Greasing the Piñata Read Online Free

across the considerable girth of his stomach, making no move to stand or shake hands.
    His guest didn’t seem offended. In fact, the pale man with the shock of white hair didn’t seem to care one way or the other, his gray eyes bottomless and unreadable. He took a seat and unfurled his legs, placing his feet only inches from Frank’s double chin.
    “Get your feet off my desk.”
    The Priest ran his long fingers through his hair, pulling it back from a sharp widow’s peak, and tugged at his collar, displacing the white square slightly, but he kept his feet where they were. His smug expression almost sent Frank into a blind rage.
    This was Frank’s office, his
town
. Nobody else called the shots in San Francisco, not even the big boys in New York. That was the arrangement. Besides, if they really had a problem with how he ran things, they should just have him killed. Have a little respect for tradition. That last thought gave Frank pause, made him reassess the sociopath sitting across from him. He ran through a mental checklist of what he remembered hearing over the years.
    The guy wasn’t even a real priest—never had been as far as Frank knew—just had a fetish for wearing the getup. Had some history with the Church that sounded more like rumor than truth to Frank, the kind of urban legend designed to scare the superstitious. And though the guy never carried a gun, he’d been doing contract work for the families since before Frank made
capo
. Was older than he looked. Had connections that went right to the top. It was said that if the Priest showed up at your door, that could only mean one thing—somebody high up in the organization was royally pissed.
    That was about it, except for one thing Frank wouldn’t admit to anyone. This guy gave him the
heebie-jeebies
. He suppressed a chill and glanced reflexively over his shoulder for reassurance.
    On Frank’s left stood Bruno Carcetti. Weighing in at two hundred and sixty pounds, Bruno had an impressive capacity for violence and a desperate need to belong, which made him a perfect candidate for mob muscle. To the right of the desk stood Alex Torratzo, tall and lean, mean as a snake and twice as fast. Both men were packing and had no compunction about shooting first and asking questions later. Frank smiled inwardly at the knowledge his guest didn’t have a weapon. Like any career criminal, he hated a level playing field.
    Priest smiled without warmth as his eyes roamed from one bodyguard to the other. “I see you have matching bookends, Frank. Too bad you’re not much of a reader.” Before his apoplectic host could respond, Priest cut him off with an upraised hand. “Because if you did, you might have read the headlines in the papers. The ones about the Senator’s son—the Senator himself—gone missing. Did you miss those when you were in the can?”
    Frank worked his mouth as if he had something stuck in his teeth. “Was that a trick question? Because I just suck at those game shows.” He made a vague gesture that encompassed Priest from head to toe. “And now that I think of it, you kinda remind me of that guy used to host
The Price Is Right
. White hair, beady eyes.”
    “I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor, Frank.”
    “But he always had a hottie on each arm, didn’t he? And you—well, based on your outfit—my guess is you prefer the company of young boys, am I right?”
    Something flashed in the back of Priest’s eyes, a flicker of life buried in the deadly gray, but he stretched his smile taut. “You like publicity, don’t you Frank?”
    Frank shrugged. “Hasn’t hurt my business.”
    “But has it hurt
ours
?” Priest steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them. “You’re a respectable businessman, a major political donor. A civic leader. Makes for a nice resumé, Frank.”
    Frank was getting sick of hearing his own name, Priest saying it every other sentence, trying to get under his skin.
Frank
-this,
Frank
-that.