CHAPTER 5

"Good morning, Mr. Oxley."

The macho young president of Roxy Artists Management Inc. swept past the pretty receptionist without acknowledging the greeting. Nervous hopefuls clutching guitars and demo records overflowed the large outer office. He gave these a quick, measuring glance as he rounded the corner and entered the corridor to the private offices.

It was business as usual on this most extraordinary, unreal day. All of the glass-fronted audition booths were occupied and the agents' cubicles were humming with a dozen conversations as Oxley ran the gauntlet to his sanctorum. At any other time it would have been music to his ears; today he was thankful for the soundproofed private suite.

The hubbub disappeared behind the closed door as he moved briskly inside and greeted his secretary.

"It's off and running early, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. And there's-"

"I don't want to be disturbed, Doris. No calls, no visitors, no exceptions."

The woman's eyes revealed an inner worry. "I'm sorry. You already have a visitor. He's waiting inside. Simply would not take no for an answer. The men weren't in yet so I decided I'd better just-I think he's from… from you know."

Yes, dammit, Oxley knew, or thought he did. And it was not a total surprise. He hid the displeasure from his secretary while telling her, "Soon as Arthur and Jimbo get in, tell them to hang close." He arched an eyebrow at her. "I'm liable to need them."

But that was just for show. The men were the best leg breakers in town, sure. But this was no time for mere leg breakers-not if Oxley's hunch was on target.

It was.

The visitor was a total stranger-big guy, neatly dressed in denims, purple lenses shading the eyes. The atmosphere in the room was almost electric. Oxley suppressed an inner tremor as he pushed on inside and carefully closed the door.

The guy was standing by the window in semi-profile with the morning light behind him. The face was therefore not too clear but Oxley knew instinctively that he did not know this man. The type, yeah… okay. Oxley knew immediately what the guy was. But he had not anticipated the greeting he got.

"Are you Raymond Accimentio?" inquired the cold voice from the window.

Oxley went on to his desk. He sat down, lit a cigarette and toyed with a paperweight as his mind spun through the situation. What the hell was this? The guy had hitman written all over him. Surely things had not gone that sour that fast. But it was the standard hitman greeting. They hated to make mistakes. They liked to know for sure. Are you the guy I've been sent to burn?

The troubled man took a deep pull at the cigarette and cautiously replied, "I haven't used that name for a long time. You know who I am. What's the game?"

"It's called 'kiss your ass goodbye'," was the cold response.

Oxley had not been aware of a flicker of movement over there, but suddenly an ugly snubnosed pistol was yawning on him.

He froze with the cigarette pointed toward an ashtray as a million and a half thoughts careened through his mind. His heart went into triple-time. His mouth was suddenly very dry, the tongue overlarge and threatening to seal off his throat. His voice, when it came, was weak and raspy. "Now wait! This is… misunderstanding! We can straighten it out!"

"You can't raise the dead, amici," said the big frigid man.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oxley squawked. "I'm not-I didn't-who's dead?"

"You are," said the voice of doom. "It's tit for tat, Raymond. So kiss it goodbye."

"This is a terrible mistake!" Oxley yelled. He staggered to his feet and leaned weakly back against the desk, both hands held out in a loose boxing stance at chest level. This was the most terrifying moment of his life. Things like this didn't really happen-did they? But, yes, that son of a bitch meant business for sure! "It's crazy! You got the wrong guy! I don't even know what you're talking about!"

The man at the window had not moved. He said, "We're talking about Carl Leonetti." "Who?"

"And Dandy Jack Clemenza. That was no way to honor a deal."

Oh for God's sake! Oxley giggled in near hysteria, overjoyed with a sudden understanding. It was a gruesome mistake! "Hey, buddy amici!-you got it all wrong! Clemenza's not dead! He took a fall, that's all! I had nothing to do with that, for God's sake! I thought at first you were from the other people! God! Scared the shit outta me, you did. Those people are the ones I'm worried about! They got a big investment in this. Naturally-I mean I'd expect them to be worried about their investment. I thought you were from them. Hey!-I'm with Clemenza all the way on this thing. What hurts him, hurts me. You got it all wrong."

The purple shades come away from that impassive face. Oxley felt impaled by probing blue eyes-penetrated, examined, judged and sealed. Finally: "Is that all you have to say?"

"No! I never met Leonetti. I know he's with Clemenza on this, too, but we never met. He hit town last week. We talked on the phone. I set up his contact and that's all. I never saw him."

"Who burned him, then?"

"God I didn't know he got burned. I was hoping to find him, myself. I figure he's my only out. I need the product and I need it bad. Like I said, there's this big investment. I got to deliver on that investment. Who burned him?"

The big guy seemed to be giving Oxley a second inspection. Then, that cold voice again "Send for your leg-breakers."

"What?"

"The two Swedish Angels-Jimbo and Arthur. Call them in here."

Oxley was greatly confused by the command but he gladly leaned over the intercom and obeyed it.

Thank God they were there.

The two bruisers were at the door before Oxley could straighten up. They came in cautiously and halted just inside the room, obviously sensitized by the heavy atmosphere.

The guy at the window said to them, "Let's come to an understanding, boys." He was putting the gun away. The fucking idiot! Oxley was breathing better already. "I just want one thing. I want my partner, Carl Leonetti. So let's decide where he is and let me be on my way."

Like shit!

Jimbo shot an oblique and loaded gaze at his boss while Arthur took on the cold stare of the visitor.

"Relax," said Oxley with an easy laugh. "There was a misunderstanding but it's straightened out, now. Mr. uh. mister…?"

The guy at the window supplied the name with no change in voice tones. "Lambretta. Call me Frankie."

"Oh right, sure. Frankie is worried about his partner, boys. If you know anything about a man named Carl Leonetti, now's the time to spit it out."

Arthur had no patience for games of finesse. His massive shoulders were hunched forward and the fingers of both hands were splayed and flexing. "You want me to toss this hotshot outta here, Mr. Oxley?" he rumbled.

"No no," Oxley replied grandly, enjoying the moment. "It's cool. I told you to relax. Let's give the man his answers before we throw him out."

"I got no answers," Arthur growled.

"Me neither," seconded Jimbo.

"There you go," Oxley said sweetly to his visitor. "Both of these boys are armed, of course. But I'm sure they'd rather break you open with their hands. I guess you have that much choice."

But that was a mistake. As it turned out, the big guy at the window apparently had infinite choices in the matter. Both of the bodyguards were going for their weapons when the snub-nose magically leapt into Lambretta's hand, seemingly roaring as it did so. Arthur was flung backward with a gaping well between the eyes. Jimbo's mouth exploded into a crimson fountain, the eyes twitching and rolling momentarily as he crumpled to the floor.

Oxley's ears were ringing from the twin explosions. He was stunned, ill and terrified all at once. His vision was going in and out and he could see Lambretta now as only a red-tinted shadow occupying a halo of light-still at the window. Then Oxley realized that the red tints were being produced by human blood dripping from his forehead-Jimbo's blood-and the smell of it was overpowering his senses.