I think it’s a Mercedes Roadster,’’ Tony G. asked Hildy, who was at the kitchen counter opening a can of Friskies Mariner’s Catch for Shelley and Keats. Hildy looked over at Tony G., who had been walking around aimlessly or sitting on the step stool just hanging out. Hildy had turned down his offer to wash the kitchen floor or clean the bathroom. He had taken offense at her refusal and muttered something like, This place could use a good scrubbing. Hildy finally instructed him to think up a game plan for their ‘‘situation,’’ just to give him something to do. His immediate suggestion was that he should conjure up a 9mm Beretta, she should shoot whoever came looking for the bottle—he’d do it himself but genies were unable to kill anybody, he explained apologetically—and the two of them could dump the body or bodies in the ocean with cement blocks tied to their feet. Hildy had given him a look that would put frost on a bonfire. ‘‘Obviously you belonged to this Mafia person a little too long.
