Sublime

Leo Bianchi had fucked with him. This was no job. This was an insult. Payback for Albert’s disrespect. Of course, Albert wouldn’t play along, so he sent Roy into the house. Roy was the only choice. Bob and Danny would forever question him if they saw what the job was. Harvey, if he were to find out, would certainly never let Albert forget it.

The following day, Albert, Roy, Danny, and Bob—each armed with a shotgun sawed off by Harvey the night before and full of his custom loads, walked into Leo Bianchi’s restaurant and quickly cut down both of his bodyguards before spreading a screaming Leo B all over the wall behind his favorite booth.

He gave them a grand up front to shoot a man named Gale Collins, recent resident of the federal prison in Joliet and now living in Kansas City. The man’s sudden parole was suspiciously coincidental to the capture of an Italian American fugitive who, until recently, had been living under an assumed name in Legion, Nebraska, for the past eighteen yea

sat down in what had been Larry’s chair across from the old man, and said, “Hello, Mr. Bianchi. My name and number are written on your boy’s forehead.” The old man started looking around for his muscle. Albert jerked a thumb toward the back and said, “He’s in the john.”

A shot of some alley somewhere. A body covered with a tarp. Lots of little flags marking shell casings. Cops milling about. Albert couldn’t turn away, hoped that these two would be leaving soon so he could rewind it to watch it all again.