“There is no personal, Ryan,” Marco said. “There’s only business. And anything that is business, you share. Otherwise, you’re holding back from me.”
“Come on, boss. You think I hold back from you?”
“I go by what I feel, not what I think,” Marco said. “And something didn’t feel right tonight. Right, Phil?”
Phil said, “Right.”
“I had this instinct, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Phil said.
“I said, What’s with Dante? It’s like he didn’t want to be around me. He couldn’t wait to leave. Isn’t that what I said?”
“Word for word,” Phil said.
“So I act on my instinct. We follow you down here and what do I find? You doing business you didn’t tell me about. What did I say, Phil? People turn on you, I said.”
“Right,” Phil said. “I remember.”
“I said, people turn on you for the least incentive. Wave anything at them-cash, pussy, a new gun, a ride-they’ll sell you out on the spot. Right, Phil?”
“Verbatim,” Phil said.
“So who do we have on the ground here?” Marco said.
Oh fuck. I thought. Here it comes.
“A little business on the side? Maybe something for my brother?”
Ryan said, “No, boss, it’s got nothing to do with Vito. I haven’t even seen him since his daughter’s confirma-”
“Did I ask when you saw him last? Did I?”
“No.”
“It would be strange if you haven’t seen him, even if it’s true, because I heard he’s been trolling around everywhere, flaunting cash at people, trying to buy them over to his side.”
“He hasn’t tried it with me,” Ryan said.
“Why? You’re not people?”
“He knows better than to try.”
“Oooh. He knows. How the fuck would you know what my brother knows? He’s so stupid even he doesn’t know what he knows.”
“Well, he hasn’t tried.”
“What if he did?”
“I’d tell him to stick it.”
“Sure you would, Dante. Sure you would. So if this douchebag on the ground here has nothing to do with Vito and nothing to do with me, then who the fuck you working for? Buffalo now?”
“It’s strictly personal, boss.”
“Is he fucking your wife?”
“Come on.”
“Is he eating your wife’s pussy?”
“Hey!”
“Hey what? If he isn’t fucking your wife or eating her pussy then it isn’t personal and don’t say that to me again.” Then Marco said to me, “Stand up.”
I stayed where I was and groaned softly.
“Stand him up,” Marco told Phil.
Phil pulled me to my feet. I kept my head down, clutching my stomach as if in great pain. Marco walked over and grabbed my chin and lifted it. He was wearing black pants and a tight-fitting black shirt with orange-and-black flames reaching up as if consuming his upper body. If only.
I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me; he’d only seen me the one time outside the District Court. But he said “Son of a bitch” softly, and raised his sunglasses up onto his forehead. The asshole had actually added a few blond highlights to his long black curls. “If it isn’t Mr. Undercover.”
I’ve never seen the eyes of a shark six inches from my own, but they couldn’t have been more lifeless than the ones that stared at me now.
“You know him?” Phil asked.
“Fucking right I know him. Jonah fucking Geller. Sawed-off Jewish prick who played me for a fool, got me paraded around in court. Cost me over a million cash.”
I could smell his breath, feel his spit against my face. I could feel my own anger surging through my limbs. I had never wanted to hit anyone as much as I wanted to hit Marco Di Pietra in that moment, lay him out for what he had ordered to be done to the Silver family. A lot of people probably felt that way about Marco, which is why he had men like Phil around him. Men like Dante Ryan.
“What’d he do?” Phil asked.
“A few months ago, we had a tobacco job that went bad. You were still in Millhaven.”
“Oh, yeah,” Phil grinned. “We heard about that one.” He stopped grinning when Marco turned the shark eyes on him.
“Ten million cigarettes up for grabs,” Marco said. “Half a million packs. I had guys lined up to buy them three bucks a pack, could sell them for five and still beat the retail price by a mile. Everyone makes money. I would’ve cleared a million-two, maybe more, till the undercover kike turned up.”
Marco grabbed my ears and pulled my face even closer. “You know how bad I could use that money now?” he hissed. “You know how many friends a million bucks could buy?”
Marco let go of me and turned on Ryan. “You said this was a personal matter? What the fuck personal matter could you have with this mangiacake?”
“That means white bread,” Phil told me.
“I know what it means,” I said.
“I been seeing this broad,” Ryan said. “You know, since me and Cara split up. The broad calls today, says the same car’s been outside her place all the time, following her around. I have a guy run the plate and Geller’s name comes up. The husband hired him ’cause he thinks she’s fooling around on him.”
“Which she is!” Phil said.
“Yeah, thanks, Philly. So I call Geller, pretend I got information for him, sucker him to the park here to give him a message. A taste of what he’ll get if he don’t leave her alone.”
“Yeah?” said Marco. “When we were walking over here, you were looking pretty chummy. Having this heart to heart.”
“You know me,” Ryan said. “I don’t have to raise my voice. I was trying to keep it low-key with so many people around.”
Just then a great shout went up from the southern diamond and a softball bounced into view. A game must have started there after we came down the path. An outfielder came loping after the ball with long strides, actually giving it a little effort. He stopped when he saw the four of us-one man with a bleeding mouth surrounded by three obvious thugs-and let the ball roll to the fence.
“You okay?” he called.
“Mind your own business, asshole,” Marco told him. The right fielder was tall, in shape, maybe thirty with a mane of blond hair and a thick red-blond beard. God bless this province’s Scottish roots. This guy wasn’t walking away. He waved at some of the other fielders to come join him.
“This is no good, boss,” Ryan said. “There’s people everywhere. A guy up the hill with a camera, for Chrissakes.”
“So why did you meet him here?” Marco asked.
“Who knew they’d play ball in this heat?” Ryan said. “Now he’s got the message, let’s go.”
“Yeah?” Marco turned to me. “The message get through?”
“Sure,” I said.
“I wanted to send you a message, you cocksucking Jew.” He shaped his hand into a gun and snapped his thumb down against his index finger like a hammer. The extended finger jabbed the bridge of my nose, his nail breaking the skin. “Like that,” he said, jabbing me again. “But I got outvoted. The old goats from my father’s time, pussyfooting around like you were a real cop. Only they’re not here now, are they? It’s just me and you and I know you’re not a cop. What do you say, Undercover Guy? How about I send a message right between your eyes?”
“Don’t do it,” Ryan said under his breath.
Marco turned away to look at Ryan. His profile was like a hatchet ready to split wood. “What did you say to me?”
“There’s too many-”
“You said, ‘Don’t do it.’ Like you were giving me orders. You’re not even Italian, you Irish fuck, where do you get off?”
“I’m trying to keep you out of jail,” Ryan said, nodding toward the softball players looking our way. More were walking toward us from the infield, carrying aluminum bats. Bench strength. You gotta love it in your team.
“It’s a long slow climb back up to the street,” Ryan said. “Take us ten minutes going uphill.”
“Take me fifteen,” Phil said.
“We do anything here,” Ryan said, “someone’s on a cellphone to the cops. By the time we get to our cars, the tac squad is waiting and the geezer with the camera has it on film.”
Marco looked up the hillside to where a group of sunset watchers had gathered. They were all staring at us, some of them pointing. Ed was at the centre, hunched over the camera. Stay there, I pleaded silently. Don’t show Marco your face. But he stood up, the damn fool. I hoped Marco had lousy eyesight to match his lifeless eyes.