His turn over, Frank’s elegant host indicated another shotgun resting nearby and Frank — in GQ-worthy sportcoat and slacks — took it, getting poised to shoot.
Within the opulent residence, Eva was being entertained by Mrs. Cattano, a handsome dark-eyed, dark-haired woman getting the better of middle age. Mrs. Cattano was explaining that their “house” had been imported, brick by brick, from Gloucestershire. Eva had assured Mrs. Cattano that the Cattano home was “very nice.” But mostly the two women sat in polite strained silence thicker than the hanging tapestries.
Eva’s unease was only heightened by the occasional muffled yet distinct reports of shotguns booming just outside.
Frank, who’d never before seen a clay target much less aimed at one, had held his own shooting with Cattano. So far this afternoon, the two men had been all smiles and friendly remarks — guarded respectful behavior from longtime business associates who’d lately become rivals.
That Frank had been a glorified bodyguard to Bumpy Johnson, with whom Cattano had collaborated for decades, made the atmosphere a little stiff and awkward, but that was to be expected.
Lunch (Mrs. Cattano called it “luncheon”) in the formal dining room had been pleasant enough, with both Cattanos expressing interest in hearing about Eva’s experiences as Miss Puerto Rico; and the two men had chatted a little about the upcoming Ali/Frazier match. Afterward, Mrs. Cattano — prompted by a look from her husband — led Eva away for a tour of the house.
Shouldn’t take any more than four hours, Frank thought dryly.
Flashing his disarming smile, Cattano escorted Frank by the arm down a hallway. The two men had taken their drinks from the table with them, a goblet of red wine for Cattano, a glass of ice water for Frank.
“A lovely girl, Frank,” Cattano said as they walked. “You really should marry her.”
“We’ve talked about it. She seems willing.”
“Good!”
“But we won’t rush into it. Too many things to look after, right now, to think about that.”
Cattano squeezed his guest’s arm a little. “Frank, if I may — take it from a man who’s gone down this road. Waiting is a mistake — don’t take her for granted, a girl like this. A man needs a strong, smart woman for a partner. To bring smart, strong children into your family.”
They were going down a corridor lined with framed family photographs. If those were Cattano’s kids, they looked more goofy than smart and strong, to Frank; but he kept that opinion to himself.
Frank nodded. “I appreciate the advice.”
“Good. I’m glad you don’t think I overstepped. I wouldn’t ever want to overstep, Frank, but I know you and Bumpy were like father and son. He’d say much the same to you, I think.”
“Bumpy had a dog not a wife. And I have the dog now.”
With a polite laugh, Cattano led Frank into a richly wood-paneled study lined with leather-bound volumes, the kind more for decorative purposes than reading. Soon they were seated in comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs in subdued lighting with a golden tinge, as if Frank’s host’s Midas touch extended even to illumination.
Cattano settled back, sipped his wine, then gestured to the library around them. “It’s good to have a sense of history, Frank — the events that have brought us to where we are today.”
Frank thought, I’d rather make history, but said nothing.
“You know, Frank,” Cattano was saying, “Bumpy Johnson had a real interest in history.”
“Bumpy had a lot of interests.”
With his eyes gliding down the rows of books, Cattano said, “I always wonder if people know when history’s being made... that they’re part of it, that they’re in it.”
“Hard to say.”
“They’re living their lives, doing any number of inconsequential things — for instance, this could be a historic moment, right now, this second... and you’re just sitting there sipping a glass of ice water.”
As droplets trailed down his glass like rain along a window, Frank thought, Finally you’re getting to it...
Cattano held the wine goblet in both hands; he looked down in it as if reading tea leaves, then up at Frank and said, almost casually, “Bumpy and I did a lot of business together, of course.”
“I know.”
“Whatever he needed, he’d come to me. And I would do my best to provide whatever it was. He came to me... I did not go to him. Is the point I’m trying to make. And d’you know why that was?”
Frank shrugged. “Bumpy didn’t have what you needed. You had what he needed. I believe it’s called supply and demand.”
“That’s right.”
“Which is why,” Frank said, “we’ve always come to you.”
“Yes.” A tiny bit of edge came into Cattano’s voice. “Until lately, that is.”
Frank sipped his ice water. His glass was sweating but he wasn’t. He had the best poker face in Harlem and knew it. Cattano could search Frank’s features forever and not come up with anything.
Maintaining his vaguely professorial tone amid all these books, Cattano said, “Monopolies are illegal in this country, Frank... because nobody can compete with a monopoly.”
“A lot of things are illegal in this country, Mr. Cattano.”
“Call me Dominic, please!.. Imagine the dairy farmers, if the powerful ones threw together and formed a monopoly, that is. Why, half the dairy farmers in America would go belly up!”
“That’s a shame,” Frank said, “but I’m just trying to make a living.”
“Which is your right. Because this is a free country.” The don’s head tilted and a patronizing smile formed. “But not at the expense of others, Frank. That’s un-American.”
“Sounds like capitalism to me, Dominic. And that’s as American as apple pie.”
Cattano’s smile began to curdle like some of that dairy-farmer milk gone bad. “You know the price you pay for any commodity doesn’t represent its true cost of production. It’s controlled. Set. So that a fair profit can be made.”
Frank shrugged. “I think my price is very fair. I haven’t had any complaints.”
Cattano’s nostrils flared. “Your customers are happy, but what about your fellow dairy farmers? It’s very unfair to them. You’re not thinking of them at all.”
“I would say,” Frank said calmly, “that I’m thinking of them as much as they ever thought about me.”
“All right,” Cattano said dismissively. “I can see you’re getting excited. No need to get excited, Frank. That’s not why I invited you to my home, to get all excited.”
But Frank was not excited at all. Cattano seemed mildly worked up, though.
Then, with a suspiciously benign smile, Cattano rose and indicated Frank should do the same. “I have something for you. Something nice.”
In a small, pungent, climate-controlled, tobacco-laden room just off the study, Cattano opened a humidor and extracted two fat Cuban cigars.
Casual again, Cattano said, “Now what if... and I’m just thinking out loud, here... you sold some of your inventory wholesale, and I helped you expand your avenues of distribution.”
Frank shook his head, gently. “I appreciate the offer, Dominic. But I don’t need it.”
“Oh?”
“I already got everything from 110th Street to Yankee Stadium, river to river.”
Cattano waved that off. “Which is a little mom-andpop operation, compared to what I’m talking about. I could make you bigger than Kmart or McDonald’s. I can take you nationwide — Chicago, Detroit, Vegas. And I could guarantee you peace of mind. And I think you know what I mean by that.”