Page 78 of The Picasso Heist

I’M IN A place where no one can hear me scream but I scream anyway. It’s pointless. I’m not changing anyone’s mind.

Then it’s as if Lugieri’s guy, Malcolm, can read mine. His free hand, sans gun to my head, comes slamming down on my shoulder the split second I try desperately to get up from the chair and run. Where I’d be going, I don’t know. Neither does Lugieri. He looks at me.

“Why?” I ask. “Why?”

“Because I do business with the idiot, that’s why. You’re a loose end, and loose ends are bad for business,” says Lugieri. “That’s me telling you the truth.”

He nods at Malcolm. That’s all it takes. My death sentence isn’t even a word. It isn’t even a countdown. The only thing I have time to do is close my eyes.

Click.

More like a half a click, really. I open my eyes. I’m still alive. The gun’s no longer pressed against my head. I turn to look behind me.

“Shit,” mumbles Malcolm. He’s trying to adjust the hammer.

“What the hell?” asks Lugieri.

“It’s jammed,” says Malcolm.

That gets a chuckle out of the other guy from the diner, whatever his name is, in the corner.

“Shut the fuck up,” Lugieri tells him.

“Sammy, give me your gun,” says Malcolm.

He has a name. Sammy. How much of a brain he has remains unclear. “What?” he asks.

“I said, let me have your piece,” says Malcolm.

“Oh,” says Sammy. “Yeah, sure thing.”

He pulls out the gun tucked at his waist, walks over to Malcolm, and nearly drops it while handing it over.

“For Christ’s sake,” says Lugieri, rolling his eyes. He turns to head back up the stairs. He’s had enough of his Keystone Cops. Apparently he doesn’t need to watch me being murdered.

“You pussy!” I scream. “You can’t even stick around for it, huh?”

He spins. “What the hell did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re right, I did,” he says. He points at Malcolm, who now has Sammy’s gun pressed against my head. “Fuckin’ blow her brains out.”

“One last thing,” I say. “There’s one question you didn’t ask me: How did we know?”

“Know what?”

“You didn’t ask how we knew Bergamo was the anonymous source for the FBI, that he was the one who set my father up.”

“Why would I give a shit?”

“You told me yourself that you do business with Bergamo,” I say. “He launders your money for you.”

“How do you know that?” asks Lugieri.

“My brother told me,” I say. “He knows a lot of things about you, all the bad stuff. In fact, do you know what my brother would do if he were here right now?”

“I do,” says Malcolm. “It might look something like this.”