Frankie V goes old-school. “That’s not how it works. You took an oath. Until you die.”
“Who’s going to enforce that, Frankie?” Sal asks. “You?”
Frankie turns to Chris. “The fuck we wasting our breath for? He doesn’t give a shit his friends are getting killed. His family eats, right? Fuck this. I’m out of here.”
Chris looks across the table at Sal. “So what shall I tell Peter?”
“Finish your drink,” Sal says. “Then take Peter’s money, his union, and his ‘sorries,’ and tell him he can stick them up his ass.”
“What happens when the Murphys come for you, Sal?”
“Why should they come for me?”
“I wouldn’t leave you on the board.”
Well, thanks for telling me that, thinks Sal. If I don’t come back into the fold, you’re going to take me out. But he says, “They come after me I’ll deal with them. Until then, I got nothin’ against the two of you.”
Buy a little time, maybe get them debating if they really want to go up against him.
When they go out the door, Sal says, “The next time they come, they’re coming heavy. Chris will ask for a sit-down just between me and him; Frankie V will be there to take me out. Then you’ll be next.”
Tony asks, “So what do you want to do?”
“Make the meeting with Murphy,” Sal says. “Tell him I’ll take the deal. Go now.”
Because it’s urgent. Soon as Peter gets his “no” answer, he’s going to answer back, and it ain’t gonna be with words.
“I don’t have my car,” Tony says.
“Take mine.”
Jimmy Mac drives Danny over to the Gloc.
When Danny walks back in, he isn’t using the cane at all. He limps a little, but otherwise you wouldn’t know that Steve Giordo shot the shit out of him. Everyone in the neighborhood knows it, though. Everyone knows that Danny Ryan was the bait in the botched hit on Liam. That the mother had swept in and pulled him out of the shit, that this sent his father on a bender of epic proportions, Marty Ryan hitting the bottle like a speed bag.
“I’ll wait out here,” Jimmy says.
The Gloc is decorated for Christmas. Well, as much as it ever is. A scraggly fake tree with a few bulbs and tinsel that looks like it’s left over from World War II. The sound system squeaks some Irish band doing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town,” which Danny thinks is a really bad idea.
John and Pat are in the back room.
Pat comes up and wraps his arms around Danny. “I’m sorry I didn’t come up and see you more.”
Danny says, “Pat, we need to talk.”
They go off to a booth, Danny tells him about the potential deal with Sal.
“You did that on your own boot?” Pat asked. “I wish you’d checked with me first.”
“I gotta check with you, Pat?” Danny asks. He knew he should have, and the old him would have. But there’s something about getting shot that makes him want to be his own man.
“With something like that, yeah.”
“It’s a chance to end this thing, put it to bed,” Danny says. “If Sal and his crew come over to us, Peter’s going to ask for peace, especially if Pasco isn’t backing him anymore.”
“He patched up that beef with Pasco.”
“He hasn’t patched it up with Sal,” Danny says. “We can end this war, Pat.”
Stop the bloodshed.
Pat shakes his head. “Italians are Italians. End of the day, they believe in blood. End of the day, they’re always going to side with each other. Anyway, it’s too late—you don’t have to worry about Sal Antonucci anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing you need to know.”
“Nothing I need to know?” Danny asks. Shit, pal, I took a bullet for you. Now I’m Johnny Jerkoff? Because, what, my last name isn’t Murphy?
“I’m just protecting you, Danny,” Pat says. “You can’t testify about what you don’t know, open yourself up to charges.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you,” Pat says. “You’re my brother. But this thing with Sal, I wish you hadn’t done that. Things are already in motion.”
“I sent a message to the man, Pat.”
“And you shouldn’t have,” Pat says. “You look tired, Danny. You shouldn’t push it. Go home, get some rest.”