Fuck that.
End of story.
Not for Solly it isn’t.
He goes home, gets right on the horn to Pasco Ferri down in Florida and plays “remember when.”
Remember when you proposed to Mary and you had no money for a decent ring? Remember when your son was in the same position with his fiancée? Remember when you needed a contribution for the rides on Saint Rocco’s Day? Remember when you were running that legislator and needed to wash some money? Remember when . . .
“I don’t have the Alzheimer’s, thank God,” Pasco says. “What’s going on, Solly?”
Solly tells him about the robbery, tells him about how he was treated by young Peter Moretti. “He told me to come watch him fuck his girlfriend.”
“That was out of line,” Pasco agrees. He’s getting a little tired of the Moretti brothers causing him agita. First it’s a war over a damn titty, now it’s this. Maybe it’s time the Morettis got taken down a peg or two.
“I have friends,” Solly is saying. “Friends in the mayor’s office, friends at the precinct houses . . .”
“I know you do, Solly.”
“I made him a respectful offer, Pasco,” Solly says. “Reflecting the new situation, and he treats me like some schwarze he caught with a hand in the till? I won’t have it.”
“Solly, do me a favor?” Pasco asks. “Let me take care of it.”
Peter’s at American Vending when he gets the call from Pasco. “Peter, what the hell? Solly Weiss?”
Peter gets defensive. “Technically, he wasn’t under our protection so he was fair game.”
There’s a long silence, then Pasco says, like he’s real tired, “You ever think about making friends instead of enemies?”
“I have a right to earn.”
Pasco sighs. “The ring on my wife’s finger—”
“Pasco, with all due respect,” Peter cuts him off, “you’re retired, God bless . . .”
Don’t stick your nose in.
When Peter hangs up he turns to Paulie and says, “That old kike went crying to Pasco, do you believe that? Shit, I should rob him again.”
Chris Palumbo looks at him.
“What?” Peter asks.
“Maybe you should return the old guy’s shit,” Chris says. “Solly goes way back with Pasco and all those guys. He’s given prices to every cop in town. You might want to show him the respect, Peter.”
Paulie says, “I agree.”
“You agree?” Peter says. “You want to pay him out of your pocket?”
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up,” Peter says. “Anyone remember we’re in a war here? It costs money.”
Chris tries again. “You really want to piss on Pasco’s shoes?”
“Pasco has to be retired,” Peter says, “or not be retired. I can’t run this thing if everyone thinks they can go over my head every time they disagree with one of my rulings.”
“Upstairs to the booth,” Paulie says.
“What?”
“You know, like in football,” Paulie says. “Instant replay . . . up in the booth.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
Yeah, okay, whatever, Chris thinks, but it worries him.
The bodies of Gino Conti and Renny Bouchard are never found.
Those two guys are just gone, and everyone knows they aren’t coming back and everyone knows why not.
It’s not just Conti and Bouchard—which is bad enough—but in the nine days since Peter told Solly Weiss to take a walk, two of his card games have been busted, three bookies have been popped, and every girl has been chased off the streets—all shit the cops would usually have left alone.
Solly Weiss has friends, all right.
But Peter gets his feet dug in even deeper. “Over my dead body.”
“That’s not outside the realm of possibility,” Chris answers.
“Come on.”
“Ask Gino and Renny,” Chris says. “Oh, that’s right, you can’t.”
“That was the Murphys.”
“Bullshit.”
It’s classic Pasco Ferri, Chris thinks. Peter disrespected him and he doesn’t whack Peter, he whacks a couple of underlings to teach him a lesson.
A lesson Peter better learn.
Before we all get clipped.
“Peter—”
“I don’t want to hear any fucking more about it, Chris,” Peter says, and walks away from him.
So now Chris goes to Sal Antonucci, finds him down in Narragansett looking at a house by the shore, just two blocks from the beach.