“We’re gonna pass on this one. You should too.” Nobody said much after that. Art looked down at his glass. It was empty. So was mine.
Even in a crowded room, Osorio seemed alone. It wasn’t just the minders who watched, unblinking, from the corners of the room. It wasn’t the regal solitude of the man as he sat at the best table in the house, savoring the bouquet that swirled from a brandy snifter. There was a space around Osorio at all times, a zone filled with threat and innuendo and the memories of old violence.
“Dr. Burke,” he said, smiling. His face was lined like old leather, his teeth square and strong looking. He swirled the brandy around the crystal glass, watching the languid wash of the liquid with deep appreciation. I stood a pace away from him, hands held at rest by my sides. I waited.
You don’t get too close to Don Osorio without an invitation. He’s a legend in Brooklyn’s criminal underworld. And the stories of his rise to his current undisputed prominence as a Latino crime boss made Macbeth seem squeamish. You can say his crazy days were long behind him. And looking at him, dapper and placid, an old lion at rest, you might almost have believed it. But don’t be fooled. Yamashita had once confided to me that Osorio was the second deadliest person he knew.
“Who’s the first?” I had asked Yamashita.
He had almost smirked. “I am, Burke.”
We had done Osorio a favor once and he had reciprocated. He understood deals. He even might have understood honor, if the cost were not too high. I thought he might be willing to help me with the Miyazaki, so I arrived unannounced at his dinner table. He might have been surprised—it was hard to tell—but the old gangster was certainly amused. And that and only that explained why I had gotten this far at all. I saw the subtle dismissive wave he gave his bodyguard. The man sat back, coiling down into stillness, but not into rest. His eyes never blinked. In contrast, Osorio’s eyes crinkled in expectation.
I needed help finding Chie Miyazaki and her low-life boyfriend. There are two types of people who have the information that can help with problems like this. You can go to the good guys—people like my brother. Or you can go the other way—to people like Osorio.
I apologized to Osorio for my intrusion. “I’ve come seeking help, Don Osorio.” I could tell that he liked that, the way I called him “Don,” the archaic title of respect. Osorio knew nine-tenths of successful intimidation is reputation alone. He worked hard at cultivating his aura of Old World menace, and pleasing him was always a good strategy for any supplicant. Osorio didn’t smile at the flattery, yet he waved a hand in invitation and I sat down.
And waited. The crisp table linen, the image of the old man caressing a brandy snifter, the hum of the conversation of the other diners could almost lull you into relaxing and speaking your mind. But that wasn’t the way the game would be played. It wasn’t exactly Japanese in approach, but it was close enough so I understood the dynamics.
“And how is my sister’s son?” the old man inquired.
Some time ago, Yamashita had agreed to train Osorio’s nephew, an aspiring young martial artist. It went against most of my teacher’s standards for admission to the dojo, but at the time it seemed a small price to pay for the help we needed. Osorio had delivered the requested service, and his nephew picked up the sword with us. Surprisingly, young Ricardo had endured.
“Fine,” I said evasively. I remembered my recent class demonstration and what I had done to Rick, but kept it to myself.
“And Yamashita Sensei?”
“Aging gracefully.”
Osorio smiled tightly. “Grace … a welcome companion in old age, Dr. Burke. But do not be fooled. Old tigers are often the most dangerous.” His eyes were brown and knowing.
“Indeed they are, Don Osorio.”
A waiter arrived, seemingly unbidden, and set a second brandy snifter
Even in a crowded room, Osorio seemed alone. It wasn’t just the minders who watched, unblinking, from the corners of the room. It wasn’t the regal solitude of the man as he sat at the best table in the house, savoring the bouquet that swirled from a brandy snifter. There was a space around Osorio at all times, a zone filled with threat and innuendo and the memories of old violence.
“Dr. Burke,” he said, smiling. His face was lined like old leather, his teeth square and strong looking. He swirled the brandy around the crystal glass, watching the languid wash of the liquid with deep appreciation. I stood a pace away from him, hands held at rest by my sides. I waited.
You don’t get too close to Don Osorio without an invitation. He’s a legend in Brooklyn’s criminal underworld. And the stories of his rise to his current undisputed prominence as a Latino crime boss made Macbeth seem squeamish. You can say his crazy days were long behind him. And looking at him, dapper and placid, an old lion at rest, you might almost have believed it. But don’t be fooled. Yamashita had once confided to me that Osorio was the second deadliest person he knew.
“Who’s the first?” I had asked Yamashita.
He had almost smirked. “I am, Burke.”
We had done Osorio a favor once and he had reciprocated. He understood deals. He even might have understood honor, if the cost were not too high. I thought he might be willing to help me with the Miyazaki, so I arrived unannounced at his dinner table. He might have been surprised—it was hard to tell—but the old gangster was certainly amused. And that and only that explained why I had gotten this far at all. I saw the subtle dismissive wave he gave his bodyguard. The man sat back, coiling down into stillness, but not into rest. His eyes never blinked. In contrast, Osorio’s eyes crinkled in expectation.
I needed help finding Chie Miyazaki and her low-life boyfriend. There are two types of people who have the information that can help with problems like this. You can go to the good guys—people like my brother. Or you can go the other way—to people like Osorio.
I apologized to Osorio for my intrusion. “I’ve come seeking help, Don Osorio.” I could tell that he liked that, the way I called him “Don,” the archaic title of respect. Osorio knew nine-tenths of successful intimidation is reputation alone. He worked hard at cultivating his aura of Old World menace, and pleasing him was always a good strategy for any supplicant. Osorio didn’t smile at the flattery, yet he waved a hand in invitation and I sat down.
And waited. The crisp table linen, the image of the old man caressing a brandy snifter, the hum of the conversation of the other diners could almost lull you into relaxing and speaking your mind. But that wasn’t the way the game would be played. It wasn’t exactly Japanese in approach, but it was close enough so I understood the dynamics.
“And how is my sister’s son?” the old man inquired.
Some time ago, Yamashita had agreed to train Osorio’s nephew, an aspiring young martial artist. It went against most of my teacher’s standards for admission to the dojo, but at the time it seemed a small price to pay for the help we needed. Osorio had delivered the requested service, and his nephew picked up the sword with us. Surprisingly, young Ricardo had endured.
“Fine,” I said evasively. I remembered my recent class demonstration and what I had done to Rick, but kept it to myself.
“And Yamashita Sensei?”
“Aging gracefully.”
Osorio smiled tightly. “Grace … a welcome companion in old age, Dr. Burke. But do not be fooled. Old tigers are often the most dangerous.” His eyes were brown and knowing.
“Indeed they are, Don Osorio.”
A waiter arrived, seemingly unbidden, and set a second brandy snifter
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