Chute Roll

Chapter Thirteen

In my apartment, I locked my doors and set some chairs in front to stop a Mafia guy from crashing through. That's how scared I was.

I sat on the floor and thought about what I had just learned.

I wondered if I should go to the police. But would they believe me? And if they did, and went to protect Sabella, then the mob people would know I had tried to help her. Then I would be dropped from an airplane without a parachute. And my nightmares about falling would come true.

I wondered if I should call the FBI. Except — even if I knew who to call — there would be the same problems as calling the police.

No, I knew I had to speak to Sabella without the gold-tooth guy finding out. Then Sabella could protect herself. And I could stay out of it.

I stood, moved into my small kitchen, and grabbed the phone book off the counter. The goon with the gold tooth was scary. But stupid. All I had to do was talk to Sabella by telephone. Who would ever know I had helped her then?

After a few minutes, I realized the gold-tooth guy maybe wasn't so dumb. I couldn't find any Scanellis in the phone book. When I called information for the Scanelli number, the operator told me it was unlisted. When I thought about it, it made sense. If I was a Mafia guy, I wouldn't want many people to know how to get a hold of me.

There was one last thing I could try. I could sneak to her house and try to speak to her without being seen. Only problem was, I didn't know her address.

I called the flight school. No surprise, Spike answered. It seemed like he lived there.

"Spike," I said, "can you go to the files and find an address for me?"

"What's it worth?" he asked over the telephone.

"Well..." I didn't know what to say. His answer surprised me.

"Fifty bucks," he said.

"Fifty bucks?"

"If you don't want to get it yourself, don't worry about it. If you have time to waste, you can always come out here yourself."

"Fifty bucks," I said. "Get me Sabella Scanelli's address. It should be on the forms she signed to sky dive."

As I waited, I thought about Spike. Funny how little things say so much about a person. He was charging me fifty bucks for help.

Spike got on the phone a few minutes later. "201 Palmetto Place."

"Thanks," I said.

"Forget the thanks. Give me the fifty next time you see me. Or else."

I was tired of threats. I hung up on him.