“Who?”
“The big boss.”
“Wants to talk to me?”
“That’s right.”
“Bullshit.” Joe gestured with his eyes at the four apes. “Why all the muscle if alls we’re gonna do is talk?”
“It’s just talk, Joe. You have my word.”
“Where?”
“C.C.’s Lounge, right around the corner. You’ll be back in a minute, like nothing ever happened.”
Joe calculated. It was reckless of Gargano to approach him in such a public place, even after dark-a gangster grabbing a cop off a busy downtown street. Joe took it as another sign of his own diminishing life expectancy; Gargano would not risk burning a valuable source if he meant to keep him around much longer. Then again, in a heroin haze Gargano’s erratic behavior might not signal anything at all except his own unraveling. Vinnie The Animal was following a well-worn mob career path: He would go out in a blaze of glory someday, done in by the very wildness that had made him, like Paul Muni in Scarface. But if The Animal had intended to kill Joe, he would not have pulled a stunt like this one. In any case, Gargano had too much muscle on his side. Joe opted for a tactical retreat.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“No. Come on, come with us in the car.”
“Pretty crowded car. What, am I gonna ride in the trunk?”
“For fuck’s sake, Joe, I already told you, it’s not like that. I swear.”
“Just the same. Nice night for a stroll.”
Gargano shook his head. People were so mistrustful. “Alright, you stroll, then.”
Chico Tirico gave him a shove. “Stroll, motherfucker.”
Joe let it go.
He walked three blocks through the Combat Zone to C.C.’s Lounge, on Tremont, as Gargano’s black-finned Caddy lurked alongside, tactlessly.
Reassembled there, the group marched through the bar. The early-evening drinkers all turned their heads in silence to watch them pass, the prisoner and his escort.
Down an ancient staircase to a basement office. Grimy, small, windowless. A few chairs, a desk.
Two men waited inside.
Gargano gestured for Joe to go inside, and he did.
The smaller of the two men stood facing him. He was slim and tall, thought not as tall as Joe. Mid-fifties, Italian, with dark thick hair going gray at the sides and in a patch above his forehead. He stood in a theatrically defiant way: arms folded, head tipped back, offering his chin and a Mussolini frown.
“You’re Daley?” the man said.
“Yeah.”
“You know who I am?”
“No.”
“I’m Carlo Capobianco. This is my brother Niccolo.”
Joe had heard of Charlie and Nicky Capobianco. Tonight they were Carlo and Niccolo. They were Italian and Joe was not. At the moment this fact seemed to be all that mattered.
“This is the last time you disrespect me. You hear me? Last fuckin’ time. Your whole fuckin’ family. Your brother the thief steals from me, now you make trouble for me, what am I supposed to do?” He glowered.
“Is this about money?”
“Is this about money?” Capobianco’s face tensed.
“’Cause I can get the money up. I swear.”
Capobianco came forward, suddenly and inexplicably pissed off. He stopped a few steps from Joe so that the disparity in their heights would not be so apparent, and he stood with his chest out and chin up like a gamecock. He spoke fast and loud: “Are you fuckin’ stupid? These Irish fuckin’ cops-what, do you got fuckin’ rocks in your head? Answer me, you got rocks in your head? Or potatuhs? Look at ’m: nine feet tall and nothing but potatuhs in his head. This is what we got, a whole police department full of these backward fuckin’ Paddys. How the fuck do you guys ever fuckin’ catch anyone? You walk around with your hand out and your head up your ass-what I want to know is, how the fuck do you ever catch anyone? Huh? Let me ask you something. How is it when the Italians already ruled the fuckin’ world, a thousand years ago or whatever, you fuckin’ Paddys were still running around in the woods like fuckin’ cavemen, digging in the dirt for something to eat?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You fuckin’ stupid?”
“No.”
“No? No? I hear you’re a fuckin’ idiot. I hear you’re about the stupidest Paddy cocksucker on the police force. And that’s saying something.”
It occurred to Joe that, all things being equal, he could break this greaseball guido midget in half with one hand. But all things were not equal.
Capobianco wiped a curl of spittle at the corner of his mouth. “This is the last time you disrespect me.”
“Charlie.” Nick smiled in a way calculated to soothe both men. He was older and cooler-headed than his brother. He wiggled his finger: Let’s get on with it.
Charlie Capobianco said, “You been told to stay out of the West End?”
Joe was thrown. He was prepared to talk about money. Capobianco would threaten him about his spiraling debt, demand he pay it off or else, and Joe in turn would offer whatever empty promises came to mind. It was an exchange he and Gargano had rehearsed many times already. It was supposed to be about money, not the West End.
“You were told, stay out of there, let it alone.”
“Yeah.”
“Then you get moved out of Station One and they tell you again: Stay out of the West End. And still I got to hear about this dumb fuckin’ Paddy cop running around over there. You take my money? Like the rest of the pig cops in Station One, you take my fuckin’ money?”
“I guess so.”
“So how come when I ask you for something you don’t do it?”
“I don’t understand. You asked me for something?”
“Jesus, you are a dumb fuck. I told you to stay out of the West End. You stupid fuck.”
Joe’s thoughts snagged on the word stupid every time it was repeated. He had to force himself to hear the rest. He rotated his head so that one ear was aimed at Capobianco, to be sure he caught it all and could repeat the remainder of the sentence in his mind minus that word. What the hell was Capobianco ranting about?
“What,” Joe said simply, “do you care about the West End?”
“Never mind what I care. Your job isn’t to think. You’re not smart enough to think. Your job is to fuckin’ do what you’re told.” Charlie Capobianco wandered away from Joe, deeper into the small office. “Just do what you’re told or you’re gonna wind up like your thief brother.”
“What’s this got do with my brother? This has got nothing to do with my brother.”
“No. He’s got enough trouble.”
“He didn’t do nothin’.”
“No? Well, just the same, I wouldn’t stand too close to him. Be a shame to lose the both o’ yuz.”
“You stay the fuck away from my brother.”
“What?” Capobianco was livid again, the switch was thrown. “What did you say to me?”
But Joe was too far gone. Fuck Capobianco. Fuck this whole thing. “I said, stay the fuck away from my brother.” He saw Capobianco’s expression coil again, and knew he had fucked up. But it was too late.
Charlie Capobianco said to his brother, “Get this fuckin’ guy out of here. Get him out.” Then to Joe: “I’m through with you, cop. You understand me? Do you know who I am? You better learn your fuckin’ place. Learn your fuckin’ place. This is the last time you’ll disrespect me. You know what a contract is?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t stand too close to your brother.”
