“Amen,” Regan said.
“Petey, I don’t want you to get upset by this,” Faviola said. “This has nothing to do with the very real value the family places on you...”
“I don’t want it, anyway,” Bardo said at once.
“It’s simply that you’re too valuable where you are,” Faviola said.
“I told you I don’t want it, Andrew!”
His voice rapping out angrily. He was no dope, Petey Bardo, and he’d undoubtedly guessed what was coming, and had prepared himself to get through this one with his dignity intact. But venting steam at little Andy Boy was one thing. Getting pissed off by a decision jointly arrived at by the Faviola padre e figlio was quite another thing.
“What you want matters to us, of course,” Faviola said smoothly. “But what’s best for the family matters even more. We need you where you are, Petey. And we need Bobby to take over Uncle Rudy’s responsibilities. That’s the way we think it’ll work best.”
The room went silent.
The words “underboss” and “consigliere” had never once been mentioned. This could have been a meeting of the board of any legitimate family-run business anywhere in the world. The chairman had just announced a promotion. Bobby Triani — Rudy Faviola’s son-in-law and until this moment a capo who’d been overseeing the family’s stolen-property operation — had just been promoted to the number-two spot in the organization, where he would answer only to Andrew Faviola. But apparently Faviola felt that the ruffled feathers of Petey Bardo needed further smoothing.
“Petey,” he said, “we can’t afford to lose you where you are.
“Look, I told you I...”
“Please. Hear me out. Please, Petey. If there are problems inside the family, you’re the one who smooths them. Somebody wants a territory here, a territory there...”
Never once mentioning what kind of territory. Always cognizant of the old Italian expression that said “I muri hanno orecchi.” The walls have ears. No suspicion whatever that the place was bugged six ways from Sunday, but nonetheless no one was saying anything that could be considered incriminating. Not yet, anyway.
“... to you to make the case for each of the disputing parties,” Faviola was saying. “I don’t know anyone who can do it better. No one. Whenever a sitdown becomes necessary...”
Sitdown was criminal slang, but nothing you could take to court.
“... you’re the one who tries to make peace between the skippers...”
Another word for capo. Skipper. Or captain. So sue him.
“... you’re the one who has the experience, and the patience, and the diplomacy to work things out to everyone’s satisfaction. There’s no one we have who could fill your shoes, if we moved you up a notch, Petey. But does this mean Bobby’s going to take home a bigger piece of the pie because technically he’s a step above you? I can promise you it won’t, Petey. You have my word in front of every person in this room. I’m going to work out a proper compensation for you. I don’t need to go into it now, but you have my promise. And when I say that technically Bobby’s moving above you, I mean that. This is only technically. As far as I’m concerned, especially now with the new business that’ll be coming our way...”
“What’s this, what’s this?” Regan said, and leaned closer to the equipment, even though he was wearing earphones.
“... I’m going to need a three-way sharing of responsibility at the top. Three ways. This is a vast new challenge we’re undertaking. My hope is that everything will be fully operational by the summer. To do that, we all have to work together, starting with the top, and continuing on down to the smallest member in the organization. Once we begin distributing the new product here in New York, I’m going to...”
“Dope,” Lowndes whispered.
Regan nodded.
“... support, and cooperation of everyone here today. This can’t work without you. It’s too complicated and there are too many risks. But once it’s in place, I promise there’ll be plenty for all of us. I’m talking billions of dollars. For all of us to share.”
“Fuck’s he talking about?” Regan said.
“The Chinese have a saying, ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.’ We have the ability here right in this room...”
“Fuckin’ shitheads,” Regan said.
“... and we’ve got a lot of needy people in this room, too.
Laughter.
Lowndes shook his head.
“So what I’d like to do now is pour some wine all around... Sal, you want to open some of those bottles? Nickie? Can you lend a hand?”
The two detectives listened while the wine was being opened and poured. They could overhear several conversations at once now, chairs being shoved back, people moving about the room, and then finally the clinking of a utensil against a glass. Faviola began speaking again.
“I want to lift my glass first to my Uncle Rudy, who I loved to death and who I miss with all my heart. His fondest wish was to see this idea of my father’s become a reality. He’s not here to see it as it begins to take shape, but he was in on the meeting we had in Sarasota, and before he died, he was on the phone day and night with the people in Italy and with the Chinese. So he knows where he is in heaven that it’s just a matter of time now, just a matter of getting all the nuts and bolts in place. Uncle Rudy, rest easy, this is about to happen, believe me.”
“Salute!” someone shouted.
“Salute!” they all joined in.
“Next, I’d like to congratulate both Bobby and Petey, because in my eyes there’ve been two promotions today, and I plan to make that evident to Petey by way of compensation as you all heard me promise. Bobby, Petey, congratulations!”
“Thank you.” From Triani, modestly.
“Thank you.” From Bardo, skeptically.
It was almost four o’clock.
“There’s a lot of work to be done in the weeks and months ahead,” Faviola said. “I know I can count on you to get that work done. My father’s keeping a close eye on this, this is his baby, he wants it done right. I want it done right, too. Don’t let me down. That’s it.”
Before the men began filing out, they paid their individual respects to Andy Boy again by promising him he could count on them for their support and hard work. Fat Nickie Nicoletta said, “You need any spic heads busted, Lino, they don’t like our move, you let me know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Faviola said.
Sal Bonifacio said, “You hear about Richie Palermo?”
“Richie...?”
“Palermo. This kid used to do some work for me? He was most recently in jewelry? You remember him?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.”
“He got killed in a shooting on Eighth Avenue,” Sal said.
Faviola said nothing.
Regan and Lowndes were listening intently.
“A basement on Eighth Avenue,” Sal said. “Two shots the back of his head. It was in the paper last week.”
“I didn’t see it,” Faviola said.
“Yeah,” Sal said. “A fuckin’ shame, hah?”
Regan and Lowndes lost the assorted hoods as they went down the stairs to the back room of the tailor shop, and then picked up their voices again once they were in the room saying their farewells to Mario. The new presser showered bouquets of sirs and misters on their royal asses as they filed out onto Broome Street where video cameras manned by two detectives in a second-floor window across the way recorded their separate departures for posterity.