Read Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel for Free Online

Miami, and Vegas handled the distribution—kept all the porn shop shelves stocked with filth. But the Maniellas ain’t part of This Thing of Ours, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
    “So how much is Vanessa paying Arena and Grasso for the right to run her clubs on their turf?”
    “Ah, shit.” He stubbed out his cigarette, shook another from the pack, and lit it, the flame wobbling in his trembling right hand. “I don’t wanna talk about that.”
    “No?”
    “Fuck, no.”
    “Touchy subject?”
    He looked away and started in on Shortstop’s ears again. Drool dripped from the dog’s maw and puddled on the linoleum. A minute passed before Whoosh turned his attention back to me.
    “So,” he said, “are you wasting my fuckin’ time, or are you gonna lay down a bet?”
    “Okay, Whoosh,” I said. “What’s the over-under on when the Dispatch goes belly-up?” I expected a chuckle. Instead he deadpanned:
    “Three years.”
    That stopped me.
    “Seriously?”
    “Three years from Columbus Day, to be exact.”
    “People are betting on that?”
    “Come on, Mulligan. People bet on every fuckin’ thing.”
    I let out a long sigh. “Give me fifty bucks on the under.”
    “Figures. All the guys from the paper are takin’ the under.” He picked up his pencil stub to record the bet.
    I pulled out my wallet, paid him the twenty-five dollars I’d lost on Saturday’s URI-UMass football game, and got up to go, still puzzling over why Vanessa’s payoffs to Arena and Grasso were such a touchy subject. I had my hand on the doorknob when I tumbled to something.
    “Wait a sec. They aren’t paying her, are they?”
    “What? Where the fuck did you get that idea?”
    “Holy shit! They are paying her, aren’t they?”
    His eyes narrowed to slits. “No fuckin’ way this came from me.”
    “Of course not, Whoosh.”
    “I better not see anything about this in the fuckin’ Dispatch .”
    “You won’t.”
    “Swear on your mother.”
    “Already did.”
    “Do it again.”
    “Okay, okay. I swear.”
    He reached down to scratch his balls again, took another pull from his Lucky, and started talking.
    “Ten years ago, when Maniella opened his fuckin’ dives, couple of our boys paid them a visit. Said they’d be back every month to collect.”
    “How much?”
    “Two grand per club.”
    “Sounds reasonable.”
    “We thought so.”
    “So what happened?”
    “A couple weeks later, ’bout a half hour before the noon opening, a dozen guys with Navy SEALs tattoos come busting into Friction.”
    “Grasso’s place,” I said.
    “Now, yeah, but it was Johnny Dio’s before he got whacked.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “The bouncer tried to stop them at the door, so they tossed him into the parking lot like he was fuckin’ trash. Tore the place up pretty good. Smashed all the liquor bottles. Threw barstools through the fuckin’ mirrors.”
    “No shit?”
    “Yeah. You ain’t heard about this? We tried to keep it quiet, but I figured you mighta heard about this.”
    “Anybody get hurt?”
    “A few cuts and bruises. Nothin’ worth cryin’ over. Before the cocksuckers left, a couple of ’em climbed up on stage, unzipped, and pissed on the stripper poles like they was fuckin’ dogs.”
    “Marking their territory,” I said.
    “Dio figured right off Maniella must’ve sent ’em. Wanted to drive out to Greenville hisself and whack the sonuvabitch. After we got him calmed the fuck down, we asked Maniella for a sit-down.”
    “How’d that work out?”
    “We invited the prick to a nice meal at Camille’s so we could explain the situation. Arena did most of the talkin’. Said if Maniella’s clubs were doing as well as ours, he was raking in the fuckin’ dough. Said two grand a month per club was a fair price for the right to operate.”
    “Maniella didn’t think so?”
    “He said the money was fair and that his boys would be by the first of every month to collect it.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “Have