The Best Revenge (21 page)

“Is it Golub?” I asked. “That conflict-of-interest stuff?”

“Not really. I'll see you to the door,” he said.

“I can find my way out,” I said.

I walk back to my office bumping into people, steaming. That shitkicker turns
me
down? My old man always said to look for dirt in a man's laundry basket. I had my usual check run on Mr. Highfalutin Rivers, same as I do when a new customer wants heavy money. Two days later Gorgeous hands me a four-page memo I could have kissed. Mrs. Rivers number one and number two left him because he's got race-track disease? And guess who his bank was? You got it, Barone!

I'm sorry, Mr. Manucci, genuinely sorry. In a pig's ass he turns me down. Twenty percent a week vigorish kills you quick. That's when Barone looks to see what else you got besides money. Barone isn't stupid. Inside a couple of weeks he does what all the psychiatrists in New York put together couldn't do. He cures Rivers of gambling by putting out four words to the bookies: No credit to Rivers. This city ever wants to stop all drug traffic real cheap all they got to do is pay the right price to Barone and give him five weeks to clean up Queens and Harlem and three days extra for Wall Street. Only any politician got the guts to go to Barone better have another job waiting as soon as the smear starts.

When Barone gets a guy like Rivers up against the wall, he doesn't break Rivers's legs, he uses them.

I remember five, six, seven years ago, when that gorilla bought out the independents in his territory, one by fucking one. The guys Barone couldn't buy, he ran out. When he said he wanted to see me, I said, “Sure. In my office. Alone.” He came all right, looked around blinking like he was above ground for the first time in his life.

“Some office,” he said.

“What's on your mind?” I said, as if I didn't know.

So he told me. And I told him to go take a flying fuck. At the door, right in front of my secretary, he said, “Soon as your old man six feet down, somebody's going to send you to keep him company.”

I told her, “Write that down. What you heard him say. Take it to a notary. I want an affidavit that you heard his threat.”

I heard Barone went nuts in front of his boys, screaming, “How come I got to work out of restaurants, lofts, when that little shit Manucci got an office like a king?” My guy phoned me, laughing so hard I could hardly make out what he was saying. He said the boys tried to quiet Barone down, saying, “Boss, the Feds can't bug you if you move around.”

Barone's problem was I had figured out how to get away with what he couldn't get away with. I was a businessman. He would always be a hood.

I never don't lock my car in parking lots. One day three four years ago I came out of the barber shop and saw someone sitting in my front passenger seat.

I've got a good smeller for trouble. I started walking away when the guy inside my car rolled the window down and said, “Mr. Manucci, Mr. B. would like to have a short discussion with you.”

I knew two guys who'd been summoned to “discussions with Barone.” Along the Belt Parkway the tall grass will hide a body, but not for long.

“Where?” I said, thinking maybe this is a chance to get a finger to Barone again.

“There's a little restaurant near Mosholu, you know, near Montefiore, the Italian Garden.”

“Sure,” I said. “I know the place.”

The door on the driver's side was still locked. He reached across and opened it for me. I slid in, wondering if he'd checked the glove compartment and discovered the .38. I wasn't about to find out with him sitting right in front of it. Besides, I had something else in mind. Barone had taken the initiative, but this was going to be my show.

“You're driving slowly,” the man said after a while.

“You in a hurry?” I asked.

“Maybe Mr. Barone is in a hurry.”

“I'm a slow driver,” I said, my eyes searching. I spotted the cruising police car about four blocks away, headed toward us. The man saw it, too. He didn't react. What's a police car?

I let the left wheels go over the double yellow line a bit. Then a bit more as we got closer. I wanted them to notice me. Then when we were half a block apart I turned just enough into the oncoming lane to cause the police car to brake.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the man said, stretching his cords.

I stopped a couple of feet between my radiator and theirs. Both cops came out at once, the tall one reaching my window just as I rolled it down.

“Thank you,” I said to the cop. “I wanted to get your attention. This man…
”
I jerked a thumb in the direction of my visitor, “broke into my automobile in a parking lot and was abducting me.”

They made us both get out and put our hands against the roof of the car. I could see the anger boiling in the man's face. The cop frisked me, found nothing. The shorter cop patted the man down and, surprise, he had a gun in a holster under his arm. “You have a permit for this?” the cop asked. “I want to phone my lawyer,” the man said as the cuffs were snapped on him. The cop was deaf. He pushed the hood's head down as he shoved him into the back of the police car.

“We'll need a statement from you,” the cop said to me. “Follow us to the station house.”

On the way I reached into the glove compartment and put the gun in my pocket in case the car was searched.

*

Barone phoned me at my office. My girl told him I was out. He called a second time and said, “Tell Mr. Manucci one of my people saw him come into the building a little while ago so he ain't out.” Okay, I took the call.

Barone said, “I don't understand you, Nick. What'd you do to my fellow?”

“I didn't do anything,” I said. “I just introduced him to some local law-enforcement people. If you want to talk to me I'm always happy to see you in my office, alone. Would you like to make an appointment?”

“This was going to be a friendly meeting,” Barone said. “I was going to make you two offers. I buy all your outstandings for five hundred percent of face. You can retire rich for a few years or you can come in with us on a percentage of everything. How do you think about something like that?”

“Mr. Barone,” I said, “my father didn't like the idea of working for somebody else. He said he was no good as an employee because he didn't know how to take orders. And I'm like him, no feeling for organization. I've got a long-term lease in the Seagram. Though I have to tell you, Barone, five hundred of face is pretty damn generous.”

“Thank you. I thought you might say no, so I have a smaller proposition, a little business we could do, all right? As you know, Nick—it's okay I call you Nick, right?—I been putting together pieces in a certain eight-square-block area in Woodside, right, almost perfect except for a small piece of property the size of a hat, a candy store with three apartments up above, that somebody else owns, you know what I'm talking about?”

“That piece is owned by one of my companies, Mr. Barone,” I said. “I thought you knew that.”

I'd seen what he was doing in Woodside and I bought that small parcel overnight. He hadn't played fast enough. The rest would be no good to him unless he got my piece.

Barone said, “I know you get a lot of real pleasure out of that candy store, Nick, but I thought you might get more pleasure if I paid you two fifty for it.”

“I have a better idea, Mr. Barone. Why don't I give you five hundred for your parcels?”

He hung up so hard my eardrum hummed. I could have kissed the telephone. It was as if a whole church choir was singing all around me. Oh God, how I loved screwing Barone to the wall! I walked a foot off the ground.

When I told the old man, I expected him to say, “Wonderful! Wonderful!”

What he said was “That's not the last time you hear from Barone, Nick.”

“Better offer for my parcel? I still won't take it.”

“Barone not stupid. He wait for you to make mistake.”

I didn't think Barone had the patience to wait three four years.

*

I picked up the phone and said to Rivers's secretary, “Sweetie, this is Nick Manucci. Put Mr. Rivers on.”

In two seconds she's back. “Mr. Rivers is busy.”

“Tell him Barone sent me.”

I heard her breathing but that's all.

“Sweetie, don't sit on your twat. Tell him what I said.”

The next thing I heard is Rivers saying, “Mr. Manucci, what you said to my secretary has got her very upset.”

“Did she give you my message?”

“I have someone in my office.”

“Well, step out of your office into her office 'cause I am going to have the rest of our conversation now.”

That tough son-of-a-bitch lawyer's got Barone's nutcracker on his balls. Somebody stupid would have said to me, “Who's Barone?” or something like that. Rivers is not stupid. When he gets back on, he said, “What's this about Barone?”

“Mr. Rivers,” I said to him, “this is my offer. I'll pay you a retainer, rain or shine, two grand a week.”

He coughed. He didn't have a cold. He had a pineapple up his ass he couldn't get rid of.

“I'm not kidding,” I said to him. “You use my two grand to pay Barone back and in no time—three years tops—you're free and clear.”

He did the cough again. I'm polite. I said to him, “You take care of your cold, Mr. Rivers.”

“I don't have a cold. I'm thinking.”

So I said, “Let me help. You can live on what you get from your other clients. You can forget Barone. Your new wife—you do have a new wife, right?”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

“Well, she'll sure appreciate not having to worry about Barone. And I'll appreciate being your number-one client. That makes two people who'll appreciate you who may not be appreciating you right now.”

It's time for Rivers to say something, so I shut up and concentrate on finishing my doodle, which is a tic-tac-toe I always win.

“You're an interesting negotiator, Mr. Manucci. I thought you handled the Golub matter beautifully.”

“We have a deal?”

“I'll come over to your office.” He sounds like I just let him out of jail.

“We don't need a meeting. We just had it. You want me to pay Barone direct? He'll know it's from you, but he won't know it's me that's paying it.”

He's thinking. I don't want him to strain himself, so I said, “This way you won't have to think about income tax.”

I figure by this time Rivers wants to kiss my ass. “You can draw up a piece of paper,” I said.

“I'd just as soon not have it in writing. You're a gentleman, Mr. Manucci, I trust you.”

What am I going to say? “Terrific. You're retained. The first payment gets to Barone on Friday.” I don't want him thanking me, so I said good-bye and hung up. What I'm thinking is Hey, Papa Manucci, when I walked in there Rivers was working for Barone—now he's working for me!

18

Ben

I arrived at the office late. Charlotte said, “That Chicago man called.”

“Did you tell him everything's under control?”

“He didn't want to talk to me. He wants to talk to you.”

“Tell him I've got a strep throat.”

“Your check-up man called, too.”

“Who?”

“Steve Nissof. He said it was urgent.”

“Why didn't you call me at home?”

“I did. Jane said you were still asleep, that you'd had a rough night.”

“She should have awakened me.”

“She said she'd leave a note.”

“I didn't see a note.”

“I'll get him,” said Charlotte, dialing.

“I hurry my ass off,” Nissof said, “then I can't get you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, Mr. Riller, you're lucky. You got yourself a deal.”

“When do I see Barone?”

“You don't have to. I offered him three thousand to light a little fire. You should have heard him yell. Three thousand is tipping money! But when I said the fire was to be under Nick Manucci, hey man! If Barone didn't have a habit of taking money, he might have done this for nothing.”

“You didn't tell him the job was for me?”

“Absolutely not. You should have heard him on the subject of Manucci. Our timing was perfect. Apparently Manucci screwed him out of some collateral just a couple of days ago. What you've got to do first, Mr. Riller, is get me my five thousand. I only get two grand out of the deal.”

I felt a squirrel in my chest. “I hope this isn't going to involve anything physical.”

Nissof said, “Manucci was squeezing your nuts, wasn't he?”

I didn't say anything.

“Now look, Mr. Riller,” Nissof went on. “It's done. No backing off. A phone handshake with Barone is made in concrete, understand? I can't welsh on him, which means you can't welsh on me. When do I get the dough?”

“
Soon.”

“How soon?”

*

I reached Jane at her office. “I'm in the middle of a meeting, Ben.” I could feel the hesitation in her voice. “Can I get back to you later?”

“No. Get rid of them. Excuse yourself. I've got to come up with five grand cash today. The only place I know that's got it is your account at Chemical.”

We never discussed her business account. All I knew was that some part of it produced interest that showed up on our joint tax return. Judging by the interest, it had to have over five thousand in it.

All Jane said was no.

I know she put her hand over the mouthpiece, but I could still hear her say something to whoever was in her office. When she got back on, I said, “You want me to beg?”