Costa and Stefanos headed south right away, drove straight into the night for Washington, D.C., where Nick had the address of a third cousin who lived in the city’s Chinatown district. The cousin put them up, stopped the infection in Stefanos’s wound. Nick bought a pearl-handled Smith and Wesson at a pawnshop shortly thereafter, vowing never again to touch an Italian-made gun. Costa stuck to knives, and soon married the sister of Stefanos’s cousin, a dour young woman named Toula.
From his first job in D.C., as a dollar-a-week-plus-tips busboy at the Hotel Washington, to his ownership of Nick’s, it had all been plain hard work. Stefanos believed in putting your head down, not getting distracted by looking too far in the distance, because getting ahead of yourself was what tripped a man up. He would always remind himself of the fable of the dog with the bone in his mouth who saw his reflection in a pool of water, dropped the one in his mouth to get the one he saw, lost the one he had forever. That was just an old story, he knew it; but hard work and focus, it had always produced for him. He loved this country, loved everything about it, the shiny cars and the tailored suits and the beautiful, laughing women, and he loved the feeling of walking down 14th Street and putting the key to the door, his door, every single day. And now, these sons-of-bitches, they thought that they were gonna make him pay? He’d like to see them try.
The phone rang on the wall. Stefanos went to it, picked up the receiver, listened to what the man on the other end had to say. He felt a pressure rise in his chest, heard the emotion in his own voice, saw spit fly from his mouth as he spoke. He slammed the receiver into its cradle, stood there, saw the Negroes in the booth staring at him, saw them look away as they caught the blackness in his eyes. He turned and walked back through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Costa and Florek had stopped working. Karras, freshly changed from his street clothes into his work pants and apron, had just come in from the warehouse. He shook a Lucky Strike out of his pack, put it to his lips.
“Well,” said Stefanos. “That’s that.”
“What was all that racket out there?” said Karras.
“I was talkin’ to your friend on the phone. The Italos.”
“And?”
“I told him to go to hell.”
Costa smiled crookedly. “Tora thai thoome.”
“Yeah,” said Stefanos. “Now we gonna see what’s gonna happen next.”
Karras struck a match. He lighted his cigarette, studied the big Greek through the dancing flame.
“Well?” said Burke.
Recevo ran his hand along the phone’s receiver. “He told me to go to hell.”
“Hah!” said Reed. He took his feet off the big table in front of him, stood from his chair. “Well, I guess that tears it. How do you want us to handle it, Mr. Burke? We go back over there right now, or you want us to wait until tonight?”
Burke slowly rubbed his temples. His hair had gone off in a couple of odd directions, and he needed a barber’s shave. He looked like hell; Recevo would have bet his savings that Burke had gotten stinking drunk the night before, but even a track bum could have played that ticket to win. Burke had been drunk most nights since the holidays of ’48.
“Relax, Reed,” he said.
“What. We’re gonna sit here and let that Greek tell us to shove it?”
“Of course not. But there’s no reason to move forward with something that might result in gunfire. So far, we’ve been lucky in not attracting attention. No, I think that Gearhart had a very good idea when he talked about implementing that old shell game with the second group of men.”
Gearhart moved his turtle eyes beneath their lids. Other than that, nothing moved. He sat in his oversized chair, his hands folded in his lap. “It’s worked in the past.”
“And so it shall work again,” said Burke. “We bring in a second group of men to talk to this Nick character, they promise him protection from us at a cheaper price. He’ll see it as a bargain.”
He’ll see red, thought Recevo. And he won’t pay a goddamn cent.
“Well, Joe?” said Burke.
Recevo said, “It’s worth a try.”
“Who are we talking about here?” said Reed.
Burke had a sip of coffee, placed the cup back on the desk. “It so happens that Bender and his men are down from Philadelphia for a couple of days. They’re doing some gambling out at La Fontaine’s place. Bender owes me a favor from a couple of years back.”
“Christ,” said Reed, “not Bender. That guy’s all queer.”
“I know how that offends you, Reed. But the truth of it is, he’s just... what’s that word, Gearhart?”
“Theatrical,” said Gearhart.
“Yes, that.”
“Well,” muttered Reed, “he looks all queer to me.”
Burke turned to Recevo. “How about you, Joe? Any objections?”
“Call Bender,” said Recevo. He blew into his deck of Raleighs and pulled free a cigarette.
25
Vera Gardner reached behind her, wrapped her hands around the rails of the bed. Karras pushed himself into her, retreated, pushed in again, buried himself inside her to the base of his cock. The bed lifted off the floor, slammed down and bounced on its springs.
Karras tasted the salty sweat which had gathered at the fold of Vera’s breast. He bit gently on her hard red nipple. Vera arched her back. Karras’s hand traced the steps of Vera’s ribcage.
“Pete,” said Vera.
He slipped one finger in her mouth. Her lips closed around it, her tongue cool and dry. He went in, kept himself there. Vera pushing up with her hips, her buttocks off the bed. She held her breath and broke with a spasm; he came like a river, his thigh trembling against hers. He rested his head on her chest. She brushed her fingers through his damp hair. They lay in the wet pool that had settled on the bed.
Karras and Vera showered together, dressed together in the room. Karras went to a chair by the window while Vera applied her makeup. He moved the chair so that it sat fully in the light. He had a seat, lighted a smoke.
Vera ran a comb through her long blonde hair, looked at Karras in the mirror. “Take me out, Pete. You said you’d take me out.”
“Sure, honey. We’ll go out.”
“There’s a play finishing its run down at the National.”
“You know I’m not crazy about plays.”
“It’s a Eugene O’Neill. Mourning Becomes Electra. Michael Redgrave’s in it, and Rosalind Russell.”
“Rosalind Russell? If they had Jane Russell in it, then maybe I’d go.”
“Oh, come on, Pete, it would be fun. Why don’t we see if they have tickets for tonight?”
Because I’ve got a date with my wife tonight. Because with you and me it doesn’t go any further than this room. You don’t get it, Vera. You never have.
“Not tonight. Vera. Tonight I’ve got plans.”
Vera’s shoulders slumped. Her eyes darted away. She reached for an eyebrow pencil, leaned into the mirror. Karras watched her hand shake as she ran the pencil across her brow.
“What’s wrong with you, anyway?” said Karras.
“Nothing,” she said.