“Karras Jr.”
“Mr. DiGeordano.”
“Here you go, re.” Stefanos took a business card off the counter, handed it to Karras. “Some Americanos left this for you.”
Karras had a look at the card. “This bird’s been after me, trying to sell me life insurance, some crazy veteran’s deal he’s got.”
“Uh,” said Stefanos. “You see Costa?”
“Yeah. What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“He’s a little guy, that’s all, and I’m not just talkin’ about he’s short. Don’t get me wrong, I love him like a brother. But he’s always gonna be little, and he knows it. So Costa, he’s always gotta blame someone else.”
“Let me get goin’,” said DiGeordano, getting off his stool.
Nick Stefanos killed his ale, put the glass in a bus tray beneath the counter. Karras slipped the insurance man’s business card in the breast pocket of his shirt. He picked up the bus tray and limped back toward the kitchen.
21
Burke stood ramrod straight, his back to his desk, looking out the window to the street below.
“So what’s it going to be, Joe? I’m going to let you make the call, since you’ve got a bit of a personal investment. That’s a block of 14th Street we haven’t touched yet, and I’d like to get a lock on it before someone else moves in. So here’s the question: Do we talk to Pete Frank first or do we move straight in on Nick Stefanos?”
Joe Recevo gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. He withdrew a deck of Raleighs from his inside jacket pocket, blew his breath into the pack. A cigarette popped halfway out; he pulled it from the pack with his teeth, struck a match to the tobacco, dropped the match in the ashtray that sat on the large table in front of him. He let out some smoke, watched it inch across the room.
“What difference does it make?” said Gearhart, his hands folded in his ample lap. “We’re going to hit them both eventually.”
Burke turned, eased himself down into the seat behind the desk. “Yes, that’s true. But the impression you make the first time, it dictates whether the rest of the players on the block fall in step or not. It’s very important how the first one pans out.”
“Neither one of those guys is gonna lay down,” said Recevo. “You realize that, don’t you? We’re not talking about some frightened immigrants here.”
Reed had been pacing the floor throughout the conversation. He stopped, leaned against the glass-fronted case that held the Thompson gun. “We’ve dealt with Greeks before. Greeks can be pushed like anyone else.”
“Not these Greeks.” Recevo tapped some ash off his cigarette. “Stefanos and Pete Frank, they’re Spartans. You gotta understand—”
“Christ,” said Reed. “Now you’re gonna tell me that there’s men that can’t be pushed.”
“Relax,” said Burke.
Reed pushed off the cabinet, straightened the jacket of his sharkskin suit against his broad frame. He put his hands into his trouser pockets, began to pace. He passed beneath the overhead fixture, the Vitalis in his hair gleaming in the light.
“We’ve met resistance before,” said Gearhart.
“Of course we have,” said Burke. “It’s the nature of the business.”
“Well.” Gearhart wheezed as he pushed his three hundred pounds up from his chair. He began to move himself into his overcoat. “You know, there is something we could do, just in case it doesn’t go the way we planned.”
“What’s that?” said Burke.
“We could use that trick we used on those Jews, when we hit that liquor store of theirs, uptown. Send a second, more sympathetic team of men in after the first. Offer them a bit of a discount, make them feel as if they’re getting a bargain. Play that game.”
Reed snorted. “You could make a wig out of all the gray hair growin’ on that gag.”
“It’s an option, anyway,” said Burke.
“Well, it’s not in my area of expertise. I thought I’d bring it up.” Gearhart made a short tip of his head to the others in the room. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”
Reed made a clownish gesture with his mouth, tried to catch Recevo’s eye. Recevo did not look up.
Reed said, “Got a date, Gearhart?”
“Goodnight,” said Gearhart.
He walked slowly to the door. Recevo listened to the creak of the floor beneath his weight, the horse-clomp of the two-toned gibsons on the fat man’s feet. Gearhart closed the door behind him.
“Where’s he off to so fast?” said Recevo.
“He’s going out to find some release,” said Burke, pouring a healthy shot of bourbon whiskey into the thick tumbler that sat on his desk. “Gearhart and his whores.”
“He better find a big one that can take his weight,” said Reed, with a smile. “But I guess he knows what he’s doin’. He ought to, long as he’s been around them. They say Gearhart’s mother—”
“Shut up, Reed,” said Burke. “We don’t need to be getting into everyone’s family history here. I would think that yours would have the makings of a good dime novel, too. I don’t fault Gearhart for finding his pleasures out on the street. Every man needs a receptacle, I suppose.”
Receptacle. Recevo listened to the smoothness of Burke’s voice, the fancy words that he liked to use. He watched Burke take a long drink of the bourbon. The smoothness, the fancy words, that would all begin to wash away now with the drink. He’d better settle this quick before Burke turned mean. Burke always turned mean and sloppy when he crawled into the bag.
“Let’s talk to Pete Frank,” said Recevo. “Frank’s the one we ought to go to first.”
“I’m inclined to disagree with you,” said Burke. “There’s more men over at Stefanos’s place, so I’ll grant you that it’s going to be a tougher job. But if we took on Stefanos as a client first, the rest of the block would tumble.”
“Mr. Burke—”
“Karras works for that Stefanos character,” said Reed, turning to Recevo. “That have anything to do with why you want us to keep our hands off?”
Recevo did not reply. He took a drag off his cigarette.
“Reed, go downstairs. Round up a couple of the men.”
“Don’t I have a say in this?”
“Do it.”
Reed went quickly out the door, stared meaningfully at Recevo one last time. Recevo kept his eyes straight ahead. He took in a last lungful of tobacco and crushed the cherry in the ashtray.
Burke swallowed the rest of the bourbon, poured out four more fingers’ worth. He swirled the whiskey around in the glass.
“You happy here, Joe?”
“Sure.”
“You’ve done all right with me, haven’t you?”
“I got no complaints.”
“How do you like your new car? It’s an Olds, isn’t it?”
“A fastback ’88. I like it all right.”
“And that suit you’re wearing. A Fruhauf, right? It must have set you back fifty bucks.”
“Fifty and change. I like nice things.”
“Sure you do. You got a real nice girlfriend, too. How’s she doin’, anyway?”
“Lois is fine.”
“Yeah,” said Burke, “you’re doin’ all right.”
Recevo coughed into his fist, looked around the room.
Burke got out of his chair, took his glass with him. He stood in front of the window, looked at nothing in particular out on the street. Recevo suppressed a smile, Burke thought he looked pretty good, standing there framed against the glass. A big shot, giving it the big pause to lead into the big finish.
And here was the pitch: “Things are going to get even better for you, Joe. You know that, don’t you?”