Alonzo Amato flashed Sal a smile that was one part benevolent and two parts mischievous—like a smile from the Trickster himself.
But of course, it was Alonzo Amato who’d summoned him. Alonzo was the only man apart from Don Moretti that could make a claim to Valla's loyalty—so far as Alonzo and the rest of the Moretti Family knew—that is.
“Salvatori, what a pleasure,” said Alonzo, as Sal and Valla entered. “Vallachenka, my dear, thank you for your assistance. I'll be able to handle things from here.”
Valla nodded. “Fuck would I be doing if I weren't running your errands?” she dryly said as she departed.
Sal remained standing while Alonzo took his measure from across the room.
He sat there, merely staring, his eyes seeming to take in every detail of Sal’s figure. Then Alonzo stood and closed the distance to Sal.
“Am I correct to presume the lovely Valla has informed you as to why I requested your presence?”
Sal shook his head. “Didn’t say a word. Told me it was a matter of consequence that overruled questioning.”
“That’s not entirely fallacious,” Alonzo said with a smile. “Though, I am never one to hinder an inquisitive mind. Hold to the notion that you may ever inquire of my cognizance, and know that I shall ever endeavor to answer honestly, if not in entirety.”
Sal returned the smile. There really was something strange about the way Alonzo spoke. It was no wonder his associates complained. For all the words, the man never seemed to say much. “I appreciate that,” Sal said. “I prefer honesty over sweetly scented horse dung any day.”
“It would seem that you and I share that in common.” Alonzo winked and stood. “Come now, let us abscond from this dreary abode of the ancient past. Ascend, I say, into the light, that I might enlighten you as we travel beneath the open sky and clean air.”
Alonzo put an arm around Sal's shoulder and led him from the cavernous room, back through the tunnel route of the Underway, and out onto the streets of Lower’s Point.
“So, what am I here for?” Sal asked as they moved north.
“Oh my, how direct,” said Alonzo as he frowned slightly. “Perhaps it was due to my proclivity for projection, yet it seemed to me, during our prior engagements, that you were a man of civil discourse and courteous conversation. Am I to truss you up like a swine for the spit merely to provoke a bout of linguistic divertissement?”
“It seems to me that if you would resort to brute force merely to satiate your needs for cerebral recreation, I fear that the vastness of faculty which I possess will prove overwhelming to one of such limited forbearance,” Sal said in his best imitation of Alonzo.
Alonzo opened his mouth to speak, but Sal headed him off, continuing to mock the man’s demeaning tone.
“And in light of said present revelation, I should think a trussed up pig ought to suit your preference of opposition fittingly if not precisely.”
Alonzo laughed. “How quickly you have shattered the illusion and opened my eyes to the hypocrisies warring deep within my very nature. Yet even men of rational dispositions are subject to the primal forces that hide beneath, are they not?”
“My uncle holds a similarly pessimistic view of humanity. He would agree that it is our basic needs that drive our actions. Rationality is a privilege afforded only civilized men who've had their basic needs sufficiently satisfied.”
“And you, Salvatori, what view do you take of men?”
“I would like to think I reserve my judgment of men until they prove themselves deserving otherwise,” Sal said. “Though, I find it hard to imagine men are not so much more than their baser needs. Otherwise, how do you explain dreams and desires? And what of love?”
“A rare deep thinker among men in our line of work,” said Alonzo approvingly. “I don't agree, mind you, but you are an optimist, and I can appreciate that mindset. However, I find that for all matter, there is an inverse. For every force, there is an opposing force—every up there is a down—so to say. This holds true within reality and the metaphysical. Men are merely what time and opposition have made us. Some of us are rational; others are not. Yet rationality can only be identified if one holds an axiomatic conviction that might serve as an internal reference point. So long as a particular axiomatic reference point is agreed upon by a majority group, the result of the action that aligns optimally with the a priori belief can be considered a rational action. You see?”
Sal shook his head and laughed. “I believe you’ve lost me.”
“I am speaking of the practical application of rational morality, but it would seem your mind is not so quick as your tongue.”
Sal shrugged. He was tired of being tested; Valla had done it twice already that morning. First, testing his speed and skill at arms, and next, testing his loyalty. Now Alonzo was attempting to test his wit, but Sal was fed up with it. “Might be you and my uncle could talk this one over some time. Though, you'd have a hell of a time getting a word in. I doubt he'd allow you to talk any more than he used to let me.”
“Stefano Lorenzo,” Alonzo said, shaking his head. “A sharp wit and a disagreeable disposition lean heavily toward the tyrannical. He makes for a difficult man for an uncle I should imagine.”
“He’s always been a bit of an ass.” Sal shrugged. “Suppose I’ve grown used to it.”
Alonzo smiled. “You’ve struck the red of the iron. Not a man in all the Commission that wouldn’t agree with that observation. And yet, I doubt that anyone could ever grow accustomed to the ways of Stefano Lorenzo. I, for one, hold to the belief that I never shall. Still, it could simply be that he referrers to me as the Moretti fop that has me rankled so. Mayhap, others can stomach his contempt with a certain amount of amenable acquiescence, but as a contrarian, I find pleasure in playing the part of the stone in the craw.” Alonzo shrugged. “Or so I tell myself.”
They’d gone north, practically unwavering in their trajectory until they reached Beggar’s Lane, wherein they took a north-easterly turn and made for the Bridge of the Lady. When they passed the steel caps leaning lazily upon their poleaxes beneath the archway of the Low Town bridge façade, Alonzo wished the pair a day blessed by the Lord that is Light. Sal lowered his head respectfully as he ran a finger along the hem of the Lady's stone dress.
“About the other day,” Alonzo said, while they pushed through the crowd gathered beneath the statue of Bethelwold the Great. “I never would have treated you with such indelicacy had we not felt it necessary for the safety of the group at large. I hope that you can accept my apology and reference today as a more accurate model of future inquiries.”
Sal almost laughed aloud. Clearly, Alonzo didn’t know Valla as well as he might have thought. That, or in the future, Sal should expect rough handling accompanied by a good deal of spiteful insults whenever Alonzo summoned him. Still, Valla had been far more gentle than the thugs that had helped Alonzo nab Sal the first time, and for that he supposed, he should be grateful.
“I’ve had worse,” Sal said with a shrug.
“I’m certain you can understand why Dominik D'Angelo has the boss in such a bad way. As you can imagine, such a mood will tend to affect the men at the lowest rungs of the ladder the most. Danilo—he’s a young man—and more easily influenced than most. While I in no way condone his actions, I do ask that you don't hold them against him. As I said, he was feeling the effects more than most.”
Sal nodded, but truth be told, he wasn't certain what he would do if ever he came across the thug, one to one. It was difficult to imagine letting Danilo walk away, his rough handling of Sal left unanswered for.
“I’m pleased to see you’re a reasonable man,” said Alonzo. “But alas, the very thing that would please me most would be your willingness to assist in the apprehension of this interloper. Dominik D’Angelo is no more than a clipped-penny crook who couldn’t make it in the Commission. Dominik the rat they called him, back when he traded his old gang to the crow-cages for a krom a head.”
&nb
sp; “Look, it’s like I told Moretti, I’d be happy to help, but I don’t even know the bloke. I met him once, and you all have just assumed we're bunkmates.”
Alonzo fixed him with half-lidded eyes. “Yet, you know what it is he’s interfering with?”
Sal shook his head. “I could only presume. You said he was killing Sacarvini’s boys. So, I’d have to say he’s interfering with Scarvini Family business.”
“You ought to know better than that,” said Alonzo, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “The Five Families may be five separate gangs in principle, but in practice, the entire Commission operates as an intricately weaved network, like a living entity, all united under the Code.”
“Sure, dead suppliers can be bad for business in the short term, but someone will always step in to fill the demand. I also get that there’s the Code, but everyone knows, nobody follows the Code unless someone’s watching,” Sal said with a smirk. “I understand better than you think. The game isn't played by the rules; it's played by seeing how many you can break before you're caught. Hell, if it weren't for this bounty collector, D'Angelo doing the dirty work, any one of the Five Families would have been happy to kill Giuseppe or Garibaldi. From what I understand, neither of them was well-liked outside the Scarvini Family.”
Alonzo scoffed derisively. “Surely, you're not so dim as that. I refuse to believe it could be so.”
Sal stared blankly back at the man, frowning as though he were actually confused. While in truth, he was hardly able to keep the smile off his face, pleased as he was by the success of his ploy.
“I’ll not believe you could possibly be this dense,” Alonzo said, seemingly so irritated by the situation that his words had lost all of their characteristic playfulness.
Sal decided it was time to let the act slowly fade as he pretended to put the pieces together.
“They were involved in something—something Commission run. Something important enough to pique Don Moretti's interest in taking out Dominik D'Angelo before he causes more irreparable damage to the operation,” Sal said, watching a slight smile form at the corner of Alonzo’s mouth. “What’s the operation?”
“Ah, but that's the question, is it not? I have been privileged with the answer, and yet, it's not an answer I'm privileged to give. Suffice to say; there's a strategy in play that will potentially change the long term trajectory for the entire Commission. This one runs deep. All Five Families have a hand in. The best thing to do, should you see Dominik the rat, would be to go tell the first made man you encounter. That, or you kill the rat yourself.”
Sal scoffed. “You really think I could? Kill him, I mean.”
“You’re probably right,” Alonzo said. “Best find a real man to do the job.”
“Ay,” Sal agreed cheekily, “that would be best.”
Once off the Bridge of the Lady, the pair trudged up the Kingsway and started up High Hill.
“Turn in here.” Alonzo nodded toward a dark alley mouth.
Sal slowed. “Last, I was in an alley with you; I found myself sacked and tied.”
Alonzo ignored the quip and turned into the alley.
Despite the joviality he feigned in his tone, Sal followed somewhat nervously, uncertain that Alonzo meant him no harm. Alonzo had looked unsatisfied with Sal’s answers about Dominik. Did Alonzo think he knew more than he was letting on? It could be the man had only led him out there in order to question him further.
He quickly realized the foolishness of this assertion as he recalled he’d only just left the Underway, the ideal place for Alonzo to question, torture, and murder Sal, should it come to that. For Alonzo to drag Sal up to High Hill just to beat a few answers out of him would be preposterous.
Sal followed Alonzo through the dark alley and into another, this one too narrow for them to walk abreast. “Is it much farther?” he asked, feeling his hackles rise despite his conviction that there was nothing to worry over.
“Just up ahead,” said Alonzo.
Sal could only see Alonzo’s back, but he could hear quite a clamor up ahead. That they had traveled this far north could only mean one thing.
They stepped out of the alley into the Agora. It was no typical city marketplace. Initially established as a district intended to supply high-end goods to the aristocracy, the Agora had steadily grown into a walled garden of consumerism, stocked full with a plethora of priceless goods and artifacts that were entirely inaccessible to the less fortunate.
A pair of steel caps stood guard to the gated entry of the Agora, but as any streetwise citizen knew, there was more than one way into any district in Dijvois, apart from the tippy-top of High Hill, where perched the High Keep, perhaps.
The streets of the Agora were paved with smooth, even bricks; Sal could only imagine how comfortable a carriage ride would be on such a road. The buildings, built tall and strait, possessed a top-down quality, a sort of strategic placement, and general uniformity that was severely lacking in many of the ramshackle districts of Low Town.
Alonzo made for the first storefront they came across.
The sign above the shop read: Tailors’ Tailors.
Alonzo pushed through the door, Sal close at his heels. The small store was deserted of customers, but Alonzo must have tripped a sensory ward when he’d opened the door, as the shop’s proprietor entered from the back room a moment later.
“Afternoon, sirs, afternoon!”
The proprietor was nearly as wide as he was tall, which was not saying much as the man stood no taller than Sal’s waist. Despite his unformidable height, the little man dressed like someone of high accord.
He stopped upon seeing Sal, squinted his beady eyes, and scratched the thin patch of stubble remaining atop his head as though trying to decide if he knew Sal. When his gaze moved on to Alonzo, he screeched and jumped back a pace or two, tripped, and plopped down on his round bottom, then flat on his back. He managed to roll over on the third try, looking somewhat like an overturned beetle in the attempt, his stubby limbs flailing in the air. The little man crawled toward his backroom on hands and knees, sobbing and huffing in the effort.
“Kindly retrieve our friend,” said Alonzo as he nodded toward the proprietor.
Sal sprang into action. He darted toward the crawling man and caught him by the back collar of his jacket, just as he reached the doorway.
The proprietor let out a strangled gasping squeal as he was halted by the force of Sal’s tug.
Sal quickly released the man's collar, wrapped him in a hug, and tackled him to the floorboards.
The little proprietor gasped for air, flailing with all his might.
The least Sal could do was hold tight, using his weight to keep the man pinned.
Within half a dozen heartbeats, the man tired, wheezing as the fight melted from him, his doughy body going limp.
Sal held the proprietor pinned a moment longer while he caught his breath.
“Not about to give me problems if I help you to your feet, are you?”
The proprietor let out a soft whimper and shook his head, a look of utter defeat in his red fleshy face.
Sal nodded, then released the little man and righted himself. He held a hand out, and the proprietor accepted the help to his feet. He quivered as he stood, a dark stain running down one leg of his trousers, forming a puddle at his feet.
“Gods below, Pumphrey.” Alonzo pinched his nose. “I admit that I find the reasoning behind your reactions to be poorly arbitrated. It had occurred to me to extend the gracious gesture of a proffered seat. Yet, now it would seem prescient for you to remain erect as we discuss matters of such import that I must insist we delve into them before you divest yourself of your sodden accouterment.”
Pumphrey nodded, tears streaming down his round cheeks. His eyes were those of a defeated man, not a twinge of defiance remained.
“Very well,” said Alonzo. “Let us begin with the whereabouts of Peter.”
“Peter—he’s—Peter is. . .” Pumphrey began breathing
hard, but his face took on a look of steeled determination. “Peter is blameless in this. This is my fault—my responsibility. Your quarrel lies with me, not my brother.”
“I have no quarrel with either of you.”
“No?” asked Pumphrey as something like hope returned to his eyes.
“No, Pumphrey,” Alonzo said. “What we have is a business arrangement. Although, hitherto, it would seem I have been the sole propagator of said agreement. Alas, no longer.”
Pumphrey stammered something unintelligible.
“Salvatori,” Alonzo said. “Take hold of his little finger. No—no, a tight grip. Yes, very good, in that manner.”
The little man cried out, but only resisted for an instant as Sal readjusted his grip on the little finger.
“Peter’s whereabouts?” Alonzo asked.
“I’ll not give you—”
“Break his finger,” Alonzo said.
Sal hesitated and nearly lost hold of the little finger as Pumphrey shrieked, and made a last-ditch effort to escape. Sal squeezed and twisted hard.
He nearly vomited when he heard the break, a sort of popping noise that sent a shiver down his spine.
The little man screamed and dropped to the floorboards, limp with agony as he folded into the puddle of urine.
“Where is Peter?” Alonzo asked, taking a step closer.
Sal thought he would be sick and turned away in case he vomited.
Pumphrey wept, his breaths coming in short gasps as Sal held him still.
“Where is your brother?” Alonzo asked.
“I—I sent him away.”
“Ah, an unfortunate inconvenience indeed. Why would you do such a thing?”
“Knew—knew you’d come.”
“Yes, well, when you hold out on your business partner, things can get ugly for everyone involved. Do you think I like walking all the way up here, sweet Pumphrey? No, but I am a man of my word, and a man of his word upholds his end of a bargain.”
The little proprietor shook his head, tears streaming down his round cheeks, spittle dripping from his lips. “Mercy, I ask for mercy, Alonzo, please. Your don, he asks too much.”
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