Cavagnolo took a seat, his knees bending slowly as if he were waiting for a signal to jump. His eyes remained on mine. This guy was king of the stare-downs but an amateur compared to me.
Vinny and Cleto helped the third guy to his feet. He gave another moan and staggered along.
“He needs a doc, Uncle Sal.”
“You know where to take him.” Cavagnolo said this out the corner of his mouth as he kept his stare on me.
I raised the muzzle of the pistol. “Keep this among us.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes didn’t waver. Guess he was used to being on the wrong end of a gun. Pretty big-city attitude for someone out here in the boonies. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is no sewing circle.”
Vinny and Cleto put the other guy’s arms across their shoulders and carried him out. I gave them a minute. “Let’s swap places.”
“What for?”
“In case your boys try something funny, I want the joke to be on you.” I got up and stood in the pocket of warm air by the space heater.
Cavagnolo sat in the other chair, moving carefully like he expected a bad surprise.
“I don’t care how you pay your bills,” I said. “The only reason I’m here is because of Gino.” And the zombies.
I would get to hypnosis but I wanted Cavagnolo to tell me things on his own.
He took a long breath and leaned back in the chair, the extended pause telling me that he had a lot of angles to figure out.
“What’s happened to Gino?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he dead?”
“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”
“Why’s that?” Cavagnolo asked.
I told him about the blood and finished by saying that I didn’t have a clue how Gino had been hauled away. “The trail went out the back door and I lost it. I can’t imagine how anyone could’ve carried a big guy like him for much distance.”
Unless Gino’s attackers-the zombies-had hacked him into take-out portions.
“Remember what happened to Stanley Novick?”
I expected Cavagnolo’s face to break apart in anguish. Instead he gave a smug grin. “Yeah, I remember. So what about him?”
“Maybe there’s a connection?”
“Or maybe not.”
A dead nephew and this was Cavagnolo’s response? Was he always this callous or was he hiding something?
Cavagnolo said, “What’s your beef in all this? Why do you care?”
Because of my orders from the Araneum. “I was hired to find out what happened to Barrett Chambers.”
“That stupid asshole? Good luck.” Cavagnolo smirked. “I’ll tell you what happened. That bum beat feet. He owes money from Cheyenne to goddamn Phoenix.”
“How much does he owe you?”
Cavagnolo chuckled. “Not one dime. I know his type. He’ll make more promises than a politician, but after you lend him money, he’s as hard to catch as a fly.”
“What if I told you he was dead?”
The mirth slid off Cavagnolo’s face. He held on to the glumness for a short moment, then went back to smiling. “Then I’d tell you the dumb ass ran out of luck.”
“Help me understand something,” I said. “Barrett is dead. As is your nephew, Gino. And there’s the late Stanley Novick. You don’t seem to be too concerned that these people are getting picked off like gophers.”
Cavagnolo let his eyes dart to my gun. “I am concerned.” He added, “There’s a lot about the business my nephew didn’t know.”
“Gino mentioned the possibility Stanley was murdered in a fight over turf. But he didn’t buy it.”
Cavagnolo asked, “Is there something about the way Gino was snatched from his house that completely rules that out?”
No.
“Any reason you don’t want my help?” I asked.
“Starting with the fact I don’t know you and you come across as a creepy-ass fuck, plenty.”
Cavagnolo’s cell phone chimed. He raised one eyebrow. May I?
“Go ahead.”
He dug the phone out of his pocket and answered. “Yeah. Yeah. Things are still cool. I’ll let you know when we’re done.” Cavagnolo closed the phone and kept it in his hand. “How much longer we chatting?”
“Until I hear what I need to know.”
Cavagnolo pasted that fuck-you stare back on his face.
We’d done enough regular talking. Time for vampire hypnosis.
We were alone. I thought of a way to cover the spell of amnesia.
I walked to him and pressed the pistol muzzle against his forehead. His only reaction was a quick grimace as if what bothered him was the feel of cold metal instead of the likelihood that a.45 slug was about to blow his skull apart.
“Close your eyes.”
“What for?”
I tapped the muzzle of the.45 against the front of his skull. “Do it.”
His expression stayed fierce even as his eyes closed.
I lowered the pistol. I flicked the contacts from my eyes into the palm of my free hand. Cavagnolo’s aura glowed with a calm shimmer. I had sent one of his men to the doctor and now poked a gun into his mug. This man must have antifreeze for blood.
“Now open your eyes.”
My hypnosis hit him like the lash of an electric whip.
His irises popped open to the diameter of my pistol’s bore. His aura gave a thousand-watt flare and dimmed to a steady red glow.
If I fanged him, I’d get into his subconscious that much quicker and deeper. This time of the afternoon, I could do with a blood refresher. All that testosterone fueling his Italian machismo would give me a nice buzz, better than triple espresso juiced with whiskey. But if Cavagnolo’s goons returned, finding me deep in the bliss of noshing on his neck, they’d get the drop on me. Supernatural or not, letting their bullets turn my torso into a sieve was not the way I wanted to end this case.
I opted to massage his hands between the thumbs and forefingers. His hands were big and hard as mallets. Scars crinkled his knuckles. Cavagnolo took care of business with a personal touch.
His eyes fell into the black trance. His breathing lapsed to an even, unhurried rhythm. In this state, I could order Cavagnolo to tie a noose around his neck and he would.
“Sal.” I waited for my use of his first name to draw him out. His eyes sparkled with a glimmer of recognition. I asked, “What do you know about the disappearances?”
Stems of anxiety grew from his aura. His breathing skipped to a faster cadence.
I massaged his hands again and repeated the question.
His aura and breathing calmed.
“It’s freaky as hell,” he whispered in a dreamy voice. “Stanley. Gino. Barrett. Gone.”
“Who’s responsible?”
“Don’t know.”
“Why are you keeping it quiet?”
“No choice. They can’t find out.”
“Who can’t find out?” I asked.
“My crew.”
“Find out about what?”
Anxiety blistered across his aura. “The work I do.”
“What work?”
“For the Feeb.”
FBI? Cavagnolo padded his wallet by ratting on his buddies? “You’re an informer?”
“Yes.” A storm of tendrils whipped from his aura. Even under this deep hypnosis, Cavagnolo knew what would happen if the word got out he was a fink. His men would treat him to a steel pipe massage followed by a dive into a wood chipper.
“What’s in it for you?”
“Plenty. I get to keep my ass out of prison. I get the cops to put muscle on my rivals. I get a government check regular as clockwork. Plus I get to pocket what I earn.”
Sweet deal if you discounted the getting discovered and murdered part.
“Let’s talk about Stanley and Barrett. What’s with them?”
“Somebody’s trying to scare us.”
“You scared?”
Despite the hypnosis, Cavagnolo managed a grin. “No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the business. Drop your guard and you get filleted. We’d do the same thing.”
“Could it be another gang?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s one of us gone psycho.”
I hadn’t thought of that angle. “Who?”