Vincent Gargano jumped out of the car, left the engine running, and stalked around it. “Hey, I want to talk to you.” He stood chest to chest with Ricky, or, to be precise, chest to chin, since he was several inches taller. He wore a blue jacket over a deco-print shirt, both open at the chest despite the December cold. The exposed skin of his chest was lightly haired and a mustardy shade of tan. Gargano’s face was pale and bloated. His eyes were heavily lidded, the irises cloudy like a man with cataracts or drugged.
Big as Gargano was, Ricky had expected more. A giant. He was actually disappointed at the pudgy, dissipated man before him. There were rumors Gargano was a heroin addict. Ricky could certainly have outrun him, but he had decided long before that he would submit, appease, pay the tax if that’s what it took. Vinny Gargano’s physical dissipation did not matter much anyway. He was not feared because he was strong; he was feared because he was ferocious.
“The fuck you so nervous about? I just want to talk to you.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You’re not fuckin’ nervous? The fuck. You won’t even fuckin’ tell me your name, and you’re not nervous? What, are you fuckin’ deaf? Is that it? You fuckin’ deaf, you didn’t hear me?”
“No…”
“So, what? What do you got to be nervous about?”
“I told you, I’m not nervous.”
“I just want to talk to ya, for Christ’s sake. You know what I want to talk about?”
“No.”
“You have no idea?”
“No.”
“No fuckin’ idea?”
“Sorry.”
“You have absolutely no fuckin’ idea?”
“No.”
“How come you been duckin’ me?”
“I haven’t been ducking you.”
Gargano scowled. He stepped back to light a cigarette.
Ricky thought his whole act-the movements, the affected Bowery accent, the bullying repetitions-owed quite a bit to the movies. Cagney, mostly. Scarface and White Heat. Ricky knew from experience, from his own family even, that actual cops imitate the make-believe cops in movies and TV shows. He hadn’t realized the phenomenon extended to gangsters as well. But here it was, a gangster imitating an actor imitating a gangster.
“I hear you’re a thief.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“What is it with you? You don’t know how to answer a question? Is this how you talk? Is that true, you’re a thief?”
“No.”
“You’re lying. First question, already you’re lying. You’re a thief.”
“I’m a burglar.”
“The fuck’s the difference?”
“I don’t take things from people, only from buildings.”
“So what? People live in buildings. Same thing.”
“It’s not the same.”
“It’s the same fuckin’ thing. Take from buildings, take from people, stealing’s stealing.”
“I don’t hurt anybody. I only take from empty rooms.”
“They aren’t empty until you get to ’em.”
“That’s right.”
“You see what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, but-”
“You see?”
“Yes.”
“You guys all know each other, you burglars?”
“Some.”
“How about you?”
“I don’t know any. I work alone.”
“You hear anything about a job at the Copley Plaza a few weeks ago, some New York Jew? Somebody ripped off a bunch of diamonds?”
“I read about it in the paper.”
“Yeah? You pull that job?”
“No.”
“I’m gonna ask you again. You do that job?”
“No.” Ricky took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up. He struggled to shield the match from the wind. “No.”
“Who did?”
“No idea.”
“What is this bullshit, ‘no idea’? You know who took those fuckin’ stones.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. Yes, you do. I hear you’re the only guy that could’ve done it.”
“Not true.”
“You’re supposed to be some hotshot thief.”
“Burglar. Lots of guys could have done it.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“You heard wrong. It’s a hotel room. It’s nothing. I could show you how to get in there in ten seconds. Anybody could have ’loided that door with the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging right there on the doorknob.”
“Yeah, but not anybody could fence that much. And not anybody’d know which room to rip off.”
“Look, we don’t have to do all this. If this is about the tax…”
“Who said anything about a tax? What fuckin’ tax?”
“I just thought-”
“You know, you got a smart fuckin’ mouth, you know that? You don’t listen. Anybody ever tell you that?”
Ricky stayed quiet.
“That’s some smart fuckin’ mouth on you.”
Ricky shrugged. About that, he thought, Gargano may have had a point.
“Now you listen to me, Mr. Smart-mouth-I-take-from-empty-rooms-dumb-paddy-mick-fuck. I know what you were thinking: some fat-ass New York Jew, who’s gonna give a shit, right? Only this particular fat-ass New York Jew was under our protection. He paid good money. Know what that means? It means stealing from him’s the same as stealing from us. See, that’s how this works. If you’re with us, you’re with us. Not like you-this guy wasn’t alone in the world. Now if we let someone just take from us and we don’t do nothing about it, then how does that look? What kind of message does that send?”
Ricky waved his cigarette in a little circle. I don’t know.
“Now I’m gonna ask you one more time. Who did that job?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you do it?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie. Don’t you ever lie to me. Did you do it?”
“No.”
“Good. Cuz the guy who took those stones? He better be puttin’ his affairs in order.” Gargano stamped out his cigarette on the sidewalk. “You read me, shit-for-brains? He better be puttin’ his affairs in order.”
“I read you.”
“You read me?”
“I read you.”
