Read American Gangster for Free Online Page B

that.”
    â€œAre you sure?”
    His eyes tightened. “I’m sure
I
won’t.”
    She smiled at him but it was mostly a sneer. “You? It’s up to
you
, now?”
    He slapped his chest. “You drag him out there, when am
I
supposed to see my goddamn
son
?”
    Her eyes were wide and she was smiling, but it had nothing to do with the usual reasons for smiling; she was shaking her head, as if having witnessed something amazing.
    She said, “How about
last
weekend? Or
this
weekend? Only you had to cancel. You had work. You had school. Maybe you had a bimbo or two, too.”
    Michael, playing with two other little boys, heard the edge in his mother’s voice and turned to them with a pitiful little frozen smile.
    Caught cold, both parents smiled and waved and nodded, and the boy—not entirely convinced, but placated, anyway—returned to his play.
    Richie did his best to keep it low key. “Laurie,please. You can’t be serious about raising Michael in Las Vegas. What kind of place is that to—”
    â€œOh, and
this
is a good environment?” She looked at the sky for support. “What could I be thinking of? Mike would miss out on all your colorful friends, wise guys you grew up with, cop pals who’re even sleazier.” She gazed across the park toward the colorless Newark skyline. “Far as I’m concerned, there’re less creeps per square inch in Vegas than in this godforsaken armpit.”
    Now Richie was shaking his head; it was his turn to feel amazed. “Vegas is the most mobbed-up town in America, Laurie! What’s Mike gonna grow up to be in
that
cesspool? What the hell are you
thinking
?”
    Her eyes bored into him and through him. “I’m thinking, Richie, of
him
. Not you. Not me. And not us. But
Michael
.”
    Another bottle breaking put an exclamation mark after Laurie’s already pointed words; the noise was driving him fucking crazy. . . .
Little pricks
. . . .
    â€œGoddamn it,” he said. He raised a finger to Laurie, as if telling a dog to stay, and he strode over toward the teenagers, kids wearing letter jackets and smartass expressions.
    Richie was a big guy, but there were four of them, who laughed as he approached, trading looks with one another before they all glared mockingly his way:
What are you gonna do about it, old man? Four against one!
    â€œI told you nice,” Richie said evenly, “to shut the fuck up.”
    Their cocky expressions were curdling, but one of them managed, “Why don’t
you
shut the fuck up, Gran’pa?”
    Richie shook his head. “Okay. Have it your way. Now I’m gonna kill your punk asses.”
    And from under his jacket he snapped the revolver off his hip and aimed it at the one who’d just spoken.
    One at a time Richie gave each formerly mocking face a look down the short but impressive barrel of the weapon. Instinct made them cover their heads, as if keeping the sound of a bullet from their ears would be enough to shield them.
    One kid squeezed a few frightened words out: “What do you
want
from us, mister?”
    â€œI want you,” Richie said, smiling terribly, “to
pick up that fuckin’ glass!
”
    They almost dove to the pavement and the nearby grass, complying, finding every fragment, from jagged-edged chunk to splintery shard, and taking them to a nearby trash can, under Richie’s casual but strict supervision, his gun still in hand.
    Other people had noticed the confrontation, from the prettiest moms to the ones Richie’s eyes hadn’t bothered with, and the blonde whose inventory he’d earlier been taking asked nobody in particular, “Shouldn’t somebody call the police?”
    Laurie, having already collected Michael, passing by on the way out of the park toward her car, said, “He
is
the police. Hard to believe, I know.”
    Richie didn’t see or hear any of this.