萨姆’s guys don’t lose their wives to colored-boot-wearing freaks from California. And Sam had the guys to figure out a thing or two about Mrs. Goodbath’s California guy.
萨姆my wanted the Corporal to make partner, sure, be his friend, achieve his dreams the legitimate way. But where there’s shifty eyes, there’s money.
萨姆my couldn’t resist poking a few sticks in Mrs. Goodbath’s direction. Maybe the Corporal’s hotel could be a fun place to do business again. Hold that elevator, Sammy thought. Hold that elevator right the hell up.
萨姆my couldn’t see nobody peeping on Mrs. Goodbath. This Tarloc wasn’t the worst looking guy. Had city tastes in cars and boots and sunglasses. What would he want with a big heifer like Mrs. Goodbath? Sammy didn’t buy the peeping Tom angle.
萨姆 was good and pissed off. He decided he needed a world hater.
萨姆my knew the stigma: you start loan sharking and you end up busting kneecaps. When Sammy told his old man how he planned on earning now that he was home, his dad asked if that’s what Sammy learned in the Marines, to bust kneecaps.
萨姆my was prepared for this question. He told his dad it doesn’t make much sense to put a guy in a yoke and then bust his kneecaps.
萨姆’s dad liked this answer. He asked if Sammy was ready to put a man down. A real man, not a faceless savage like Sammy put down in the war.
萨姆 had an answer for this one, too. Spilled blood brings attention. A business is only as good as its family’s name. Sam would carry a piece, stay sharp. But Sam wanted to be in the money business, not the undertaking business.
萨姆 couldn’t take it no more. He told Tarloc to shut up. He pulled out the piece that he hadn’t fired nowhere but at coffee cans. A Colt .45. He crouched down to Tarloc’s level, pushed it to the side of his scalp and sprayed his songs across the Lake Topaz Motor Inn’s wall.