“Not anymore it doesn’t,” Angelo says coldly. “Look, private garbage collecting and cartage is a rough, dirty business. It’s no place for a woman.”
“Screw that!” Sally says wrathfully. “I can handle it.”
“You don’t need it, do you?” Mario Corsini says, speaking for the first time. “I mean, you got this boyfriend on Wall Street and you’re cleaning up on inside tips. You’ve been making a mint. That’s what you told us-right?”
“Well, yeah, sure,” Sally says, beginning to feel desperate. “But the money to play the market comes from the business.”
“That’s your problem,” Vic Angelo says, rising. “You’re a smart lady; you’ll find a way to work it. The papers for the sale of Steiner Waste Control will be ready in a couple of weeks. We’ve got to find someone to take over, but that’s our problem. Thanks for inviting us to your home. Nice place.”
Then they’re gone. She watches the limousine pull slowly away. She digs her nails into her palms, determined not to cry. She turns off the porch light, locks and bolts the front door. Then she goes back into the den, slumps in her swivel chair, and in a low voice calls those two snakes every filthy name she can think of. It’s almost ten minutes before she begins to weep.
By Monday morning she’s got her act together again. But her brain is churning like one of the compactors at the dump as she tries to find an out. All she knows is that no way, no way, are those skunks going to get control of her family’s business.
She drives into the city, and before going to the office, stops at the bank that handles the company’s accounts. She withdraws $36,000, telling the bank officer she’s made a deal on a new truck, but the seller wants cash. She gets the money in hundred-dollar bills, neatly packed in a manila envelope. It’s small enough to fit into her capacious shoulder bag, next to her loaded pistol.
When she gets to the dump, Judy Bering jerks a thumb at Sally’s private office. “You got a visitor,” she says in a low voice. “He wouldn’t wait out here. Wouldn’t give me his name. A mean bastard. He scares me. You want I should call the cops?”
“Not yet,” Sally says. “If I need help, I’ll yell.”
She walks into her office with a hand in her shoulder bag, gripping the gun. Mario Corsini is seated in the armchair alongside her desk. Sally stops short, glares at him.
“Don’t tell me,” she says. “You came to count the paper clips. Afraid I’ll steal something before you take over?”
“Nah,” he says with a bleak smile. “Close the door and sit down. You and me gotta have a private talk.”
“We did,” Sally says. “On Friday night. Remember? So what more have we got to talk about?”
But she does as he says: closes the door and sits down behind her desk. She examines him in silence.
He really is a repellent man, with a pitted, ocherous complexion and eyes like wet coal. His shiny black hair is parted in the middle and plastered to his long skull like a gigolo or tango dancer of the 1920s. He’s wearing morticians’ clothes: black suit, white shirt, black tie, black socks, black shoes. No color. No jewelry. He looks like a deep shadow.
“I gotta tell you,” he says. “I think Vic is making a big mistake.”
“Don’t tell me,” Sally says bitterly, “tell him.”
“I did,” he says. “My point is this: We can take over this place anytime we want-but what’s the hurry? Why not give you a chance to deliver the stock tips you promised? If you come through, maybe we could make more loot on the market than we can by taking over. If you can’t deliver, then we grab the business. I told him all that but he wouldn’t listen.”
“And Vic’s the boss,” Sally says.
“That’s right,” Corsini says. “Vic’s the boss. So I go along even when I don’t agree. But there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We got a lot of things going on, and there are ways I can stall our moving in on you.”
“Yeah? What ways?”
“Just believe me when I tell you I can do it,” Corsini says evasively. “But it means you’ll have to play along with me. With me, not with Vic and me. You understand? He knows nothing about this. If he knew I was talking to you alone, he’d cut off my balls. I told him I was coming here to see how my cousin, Tony Ricci, was being treated.”
“Well, he’s doing okay. The kid’s a hard worker-and ambitious.”
“Yeah, I know. I had breakfast with him about an hour ago. He’s all right; he does what I tell him. Anyway, what I want to toss at you is this: On Friday night you said you had a hot tip for us. Vic turned you down. I want you to give me the name of that stock. I’ll invest my own money. Not Vic’s money or our company’s money, but mine, my personal funds. Now if your tip pans out, and I make a nice buck, then I go to Vic and say, ‘Hey, that Sally Steiner wasn’t shitting us; she really can deliver. Why don’t we let her keep the dump as long as she keeps feeding us inside info on stocks.’ What do you think of that?”
“I think it sucks,” Sally says. “There are two things wrong. First of all, you could do exactly like you tell me, and Vic would still say screw it, we’re taking over the business.”
“Yeah,” Corsini says, nodding, “that could happen. He’s a stubborn guy who likes things his own way.”
“Second of all,” Sally says, “how do I know you’re not scamming me? Maybe you just want to make a quick dollar on my tip and you couldn’t care less if or when I lose the dump.”
He looks at her admiringly. “You got more between your ears than pasta fagioli,” he says. “And sure, you’re exactly right; I could be conning you. But you’re forgetting one thing: You got no choice. Without me, you’re going to lose the business for sure. Play along with me and at least you got a chance.”
“I got other choices,” she says hotly.
“Yeah?” he says with a death’s-head grin. “Like what? Like running to the DA and ratting on us? You’d be cold in a week, and so would your mother and brother. Is that what you want?”
They sit a few moments in silence, eyes locked. They hear the sounds of the dump: trucks rumbling in and out, gears grinding, shouts and laughter. And beyond, the noises of the harsh, raucous city: sirens, whistles, the roar of traffic, and under all a thrumming as if the metropolis had a diapason of its own, coming up from underground vaults and vibrating the tallest towers.
Sally Steiner pulls a pad of scratch paper toward her and scribbles on the top sheet.
“The stock is Trimbley and Diggs,” she says. “Nasdaq Market. Right now it’s selling for about four bucks a share. And don’t, for God’s sake, buy more than nine thousand shares at a clip or the SEC might get interested.”
Mario Corsini takes the slip of paper. “Nice doing business with you,” he says politely.
He starts out the door. “Hey,” she calls, and he turns back. “Thanks for not calling me girlie.”
He inclines his head gravely as if her gratitude is merited.
She sits for about five minutes after he’s gone, thinking about their conversation and wondering if she’s doing the smart thing. But then she realizes the bastard was right: She really has no choice. As for his threat of what might happen to her, Becky, and Eddie if she goes to the cops, she has no doubt whatsoever that he and his thugs are capable of doing exactly what he said.
She pulls the phone toward her and calls Eddie.
“Hey, bro,” she says. “How’ya doing?”
“Hanging in there,” he says. “How are you, Sal?”
“Couldn’t be better,” she says brightly. “Paul around?”
“Won’t be back till noon. He’s auditioning for a commercial for a strawberry-flavored laxative.”
“Beautiful,” Sally says. “Could I pop over for a while? I’ve got some cash to leave for him. Our first step on the way to fame and fortune.”
“Sure,” he says. “Come ahead. Got time to pose?”
“Maybe an hour or so. Okay?”
She walks down to Eddie’s apartment, stopping on the way to buy him a decent burgundy. It’s a sprightly day, summer around the corner, and the blue sky, sharp sun, and kissing breeze make her feel like she owns the world. Life is a tease; that she knows. All souls dissolve; but meanwhile it can be a hoot if you keep running and never look back.