FOURTEEN MINUTES LATER, Horton stood outside Mason’s study door, showered and dressed in his best black suit. Not having to worry about styling his hair helped to save a lot of time in the long run. He straightened his tie and rapped his knuckles against the mahogany.
“Come in,” muffled through the heavy wood.
Horton ducked a bit as he moved into the room and closed the door behind him. Mason sat behind a massive Chinese desk. An antique, it had been hand-carved to look as though the surface and drawers were supported by the legs of a dragon. At the end of each, great scaly talons gripped four disembodied heads. The desk had belonged to an actual emperor, as Mason made certain to inform anyone who wasn’t already in the know. The heads were supposed to be the likenesses of defeated enemies. Mason was on the phone, and waved Horton into the room.
“Sure, sure,” he soothed into the handset. “No, I understand completely.”
Horton kept a blank face, but wanted to wince. Mason was never this conciliatory. He looked over Mason’s shoulder and out the window. On the back of a green and yellow John Deere riding mower, one of Mason’s wetbacks cut perfect stripes of dark and light green into the expansive lawn. Mason hired illegals from one Latin American humidity pit or another for the house work, and Italian-Americans for everything else. Their names might sound as English as that old dyke Thatcher, like Horton or Mason, but they hadn’t come over on the boat that way.
Horton was one of the few who knew that Frank Mason’s people had come over as Mancini, then Mancy, and finally within the last couple generations, Mason. Mr. Mason owned one of the best steak houses in town, and it still bore one of his family’s old monikers. If you could get a better New York strip somewhere other than Mancy’s, Horton would have loved to hear about it. And even if the beef was better at another place, the waitresses wouldn’t be as fine, nor as responsive to a good tip.
Horton chanced a glance down at his employer. Mason had tossed his suit coat over the back of the small leather couch pushed against the north wall. He had rolled his sleeves up and loosened his tie. A stray lock of hair fell over his forehead. He looked worn out.
“Yeah,” he said into the phone and looked up at Horton, his eyes dark. “You bet. No, no, it’s all clear.” He waited a minute, kept silent. Horton could hear the voice of the other party buzzing in the handset, a trapped insect. Mason took a deep breath. Horton knew it was coming and looked away.
“Now,” Mason said low and silky. “Shut the fuck up. I don’t care why you can’t do it by Thursday, but you will do it by Thursday.”
Horton listened for the insect, but it was silent. After another moment, it buzzed once.
“Fine,” Mason said and hung up. He looked at the phone for what felt to Horton like several minutes, and then blinked. Horton almost jumped through the ceiling. Mason looked up at the bodyguard.
“Do you think it’s appropriate to teach my son this Jap shit?”
“Sir, I would never do anything to harm the boy.”
“I know that, Horton, but that doesn’t answer my question.” Mason leaned back in his chair. It did not creak.
Horton thought for a second. “I thought Aikido would be best for a kid his age, Mr. Mason.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir.” Horton made eye contact, looked away. “Jeremy was almost in a fight at school the other day, and—”
“Almost?”
“Three bigger boys were about to beat up a chin—” he started, “a new child, and Jeremy stepped in.”
If Mason was proud he didn’t show it. “And?”
“Turned out the other boy didn’t need his help. He took out the biggest kid with what looked to me like an Aikido throw.” Horton looked up again. “Jeremy asked me about it on the ride home and I told him I’d teach him a few moves.”
Mason spun his chair around and faced the window. Horton could only see the back of his boss’s head. What in hell went on within that skull was anybody’s guess. Without turning, Mason asked, “Why didn’t you step in, Horton? You are Jeremy’s protection, are you not?”
Horton kept quiet for a moment. To answer too quickly would be a sign of weakness and he needed a platform of strength to stand on now. “I didn’t think you’d want me to fight his battles for him, sir.”
Mason spun around. “You’d have stepped in if he’d been in trouble, correct?”
Horton looked Frank Mason deep in his eyes, but refused to fall in. “If those little punks had given Jeremy anything more than a bloody nose, I would have broken their arms for them.”
Mason looked at his man, and smiled. “I believe you would have, Horton.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Mason said. “Continue the lessons.” He waved a hand at the chair on the other side of his desk. “Sit down, Horton.”
“Thank you, sir.” Horton made sure not to sigh as he folded into the seat. “How was Italy, Mr. Mason?” He pronounced the word it-ly.
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Sins of the Fathers Page 9
