Beating the Babushka by Tim Maleeny Read Free Book Online Page B

if there was a question mark at the end of that sentence.”
    “You will drop case.” It was a statement.
    Cape shifted his gaze from the man in the hat to the giant. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled broadly at both of them.
    “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Chapter Ten
    Angelo took a moment to adjust the athletic cup so it didn’t show under his trousers. The thing pinched like a lobster when he walked, but why take chances? Angelo believed in being prepared, even if he probably wouldn’t need it today. The boss couldn’t hit the side of a barn after two o’clock in the afternoon.
    Michael Angelo took a lot of shit for his name when he was growing up. Other kids would ask him to paint their ceilings, do their portraits, that sort of thing. What made it worse, years later, was learning that his mother didn’t even name him after the famous painter—she just adored Charlton Heston. She’d seen
The Agony and the Ecstasy
the night before going into labor and thought Charlton was just dreamy, so the next thing you know, her baby boy is named after some dead painter she’d never heard of until that fucking movie. She briefly considered naming him Moses but thought that might be a little odd, their family being Italian and all.
    These days Michael just went by his last name. His mom—the dumb bitch, God rest her soul—had passed on a few years back, so why put up with the aggravation? And it was very Hollywood. All the big stars were known by a single name, even if they had two to begin with. Arnold. De Niro. Spielberg. Why not Angelo? It was just a matter of time.
    He knocked lightly on the massive oak door and let himself in.
    Adam Berman, co-chairman of Empire Studios, sat behind his desk talking on the phone. He was maybe five-six, with a waistline that reflected his success and a neck that rolled past the collar of his black shirt. When he saw Angelo, he hung up in mid-sentence, grabbed the stapler off his desk, and hurled it across the room. Before Angelo could duck, it slammed against the door behind him and broke in half, staples flying like shrapnel around his head.
    Adam stood and snatched a silver letter opener from a base made of crystal, a gift from a screenwriter. With a snap of the wrist he sent it flying. It stuck in the door, vibrating back and forth like a tuning fork next to Angelo’s ear. He managed not to flinch as his thighs tightened involuntarily around the cup.
    If you show fear it only encourages him, Angelo repeated silently. He’s just like a dog that way. Hold your ground.
    Adam was panting, eyes gleaming with malice. He reached for the nearest thing on his desk, which happened to be an Oscar statue, then hesitated. He reached for the next item, which was a Golden Globe Award, then looked at Angelo standing stone-faced against the door. Glancing at his desk, Adam moved his hand and grabbed an Emmy, cupping it in his palm to test its weight.
    The wings of the Emmy snapped like the tail section off a crashing plane as it hit the door. Angelo winced despite his mantra.
    “You wanted to see me, Mr. Berman?” he asked.
    Adam breathed through his nose, sweat trickling down his forehead. When he spoke, it was a dry rasp, cigars and bourbon mixed with rage.
    “What the fuck is going on?” yelled Adam, the veins in his neck bulging. “I open the paper today and the headline says one of my producers was murdered. Is that correct?”
    “No, sir.”
    “You saying I didn’t read that?” Adam asked, picking the newspaper off the desk and flinging it at Angelo. The pages scattered across the room before they reached him.
    “No—I mean, yes,” said Angelo. “You did read that. But no, that’s not right.”
    Adam was scanning for the next projectile.
    “He jumped,” stammered Angelo. “You remember—Tom jumped off the bridge.”
    “What an irresponsible little shit,” muttered Adam. “Guy kills himself in the middle of a movie—it’s unprofessional.”
    “I never thought of