“Just come on over to the table,” Wycza said. “We’ll talk a little.” He nudged Florio’s arm, and Florio began to walk.
The two of them moved through the mostly empty tables to the one where Devers and Carlow were waiting. Carlow kept his hands under the table, and Devers kept watching the employees behind Wycza’s back, none of whom were behaving in any way out of the ordinary.
Crossing the room, Wycza staying next to him, Florio said, “I don’t really own this place, you know. I just front it for some people in town.”
“Ernie Dulare,” Wycza said. Pleased by the startled look he got for that name, he added another: “Adolf Lozini.”
“You know those people?”
“Does a baby know its mother’s breast?”
They’d reached the table. Wycza sat Florio across from Carlow, and took the remaining seat to Florio’s right. Florio said, “If you know them, then what the hell is going on?”
“A little heist,” Wycza said. “Nothing to worry about.”
Devers kept looking around the room. Carlow said, to Wycza, “There won’t be any trouble, will there?” He didn’t exactly act nervous, he seemed more tense, keyed up, as though at any second the rigid control might let go and he would explode.
Wycza, reassuring him, patted his upper arm and said, “No trouble. Tony’s going to cooperate. What the hell’s a few bucks? This place manufactures money, he’ll make it all back by the end of the week.” He turned to Florio. “Isn’t that right, Tony?”
“There’s no money down here,” Florio said. “I’m not out to cross you people, but it’s God’s own truth, there just isn’t any money down here.”
“I want to talk to you about that, Tony,” Wycza said. “But while we talk, let’s get a phone to this table. Will you do that, Tony?”
“A phone?”
Devers was raising one arm, signaling a waiter. When the man came over, being deferential because the boss was sitting at this table, Devers gestured to him to listen to Florio.
Florio hesitated, not out of a spirit of rebellion but simply out of bewilderment. Then, feeling the silence, he turned abruptly to the waiter and said, “Paul, get us a phone here, will you?”
“Sure, Mr. Florio.”
The waiter went away, and Wycza said, “Now, about the situation upstairs, Tony. We’ve got a man in with your manager up there right now.”
Florio looked at him in open shock. “You what?”
“The manager doesn’t know what’s going on yet,” Wycza said. “When you get the phone now, see, I want you to call his office up there and explain to him how he should do what our man tells him to do.”
“Jesus Christ,” Florio said. This was the first time in the nine years’ existence of Tony Florio’s Riviera that the place had been knocked over, and the reality of it was just beginning to hit him. This was a full-blown, big-scale, professional robbery. “How many of you guys are there?”
Wycza gave him a tight grin. “Enough,” he said, and the waiter came with the phone. They waited silently at the table as he put the phone down and walked off with the long cord to the nearest wall-jack. He plugged it in, came back to the table, picked up the phone and listened to it, replaced the receiver in the cradle, and said, “There you are, Mr. Florio.”
“Thanks, Paul.”
The waiter went away, and Stan Devers said, “It occurs to me the waiter’s name might not be Paul.”
Wycza frowned slightly and said to Florio, “You wouldn’t do anything cute like that, would you?”
“Am I crazy?” Florio spread his hands. “How heavy can you hit me for? A Monday night’s receipts isn’t worth dying for.”
Devers, watching the waiter, said, “He seems okay.”
Speaking softly, Wycza said to Florio, “How about the forty thousand in the safe? Is that worth dying for?”
Florio stared. “Wha—what forty thousand?”
“You keep forty thousand cash in the safe,” Wycza said. “Back-up money, in case anybody hits a streak on you. That’s the money we want, Tony.”
”You can’t walk in off the street and know about that,” Florio said. Pale circles of anger showed on his cheekbones. “Some son of a bitch in my shop is in it with you.”
Grinning, Wycza said, “I got it from Ernie Dulare.” Then, wiping the smile from his face as though it had never existed, he said, “Now, you call your manager upstairs. Our man is in there with him, and he’s calling himself Flynn.”
“Flynn? My manager’s name is Flynn.”
“That’s some coincidence,” Wycza said. “Except your manager’s real name is Flynn. Call him.”
Florio picked up the phone, and hesitated with his finger over the dial. “What do I tell him?”
“Tell him God’s simple truth,” Wycza said. “You’re down here with a gun stuck in your crotch, and your Mr. Flynn should do what our Mr. Flynn tells him to do or you’ll start singing soprano.”
“What if he doesn’t believe me?”
“It’s up to you to be convincing,” Wycza said. “Dial.”
Upstairs, Mackey and Mr. Flynn had gone through the extra support Mackey had in that he’d been recommended to the place by Frank Faran, Mackey telling a couple of stories about himself partying with Frank Faran in Las Vegas, stories that were absolutely true except for the names of the participants. Now they were working their way through the questionnaire Mackey had filled out, and Mackey was beginning to wish he’d kept a carbon copy for himself; it was one thing to fill four pages of stupid questions with on-the-spot lies, and another thing to remember all those lies ten minutes later.
Then the phone rang, at long last, and Mackey relaxed a little. The call was late, and he’d been beginning to wonder if maybe something had gone wrong somewhere, if maybe the casino was onto the whole ploy somehow and maybe this chummy Mr. Flynn here was just stalling him with a lot of credit questions while waiting for the cops to show up. But then the phone did finally ring, and Mackey relaxed and put his hand inside his jacket, closing his fingers around the butt of the pistol there.
“Yes, Mr. Florio.” Flynn nodded and smiled at Mackey, asking him to wait just a second. “Yes, he’s here right now.” A surprised smile toward Mackey: Why, Mr. Florio himself knows about you. Then, a look of bewilderment: “What? What’s that?”
Mackey smiled and took the pistol out. He showed it to Flynn and calmly put it away again.
Flynn was sitting straighter in his chair. “I don’t understand, Mr. Florio.” Listening, blinking, he seemed like a man who didn’t want to understand. “Do you realize what you’re asking me to—”
Mackey couldn’t make out the words, but he could hear the angry buzz of Florio’s voice in Flynn’s ear. Flynn blinked, swallowed, began to nod his head. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir, of course, I just wasn’t think— Yes, sir.” His face pale as bread dough, he extended the receiver across the desk to Mackey, saying, “He wants to talk to you.”
“Thanks, cousin.” Mackey took the phone, said into it, “Yeah, I’m here.”
It was Florio’s voice, recognizable and bitter, that said, “One of your friends wants to talk to you.”
Mackey waited, and Dan Wycza came on a few seconds later, saying, “Everything fine?”
“Couldn’t be better,” Mackey said.
“Then we might as well get started,” Wycza said.
“Right. Hold on.” Mackey kept the mouthpiece near his face so Wycza would be able to hear him, and said to Flynn, “I have two friends outside. I want you to bring them in here.”
“You want me to go out and—”
“No no no, Mr. Flynn,” Mackey said. “You call your man on the door out there. Tell him two gents are coming over and he should let them in. And then tell your receptionist to buzz for them.”