22
From the kitchen, Karras watched the Olds fastback pull to the curb in front of Nick’s. He watched the men get out, a man he didn’t know and the medium-sized man from the night in the alley and, behind him, Reed. Recevo stepped out of the driver’s side next. Something dropped in Karras’s stomach at the sight of him, a feeling that was neither fear nor hate but something in between. It was funny, how he felt at that moment, happy almost — but also sorry, like finding something you lost as a kid, many years later, and realizing that finding it no longer meant a thing.
Karras followed Recevo’s track to the door. Joey, you finally got your fancy car.
The door chime sounded as the four men entered the grill. Costa and Stefanos were behind the counter, and Six was on his chair by the door. The only customer, an old Negro who had stayed past the fights for one last beer, turned his head and had a look at the men, all in topcoats and suits. They were standing there spread apart, not making any kind of movement at all.
“Almost closing time, friend,” said Stefanos, who had recognized the dark one with the expensive clothes as Karras’s friend, the Italos. Dime-store gangsters, all of them. What the hell did they want with him?
Stefanos spoke to the Italian: “What can we do for you, eh?”
“We got time for a quick round of beer?” said Recevo.
“If it’s quick,” said Stefanos. “We gotta get this place closed up.” He glanced over Recevo’s shoulder, met the steady brown eyes of Six.
“Four beers, then,” said Reed. “Make ’em Red Caps.”
Costa had been rubbing his hands slowly on a damp rag, watching the pig-eyed Americanos with the mean face. He looked at Nick, who nodded one time.
“Beera, Costa. Ande, re.”
Costa went to the cooler, extracted four Carlings. He jacked each bottle against the Coca-Cola opener screwed into the side of the cooler. He took his time.
Reed looked at the medium-sized man in the badly tailored suit, then jerked his head in the direction of the huge Negro who sat by the door. Medium dragged a stool to within four feet of the bouncer, had a seat. He opened his topcoat and let the tail of it fall over one thigh. The grip of a revolver showed then where it had been slipped beneath the waistband of his trousers. Medium brushed his fingers against the grip, stared at Six. Six looked straight ahead, showing nothing on his face.
Reed and Recevo stepped up to the counter, slid onto a couple of stools. The Welshman moved to the plate-glass window, put his back against it, opened his coat. He spread his feet wide.
It was quiet for a while as the old Negro drained his beer, dropped some coin on the counter, and left the store. Then the only sound was the sucking pop of the last cap, the hollow sound of it hitting the floor, and the tick of the Blatz Beer clock over the door.
Costa gathered up the beers and a couple of glasses. He put beers up for the Welshman and Medium, neither of whom stepped forward. He put a beer in front of Recevo and one in front of Reed, and glasses up for both. Costa slipped a hand into his right pocket.
“Costa,” said Stefanos. “Siga.”
Reed lifted the Red Cap off the counter, threw his head back and drank. Costa studied Reed’s muscled neck, the Adam’s apple bobbing just below the shadow of beard. He fingered the switchblade in his pocket, which he had oiled earlier that day. It would be easy to bring the knife out fast, right now, and cut the throat of this American, a quick thrust in and then a clean, vicious red slash from left to right. Cut him down to the windpipe real good and quick.
“Costaki,” said Stefanos. “Ochi tora.”
Costa removed his hand from his pocket. He stepped back, picked the rag up off the sandwich board, began to wrap it tightly around his hand. Recevo lighted a cigarette, poured beer into his glass, drank down half of it at once.
Karras stepped forward so that his eyes cleared the swinging doors of the kitchen. He saw Nick’s .38 lying on its side next to the bus tray beneath the counter. Nick’s eyes went to the .38, then back in the direction of Recevo.
“You guys want somethin’,” said Stefanos. “What is it?”
“Just came by to warn you about something,” said Recevo.
“Warn me about what?”
“Some bad elements in the neighborhood we been hearin’ about, that’s all.”
“Uh,” grunted Costa.
Reed laughed.
Over the doors, Karras got his first good look at Joe: Recevo had kept his weight down, had gathered no gray in his swept-back hair. His eyes had begun to fall at the edges, but he looked pretty good. Karras almost grinned, looking at the velvet-banded fedora on Joe’s head, the dent perfect, the hat cocked just right. Joe was still the sharpest of the bunch. He had always been the sharpest, in the old bunch and in this one, too. Joey and his hats.
“What kinda bad element you talkin’ about?” said Stefanos.
Recevo shrugged. “We heard about some gangs been coming through this way, workin’ their way across Shaw. My source tells me they’re lookin’ to take a piece of every hash-house and beer garden on this block.”
“Thanks, friend.” Stefanos forced a smile. “Thanks for the tip.”
Recevo tipped his head back, emptied his glass. He wiped foam off his upper lip. He said, “We thought we might be able to help.”
“We’ll take our chances,” said Stefanos, in a jovial kind of way. He pointed to Costa and waved his hand in the direction of Six. “This gang you talkin’ about, they come in here lookin’ for some trouble, they gonna get a big surprise. I got my own guys here, I don’t need to worry too much.”
“They do look pretty ferocious,” said Reed, smiling at Costa. A nerve sent a twitch into Costa’s lip.
“Ssh, ssh, ssh...” A hiss of laughter escaped from between Medium’s thin lips.
Recevo took in some smoke, tapped the ash off in the tray. He looked around the room, his eyes stopping on the white-gray hair of Karras above the kitchen doors. Recevo closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them that Karras would not be there. Don’t come out here, Pete. Don’t come out here wearin’ no goddamn apron. You just stay back there where you are.
Costa slipped his hand back in his pocket. Stefanos stepped toward the bus tray.
“You finished with this?” said Stefanos, putting his hand around Recevo’s glass.
Recevo nodded. “Thanks.”
“Thanks,” muttered Reed, mocking Recevo’s tone. “We gonna sit around here all night sendin’, love letters, or we gonna do some business?”
Recevo did not respond. Stefanos lifted the glass off the counter, dropped it into the bus tray. He pushed his stomach flat against the counter, let his left hand dangle so that it touched the smooth pearl handle of the revolver.
“My rude friend here,” said Recevo, tilting his head toward Reed, “he doesn’t always know how to talk to people the right way. But he makes a good point. I mean, no disrespect intended, but if we can walk in here like this and take over the situation like we did tonight, what do you suppose those other guys are gonna do when they’re real good and serious about it. Huh?”
“Keep talkin’.”
“Like I say, we’re in a position to help you keep those guys off your backs.”
“How much?” said Stefanos, getting the .38 fully in his hand and bringing it up so that the muzzle butted up against the counter board level to Recevo’s gut.
Recevo said, “Hundred a week ought to cover my men.”
Stefanos and Costa laughed. Reed began to laugh, too. They all had a good laugh about it, the laughter covering the click of the hammer locking back on the revolver.