Gearhart snorted, issued a gassy grin. Karras heard Reed strike a match to the Fatima behind his back. The smoke from it crawled across the room.
“Forty dollars,” said Recevo, trying to cut the chill. “That should be a walk in the park, right, Pete?”
“Not a problem,” said Karras.
“Hey, Karras,” said Reed. “Be a good little colored girl and fetch me that ashtray offa Mr. Burke’s desk.”
“I’ll get it,” said Recevo, but Karras held him back with his arm.
“I asked Karras to get it for me,” said Reed.
Karras pointed his chin in the direction of Gearhart. “Ask Laird Cregar over there to get it for you, Reed. He’s a little closer.”
Gearhart’s grin turned down. He didn’t make a move for the ashtray, and neither did Reed.
Recevo drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. He shifted in his seat. “Mr. Burke, what should we do if this Georgakos gives us an argument?”
“He won’t give you an argument,” said Burke, keeping his eyes locked on Karras. “He wouldn’t give an argument to a couple of boys who’ve seen the action you’ve seen. Would he?”
Burke himself had seen no “action,” as he was on the brown side of thirty. But he had a brother who had fought in the European theatre, and being a veteran meant something to Burke. There were points to be had there, Karras figured, and some degree of slack.
“We’ll take care of it,” said Recevo, and he and Karras rose from their seats.
“Hey,” said Reed. “I got an idea. Maybe you ought to wear your uniforms over to the Greek’s place. Wear your medals, too. Maybe that would help.”
“Maybe you’d like to go with them,” said Burke, with a touch of acid in his voice.
“Reed might have a little problem there,” said Karras. “He’d need a uniform, too. And the last time I checked, they weren’t handin’ out uniforms to Section Eights.”
Reed stood from his chair, blood coloring his face.
“Hold it,” said Burke. “You two can play if you want, but not in here.”
“Guy kills a few Japs,” muttered Reed, “he thinks his asshole squirts perfume.”
Burke raised his voice. “Shut your mouth, Reed, and sit down. You can thank me later.”
Reed sat, dragged deeply on his cigarette. Recevo placed his hat back on his head, cocked it just right. Karras shifted his shoulders to comfort beneath his topcoat.
“You’ve got an address for us, Mr. Burke?” said Recevo.
“Yes, I’m going to give it to you now.” Burke looked at Karras. “Will you excuse us a minute, Pete? I’ve got a private matter to discuss with Joe here.”
“I’ll meet you down in the foyer, Joe.”
Karras turned and went through the open door, a kind of spring in his step. Reed smiled at him, followed his movements with narrowed eyes. Karras’s heavy footsteps faded as Burke jotted down the address on a slip of paper.
“Here,” said Burke, passing the paper to Recevo across the desk. “There’s not going to be any trouble tonight, is there?”
“No,” said Recevo. “No trouble.”
“Because I’m remembering the screwup with Mr. Weinberg. That tailor who owed me protection money, over on Seventh.”
“That was just a special case,” said Recevo. “The thing of that was, Pete knew the guy, from the neighborhood. He outfitted a lot of Greeks on credit in the old days. I think he even sold a suit to Pete’s old man — a dollar a week, for fifteen weeks, no interest, something like that. Altered the suit for him on a handshake. So Pete had a personal connection there—”
“I’m not interested in your boyhood connections. This Weinberg character, we lost him right after you gave him breathing room.”
“The Jew bastard skipped,” said Reed.
“We lost him because you allowed Karras to turn soft,” said Burke. “And you can’t allow anyone to be soft when you’re trying to build this type of business.”
“I understand, Mr. Burke.”
“Listen. I’m giving you another chance because the two of you did your part overseas, and you know with me that means something. And because I see promise in you, Joe. The people who start off with me are going to go all the way. Understand?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Enjoy the fights. Phone me later and let me know how things went. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Recevo tipped his hat to Burke, walked toward the door, gave nothing, not even an eye-sweep, to Reed. The way to hurt Reed was to not give up a thing. You held the steak outside the cage with that one, but you never slipped it through the bars.
Recevo left the room and no one said a thing. In a minute or two they heard the door close from the front of the house.
Reed dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it beneath his shoe. “Greeks and Italians,” he said. “I’m tellin’ you, we don’t need any part of ’em. The next thing you know, we’ll be walkin’ around here in tuxedos, servin’ dinner to niggers.”
Gearhart fingered his watch chain, moved his turtle eyes curiously beneath their lids. “The Greek’s going to stumble,” he said. “It’s in his nature. You know that, don’t you?”
Burke nodded. “Of course. But this isn’t his test. It’s Recevo’s.”
Gearhart raised an eyebrow. “What about the Greek, then?”
Burke exhaled heavily. “The Greek’s done.”
Out on the sidewalk, Recevo stopped under a streetlight to strike a match to a cigarette. He blew smoke in the direction of Karras, who stood beside him, looking up at the starless sky.
“Pete, Pete, Pete,” said Recevo. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”
“What?”
“I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes, Joe. It was a laugh, wasn’t it? I mean, don’t take those guys so seriously. Anyhow, I wasn’t so out of line, was I?”
“Calling Reed a Section Eight? And then that Laird Cregar crack with Gearhart.”
“Relax.” Karras pulled on Recevo’s arm. “Come on, we’re gonna miss the undercards.”
They walked to the coupe and climbed inside. Karras found a station on the radio while Recevo turned the ignition and revved the engine.
“Gearhart,” said Karras. “You gotta admit, that fat sonofabitch does look a little like Laird Cregar, doesn’t he?”
“Cregar’s better lookin’,” said Recevo.
They were laughing as the coupe pulled away from the curb.
11
Karras rolled his window down a quarter turn, aimed the exhale from his cigarette in the direction of the crack. The radio played “The Frim Fram Sauce” by the King Cole Trio. Karras had seen Nat Cole at the Casino Royal late one night. He had really liked Cole’s style.
“I don’t want to bring this up again—” said Recevo.
“Then don’t.”
“But your attitude back there — it just wasn’t right.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The thing is, you gotta take this work we’re gettin’ with Burke a little more serious.”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because we’re gettin’ in on the ground floor here, Pete, that’s why. Burke’s got plans to expand his organization.”
Karras dragged on his cigarette. “He gets too big, he’s gonna get crushed. The rackets are already sewed up. Snags Lewis runs the wire service, and Pete Gianaris controls the numbers game. Meyers is dice. All of it flows to Jimmy La Fontaine. And a wire runs from La Fontaine to Frank Costello in New York. You think the New York mob’s gonna let a bunch of rogues take a piece of the action?”
“You miss my point. Burke’s not interested in numbers, or dice, and he ain’t interested in the ponies. His grift is protection, high-interest loans. There’s a whole lot of people out there, they want to start a business, whatever—”