Page 16 of Joey

“It should settle down soon,” he says, opening the car door. “I got a Skype meeting with Ralf later tonight to discuss final terms. Until then, you just keep putting the pressure on where you can.”

“Gladly.” I’m happy to put pressure on anyone at any time if it might help relieve some of the tension that’s plagued me lately.

* * *

I pressmy boot against the neck of the man on the ground until his cries for mercy are cut off by his desperate gasps for breath. I train my eyes on the man in front of me instead—the one who’s currently pissing his pants—and wrap a hand around his throat.

“Do not make me ask you again, fuckface. When was the last time you saw Vito DiMarco?”

Tears run down his cheeks. Pathetic asshole. “I-I don’t know any Vito—” I squeeze harder and he wheezes. He’s lying. Kristin gave me his name. Or at least the nickname he goes by—Monty. She told me he was from Chicago but used to occasionally visit them in New Jersey. A little digging led me to this guy—a lawyer named Montgomery Lincoln; he’s married with four kids but has a penchant for men with tattoos and shaved heads. Much like the one writhing beneath my boot.

“If you lie to me again, I will snap your friend’s neck and then you’ll have a hell of a job explaining his naked corpse to your wife when she gets home. Now tell me when you saw Vito.”

“I-it w-was over a year ago.”

“Where?”

“New Jersey. At his house.” He glances down at his lover who’s turned a mottled shade of dark purple beneath my boot. Loverboy is running out of time, and Monty knows it. “I don’t have it. I swear. I don’t even know where it is.”

Now I’m getting somewhere. “Have what?”

“The recording. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?”

What fucking recording?“Who does have it?”

“Vito. He keeps it in a safe in a storage locker somewhere. I don’t even know where. If anything happens to him and he doesn’t check in with the storage company on the first of every month, they send it to me. That’s the deal.”

“And then you?”

“I send it to the press.”

“The press? Not the police?”

He wheezes, and I decrease the pressure on his throat. “Vito said the police would bury it. The guy on the recording is a big deal.”

“What is on the recording, Monty? And you got about forty-five seconds before his neck snaps under my foot.”

“A murder,” he blurts out, glancing at his lover and then back at me. “I don’t know who’s on it though, I swear.”

I lift my boot off the throat of the man on the floor. “Do not fucking move,” I warn him.

He rubs at his raw skin and nods his understanding.

“So Vito has evidence of a murder. But you don’t know who it involves?”

“No. I swear to you. He said it was safer if I didn’t know. I just know the guy involved is big. I was just going to be the middleman.”

“You know who the victim is?”

“No.”

“Was Vito blackmailing this guy? The killer?”

“No. Well, not for money. To keep his family safe.”

I let go of Monty’s neck and push him back on the bed. “You have any idea at all who’s on that recording?”

“Given who Vito is and who his brother worked for, my best guess would be a Moretti.”