Page 43 of His Puppet
My job is to count the money. Franco’s job is to observe me and record it. The irony of having a thief count your dirty money is amusing to us all.
“Doesn’t matter,” Franco continues, his voice low just in case someone is listening in. “But fuck, am I curious.”
I count the next stack of cash and ignore him. His eyes stay on me the whole time, and I can feel that grin of his. I actually like the guy. He’s married to a woman named Rosa, has four kids and six grandkids. Moved here from New York six years ago and became a made man in the familia three years ago. He’s nice. Chatty. And has no respect for privacy.
“Fine,” I say, running the money through the machine and looking up at Franco. “We fucked. Happy?”
Franco chuckles and records the number in his book. “Don’t be so sensitive, dollface.”
“Yeah, well I’m not exactly proud of it. Your boss is an asshole.”
“Our boss,” he corrects, tossing the pencil down. “And watch your words, all right? I like you. I don’t want to have to toss your body in a barrel, you know what I’m saying?”
I raise my brows. “You’re big into threats too? Here I was thinking we were friends.”
“Shit, dollface, we’re gonna bebestfriends. It ain’t me you need to worry about. I’m just the middleman.” He shrugs like it’s nothing personal.
I go back to counting, and it’s quiet between us for a while. And slightly awkward.
Once I’m halfway through the pile of bags, I sigh and swipe the sweat from my forehead. The air conditioning in here makes it bearable, but it would take a lot more insulation to keep the desert heat out.
“You need a break?” Franco asks, taking a step back to the cooler to grab me a water.
He holds it out for me, and I take it. “Thanks.” I twist off the cap, down half the bottle, then bring it down and set it on the table. “You know this would take a tenth of the time if I could just use the machine for all of it. It makes no sense for me to count it by hand.”
“Machines make mistakes. People make mistakes. Counting it both ways mitigates the damage.”
“Machines are good enough for banks and casinos, but not the mafia, huh?”
Franco takes a water out for himself and twists off the cap. “For the Grucos, maybe, but not for Mr. Bianchi. He’s a perfectionist. You’ll learn to be one too.”
I put my hands on my hips and glance around at the ten or so other people in here. I wonder what ridiculous extra steps they have to go through.
“Sometimes good enough is good enough,” I say.
Franco walks around the table and puts the book down in front of me. I move my eyes from the men in the room to the book, then to Franco.
He points to the writing. “These numbers are all the cash individual dealers are bringing in. Each one has a quota, and each one is given a certain amount of product.” Franco leans in close to me. “If they are so much as a penny off from the amount they are required to turn in, they’re dead. Just like that. If they steal, they’re dead. If they get mugged, they pay for it out of their own pockets, or they’re dead. They have zero room for error.No onehere has room for error. So if your count is off, or if I write down a wrong number, it will cost someone their life. Good enough is never good enough in this world, dollface.”
A chill runs over my spine from the seriousness in Franco’s tone. For some reason, it’s difficult to imagine Blade being that much of a hardass. He’s an asshole, that much I know. He can be cold and detached. But a stone-cold killer?
Of course he is. He’s a capo in the mafia. He just… I don’t know, it’s hard for me to see him that way.
“Is he really that bad?” I ask, my voice low.
Franco sighs. “Do you know how he got the name ‘Blade’?”
My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “I figured that was his actual name.”
“No. It isn’t. When he was sixteen, his father was murdered by a few dirty cops who were on the payroll. I don’t know the whole story because I wasn’t around, but that’s the rumor anyway.”
“‘Kay, and?”
“AndMr. Bianchi killed the police officers who did it and sent their heads to their families. The carcasses were found at a park about a block behind the police station. They were all sliced up like a toddler had drawn on them with a pocketknife, and the autopsy showed they were beheaded with a dull blade, probably the same one used on the bodies.”
My stomach drops, and my chest tightens.
“Worst part is...” Franco glances around, then leans into me. “They were alive through the whole thing. The beheadings were what ultimately killed them, and with a dull blade… It would have taken hours to accomplish all that.”