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 Sally the Bookworm
by William Link
Art by Mark Evan Walker
Hit man Salvatore (Sally) had done it all, seen it all, but he was still amazed when his skinflint employer, Godfather Franco Calderella, took him out to lunch—Italian, of course. It was a small “family” restaurant on lower 1st near the alphabet streets.
“Order the tongue,” Franco commanded while he poured from a bottle of Pinot Noir from his cousin’s vineyard in Napa. He was treated like he owned the place, and maybe he did.
“Tongue in an Italian restaurant?!” Sally protested. “Are you serious, Franco?”
“Don’t argue. Order the tongue, I told you!”
Sally dutifully complied. Franco ordered the veal chop and the waitress practically curtseyed—after she had genuflected. Sometimes Mafiosos had their perks. While they waited, Franco didn’t bother with any small talk and it looked like something behind his eyes was coming to a full boil.
Finally, when the food arrived, Franco finished the wine and looked ready to talk turkey—which, Sally figured, was also not usually served in Italian restaurants. But now he wasn’t too sure.
“This is kinda unusual,” Franco said. When were any of his assignments not unusual—and stupidly dangerous? But they paid Sally’s bills—sort of.
Sally nodded, cutting suspiciously into the tongue, drowning in so much sauce it probably needed a lifeguard. “Just what is it, Franco?”
“There’s this book writer guy, Steve Addison, writes these big bestsellers, crime stuff. He’s no Puzo, but he writes about people like us. You get me? Like us.”
The tongue was tough, but not as tough as his ex-mother-in-law’s tongue. The old lady was crowding ninety and still no pushover. And still badgering hard to get her daughter and Sally back together again.
“I’m told his new book’s about me,” Franco growled.
“You?”
“It’s whatdyacall, fiction. But it’s me! This guy does research, used to be a crime reporter or somethin’. I guess he dug up a lotta stuff on the Family.”
“So what’s the problem?” Why the hell hadn’t he ordered something else? Tongue in an Italian restaurant, gimme a break. “You don’t want him to write it?”
“He’s just checked into a hotel in Philly—your hometown, Sally. The guy’s a little crazy, he types only one copy of his books and he hates computers, all this new tech crap. And he works only in hotels—when he writes.”
“Really? That is crazy.”
“Lemme finish, goddamnit. You shoot him in his writer’s brain, take the book and burn it. Only one copy so I’m free and clear. Why are you starin’ at me?”
“I—I thought you said this would be weird, I mean unusual. All it is, is offing a guy, my specialty.” Jeez, this wine is awful. He wished he could order a Cutty.
“It’s the book, stupid. You’re gonna off the book too!”
Yeah, that was a new one, Sally thought, offing a book. And, a lot easier than a live dude. “When you want me to leave for Philly?”
“Yesterday. That’s how fast I want this thing behind me.”
So Sally got up, delighted he didn’t have to finish the rotten tongue and the lousy wine, gathering his overcoat and scarf from the chair.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Franco asked.
“What?”
“The hotel, you moron. It’s the Regent on Chestnut Street. Suite Eight-eleven.”
Sally took the train to Philly. Thank God it was too short a trip to take a plane. He hated airports now since it was impossible getting his piece through security if he was on a job. He took a taxi to the Regent and cased the ornate lobby, looking for a house dick. Seemed clear.
Alone in the mirrored elevator, his stomach started acting up. He was always getting these gastric episodes before a hit these days, but this one he put down to that terrible tongue. He looked at his face in a mirror: gray, red-veined, a drinker’s nose. He better start eating more vegetables, stop watching TV, take some long walks instead.
He knocked discreetly on Eight-eleven; luckily no one else was in the hall. “Who is it?” a voice called.
“Engineer. Have to check your heat vents.”
“Could you come back later?”
“Has to be now, sir. Won’t take long.”
A few beats and a thin, middle-aged guy with a ballpoint pen behind his ear opened the door. Sally already had his .38 out, pushed the speechless and frightened guy back in the room, squeezed the trigger. Even with the silencer, there was still a loud pop.
Addison fell against the wall and collapsed without a whimper. Now where was the book, the goddamn book?! . . .
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"Sally the Bookworm" by William Link, copyright © 2011 with permission of the author.
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