Danny goes up to Massachusetts.
Twenty
Peter Moretti isn’t happy.
The deal he thought he had with Danny Ryan turned out to be a double-cross, so the hit on Liam Murphy ended up as a hit on Danny, which wouldn’t have been so bad considering the circumstances except that Ryan survived it and his puttana mother won’t let Peter go at him again.
Danny’s jacked up, off the board for the foreseeable future, but so is Steve Giordo, who departed with the sentiment that he ain’t gonna walk into another ambush because the Moretti brothers can’t tell one mick from another.
He has a point, Peter thinks. Worse is that New York and Hartford are less likely to lend out any of their people anymore because they don’t want to waste an asset on some outfit that gets suckered by a cheap leg-breaker like Danny Ryan.
So now Peter really isn’t happy when he’s just trying to eat breakfast at the Central Diner and Solly Weiss walks in, plops his ancient ass down across the table and starts in before Peter can even have a look at the sports page. “Peter, my store was robbed.”
Peter don’t need the newspaper to know this. It isn’t news. Two of his guys, Gino Conti and Renny Bouchard, hit Solly’s jewelry store last night and took at least a hundred thousand in diamonds and some other pieces. “That’s too bad, Solly.”
“Haven’t I always made you a deal?” Solly asks. “That necklace for your gumar . . .”
“I didn’t rob your store, Solly.” Which, Peter thinks, is technically true.
“Peter, please,” Solly says. “Do not treat me like a child. I was in business before you knew what business was.”
Solly has a few strands of white hair that remind Peter he needs to stop at Rite Aid for dental floss. He says, “You’re insured, right? You’re going to make a profit off this thing.”
“These particular pieces weren’t insured.”
“If you brought them in from overseas and you didn’t declare them, that’s not my problem,” Peter says. Then he gets to the point. “Anyway, I thought you were under the Murphys’ protection. If you was with us, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I want my rocks back.”
“I want a twelve-inch dick,” Peter says. “I got shorted by an inch, what can I tell you.”
Solly goes into this whole song and dance—he has to put his sister in a nursing home, his wife has a condition, the roof needs repairing—
“Basta,” Peter snaps. “With all due respect—”
“I’m glad to hear you say ‘respect,’ young Peter Moretti,” Solly says, “because that’s what this is all about. I showed respect to your father, I showed respect to Pasco, they showed respect to me, they showed respect for my business.” His voice is shaking.
“My father is in the joint,” Peter says, “Pasco is in Florida, and I’m in charge now.”
“I didn’t come empty-handed,” Solly says. “If these pieces are returned, I’ll establish the same relationship with you that I had with John.”
“Which was what?”
Solly lowers his voice. “An envelope first Thursday of every month. Thirty percent discount—off wholesale—during the holidays. And of course, if you ever have a special need . . .”
It’s one of those if moments.
If Peter were in a better mood, if Peter’d had a second cup of coffee, if Peter had got a chance to look at the sports page, if Chris Palumbo had got his ass out of bed in time to have breakfast with Peter, if Solly’s hair didn’t for some reason annoy the shit out of Peter this morning, then maybe Peter accepts his offer and none of the horrible shit that follows happens.
A lot of ifs people will look back on.
None of them matter, because Peter says, “I have a special need now.”
Solly smiles. He’s going to get his rocks back. “Tell me.”
“I have a special need for you to get the fuck out of here,” Peter says. “You want to see your rocks, I’ll let you watch them bounce up and down on my gumar’s tits while I’m fucking her. Look, just don’t piss me off, okay, Solly? It’s safer for you that way.”
Peter’s already given one of the pieces to his gumar and he’s not about to go in there and tell her she has to take it off her neck.
Solly looks at him sadly, shakes his head, gets up and totters out the door.
Old Jew, Peter thinks, going back to his paper, lives up John Murphy’s ass for thirty years, now he wants to swap me a hundred K for thirty percent at Christmas?