Linc smiled broadly, and flipped up the collar on his Desert Storm field jacket as he turned to go. For all his gruffness, Uncle Henry was really just a big pussycat.
The phone rang in the den of Salvatore Costelli’s River Forest home. Salvatore, called Vino because of the reddish birthmark on his right cheek that was roughly shaped like a wine glass, leaned forward in his easy chair and stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. He picked up the receiver and listened intently as the voice on the other end spoke.
“That coat’s going on sale.”
“When?” Vino asked. He brushed some cigar ash off the front of his gold-colored satin bathrobe. He felt the birthmark flame to red.
“Don’t know yet,” the voice answered.
“Okay. Keep me posted.” He hung up and stood. Vino Costelli was not a tall man, but he made up for it in bulk. In his younger days he’d been as strong as a bull. Sort of like Rocky Marciano: short, but with big arms and hands. Even now he still had a chest like a barrel. He clasped and unclasped his hands as he thought of his most trusted lieutenant, the Mink, going over to the other side. Bending over and spreading his cheeks for the “Gee.” His mouth twisted down into a scowl as he crossed the room and snatched the Louisville Slugger baseball bat from the rack on the wall.
It was made of finely polished ash, the heavy tape wound around the handle now dirty-gray with age. Vino sighted down its length, a faint smile tracing his lips. Then he crouched into a batter’s stance, leaning forward just like he’d done as a boy in the Catholic Youth Leagues. It was the same bat he’d used as a kid to hit the home run to win the citywide championship. And it was the same bat that he’d used years later to hit “the Grand Slam,” as he always called it. The night three-and-a-half years ago when he’d bashed in the skulls of Maxie Campo and Bugsy Volpone. Just like Big Al, Scarface himself, had done in the twenties to those pricks who’d dared to cross him. Right at the dinner table, the blood splattering all over that white tablecloth. The Mink had been his right hand man in those days, setting up the whole thing at his own house, no less. And now the rat bastard was selling out.
I can’t fucking believe it, Vino thought.
He snapped the bat in a wide arc, imagining a ball streaking far into left field. In his mind’s eye the ball bounced in the green grass, and, as it rolled to a stop, it became something else. It became Johnny the Mink’s head.
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