Don’t Blink

He was lighting a cigarette. And he wasn’t alone.

Holy shit.

I recognized the other guy right away. How could I not? He was Carmine Zambratta, a.k.a. the Zamboni.

There was never a more fitting nickname for a mob guy. Zambratta not only looked like a Zamboni – the machine that smooths the ice at hockey rinks – he acted like one. From what I knew, he was a fixer, the kind of guy used when there was a “rough patch” that needed smoothing over. All of New York knew his face. Countless times his mug had graced the covers of the city’s tabloids – and each time the headline was a variation on the same theme. Not guilty!

Zambratta’s ability to escape conviction was rivaled by only one other mob figure. That would be Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.

So why was I so surprised to see Zambratta?

Possibly because he didn’t report to Eddie Pinero. Just the opposite. The Zamboni worked for a rival boss by the name of Joseph D’zorio.

It took me a few seconds to do anything besides stare at the two mob guys. Then I reached for my pocket. Looking down, I searched for the camera application on my iPhone. Raising the phone, I eyed the screen to center Tagaletto and Zambratta in the picture I was about to take.

Shit. Now what had happened?

Zambratta was gone. Where the hell had he disappeared to?

“I’m right here, cocksucker,” I suddenly heard as the nose of a gun hit my cheek.

Chapter 60

“DO I KNOW YOU?” Zambratta asked, his tone already anticipating my expected answer.

“No,” I said, trying not to shake. God only knows what my tone sounded like. Scared shitless, probably. Out of my league, out of my element, out of my mind?

“You’re right, I don’t know you,” he said. “So how do you know me?”

“I don’t.”

Zambratta cocked his gun, the click! echoing in my ear. “Don’t bullshit me,” he said. “Everybody knows me. I’m a legend.”

I tried to breathe normally but it was becoming next to impossible. “I know who you are,” I corrected myself. “What I meant was, I didn’t know you’d be here.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

I turned slightly, my eyes meeting his for a split second.

He was very intense and focused, and I saw enough to know that he was trying to decide what to do with me.

“Sam!” he called out.

Tagaletto walked over to the Dumpster, his latest cigarette dangling from his thin lips. “What a stink,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Who is he?”

“You tell me,” said Zambratta. “You’re the one brought him here.”

“I’ve never seen him before. No idea who this idiot is.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“What’s your name?” Zambratta asked me.

My first thought was to make one up. Thankfully, my second, somewhat more rational thought prevailed. “Nick Daniels,” I answered.

“Turn and face the wall, Nick,” said Zambratta, backing up a few steps. I’d barely heard the words before Tagaletto stepped in and gave me some help – courtesy of a hard shove. As soon as my palms slammed against the bricks, he frisked me.

Out came my wallet.

“Hey,” I said instinctively, but then I shut myself up.

“Turn back around,” ordered Zambratta. “But keep your hands nice and high.”

When I did, I saw Tagaletto checking my driver’s license. He gave Zambratta a nod. I was telling the truth. Did that count for something with mob guys? Probably not.

“So who the hell are you, Nick Daniels?”

“I’m a journalist.”

“Ahhh. So were you following Sam?”

So much for the truth. It was time to lie. C’mon, Nick, think fast!

Faster!

“I’m doing a story,” I answered. “It’s about bookies. Actually, it’s about New Yorkers who are ruined by their gambling habits.” That was pretty good, under the circumstances.

“You expect me to believe that total crock of shit?”

I nodded at Tagaletto. “He’s a bookie, isn’t he?”

“So what does that make me?” asked Zambratta. “Am I going to be in your story now, too?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure this was a bad idea for a story. A really bad idea, I now realize. So I’m out of here. All right if I slowly lower my hands?”

Zambratta chuckled. I’d become his court jester and that was fine by me. Just so long as I wasn’t his next victim.

“What should we do with him, Sam?” asked Zambratta. “Any brilliant ideas?”

Tagaletto shrugged again, flicking the butt of his cigarette against the wall. “The guy obviously knows some things he shouldn’t,” he said.

“You’re saying we should kill him?”

“It’s your call. But I would.”

Zambratta nodded. “So go ahead,” he said, tossing Tagaletto his gun. “Kill him.”

Chapter 61

I SWEAR THE gun traveled in slow motion from Zambratta to Tagaletto. That’s how it felt, at least. A stub-nose piece of metal floating through the air, and my life hanging in the balance.

I watched as the bookie fumbled, then nearly dropped the gun. He did drop his cigarette. His hands were clearly as surprised as the rest of him. Are you serious? said the look on his face.

Zambratta seemed pretty damn serious to me.

“Please,” I said. “Don’t do this!” I’m in love with a terrific woman, and I need to work it out before I die.

“Shut up!” barked Zambratta.

I stared back at Tagaletto with a whole lot of irony cruising around in my brain. He was holding a gun, but there was no longer anything menacing about him. The truth was, he looked nervous, almost as scared as I was, and he wasn’t the one with the death sentence here.

He can’t do it! He doesn’t have it in him!

“What’s the matter, Sam? What are you waiting for?” asked Zambratta. “Kill him.”

Tagaletto didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even look at Zambratta. Or me. His head was down, his eyes trained on the filthy ground of the alley.

“There’s no need to do this,” I tried again. “I’m no threat to either of you. You let me leave and it’s like this never happened.”

“I said, SHUT UP!” barked Zambratta again, the veins in his tree stump of a neck bulging above the collar of his brown leather jacket.

Then he turned back to Tagaletto. “We don’t have all day here, Sam. If you don’t have the stones for this, let me know.”

Christ! Zambratta was goading him to commit murder – my murder!

I watched in horror as Tagaletto started to look up from the ground. His eyes stared directly into mine. Next he raised his arm, the gun aimed straight for my chest.

Do something, Nick! Lunge for him! Anything!

I saw that Tagaletto’s hand was begi

“Don’t do this,” I told him.

Then he pulled the trigger.

The air exploded around me, the blistering sound of the shot piercing my ears.

But no pain right away.

I looked down at myself. There was no blood visible. No wound that I could see.

Did Tagaletto just miss me from six feet away?

That’s when I finally looked at Tagaletto. Except he was no longer standing there. He was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

“Lucky for you I always carry a spare,” said Zambratta. He returned the second pistol to a holster inside his jacket.

I couldn’t move and I felt paralyzed. The question I wanted to ask was, why was Tagaletto dead and not me? But I couldn’t speak.

Zambratta answered anyway. “Sam was a careless mother-fucker, always has been,” he sneered. “Today, it’s a reporter like you. Tomorrow, it’s a Fed.”

He slid my driver’s license into his pocket and tossed my wallet to the ground. Then he really fucked with me.

“I’m not supposed to kill you yet,” he said.