Weekdays, Alberto worked and relaxed in his comfortable Y and S Club suite, which included a small kitchen and a modest office with no staff, since he was retired, after all. Various of his business interests around the greater metropolitan area did have larger office setups and all kinds of staff.
But old Alberto was retired. Just puttering these days. Right?
The Y and S, by the way, stood for the Yelling and Spitting Club. Little of that was done here now, except maybe the punks on the first floor.
This, at least, had been the arrangement of the club when I had last been there, over a year ago, when I had asked for and received a sit-down with Alberto Bonetti in his suite.
I had tried to reason with the old man, requesting that he get a handle on his son Sal, whose ruthless loan-sharking activities had been causing a client of mine grief. Alberto had listened politely, thrown up his hands, and said, "What can a father do? Kids these days."
I had been up late, dealing with the aftermath of the intruder at the Commodore, and Pat had made me wait until the photographers and lab boys were through and the stiff had been rubber-bagged and hauled out before allowing me to gather my things and move to my new room. The gigantic bed in the Honeymoon Suite, with its Every Day Is Valentine's Day decor, had a pillowy mattress that was perfect for everything but sleeping.
So I wound up camping out on the damn couch, where I finally dropped off, and it was ten A.M. before I woke up. I went over to Bing's for a workout, took a swim at the hotel pool, then skipped breakfast and went straight for lunch. I had a steak sandwich at the Commodore's café, passing on the salad and barely touching the fries. I needed some protein but didn't care to haul anything heavy along.
Because I was going to drop in on an old friend—the kind of old friend capable of the brand of warm welcome that made a bulletproof vest and three extra .45 clips in my sport-jacket pocket the minimal precautions.
When I had closed the MEMBERS ONLY door behind me, I planted myself over the threshold and waited. Lots of young faces at pool tables and at booths turned my way—narrow, bony faces; round, acned faces, lots more hair than you used to see on this type of punk, including muttonchops like those sported by my late intruder last night.
This floor hadn't been Frankie Cerone's likely hangout, though—at his age, and with his standing, Frankie had probably been eligible for the second floor with the curved bar and the Rat Pack music.
So the pale-faced punks peeking at me from booths and glowering at me over pool cues were not necessarily pals of Cerone. They'd probably heard that one of their own bought the farm last night, six feet of acreage straight down with grass for a crop and I don't mean marijuana. They'd probably even heard it was thanks to a guy name of Hammer.
But I was just a tough-looking older dude they didn't recognize, who might be a cop. Nobody stepped forward to question my presence. This was a clubhouse without a leader. No Leo Gorcey, just a bunch of homicidal Huntz Halls.
Any thought that I'd be patted down and have to justify carrying the .45 in the sling into their den of budding thieves didn't even come up. I just walked along between the two pool tables and the row of vending machines and such, the boys in the booths on the other side of the room eyeballing me like monkeys in cages frustrated that the zoo patrons weren't getting close enough to hurl feces at.
I just kept nodding and smiling at the curious dopes, my hands in my pockets, very unthreatening, loping along like I belonged nowhere else but here and knew exactly what I was doing, no big deal, fellas, no big deal.
I got all the way to the second-floor landing without a hitch. Somebody had called from downstairs, though, because from the fancy club room, a big guy stepped out into the bland little reception area to meet me. He was about thirty-five with short, dark, military-cut hair and dark, no-nonsense eyes, and wore the black suit with matching bow tie of those who attended the members. He would have a revolver on his hip. Probably a cross-draw affair like lots of cops were wearing these days.
"I know you," he said. Nothing intimidating about it. Matter of fact. Then: "Mr. Hammer, you've been here before. But surely you know this is a private club."
"Yeah. I was hoping Mr. Bonetti might see me."
"If you had an appointment, I'd know."
"I don't have an appointment. A guy named Frankie Cerone, who may be familiar to you, tried to kill me in my hotel room last night, also without an appointment. I'm here to talk to Mr. Bonetti about that. On his turf. I'm here on peaceful terms, requesting a sit-down."
That was a lot to absorb, but he got it right away.
"I need to check with Mr. Bonetti," he said.
Good—the old boy was in.
"But, Mr. Hammer, before I do that, you'll have to stand for a frisk."
"No need." I opened my jacket and let him see the .45 in the sling.
His frown was like a father's to an untrained child. "You expect to wear that in to see Mr. Bonetti?"
"You can tell him I'm armed. I saw fifteen guys downstairs. You probably have another twelve members, anyway, in that fancy club room. And I'll bet there are guards in the hall upstairs, outside the suites."
The big guy said nothing.
"I keep the gun," I said, "or Mr. Bonetti can come to see me on my turf, on my terms. He can bring a gun. Because I sure as hell will."
He was thinking.
"Another option is you can try to take it away," I said.
That he didn't think about at all, just nodded, said, "Take a seat," and slipped back in the club room.
I did not take a seat, though a couch and several comfortable chairs were available. The paintings out here weren't of the pinup variety—they were landscapes. Probably Sicilian landscapes, but who the hell knew? Trees are trees.
The big guy returned and said, "Mr. Bonetti will see you. He is unconcerned that you are armed. He understands that you are vastly outnumbered and outgunned."
"Yeah, that was my point."
"We'll take the elevator."
"It's just a flight up. I don't get winded that easy."
He shook his head. "The elevator is private. It opens up inside Mr. Bonetti's suite."
"Ah. Okay."
I followed him over, he used a key on a metal panel, and we stepped inside the elevator, which was about the size of a refrigerator carton. I had my coat unbuttoned and my hands casually on my hips. It looked natural enough but the point was, if the elevator opened up on a bunch of guns, I would have easy access to mine.
But it didn't open on anything except another little receiving area. My escort stayed inside the elevator, and the doors shut him in as tiny slapping slippered footsteps from the nearby hallway announced my host.
Alberto Bonetti, in a pale green sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and the kind of tan slacks old people garden in, came trotting up and offered his hand for me to shake.
I did. It was a soft handshake, but my hunch was it was soft on purpose.
In the equally soft face—where under the slicked-back gray hair sharp young eyes hid out in the seventy-year-old oval of flesh—a smile blossomed, friendly but with the faintest hint of shark. Old shark, but shark.
"You walk an interesting line, Mr. Hammer."
"What line is that, Mr. Bonetti?"