“A couple grand a month. Chump change if you gotta work for it, which he don’t, so what’s to complain about?”
“He’ll make trouble,” I said, “unless you can buy him off with something else.”
“Already on it. I been introducin’ him to another line of work.”
“What?”
“Somethin’ that don’t require a remedial course in junior high math. So are you in or out?”
I took a pull from my beer, tipped my head back, and thought about it for a moment.
“Can you give me some time to mull it over?”
“Sure thing, Mulligan. Just don’t take too goddamn long, okay? I’m havin’ a helluva time holding Maggie off. She’s fuckin’ relentless.”
* * *
I never learned how Mario found out about Whoosh’s offer, but two days later the threatening phone calls started. The first one went something like this:
“You Mulligan?”
“The one and only. And you are?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna be your worst nightmare if you don’t stop messin’ with what’s mine.”
“You mean the redhead I picked up at Hopes Friday night?”
“What? No.”
“Cuz you’re welcome to her,” I said. “She’s a poor conversationalist, and the sex was below average. I got no plans to see her again.”
“Stop kidding around, asshole. You know what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Let me think. Did my story about no-show sanitation jobs cause you some inconvenience?”
“I’m talkin’ about my Uncle Whoosh’s racket, you dumb fuck. You better hear what I’m saying, cuz this ain’t no joke. Back off, or I’m gonna tear you a new one.”
He called me daily after that, usually right around midnight. I should have stopped provoking him, but I didn’t. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. So after work last Friday, I found my Ford Bronco vandalized in the parking lot across from The Dispatch, although with all the old dents and rust, the new damage matched the décor. And tonight, before I came home and found the snake, Mario caught me staggering out of Hopes after last call and pointed a small nickel-plated revolver at me.
“Ain’t laughing now,” he said, “are you, shithead?”
“You haven’t said anything funny yet.”
“My uncle’s racket is supposed to go to me. I’m his blood. This is my future you’re fuckin’ with. I don’t know what you got on Uncle Whoosh, but I’m warning you. Get lost. If you don’t, I’m gonna bust one right through your heart, you fuckin’ snake.”
He was pointing the gun at my belly when he said it. I wasn’t sure if he was confused about human anatomy or just a lousy shot.
Confident that he’d made his point, Mario brushed past me and pimp-walked away down the sidewalk. As I turned to watch him go, he shoved the pistol into his waistband and pulled his shirttail over it. I decided not to take any more chances. The next time we met, Mario wouldn’t be the only one packing heat.
* * *
My late grandfather’s Colt, the sidearm he’d carried for decades as a member of the Providence PD, used to hang in a shadowbox on my apartment wall. I’d taken it down and learned how to shoot a few years ago after my investigation into a string of arsons in the city’s Mount Hope section provoked death threats. But Grandpa’s gun had a hell of a kick and was too large for easy concealment. So the day after that encounter with Mario, I splurged three hundred bucks on a Kel-Tec PF-9 at the D&L gun shop in Warwick. The chopped-down pocket pistol was five and a half inches long, had an unloaded weight of just twelve and a half ounces, and tucked comfortably into the waistband at the small of my back.
Beyond ten yards, I couldn’t hit anything smaller than Narragansett Bay, but I didn’t figure on doing any sharpshooting.
Forge Books by Bruce DeSilva
Rogue Island
Cliff Walk
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bruce DeSilva spent forty-one years as a journalist before writing Rogue Island, his first novel, which won the 2011 Edgar Award for Best First Novel and the 2011 Macavity Award for Best Debut. Formerly the Associated Press’s writing coach, responsible for training AP journalists worldwide, DeSilva is now a master’s thesis advisor at the Columbia University School of Journalism.
Bruce DeSilva and his wife, the poet Patricia Smith, live in Howell, New Jersey, with their granddaughter, Mikaila, and two enormous canines, a Bernese mountain dog named Brady and a mutt named Rondo. Find him online at www.brucedesilva.com
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
CLIFF WALK
Copyright © 2012 by Bruce DeSilva
All rights reserved.
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
DeSilva, Bruce.
Cliff Walk : a Liam Mulligan novel / Bruce DeSilva.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 978-0-7653-3237-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4299-5797-7 (e-book)
1. Journalists—Fiction. 2. Providence (R.I.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.E7575C56 2012
813'.6—dc23
2012001817
e-ISBN 9781429957977
First Edition: May 2012
Cliff Walk Page 27