Freddie Salomar

1

I’m not used to judging other men based on their appearance. I mean, I’m a guy too, and I don’t swing that way. But Freddie Salomar practically begged for it.

So sure, he was a good-looking guy in a smug, self-centered, “I’m all that” kind of way, complete with the attitude.

I think he isn’t taller than most men at around 5’11” and he probably weighs around 220 or 230 pounds. It’s a little hard to tell with him cranked back in his desk chair like that. But part of why he looks so trim is because despite his rep as a boss, he doesn’t wear the slick suits a lot of them parade around in like peacocks. You know, constantly flapping their lips and flashing fake smiles at everybody and nodding like they know they’re a boss and like they know you know it too.

Freddie doesn’t do any of that, and he puts on the same display in this little office as he puts on out on the street. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, and it’s hanging open over a black t-shirt that hints at his build but not quite like he’s showing it off, which he is. The jacket’s the kind you can tell is expensive just by glancing at it. And even though we’re inside, he’s also wearing dark sunglasses, those ‘aviator’ teardrop-looking things with the thin gold rims.

I kind of envy him that. You know, a little. I like that style too, and they look good on pretty much anybody. But I got high cheekbones, so on my face, the bottom of the frame rests right on my cheeks. So the lenses eventually get a little grungy, and I can’t see having to clean a pair of shades more than once or twice a day. So in that way, I can’t wear them.

But Frankie can wear them, so he does, and he pulls off the look he’s going for pretty well: I call it “tough-guy suave.” Just like when he’s outside he doesn’t nod at anybody and he doesn’t talk much. He’s just there, and everybody notices. And everybody takes a wide berth around him.

He pulls off the look mostly because of what nature gave him though. The jacket and the t-shirt exactly match his shiny, black, conservatively cut kiss-my-ass hair and his eyebrows, which also accent his chiseled jawline and chin and maybe the lightest 5-o’clock shadow I’ve ever seen. I mean, the shadow’s definitely there, but it isn’t heavy enough to repel women. It’s just enough to make them do a double-take as he passes. And it’s just enough that they like what they see.

Judging from the looks they flash at him during those double-takes, they not only like him, they wanna have him mounted, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, I don’t much care for guys like that. Frankly, I wouldn’t have even been there if my boss hadn’t sent me.

2

So on top of all that, Freddie’s got an attitude, like I said before. And the attitude was on full display from the moment I filled his doorway.

Well, actually it was on display before I ever laid eyes on him.

Salomar’s display of attitude started when the other guy—a skinny little guy with mousey, balding brown hair—opened that door and stepped into the hallway. “Nick, right?”

See, Salomar sent the mousey guy into the hallway. Salomar sent him, probably with only a nod or the twitch of an index finger. So that was the real beginning of Freddie’s attitude display and how important he was. Or how important he thought he was.

Only I don’t care for that fake kind’a attitude so much. Besides, I’ve got one of my own and it ain’t fake.

So when the mousey little came out and said, “Nick, right?” I only nodded and said, “Soldata. Or just sir.” I was trying to be as cool as my boss had told me Salomar thought he was.

So then the mousey guy only looked at me and gestured toward a bench and said, “You can wait there, Nick.”

But I didn’t sit on the bench. I ain’t sitting on no bench in no hallway just because a guy like Mousey Guy says I can, intimating that he thinks I probably should.

Instead I leaned my left shoulder against the wall and crossed one ankle over the other a few feet from Salomar’s office door. Casual, you know.

Mousey Guy eyeballed me for another second and decided to ignore my refusal to sit down, which was a really good decision on his part. Then he cleared his throat, took a step closer, and said very quietly—no doubt so Salomar couldn’t hear him from inside—“Uh, I need to pat you down, Mr. Soldata. Sir.”

See? My real attitude is what got me that “Mr. Soldata” and that “sir” instead of another “Nick” like he knows me or something.

Anyway, when he said that about friskin’ me I only turned up one corner of my mouth a little, shook my head slightly, and said just as quietly, “I don’t think so.”

He met my gaze for a second, so I kind’a gotta give him that. That look alone says he’s got at least some ball. But then he turned away and went into Salomar’s office, I guess to let him know I was here.

Mousey Guy was in there for a little while before he finally opened the door and came out again. Again he gestured and said, “Mr. Soldata?”

I nodded, then said, “Or ‘sir,’ remember?”

And he paled a little. “Uh, yes. Yes sir.” Then he kept his gaze on me as he gestured behind him. “Mr. Salomar will see you now. Please.”

I sneered and pointed at him. “See? That’s exactly right. ‘Mr. Salomar’ for him and ‘Mr. Soldata’ or ‘sir’ for me.” I shrugged. “But I’m good either way.” Then I jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Listen, I think you ought’a take a break. Maybe go grab a coffee somewhere. Say a half-hour?”

I was only joking—well, half-joking—but Mousey Man hesitated for only a second and came dangerously close to searching my eyes, then nodded and walked quickly down the hall toward the exit.

And that’s when I finally filled Salomar’s open door and nodded at him. “Freddie Salomar, right?”

3

Of course, Freddie nodded back at me. It was the only thing he could do, given my own display of attitude. Then, as I expected him to, he felt challenged and one-upped me.

He took a cigarette from a little carved mahogany box on his desk, lit it with an ornate desk lighter, then rocked back a little in his desk chair. He took his sweet time doing all that, just to show me he was in charge. Then he took a drag off the cigarette, rocked his head back a little to show me how little he feared or respected me, and blew a stream of silver-blue smoke straight up past his nose.

As the cloud of smoke rose, without looking at me he raised his left hand a little and wagged it sideways once, indicating I should shut the door. Then he pointed with the index finger of that same hand at the chair in front of his desk. And he very quietly said, “Sit.”

Quietly or not, I knew an order when I heard one, but it was also exactly what I wanted him to say.

So I reached back with my right hand and swung the door closed, a little more of my own attitude to bait him. And about the time the latch clicked, I adjusted the chair toward me a little—I made it my chair, a little more attitude—and eased myself into it. Then I crossed one leg over the other at the knee, canted my head slightly, and only looked at him. I even kept my fedora on my head.

He let his head rock slowly forward from looking at the ceiling. He took another drag on the cigarette and emitted another stream of smoke, this time in my direction, though not directly at my face.

He aimed it just past the right side of my head, so like a warning shot. And even through the dark glasses I could almost feel his gaze, like it was a physical thing. And he said, “You’re up from Colorado, right?” He rolled his right hand in the air. “Golden? Somethin’ like that? And you’re representin’—” He paused and snapped his fingers a few times. “Blackwell, am I right? Or is it TJ.”

I only nodded slightly. “Mister Blackwell, yes.” ‘Cause I ain’t lettin’ him outdo my attitude.

He sneered. “Crotchety old bastard isn’t he?” He spread his hands slightly. “Never paid tribute to nobody here in the capitol of the world, am I right?” He paused and the sneer broadened. “Only when Freddie Salomar talks, people listen.” Then he gestured toward me, almost dismissively. “And here you are. Nick, right? So whaddya got for me, Nicky boy?”

Then he took another drag on his smoke.

I moved my right hand near the left lapel of my grey suit and did my best to put on a slight smile. “If I may?”

I picked this particular suit for today because roughly a b’jillion guys right outside this building are wearing the same suit in the same shade of grey, and they’re all either walking in the same direction or walking in the opposite direction or crossing against the light or crossing with the light or getting into cabs or getting out of cabs. You get the idea. Like I said, a b’jillion of them.

And Freddie, believing Mousey Man was still in the hallway and not off getting coffee in a diner somewhere—as his brand-new boss had suggested he do—gestured. “Sure, go ahead.”

Then he took another drag of his cigarette.

And just as I slipped the fingers of my right hand under the left lapel of my suitcoat—no doubt to prove to me he saw me as no threat at all, especially since I was obviously only a gopher for a crotchety old bastard—rocked his head back and blew another stream of smoke straight up past his nose.

And I pulled out the little revolver I bought this morning from a guy on a streetcorner three blocks from here, already loaded with .22 caliber low-velocity cartridges and already fitted with a stubby sound suppressor. And I stood and emptied it into his smug, self-centered face.

And yeah, I made sure the first two bullets went through the lenses of those aviator specs.

‘Cause you know, I can’t wear ‘em anyway.

Then I tipped my hat. “Yeah, it isn’t Nicky-boy, Freddie. It’s Mister Nick Soldata.”

*******