A rat, its beady eyes alert for danger, darted out of a warehouse, grabbed the piece of bread, then darted back inside. In another warehouse Sal Vizzini waited with two other men. He had come here, directly from the whorehouse. It had been good, but the bitch had asked him again: When was he going to marry her? He wished now that he had never mentioned it to her. He only told her that so she would do things for him…things that the other girls wouldn’t do. He reached down and rubbed himself. Why couldn’t she just leave it alone? There was no way he was going to marry a Cajun, especially una donnaccia, una prostitute. If he slapped her around a bit, it was because she needed slapping around. He rubbed himself again, then got up to look through the crack in the doorway. That was when he saw three of De Luca’s men walking up the dock. “Here they come,” Vizzini said. “We should wait until after they have made their collections,” one of the others suggested. “No,” Vizzini replied.
