements for half a dozen products, many of them Italian. There was also a large framed picture of Benito Mussolini over which were crossed a pair of Italian national flags.

Joe racked up the balls on an empty table and shot a few games by himself. When someone asked him, in Italian, if he wanted a game, Joe answered in the same language. “The name is Carlo. Carlo Lambretta. What’s yours?”

“Joe,” Joe answered. He didn’t give a last name. “Nice place you got here.” They continued to speak in Italian.

“I got the same last name, but this here place don’t belong to me,” Carlo said. “It belongs to my uncle.

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