Caliato said, “There was an armored-car robbery this afternoon.”
“Yeah,” said Chaka. “We heard about it on the car radio.” The other two nodded.
Caliato was interested. He said, “Do they know how much?”
“Seventy-three grand, they said.”
Benniggio glanced around, then looked out the window again.
Caliato didn’t show anything. He said, “There’s a guy across the way in the park with some of the dough. I don’t know how much. We’re supposed to take it away from him and give it to Mr. Lozini.”
They all looked willing, but not enlightened.
“He hid out in there when their car tipped over,” Caliato said. “We know he’s in there, we know he can’t get out anywhere except that gate. We’ve got two cops working with us, as soon as they get off duty they’ll come back here and see can they take him the quiet way. If they can’t, we go in there and find him.”
Pulsone said, “We keep him alive?”
“No.”
They all nodded. Abadandi said, “Any chance of us getting sticky fingers, Mr. Caliato?”
Caliato shook his head. “No. The money goes to Mr. Lozini. You’ll get your hundred each out of the bag when we get it, and the rest goes to Mr. Lozini.”
Benniggio glanced around again, and looked again out the window.
Caliato understood the principles of leadership, and one of them was never to let your troops know the full disparity between what they were getting and what you were getting. So long as Chaka and Pulsone and Abadandi thought everybody present was working on salary, they’d be happy with their C-note. But if they found out they were only getting a hundred bucks each while some of the others present were sharing the seventy-three- thousand-dollar pot among themselves, they’d be unhappy. And unhappy troops don’t function well. So Caliato told them a little white lie, and they would stay happy.
Now Caliato said, “Abadandi, take Benny’s place at the window for a while. Watch for anything happening over at the gate. You other two sit down, take it easy. And if any cops wander by, don’t show yourselves in the windows.”
They all organized themselves, Benniggio stretching and grunting again as he came away from the window, then sitting on a folding chair in a corner, his feet sticking out.
Caliato reluctantly put out his cigar, the butt as neat and compact as when he’d first lit up. He smoked patiently, too, clean and patient and with full enjoyment. Full enjoyment came from taking your time, always taking your time.
Time. Twenty after four. O’Hara and Dunstan should be back in less than two hours, a little after six. Around him, the others were beginning to talk together, low-voiced conversation, mostly about professional football. Abadandi was perched where Benniggio had been, watching the gate across the way. Everything was ready.
Caliato put his hands in his overcoat pockets and sat back in the swivel chair to wait.
Six
AT QUARTER to six Benniggio was ahead fifty-seven bucks. He’d opened his overcoat and settled into the game, almost forgetting what they were really here for. Poker called to him in a voice louder than almost anything in the world. Except Caliato’s voice, of course, that was louder to Benniggio even than poker.
Benniggio was a young guy, but he understood things, and one of the things he understood was that he was an also-ran. He was going to be an also-ran all his life, he was never going to be on top of the heap, and by Alfred Benniggio that was just fine. At the top was the gravy, true enough, but at the top also were the decisions, the responsibilities and the cold winds. And the danger, the trouble, the problems of taking care of all the Benniggios down below. In a lot of ways, an also-ran was a very nice thing to be.
If, that, is you picked the right guy to run behind. Nobody exists without being connected to other people somewhere along the line, and if you made a mistake and connected yourself to a guy who was going to come to a bad end, then maybe you would come to a bad end too. But that wasn’t going to happen to Benniggio, no, sir. He had tied himself to a fellow named Caliato, and he’d never had a moment’s doubt or a moment’s regret. Caliato was safe, and he was going to be important, and his buddy Benniggio was going to be one step behind him all the way.
“Benny.”
Benniggio looked up at his master’s voice. He’d just been dealt the beginning of a seven-card stud hand — seven of diamonds and nine of spades down, queen of clubs up — and he turned away from it, saying, “Yeah?”
“The phone’s ringing,” Caliato told him.
Benniggio looked blank. There was a phone on the other desk, not the one where he and Tony Chaka and Mike Abadandi and Artie Pulsone were playing poker, but it wasn’t ringing. Benniggio couldn’t hear it ringing. He said, “The phone?”
“In the car,” Caliato said. He was over at the desk nearest the tollbooth window so he would be able to hear it. The others were at the desk where they could look out through the front window and see the Fun Island gates across the way.
“Oh,” Benniggio said, and got to his feet. “Fold me,” he said to the others — he would have said that even if the down cards had also been queens — and went outside and around to the Lincoln.
It was funny to hear a phone ringing in an automobile, Benniggio never got used to it. Feeling Caliato’s presence just the other side of the window behind him, he got into the back seat of the Lincoln now, opened the compartment, and took out the phone. “Hello?”
“Caliato?” The voice sounded in a hurry.
“Who’s calling?”
