words.”
Sanno laughed and sipped some more whiskey and looked around. Junior was gone. Tony Dee was at the bar with Sidge.
“You seen too many movies, Carlos,” he said. “This is the real world. This ain’t The Godfather . This ain’t Scarface .”
“You saw Scarface ? What’d you think?”
“Too violent. But I liked the girl, Al Pacino’s sister.”
“Beautiful.”
“She’s Italian,” Sanno said. “Like Pacino.”
“Don’t put me on.”
“You could look it up,” Sanno said.
“I like the movie,” Carlos said.
“It ain’t a documentary, Carlos,” Sanno said. “It ain’t even a training film.”
“Yeah, but it gotta point, man. I think you know what it is.”
“No. What is it, Carlos?”
“It’s our turn now.”
“That’s the point? What are you, a critic, too?”
“No, but I read history. First the Irish had it. Then the Jews had it. Then you people had it. Now we’re gonna have it.”
“What’s ‘it,’ Carlos?”
“Everything,” he said, and laughed.
A waiter came over with two plates of marinated shrimp, placed them in front of the two men, bowed, and went away.
“Suppose I tell you to get lost,” Sanno said.
“Mistake.”
“I’m thinking just sitting here’s a mistake.”
Carlos tested one of the shrimps, then chewed it in a distracted way. He gazed out at the trio, which was now playing “Yesterday.”
“Don’t worry,” Carlos said. “We’ll take care of business. And we make you a deal. You get a percentage the rest of your life. You move down t’ Florida someplace, you get a condo, you go to the track every day, you get a tan. You need girls, we get you some girls. You need a driver, we get you a driver. You be like a consultant. The percentage goes anywhere you want it. A bank here, a bank down there. Switzerland. The Caymans. Don’t matter to us.” He sighed. “It’s easy. You just get outta the way, and tell the right people it’s ours.”
“Suppose I tell the right people to blow your head off?”
Now he could see Junior, at the end of the bar, acting as if he didn’t know Sidge or Tony Dee. Carlos took a pack of Benson & Hedges from his inside coat pocket. Nothing moved in his face, and his eyes were cold and unblinking.
“Look, I’m tryin’ to make this easy,” Carlos said. “We could come in, fight you for it. What happens? Lots of dead people. And we win that. Know why? We know you, and you don’t know us. You don’t know where we live. You don’t know nothin’. But you know we’re here. You’re not dumb, Sanno. You wouldn’t’ve lasted this long. But why have a mess? Why have a war?”
“Maybe I’d just like to see you with a hole in your head.”
Carlos smiled, and began to recite addresses. In New Jersey, in Brooklyn, in Lido Beach, in the North Bronx. Even in Huntington Beach, California. And Sanno knew who lived in all those places: his wife, his two daughters and his son, each of his grandchildren.
“Now, if anything happens to me, something bad happens to the people that live in those houses,” Carlos said, smiling thinly. “Not just you. Not just the three dummies at the bar, and the other dummies you got workin’ for you. Everybody. Wives, children, babies: don’t matter. War is war, right? Anyway, they all been livin’ off what you made, so they’re part of it. We got one rule: hurt us, we hurt you back worse. Know what I mean?”
He was serious. Sanno was certain of that. He struggled to contain the old instincts, the street rage, the urge to strike and hurt. But he showed nothing. He took another sip of Scotch, then glanced at his watch. He saw Marie, watching television. Then covered with blood.
“I gotta run,” Sanno said.
“Stay and eat.”
“Not with you, pal.”
Carlos speared another shrimp, and said: “So?”
“I’ll get back to you,” Sanno said, and started easing out of the booth. Carlos touched his forearm, and Sanno paused.
“The girl, Al Pacino’s sister,”
Sanno laughed and sipped some more whiskey and looked around. Junior was gone. Tony Dee was at the bar with Sidge.
“You seen too many movies, Carlos,” he said. “This is the real world. This ain’t The Godfather . This ain’t Scarface .”
“You saw Scarface ? What’d you think?”
“Too violent. But I liked the girl, Al Pacino’s sister.”
“Beautiful.”
“She’s Italian,” Sanno said. “Like Pacino.”
“Don’t put me on.”
“You could look it up,” Sanno said.
“I like the movie,” Carlos said.
“It ain’t a documentary, Carlos,” Sanno said. “It ain’t even a training film.”
“Yeah, but it gotta point, man. I think you know what it is.”
“No. What is it, Carlos?”
“It’s our turn now.”
“That’s the point? What are you, a critic, too?”
“No, but I read history. First the Irish had it. Then the Jews had it. Then you people had it. Now we’re gonna have it.”
“What’s ‘it,’ Carlos?”
“Everything,” he said, and laughed.
A waiter came over with two plates of marinated shrimp, placed them in front of the two men, bowed, and went away.
“Suppose I tell you to get lost,” Sanno said.
“Mistake.”
“I’m thinking just sitting here’s a mistake.”
Carlos tested one of the shrimps, then chewed it in a distracted way. He gazed out at the trio, which was now playing “Yesterday.”
“Don’t worry,” Carlos said. “We’ll take care of business. And we make you a deal. You get a percentage the rest of your life. You move down t’ Florida someplace, you get a condo, you go to the track every day, you get a tan. You need girls, we get you some girls. You need a driver, we get you a driver. You be like a consultant. The percentage goes anywhere you want it. A bank here, a bank down there. Switzerland. The Caymans. Don’t matter to us.” He sighed. “It’s easy. You just get outta the way, and tell the right people it’s ours.”
“Suppose I tell the right people to blow your head off?”
Now he could see Junior, at the end of the bar, acting as if he didn’t know Sidge or Tony Dee. Carlos took a pack of Benson & Hedges from his inside coat pocket. Nothing moved in his face, and his eyes were cold and unblinking.
“Look, I’m tryin’ to make this easy,” Carlos said. “We could come in, fight you for it. What happens? Lots of dead people. And we win that. Know why? We know you, and you don’t know us. You don’t know where we live. You don’t know nothin’. But you know we’re here. You’re not dumb, Sanno. You wouldn’t’ve lasted this long. But why have a mess? Why have a war?”
“Maybe I’d just like to see you with a hole in your head.”
Carlos smiled, and began to recite addresses. In New Jersey, in Brooklyn, in Lido Beach, in the North Bronx. Even in Huntington Beach, California. And Sanno knew who lived in all those places: his wife, his two daughters and his son, each of his grandchildren.
“Now, if anything happens to me, something bad happens to the people that live in those houses,” Carlos said, smiling thinly. “Not just you. Not just the three dummies at the bar, and the other dummies you got workin’ for you. Everybody. Wives, children, babies: don’t matter. War is war, right? Anyway, they all been livin’ off what you made, so they’re part of it. We got one rule: hurt us, we hurt you back worse. Know what I mean?”
He was serious. Sanno was certain of that. He struggled to contain the old instincts, the street rage, the urge to strike and hurt. But he showed nothing. He took another sip of Scotch, then glanced at his watch. He saw Marie, watching television. Then covered with blood.
“I gotta run,” Sanno said.
“Stay and eat.”
“Not with you, pal.”
Carlos speared another shrimp, and said: “So?”
“I’ll get back to you,” Sanno said, and started easing out of the booth. Carlos touched his forearm, and Sanno paused.
“The girl, Al Pacino’s sister,”
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