Paradise Man Read Online Free Page B

quiver.
    “You promised me you wouldn’t cry,” Holden said.
    “Who’s crying? I’m worried about Red Mike. You won’t get past the door.”
    “You promised me,” Holden insisted. “If I took you along, you’d sit like a gentleman and wouldn’t twitch.”
    “I am sitting like a gentleman.”
    “Then how come your whole face is moving?”
    “It likes to move,” Goldie said. “You need a back-up man.”
    “You get killed faster with a back-up man. They’re always fucking up. You have to start thinking about them, and it hurts your timing. I’m better off alone.”
    “Not against wacked-out brothers who’d steal family from a D.A.”
    “They had cause,” Holden said. “Abruzzi stole from them.”
    “Yes. A father who strangles people. Sisters who’ll cut off your arm if you look at them the wrong way.”
    “They’re still family,” Holden said, and Goldie held his trembling lip as they traveled on Seagirt Avenue. Holden stopped the car along the beach. Goldie listened to the tear of the ocean. He thought of London and his childhood digs. He’d been a thief since he could remember, swiping nails and bolts from an ironmonger, hurling them into the damp sky. His bones were always cold.
    “Goldie, are you in a trance?”
    “It’s not important. I was recollecting a few nails out of my rotten past.”
    He removed the .22 long from an old paper bag. Holden took the gun and stuffed it into his pants without inspecting the magazine. He knew Goldie had licked every bullet in its copper jacket. Nothing had ever gone wrong with a tailor’s .22.
    “Don’t you consider following me inside, Goldie.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of it. But kiss me,” the old man said.
    They hugged in front of the car like a couple of bears.
    “I never failed you, Goldie.”
    “I know, but I’m getting superstitious. A kiss brings good luck.”
    Holden walked toward a line of shabby summer houses and Goldie got back into the car. He had a second .22, a Llama short, in the glove compartment. He didn’t care what promises he’d made. If Holden didn’t come out in a reasonable time, Goldie would have to give his regards to Red Mike.
    “Careful, God damn you,” he muttered as Holden halted outside a bungalow. A body appeared in the door, lean as a snake.
    Holden nodded to Red Mike, whose hair wasn’t noticeably red. He had lighter skin than his dad, and must have seemed like a ruddy man to the rest of the Pinzolos.
    “Hello, Frog,” he said from the door. “Have you come to kill me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Then come on in.”
    Holden climbed the steps of the bungalow with the Llama high against his waist, so there wouldn’t be any confusion about the gun. Mike had a Walther PPK 7.65 in a cream-colored holster under his heart. He’d picked up that gun at the movies. It was a James Bond Special. Red Mike had modeled himself after Sean Connery ever since junior high. He hated Roger Moore. He felt as if the Secret Service had betrayed him when Roger Moore grew into 007. And he was the one man Holden would allow to call him Frog. Red Mike had given him that name because Holden spent the first three years of his life in France.
    He entered the bungalow. Eddie and Rat stood in the living room with deer rifles trained on Holden’s groin. They were older than Mike, had little mouths and little, searching eyes.
    “Mikey,” Rat said, “should we lend him to the sharks?”
    Red Mike smiled under his dark brown mustache. He had three mistresses and two wives. It depressed Holden to think of all the widows he’d have to make.
    “Relax, relax,” Mike said to his brothers, pointing one of the rifles away from Holden’s crotch. “It’s a friendly chat. We haven’t gotten to the bargaining stage.”
    “What’s there to bargain about?” Eddie asked, his eyes searching hard.
    Holden loved all three brothers. Eddie with the crazy eyes. Rat who always had tonsillitis. And Red Mike, who’d taught him to hold a