“Yeah,” Andre says, nodding his head and getting to his feet. “A gift. We can all still get along. We’re having a good time, you and me, aren’t we, Seth Cole?”
“Things are going very well,” I say.
Russo closes the suitcase. Andre and he back out of the room.
“No hard feelings,” Andre says. “You know I’m working on that guitar.”
“No problem. You two are doing me a favor. Our deal still stands,” I say, and they’re gone.
Bert stands looking at me for a moment, then says, “I thought you were going to kill those snakes.”
“I thought about it,” I say. “But I think this will work even better. I got the heroin from the Russians who run the market. Under the circumstances, I didn’t want to refuse it, and now I’ve put it to good use.”
I pick up the phone and call my contact at Vance International, asking them to put two agents on Andre, twenty-four hours a day.
“Just watch him. If he hurts anyone,” I say into the phone, “then just tell your men to point the police his way and stay out of sight.”
When I put down the phone, Bert says, “You know they’ll be back for more.”
“Well, it will take even Andre some time to work through that,” I say. “And by then, a lot of things can happen.”
54
BERT AND I RIDE in the back of my limousine down the steep ramp and into the dark gut of Giants Stadium. At the head of the tunnel leading out onto the field, we get out and watch as Ramo Capozza’s long car pulls to a stop behind ours. An eight-year-old boy wearing a Kevin Mawae jersey gets out, followed by a burly gray-haired man with thick eyeglasses and a stooped, shuffling gait. The boy is Joey Capozza and he holds his great-grandfather’s hand without shame. There are three other men in suits who surround the Capozzas, carefully examining the tunnel with their scowling eyes. Their mouths are clenched tight and you can see the muscles rippling in their jaws.
I greet the old man and the boy warmly and introduce Bert as my good friend and business associate Mr. Washington. Capozza eyes him carefully up and down. Bert smiles and winks at the kid and we all walk out of the tunnel together with the three suits creating a perimeter.
As we step out onto the turf, a security guard in a yellow windbreaker touches my hand and says, “No one on the field.”
Another guard grabs him and yanks him away, saying, “That’s Mr. Cole.”
“Sorry, Mr. Cole,” the man says, and I nod to him.
Our little group is the only one on the field besides the Jets players and their opponents, who warm up in their football pants and jerseys without the shoulder pads. The white glow of the stadium lights give the turf a false hue, and you can smell that it’s not real. The air is still warm, but a cool breeze makes it pleasant to be outside.
“Pappa,” the boy says, tugging his great-grandfather’s sleeve. “It’s Kevin Mawae and Dave Szott. Look.”
“Come on,” I say, “let’s talk to them.”
“Can we?” the boy asks.
“Sure.”
The two enormous players are all grins. They sign the boy’s shirt and call Chad Pennington over to meet him too. The boy bounces on his toes and makes circles around his great-grandfather as we walk back inside the tunnel to make our way upstairs. Ramo Capozza wears a silent grin. He nods to me and quietly says thank you.
Inside the suite, we sit in the front row of the box with the Capozza muscle standing behind us drinking cans of Diet Coke. The game begins, and Joey informs Bert and me who all the players are and what they do.
“I’m sorry,” Ramo Capozza says, his brown eyes large but twinkling behind their thick lenses. “Joey, I’m sure Mr. Cole knows his own team.”
“Not as well as some people,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair. “It’s more of an investment for me.”
“I understand you’re doing quite well with your investing since you’ve come to New York,” he says.
I nod and say, “I’ve certainly expanded what I’m involved in. It used to be just art. Bert is interested in diversifying too.”
“I understand that from you,” Ramo says, “but we weren’t able to find out much more about Mr. Washington.”
“The Akwesasne are a secretive group by nature,” I say with a soft laugh. “But I know that when you see Bert’s financials, you’ll be comfortable bringing his group in as investors. I understand you have a partner who’s looking to get out and I just thought… well, that it would be good to put the two of you together, Mr. Capozza.”
The older man says nothing more. We watch the game until the second half. Since it’s a preseason game, the first-team players are taken out. The boy’s eyelids begin to droop and he puts his head on his great-grandfather’s shoulder. Ramo Capozza nods to one of the men in back and he scoops the boy out of the seat, cradling him in his arms.
“I think it’s time for us to go,” Capozza says, shaking my hand. Then he hands a card to Bert. “Call me, Mr. Washington. I’d like to talk more and maybe you could bring us some of that financial information. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Frank’s interest is worth around a hundred million dollars.”
“That’s right around what Bert’s group is looking to do,” I say, and Bert nods.
We thank Mr. Capozza for his time and see him to the door of the suite. He thanks us for giving him a night his great-grandson won’t forget.
“Jesus,” Bert says when they’re gone. “Did you see those three guys? They make Andre look like a choirboy.”
“This is the big leagues, Bert.”
“And you’re going to send me into a meeting with all those guys without you?”
“You’ll do fine,” I say, taking a can of Bud Light out of the refrigerator and cracking it open for him. “You did great tonight.”
“Yeah,” Bert says, “with an old man and a little kid.”
“Don’t let that ‘old man’ fool you. His teeth are razor-sharp.”
“Exactly,” Bert says, “and I just want to make sure it’s not us that get bitten.”
55
WE’RE RIDING IN THE BACK of the limo, quiet in the darkness, when Bert says, “How about you have a beer with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you and me. How about we just have a beer, like we used to when you lived in my trailer. Remember that?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“Good days, huh?” he says, and I see his massive shape leaning over and I hear him rattling around in the ice chest.
“Not bad,” I say. “A little cramped.”
“Yeah, that shower wasn’t no marble cathedral like that thing you got now. But sometimes I miss just having a bologna sandwich with ketchup on white bread. You?”
I hear the snip and clink of two bottles being opened. Bert hands me one. A Molson Golden that makes me smile. We touch the lips of glass together and drink.
“I like good food,” I say. “Good food and red meat.”
“I see how you eat those steaks. That ’cause you got hungry in jail?”
“I did get hungry,” I said.
“That go away any?”
I take another swig of beer and think about it. We’re crossing the GW Bridge now and I can see all the lights of Manhattan.
“You want to thumb wrestle?” I ask.
“I thought we didn’t do that no more,” he says. “I thought we’re a little too fancy for that.”
“I don’t think anyone’s going to see us back here,” I say, and hold out my hand. I pin him quickly and he immediately wants to go best out of three. He beats me once and then I get him again and it becomes best out of five. He gets me the next two and then we’re done because by then it was best out of seven.
“You ever notice how you have to keep going until you win?” I ask him.
“That’s ’cause thumb wrestling is my thing,” he says. “Like fucking these people over is your thing.”