question regarding his sexual appetites, it was common knowledge that if Rico weren’t his brother, he’d still be a foot soldier.
They all shook hands, Rico adding a slug to Joe’s shoulder and a pinch of Dion’s jowl before they got down to it.
The first order of business was what they should do for Shel Gold’s family now that Shel had caught some kind of muscle disease that confined him to a wheelchair. Shel was a Jew and so not part of the Family, but they’d made a lot of money with him over the years and he was funny as all hell. At first, when he’d begun falling for no discernible reasons and one of his eyelids had started to droop, they thought he was just having everyone on. But now he was in the wheelchair and he couldn’t speak too well and he twitched a lot. He was only forty-five, had three kids with the wife, Esther, and another three scattered around the darker parts of town. They decided to slip Esther five hundred bucks and a fruit basket.
The next item for consideration was whether to ask the Commission to open the books for Paul Battalia, who’d turned things around with the sanitation locals and had doubled the book he’d inherited from Salvy LaPretto in six months, which confirmed mostpeople’s opinion that Salvy, six months dead after three strokes in one week, had been the laziest gangster since Ralph Capone.
Rico DiGiacomo wondered if Paul was too young to be made. Six years ago, Joe had encouraged Rico—back then, just a kid, maybe nineteen, Jesus—to think bigger. Now Rico owned several bookmaking joints, two whorehouses, and a phosphate transport company. Plus, most lucratively, he owned a piece of just about every man who worked the docks. And, much like Joe, he’d seemed to have managed it without making many enemies. A miracle in their business far more impressive than turning water into wine or parting a parched sea at low tide. When Dion pointed out that Paul was a year older than Rico himself had been when he’d been welcomed into the Outfit, they both looked to Joe. Joe, an Irishman, could never be a made guy, but as a member of the Commission, he best knew what Battalia’s chances would be.
“I’m not saying exceptions can’t be made,” Joe said, “but the book is pretty much closed for the duration of the thing in Europe. Question is whether Paul is that exception.” He looked at Dion. “Is he?”
“He can ride the bench another year,” Dion said.
Over in the other school yard, Mrs. DiGiacomo swatted at a kid who ran too close to her. Freddy, the more dutiful of the sons, kept his eyes on her. Or, Joe wondered not for the first time, was that all his eyes fell on over there? Sometimes Freddy found reason to retrieve his mother before she exited on her own, and he would always come out of there with sweat on his upper lip, a sodden, distracted look in his eyes.
This morning, though, he looked away from his mother and the school yard full of kids quickly enough, and held the morning paper to his chest. “Anybody want to talk about it?”
Taking up the lower-right-hand corner of the front page was an article on the bust at the cook house in Brown Town.
“How much this cost us?” Dion asked, looking at Joe and Rico.
“In the right now?” Joe said. “About two hundred thousand.”
“What?”
Joe nodded. “That was two months’ supply that got wiped out in there.”
Rico chimed in. “But that’s not including what happens when our competitors fill the void and build some customer loyalty. It also doesn’t include the loss of personnel—one of Montooth’s is dead, one of ours, plus nine in jail. Half the guys in jail ran book, the other half ran policy. We gotta cover their routes, we gotta find replacements, bump guys up, find guys to replace those guys . It’s a mess.”
Dion said what no one wanted to. “How’d they know?”
Rico threw his hands softly in the air. Joe let out a long breath.
Freddy stated the obvious. “We got a
They all shook hands, Rico adding a slug to Joe’s shoulder and a pinch of Dion’s jowl before they got down to it.
The first order of business was what they should do for Shel Gold’s family now that Shel had caught some kind of muscle disease that confined him to a wheelchair. Shel was a Jew and so not part of the Family, but they’d made a lot of money with him over the years and he was funny as all hell. At first, when he’d begun falling for no discernible reasons and one of his eyelids had started to droop, they thought he was just having everyone on. But now he was in the wheelchair and he couldn’t speak too well and he twitched a lot. He was only forty-five, had three kids with the wife, Esther, and another three scattered around the darker parts of town. They decided to slip Esther five hundred bucks and a fruit basket.
The next item for consideration was whether to ask the Commission to open the books for Paul Battalia, who’d turned things around with the sanitation locals and had doubled the book he’d inherited from Salvy LaPretto in six months, which confirmed mostpeople’s opinion that Salvy, six months dead after three strokes in one week, had been the laziest gangster since Ralph Capone.
Rico DiGiacomo wondered if Paul was too young to be made. Six years ago, Joe had encouraged Rico—back then, just a kid, maybe nineteen, Jesus—to think bigger. Now Rico owned several bookmaking joints, two whorehouses, and a phosphate transport company. Plus, most lucratively, he owned a piece of just about every man who worked the docks. And, much like Joe, he’d seemed to have managed it without making many enemies. A miracle in their business far more impressive than turning water into wine or parting a parched sea at low tide. When Dion pointed out that Paul was a year older than Rico himself had been when he’d been welcomed into the Outfit, they both looked to Joe. Joe, an Irishman, could never be a made guy, but as a member of the Commission, he best knew what Battalia’s chances would be.
“I’m not saying exceptions can’t be made,” Joe said, “but the book is pretty much closed for the duration of the thing in Europe. Question is whether Paul is that exception.” He looked at Dion. “Is he?”
“He can ride the bench another year,” Dion said.
Over in the other school yard, Mrs. DiGiacomo swatted at a kid who ran too close to her. Freddy, the more dutiful of the sons, kept his eyes on her. Or, Joe wondered not for the first time, was that all his eyes fell on over there? Sometimes Freddy found reason to retrieve his mother before she exited on her own, and he would always come out of there with sweat on his upper lip, a sodden, distracted look in his eyes.
This morning, though, he looked away from his mother and the school yard full of kids quickly enough, and held the morning paper to his chest. “Anybody want to talk about it?”
Taking up the lower-right-hand corner of the front page was an article on the bust at the cook house in Brown Town.
“How much this cost us?” Dion asked, looking at Joe and Rico.
“In the right now?” Joe said. “About two hundred thousand.”
“What?”
Joe nodded. “That was two months’ supply that got wiped out in there.”
Rico chimed in. “But that’s not including what happens when our competitors fill the void and build some customer loyalty. It also doesn’t include the loss of personnel—one of Montooth’s is dead, one of ours, plus nine in jail. Half the guys in jail ran book, the other half ran policy. We gotta cover their routes, we gotta find replacements, bump guys up, find guys to replace those guys . It’s a mess.”
Dion said what no one wanted to. “How’d they know?”
Rico threw his hands softly in the air. Joe let out a long breath.
Freddy stated the obvious. “We got a
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