“What do you mean?”
“I’m out of your war,” Sal says. “Me and my crew. I don’t even know why I got in it in the first place—the Murphys never did anything to me, I never had a beef with them. I got in out of loyalty to you, but loyalty is a two-way street. Like respect. You want it, you have to give it.”
“You took an oath,” Peter says. “It’s for you to show respect and loyalty to me.”
“I have!” Sal yells. “I’m going to hell for the shit I’ve done for you. I’m going to hell, Peter. What more do you fucking want?”
“Go ahead,” Peter says. “Run away, you’re scared. You’re waiting for me to beg you to stay, don’t hold your breath. Who needs you?”
We do, Chris thinks, but he doesn’t say it.
Sal, he smiles at Peter, nods, and walks out.
“Make sure you get that money,” Peter says to Chris.
“Thanks for taking my back,” Sal says to Chris when the consigliere comes for the money.
“Sal—”
“You’re a two-faced son of a bitch, you know that?”
“Sal, you can’t just walk away.”
“No?” Sal asks. “Who’s going to come after me? You, Chris?”
Chris doesn’t say anything.
“What I thought.”
Tony comes out of the back room with a duffel bag and hands it to Chris.
“That was my house,” Sal says. “The house I showed you. For my grandkids.”
“I’m sorry, Sal.”
“Between you and me?” Sal says. “One of these days, I’m going to put that motherfucker in the dirt.”
Chris doesn’t have to ask which motherfucker he means.
Twenty-One
Danny lets go of the metal bar and steps forward.
Hurts like a son of a bitch, but it’s a good hurt because if he can put any weight on the left leg it means his hip is healing. He’s still a little afraid, though, that he’s going to hear some awful snap and the hip joint is going to come popping out of his skin.
By the time he makes it all the way down the length of the bar without grabbing it to balance, he’s tired and sweating hard.
Ten whole feet, he thinks, reminding himself that it’s progress. Also reminds himself that he’s an outpatient now—after three grueling weeks they let him leave the clinic and move to the nearby Residence Inn with Terri.
With Madeleine staying in a room down the hall.
His wife and his mother have become as thick as thieves. They have long days on their hands while he’s doing his rehab and they go shopping, go to lunch, go to the movies.
Danny don’t like it.
“What do you want me to do?” Terri asked when he brought it up. “Sit in the room all day, watch TV?”
“No.”
“Well?”
Danny didn’t have an answer.
“She’s nice,” Terri said. “We have fun.”
“Good.” He means it, sort of. It’s good for her to have company and also to be away from her family and Dogtown, with everything that’s happening.
Danny follows the war in the papers and on TV.
The media loves it. They haven’t had a full-out gang war to cover in years and it makes for great headlines and photos. Film at eleven. Readers and viewers following it like they’d follow baseball—get up in the morning to read the box scores.
Dante Delmonte, one of Paulie’s crew, shot in his car after making a collection in South Providence. And two more of Moretti’s guys, Gino Conti and Renny Bouchard, are gone—although it’s Pasco who’s reputed to have given the order.
Which is very interesting, Danny thinks. Maybe Pasco’s decided it was a mistake to give Peter the top job. Maybe he’s looking around. If that’s the case, there might be a possibility of making a favorable peace.
What he doesn’t get in the papers Jimmy Mac fills him in on. Jimmy comes up about once a week, brings him all the inside news. Now he watches Danny take his first tentative steps.
He hands Danny his cane and they go down to the little cafeteria.
“Sal Antonucci and Peter are at odds,” Jimmy says, then tells him about the shit that followed the Solly Weiss job. “Sal says he’s going to sit this one out.”
Shit, Danny thinks, that’s big fucking news. Maybe they can do better than Sal just taking a knee, maybe get Sal in the game on their side. The offer would be simple—Hey, Sal, if you decide to go up against the Morettis, we’ll back you.