When Jorge came back with the word that Shamrock Kelly was in the hospital indefinitely, Dominic went wild. At his direction, Jorge and Sal carried Tommy McGee, chair and all, over to the workbench again where Dominic forced McGee's head onto the drill press pad. The man was screaming and crying like a little girl.
All Jorge could think about was keeping McGee alive. He could know something about the bartender, Marlowe, that the old man at the beach had told him about. But this raving lunatic, his so-called boss, was about to blow the whole goddamn thing. He had to get Dominic back on track. Now.
Dominic was just about to drive the drill bit into McGee's ear when Jorge spoke up. "I got a line on somebody else. A bartender that worked with this Kelly. I got the word he might be involved. Maybe even the brains. Let's find out what he knows about him." Jorge nodded toward McGee. Poor guy looked ridiculous now with his head jammed under the drill press. Talk about frightened eyes!
Dominic was breathing short and fast through his nose, his face distorted with rage. He stared at Jorge like he was trying to digest what he'd just been told. Then he gave Jorge a wicked look. "Oh, yeah? Sure. We can do that, kid."
Dominic turned back to McGee, tore his head out from under the drill, and started beating him hard about the face with his fists. Jorge watched till it got so bad his stomach felt queasy. He was just about to reach out and put his hand on Dominic when the beating stopped as suddenly as it had begun. That's when Tommy McGee, spitting blood and teeth with each word, began to talk and talk and talk. So much so that finally Dominic started beating him again just to shut him up. By that time they knew more about Dan Marlowe than they wanted to know. But not much more about the product.
Jorge almost had a heart attack as he watched Dominic pick up the phone, call New Hampshire information for the High Tide Restaurant, then punch in the number. Marlowe must have answered the phone because a split second after the old man asked for Dan Marlowe, he started screaming obscenities over the line, ranting and raving about Kelly, Marlowe, and the stuff.
The old guinea was going to blow it for sure. Throw the whole damn thing away. Jorge felt like taking care of business right then and there–take out his piece and put it up to the back of the old man's head–and that'd be all she wrote. But that'd be as stupid a move as the one the old man was making now. He had to play it cooler. Everything was at stake.
"Boss," Jorge said gently. And when Dominic ignored him, he put his hand firmly on the older man's shoulder. Dominic looked shocked for a second. He stopped his screaming and acted as if he wasn't too sure how he should react to one of his subordinates laying a hand on him. It must have snapped him out of his rage though, because slowly a semblance of sanity returned to his face.
"Your product. That's what we want."
Dominic nodded slowly. "Yeah, yeah. You're right." He turned back to the phone. "I want my merchandise back, asshole. Fuckin' yesterday."
Jorge watched as Dominic listened to the answer coming over the phone. The old man's face grew dark again and his body trembled slightly. "Don't tell me ya don't know what the fuck I'm talkin' about," he shouted.
He turned back to Jorge. "Marlowe claims he don't know what Kelly or this sack-a-shit's brother were involved in." He pointed at McGee, then turned back to the phone. "Why you filthy, no good cocksucker. I'll fuckin' . . ." Before he could finish, Jorge put his hand back on Dominic's shoulder. Amazed, Dominic looked at the hand for a moment, then started to calm down.
"All right," Dominic said into the phone. "I've said too much already. Here's the bottom line. If you want your family to keep on breathing, you call this number soon and set things right. I ain't gonna wait long." Dominic slowly recited the number of Jorge's beeper and slammed the phone down.
Jorge winced. "I wish you hadn’t given him my number after threatening the man like that. You never know how someone's going to react to threats."
Dominic scowled. "Just gimme your beeper and don't worry about it. I hadda give him some number and I couldn't give him mine, could I?"
Just like Dominic to worry about himself and not his people. "We better get McGee out of here, Boss, and back up the beach." Jesus, did he hate using that word now. Boss, that is.
Dominic fluttered his hand. "Yeah, yeah. You're right. We got all we need outta this guy. Good riddance. Make sure the asshole's cleaned up before you bring him out to the car. I don't want nobody seein' him leaving here looking like that." Dominic nodded at Tommy McGee still strapped to the chair, head bowed, blood dripping from his chin to the floor.
Jorge reached over and lifted McGee's head. The eyes were closed and the skin felt cold to his touch. A stench rose from the body, making the room smell like a plugged-up crapper. "I don't think he's going back up the beach."
Dominic's eyes widened a bit, but only for a moment, as he stared disdainfully at McGee's body. "Well," he said, letting out a snort. "He was a punk and probably a rip-off anyway. Get rid a the fuckin' asshole, kid."
Jorge didn't know what he hated more–him having to call the old man "boss," or the old man calling him "kid." Both made him boil. But he didn't say anything; the time wasn't right. Instead, he and Sal did what they were told.