The codeine cough medicine was helping, and Sal promised to pick up a refill on his way home, and that all would have happened if he hadn’t lost it on those Donnie Brascos. Carmel Academy and brought home a dozen infectious diseases a week, or at least that’s what it felt like, all three of them constantly battling some kind of respiratory shit that winter. His son, William, was in preschool over at Mt. And on this day, of all days, he told Jennifer he’d pick up a prescription for her over at the twenty-four-hour Walgreens. Because once the wives got talking, it was everybody’s problem. The bosses understood that he couldn’t just disappear for weeks on end without a word, now that he had a kid.
She knew he wasn’t exactly a nine-to-five guy, knew that when he was off doing Family business that he could be gone until the next day, or might need to jet down to Florida or over to Detroit, but even in those cases he was pretty good about giving her a heads-up that he wouldn’t be back for dinner. Fat Monte hadn’t taken his cell phone from him, which was a good sign but it kept vibrating in his pocket, which to Sal meant his wife, Jennifer, was wondering where he was. Not that Sal was actually afraid, at least not yet. But what could he do now? Three hours sitting in the backseat of a Toyota Corolla aside Fat Monte, who wasn’t even fat anymore since he’d done six months and got hooked up with some steroids and had apparently hit the weights pretty hard, and all Sal had come to conclude was that he was probably only a few hours, at most, from his own death. A mistake all around, that’s what that was. One of the guys had a mustache, and Sal was certain that the hair he’d finally been able to dig from beneath his thumbnail was from him, since it was coarse and light brown and didn’t have any blood on it, which meant it probably got jammed in there when he was choking him out. Still, he’d begun to appreciate that sometimes a little distance wasn’t a bad thing, particularly since he’d been picking pieces of those Donnie Brasco motherfuckers off himself for the last three hours. Be professional about it and no one suffers. No, Sal knew, you just went up and did it. You didn’t leave it up to variations in the wind and barometric pressure and all that Green Beret shit he saw on TV. You get told to kill a guy, you killed a guy.
Sal never messed around with a gut shot or trying to get someone in the heart. Shoot someone in the face, there’s a good chance they’ll survive. When Sal Cupertine was going to kill a guy, he’d walk right up and shoot him in the back of the head.
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