Joe Graham had assigned himself the task of cooling out Joey Beans.
He’d made a point of scouting the River Walk a few dozen times, so he was getting to know it pretty well. About three blocks north, the river made a big bend under the Convent Street Bridge. So the north side of Convent would be the place to do it. Graham figured he had nothing to worry about until Convent Street.
Graham looked back over his shoulder at Harold, then picked up his pace to let the bodyguard think he was doing the chasing. Harold matched his pace, which made Graham think he was right about Joey being up ahead somewhere, because Harold wasn’t trying to shorten the gap, just stay even.
Graham tested the theory by stopping suddenly. Harold hit the brakes.
Graham started out again and wondered when Harold would start to close in. It would have to be pretty soon if the shit was going to hit the fan at Convent, because Harold shouldn’t leave him too much room to maneuver after he’d spotted Joey.
Sure enough, Harold picked up his pace and lengthened his stride. Graham made a token effort to walk a little faster just to keep up the show.
It’s refreshing to work against a professional, Graham thought. That made him remember Walter Withers in his heyday-the smoothest street man on the slickest streets. He pushed the memory from his mind because it was too painful and because he spotted Joey Beans, grinning and waving at him from the top of the Convent Street Bridge.
“Hello, Stumpy the Clown!” Joey yelled.
This is where Harold moves in and I make the frantic effort to escape, Graham thought as he felt Harold’s hand on his shoulder. He tried to go under the arm, but predictably, Harold spun him and pushed him up against the arc of the bridge.
They picked a good spot, Joe thought. The bridge was a wide concrete job, and the curve of the river put the underside out of view.
“Do yourself a favor and hop in the water,” Harold muttered. “I’m supposed to hit vou a few shots, but I don’t feel right about hitting a guy with one arm.”
“Then hit me with both arms,” answered Graham, who didn’t know the word syntax but recognized a straight line when he heard one.
“What’s your story?” Harold asked, then moaned as he saw Joey come down the staircase.
“Yeah, what’s your story?” Joey asked.
“Get back on the bridge,” said Harold.
“You giving the orders now?” Joey said. “Turn the monkey around where I can get a look at his ugly face.”
“Speaking of ugly,” Graham said as he was spun around, “you look like it’s Roy Rogers night at a wise guy costume party, with your snakeskin boots, Stetson hat, and big fat gut hanging over your longhorn belt buckle. You guys should stick to the open shirt, gold chain, black ankle boot thing. It still looks stupid, but not this stupid.”
“You’re still in a funny mood,” Joey said.
“Something about you brings the chuckles out in me. I don’t know,” Graham said. “Maybe it’s the image of Don Annunzio making you eat all that garbage. That’s funny stuff.”
Graham didn’t wait for the punch he knew was coming. Harold had him by the shoulders-too high-so it gave him plenty of room to swing his heavy artificial arm down in an arc, which had an effect similar to a croquet mallet whacking a ball. Graham’s fist whacked both Harold’s balls, though, driving them up somewhere near his chin.
This inspired Harold to release him immediately and bend deeply at the waist. Foglio went right for Graham’s throat but stopped suddenly when the serrated edge of the steak knife pressed against his scrotum.
“Did you ever want to sing in the Vienna Boys’ Choir?” Graham asked as he pressed the knife and stepped forward, forcing Joey to take baby steps back toward the edge of the water. “Or wait on the nice ladies in a Turkish harem? Or change your name to Joey No Balls? If the answer to any of these questions is yes, or if you never want your compass to point north again, just get stupid now, Joey Beans.”
“What do you want?” Joey croaked.
“You know about famiglia, right, Joey?”
“I know about family.”
“Well, you’ve been fucking around in Nevada,” Graham said, “And you almost hurt one of my famiglia. Capisce?”
“I don’t know what-”
A little pressure of the blade stopped him.
“Don’t bother,” Graham hissed. “Just listen. There’s been a misunderstanding of some kind. We’re going to get it straightened out. That might take a few days. In the meantime, you call off your dogs. You got that?”
“You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
“Right now, I’m messing with you, Joey,” Graham said. He saw Harold start to straighten up and noticed that Joey saw it, too. “You want me to mess you up permanently, Joey, you have Harold make a move.”
Joey looked at Harold and shook his head.
Graham continued: “You’re right, though. I don’t know what I’m messing with, but I’m going to get it all straightened out. And nothing better happen to any of my family.”
Graham pressed the knife just enough to close the deal.
“Okay,” Foglio said. “You through now?”
Graham heard a tourist barge heading toward them from upstream.
“Not quite,” he said. “There’s still that ‘Stumpy’ business.”
He brought his rubber forearm up and smacked Foglio in the chest. Foglio waved his arms to try to keep balance, then crashed into the muddy water. It was shallow, only chest-high, and Foglio was on his feet quickly, but the tourists on the barge were amused.
Graham saw Harold reach inside his jacket and said, “Yeah, dummy, shoot. Unless you don’t think there are enough witnesses.”
He pushed past Harold and trotted up to the Convent Street Bridge. He paused only long enough to enjoy the sight of Harold fishing the soaked, muddy Joey Beans out of the river and the sound of laughter. Then he picked up his bag at the hotel and caught a taxi to the airport.
21
Ed Levine took a cab up College Hill. He could have walked, but he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
Marc must have been waiting at the door, because he opened it before Ed could ring the bell. He took one look at Ed’s serious face and said, “You know, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Ed answered. “But I don’t know why.”
“Come on in.”
Marc led him into the den this time and sat next to him on the sofa. He turned the volume off on a late game from the West Coast but left the television on.
“Theresa and the boys are at her mother’s,” he said.
“Sorry I missed them.”
“Being Peter Hathaway’s partner isn’t a crime, Ed.”
“Then why keep it a secret?” Ed asked.
Marc’s smile was bitter.
“Because I’m Dominic Merolla’s grandson and Salvatore Merolla’s son.”
“What does that mean?” Ed asked, annoyed. He had come for answers from a friend.
“It means, among other things, that the FCC would never grant me a license,” Marc said. “It means that I have to be a silent partner. It means I need a front man like Peter if I want to pursue certain opportunities.”
“You’re a successful businessman, Marc!” Ed yelled. “A lot more successful than I realized. You own almost half of the Family Cable Network.”
“Peter has quite a piece,” Marc said quietly.
“Is it mob money?” Ed asked. “Do you do your grandfather’s laundry?”
Marc shrugged.
“You’re asking two questions,” he said. “I have a trust fund, various monies from my grandfather and father, which I’ve invested. Most of the money I put in the network comes from good investments I’ve made. So, is Dominic’s money in FCN? To the extent that he gave it to me, yes. Do I launder his business profits? Of course not, and I’m offended by the question.”
“Are you telling me Dominic’s not involved?” Ed asked.
“See, that’s what I mean,” Marc said. “I have to answer that question. Every Italian businessman in this country has to live with the assumption, at least the suspicion, that his success is due to his underworld contacts-myself more than most.