Page 77 of Working for the Mob

“It’s my friend’s birthday. We’re having a party for him,” I lied, easily enough.

“With enough meat for one hundred fifty people?” he asked. His disbelief ran through his croak.

“It’s at the church,” I said, with a weak smile. “He invited everyone.”

The man shrugged and picked up the ham from the display case. “You want this sliced?”

I paused. I could bring the meat to Miss Dunham to slice it and be out of here as soon as he wraps it up. But he might ask “How do you have access to a meat slicer?”

“Yes, please,” I said. “For the party.”

He stuck the ham on a shiny meat slicer. He lifted the blade and brought it down on the chuck of meat, dangerously close to his fingers.

“My brother, Larry, got this for me just last month,” he said. Chop. Chop. Chop. “He didn’t think I needed one until then. Well, you know I said to him …”

I stopped listening as the butcher carried on. I couldn’t pay close enough attention while sweat soaked my back. I eyed the door, and wondered how much longer he would be.

“Ma’am?” I shook my head and concentrated. He stared at me, with a question on his face.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said, is this close enough for you?” He pointed to the scale in front of him, with pink ham on the top, and a white face below it. The red arrow pointed a hair below five pounds.

“Yes. That’s fine, thank you,” I said, and he wrapped up the pork.

He handed me the ham and exchanged the chunk of meat for the turkey in the display case. He laid the turkey down on the meat slicer and began to chop it.

“And you’re not from East Lannington, are you?” the man asked, and I gulped. Chop. Chop. Chop.

“Oh no. I’m just driving through,” I said. I struggled to smile. The conversation had taken a bad turn.

“Good. My brother, he said to me, ‘Barney. Don’t sell to any folks from East Lannington today. I put out an order to stop all meat deliveries to their side of town last night.’”

His brother? My heart pounded in my ears. That would mean …

I finally made out the cursive writing on the man’s apron. Valuncia.

“He even gave me permission to rough ‘em up a bit if they needed it. Those uppity East Lannington folks always got their noses in the air.”

I didn’t want to know what “rough them up” meant from a man with a cleaver next to him.

“Your brother? His full name isn’t Lawrence, is it?”

Barney stopped slicing the poultry and stared at me. His surprised features shot me a uneasy look. “You know Larry? I thought you said you were from out of town?”

“Just a lucky guess?” I shrugged, but Barney kept staring. My damp shirt clung to my back like a wet towel. Thankfully, Barney couldn’t see behind me.

He chewed his tongue, but eventually decided that I was not a threat and returned to slicing the turkey.

“Yeah, okay,” Barney said, and returned to his meat slicer and its incredibly sharp looking blade. Chop. Chop. Chop.

I let out a silent sigh of relief.

He wrapped up the turkey, handed it to me, and moved onto the corned beef. He sliced a couple pieces off and I emitted a squeak at the creak of the door.

I turned my head to an equally tall man, with a full head of sandy hair, a strong jaw, and frozen blue eyes.

His trench coat flapped behind him as he entered, with his hat already in his hand. Under his coat, he wore a suit that fit as snugly as Art’s. The main difference was that Art’s suits covered an athletic frame whereas this man was built like an ox.

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