Book 3: Tony's Story

Tony

“You’re supposed to stop the Q-Tip when you feel resistance, jackass,” I say into the phone. “When I say Tuesday, I mean fucking Tuesday, not next Thursday.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bellini,” the importer on the other end of the line mutters. “I guess I heard you wrong. But I can’t—”

“Can’t,” I repeat. “Last guy who used the word ‘can’t’ with me didn’t live long enough to regret it. So, my cars? On Tuesday?”

“Tuesday, Mr. Bellini,” he says.

I hang up and stretch. We gotta get a new space. I’ve been working on this basement underneath Lou’s Deli for the past two fucking years, and it still looks like a deli basement. Sure, the meat hooks give it a certain menacing energy, but the smell of cold cuts takes that right out. And I can hear Lou’s kid’s punk music through the part directly under their house sometimes, no matter how much soundproofing I put up. I shut my laptop.

It’s seven, so I should be getting home. Federica—Freddie, she says—