O’Brien sat down. He was glad to; his legs felt shaky. He thought of his sleeping son upstairs and his wife due back in an hour. For the first time in his career he was aware that his work was putting his own family in danger, and the thought made him feel sick.
“What are you doing in Pacific City?” he asked, determined that Ferrari shouldn’t know his fears. “It’s off your beat, isn’t it?”
Ferrari put the automatic in a shoulder holster under his coat. This move gave O’Brien no hope. He knew Ferrari could get the gun out and kill him before he could lift himself a few inches out of his chair.
“Yes, it’s off my beat, but I’m here on business. I’ve come for Weiner,” Ferrari said mildly. He crossed his spindly legs and swung one tiny foot backwards and forwards.
O’Brien stiffened, and for a moment he felt relieved. He should have thought of Weiner the moment he had seen Ferrari.
“Then you’re unlucky,” he said. “Weiner’s inaccessible.”
“No one’s inaccessible,” Ferrari returned. “People just think they are. I want you to tell me how I can get at him.”
O’Brien was well aware of Ferrari’s reputation. He knew Ferrari would never make a statement unless he was sure he could back it up.
“What makes you think I’m going to tell you?” he asked in a voice that was far from steady.
“What makes you think you’re not going to tell me?”