Ed smiled. “You’re laying it on pretty thick, Deb.”
Her face remained solemn. “I can’t help it, Ed, if it’s how I feel.”
Again a silence, everyone waiting for Tony the boss.
Finally he said to Terry, “Tell me something. These guys that cut off people’s feet—why do they do that?”
20
* * *
MONDAY MORNING TERRY WOKE UP FIRST, left Debbie in the king-size bed asleep and went downstairs to get the paper and put the coffee on.
Last night Debbie sat by the phone waiting for Ed Bernacki to call and tell them Tony said okay, Debbie full of confidence. “I know he will. Why wouldn’t he? He’s got the clout. All he has to do is tell Randy to give him the money.” As they were leaving the restaurant yesterday Ed walked them out and she asked him what their chances were. Ed said he didn’t have an opinion. “Tony’s predictable in certain areas but this isn’t one of them. You have to let Tony make up his mind. He says no, you forget about it, you don’t try him again.”
“If it doesn’t work,” Terry said last night, “then what, go back to Randy?”
Debbie said, “He’ll do it. Didn’t you notice? Tony likes me.”
He brought Debbie a cup of coffee and sat looking at the little scammer sleeping like an angel. He could imagine keeping it going, living together. The idea of getting married had not come up. She’d said one time she never planned on having kids and he said, “Why not?” He said he’d always imagined having a family, three or four kids, and she said, “Why didn’t you? Instead of trying to fake out your mother all those years.” They could go round and round on that one: he wasn’t ready, hadn’t met the right girl, never had a job he liked—all those excuses. There was no question in his mind Debbie could be the right girl. Christ, look at her. And she was funny. How many girls were funny? But that was the reason she wanted to be an entertainer and why he couldn’t see her keeping house. So there you were.
He said, “Deb?” Tried it once more and she opened her eyes.
“Did Ed call?”
“He’s probably in court.”
“He’ll call when they break for lunch.”
“My brother and the family’ll be home this afternoon. They get in about four.”
Debbie said, “We’ll have to change the bed. No, we’ll have to do the sheets and put the same ones back on. And the towels. Then what do we do? You stay and I move out? Unless you set Fran straight, then you can move in with me, we can play house.”
It was funny that she said it that way. He nodded to the coffee on the nightstand.
She picked it up, smiling at him. “You know what you are, Terry? A saint. I said that to your brother one time while you were still in Africa with your orphans, and your housekeeper with the cool skirts, I said, ‘Maybe he’s a saint.’ Your brother said, ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ And then he said, ‘But who knows?’ See the impression you make? You are, Terry, a very thoughtful person.”
It didn’t make him feel any different than he already felt, sitting there in a bedroom that wasn’t his, on the verge of . . . whatever happened next, looking at a girl he slept with and believed he loved, experiencing tender feelings, but without that urge to take it further. There were similar times, moments, when he was with Chantelle in Ah-fri-ca and wondered what would come of it. Chantelle was beautiful, but not funny, though maybe she was funny in Kinyarwanda, something he would never know.
Debbie was sitting up now sipping her coffee. She said, “We get the check we’ll have to open an account—”
“I told you, I already opened one,” Terry said, and saw her eyes change. “Right after I got here Fran took me to Comerica. We can put it right in there, the Little Orphans Fund.”
“Yeah. I forgot. I thought we’d be opening a joint account.”
“What do you think I’m gonna do,” Terry said, “withdraw it when you’re not looking?”
She smiled. “That means you believe we’re gonna get it.”
She kept her cell phone turned on all morning and into the afternoon. It rang at one-fifty.
They were in the bedroom again with the clean sheets, Debbie trying to remember how they were tucked in and folded back when they pulled the covers down last night and jumped in. She moved to the window with her phone and stood looking out at the road, the shrubs and trees just beginning to show buds, Debbie taking it as a sign.
“Deb?” Ed’s voice.
“What did he say?”
“He’ll do it.”
“Did you have to sell him?”
“You did that, kiddo. He likes you. He said to me after you left, ‘How about her calling Randy a cocksucker?’ He loved that.”
“I thought he would, that’s why I said it. Tapes, they’re always calling guys that. So now what happens?”
“Once he has it in his hands I’ll call you. Or somebody will. It can’t take more than one visit. Those guys, I’m telling you—”
“Ed, why do you represent them?”
“I’m a lawyer. Didn’t you know that?”
“Come on, tell me.”
“All right. One, the cases are dynamic, you get a lot of press. Two, they pay on time. And three, they’re fun to watch. Look at ’em all on TV in sitcoms—I get to see the real thing. Now, with the trial? I’m practically living with them. You know what I mean. If you know you’re not gonna get hurt they’re amusing guys to be around. If you’re not laughing with ’em you’re laughing at ’em, either way. I’ll see you, and congratulations.”
Terry was poised by the bed, still holding his side of the sheet. “When do we get it?”
“In a day or two. He has to have it in his hands first, Tony does.”
“Well, you did it. If you’d left me up there I’d still be making the pitch and they’d all be asleep.”
Debbie said, “I told you he liked me.”
Angie answered the phone. She said, “Just a minute,” and brought the portable into the bedroom where Vincent Moraco was pulling on his pants. He always left his shirt and socks on, though never seemed in a hurry. That was the problem this afternoon, trying to get him out of the apartment by six.
“Who is it?”
“I think it’s Vito.”
Vincent took the phone. It was Vito, Vito saying Tony wanted to see him right away. “He couldn’t find you,” Vito said. “I told him I bet I know where he’s at. So, how was it?” Vincent hung up on him.
“Tony wants me.”
Angie glanced at the clock. Five past six.
“Well, you better get going.”
She wore a big loose white cotton sweater that hung down to cover her panties, pink ones. From there on were the whitest legs Vincent had ever seen in his life, like fuckin marble. Except they were always warm you ran a hand up them.
“You got somebody coming, haven’t you?”
“Honey,” Angie said, “I work. If I don’t have somebody coming, you don’t get your free ride.”
“Who is it?”
“What difference does it make? A guy.”
“One you got through Randy’s?”
“I think so.”
“Then two bills of it’s mine.”
What a prick. She’d bet anything he still had his First Communion money.
Vincent left.
A few minutes later Johnny Pajonny walked in.
“Yeah, now I remember,” Angie said. “I was hoping it was you. Let me have your coat.”
Johnny said, “I think I passed Vincent Moraco down the lobby, but I didn’t look at him good.”
“It’s better you don’t,” Angie said, “he’ll give you that ‘You lookin at me?’ I think it was in a movie.”
Vincent had to stand around in the front hall waiting for Tony to see him, Vito saying Bernacki was in there. Vito went outside and Vincent picked up thinking about the guy in Angie’s lobby again, pretty sure now it was the other guy in their booth last night, with the priest, had the same leather coat on. The guy loo
ked familiar, the face going back a few years to that cigarette business they were in, but Vincent couldn’t put a name with the face.
Now Ed was coming out with his briefcase, giving him a nod. Vincent entered the study and approached Tony sitting at his desk that looked like a fuckin gold and red wedding cake—Tony saying one time Louie XIV used to have one like it—the red leather surface clean as usual except for papers directly in front of him.
“Go see Randy,” Tony said, “and come back with a check for two-fifty.”
Vincent couldn’t believe it. “You serious, you giving ’em the money?”
What he gave Vincent was a hard stare, and shoved the papers across the desk toward him. “Have him sign this. It’s a loan agreement.”
“Tony, we own the guy. It’s like you’re taking it from yourself.”
“What’s he give us a week?”
Vincent said, “Five grand,” without hesitating, even knowing what would come next.
“I thought we talked about eight.”
“What he’s got going there won’t take the load. I settled on five with him, like the bookies.”
“He’s been paying it the past nine, ten months?”
“From what the girls bring in.”
“It’s enough to cover the five?”
“That’s the figure I gave him. I don’t ask what it comes out of. If he has to dip into his personal finances, well, that’s how it goes.” Vincent said then, anxious to change the subject, “You want to give this mick priest a quarter million to spend on a bunch of nigger kids?”
“The little girl gets half,” Tony said. “You were there, you don’t remember that?”
“Okay, but what do we care if Randy at one time or another fucked her over? You’re giving ’em dough that’s sitting there waiting for us to dip into whenever we want.”
Tony kept staring at him. Without looking at the phone he reached over and put his hand on it.
“I call Randy right now and ask him how much he pays a week, he’ll tell me five grand?”
Vincent hesitated. He wasn’t ready for it and, Christ, he hesitated a moment too long, old Tony staring him down. What Vincent did was shrug and say, “Yeah, five,” trying to sound a little surprised. Now he said, “I already told you that,” with an edge, like he felt Tony was questioning his loyalty.
Tony’s hand came away from the phone. He said, “Vincent, go get me the two-fifty.”
21
* * *
RANDY DIDN’T SEE A PROBLEM with the priest. He gives it to his brother to bring suit, then months of depositions, court dates set and postponed for one reason or another, by then, or long before then, the guy’s back in Africa. Debbie, he knew he could handle. If he got sixty-seven grand out of her once—he’d forgotten it was that much—he could give her a few grand to calm her down and then play with her, massage her ego, laugh at her jokes, even get her back if he felt like it.
Ideally, the Mutt would get to Vincent this week, before Saturday, and that would be the end of the eight-grand payoffs, at least till Tony realized it wasn’t coming in and by then he could be in some federal lockup doing twenty years. That was the hope. Randy believed the Mutt would make good and whack Vincent out because he was motivated, he hated Vincent; but the Mutt, being stupid, would probably fuck up and get caught, by either the mob or the cops, more likely by the mob, unless he made the hit and took off, no time for good-byes, or to get paid. Randy did not believe the Mutt would try to implicate him. If he did, Randy was ready to act astonished and simply deny it.
He sat at his desk in soft light reading the latest review of the restaurant in Hour Detroit. Ambience, excellent. Service, very good. Food . . . and the Mutt walked in.
“You want to see me?”
“Hey, come on in and sit down. How’s it going?”
“Okay.”
The Mutt closed the door, came over to the desk and took a seat.
“Anything you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“You’re getting ready to do the deed, aren’t you?”
“Oh. Yeah, you bet. What I’m doing is working on a plan, decide where’s the best place to do it. I was thinking go to his house, only his wife’d be there, and I don’t want to have to do her, too. If you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Randy said, maintaining a soft approach now that he and this redneck retard were pals.
“I’d like to catch him like someplace having his supper.”
“You don’t mean here.”
“No, some Italian restaurant, he’s sitting there, has his napkin stuck in his collar—”
“A mom-and-pop place,” Randy said, “that’s been in the neighborhood for generations. Known for good basic pasta dishes, checkered tablecloths. Like in the movies.”
“Yeah, like that.”
“There aren’t any,” Randy said. “Detroit, for some reason, is not big on good Italian restaurants. There’re a few . . . No, I was thinking the best way to do it, you follow him. You see him get in and out of his car. The right moment comes, you pop him and drive away. You do have a car?”
“I got the pickup I drove here. She needs a new batt’ry, I’m always having to jump her. What I been thinking of doing, go to Sears and get a new one.”
“Or you could steal a car, just for the job. I understand,” Randy said, “that’s often the way it’s done. You know, in case someone gets the license number.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Have you ever stolen a car?”
“When I was a kid—they called it joyriding. Yeah, we’d get us a car and go on up to Indianapolis and drive around in it. But what I was thinking,” the Mutt said, “I could get me a driver. It would, you know, free me up. I wouldn’t have to find a place to park when I go to do it.”
“Ask one of your buddies?”
“I don’t have none here. But I know a fella’s done some time’d go for it.”
Randy didn’t like the sound of that one bit. He said, “Mutt, I can’t see you needing help, like it’s your first time and all,” Randy getting a hint of down-home drawl going. “Hell, you get a pistol and shoot the guy. Do a drive-by, you don’t need an assistant for that.”
“I could.”
“You did get hold of a pistol?”
“Not yet, but I will. I’m told there’s nothing to getting a gun in this town.”
Randy said, “Mutt? Let’s do it before this Saturday. Okay?”
“Yeah, well, I’ll get on it.” The Mutt stood up and was about to go; he turned to Randy again. “You never said when you’re gonna pay me.”
Randy looked a little surprised, to show innocence. “I thought when the job’s done. Isn’t that the way?”
The Mutt said, “Well, most times—”
Randy stopped him. “Mutt, hold it.”
The door opened and Vincent Moraco walked in. Mutt stepped aside as the capo approached the desk and Randy said, “Hey, Vincent, we were just talking about you.”
* * *
Debbie was in the kitchen making grilled cheese sandwiches when the phone rang. Not hers, the one on the wall, so she let Terry get it, Terry in the library with the paper open looking up movies. A few minutes passed before he came in the kitchen.
“That was Fran. They’re staying another day, be home tomorrow at four.”
Debbie said, “What about the bed?”
“That’s right, we sleep in it we’ll have to do the sheets again.”
Debbie said, “What if that’s all we do, sleep in it, and in the morning we make the bed, good as new.”
“Not do the sheets.”
“Who’s gonna know?”
“Just sleep in it.”
“Sweetheart, we can fuck anywhere.”
Now Vincent was in the chair at the desk facing Randy and the Mutt was over sitting under Soupy Sales. Randy thought Vincent might ask what they were saying about him, and then thought, No, not Vincent, he would never
show he cared. No, he started right in.
“Tony wants you to give him two hundred fifty as a loan.” He held up the papers. “You sign these, so Tony can turn around and give the check to the girl you fucked over. Tony says let that be a lesson to you.”
Randy narrowed his eyes, but it didn’t change anything. “How did she get to him?”
“With the priest. They got a religious shakedown going. She made the pitch.”
“She tried the same game on me, I threw them out. She sold Tony Amilia?”
“He likes little broads like that.”
“Come on—he’s seventy-five years old.”
“Hey. Tony wants it, he gets it.”
“Okay. He makes out a check to this fund for the little orphans in Africa, writes it off . . . When does Tony repay the loan?”
“It’s in here.” Vincent dropped the papers on the desk. “You sign all three copies.”
Randy looked at the papers, a promissory note, without picking them up. “Twenty-five years ‘at a rate agreed upon—‘ I’m giving it to him.”
“With a check,” Vincent said, “out of one of your personal accounts.”
“I don’t have that much in one place.”
“Write the check.”
Randy had to think. He said, “Or,” and paused. “What? I mean isn’t there a way to get around it?” He said, “After all—”
And the answer came from the Mutt, over against the wall. He said, “Hell, whack him out, the guy that’s getting the check. Then you won’t have to.”
There was a silence. Not a long one. Vincent picked it up saying, “Sure, that’s the first thing you think of, but you got to look at it good, think it through.”
The idea, coming the way it did, got Randy sitting up straight. It was in his mind to wonder why Vincent would go for it, but he said, “What’s to think about? Christ, just do it.”
Vincent said, “I’m talking about how, you fuck.”
“Get a guy who knows how.”
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