like Christmas when he was little—but he didn’t like the big splash that followed. The next day it was on the front page of the
New York American
and the
Mirror
, and then everybody was talking about it for weeks. When word got around that it was Dutch Schultz’s gang, he was relieved. Sonny didn’t like to speculate on what would happen if Vito found out what he was doing. He thought about it sometimes, though—what he would say to his father.
Come on, Pop
, he might say.
I know all about the business you’re in
. He rehearsed these talks with his father all the time in his head. He’d say
I’m all grown up, Pop!
He’d say,
I planned the Tidewater payroll heist, Pop! Give me a little credit!
He could always come up with the things he’d say—but he could never come up with what his father might say in response. Instead, he saw his father looking at him the way he did when he was disappointed.
“That was really something,” Nico said. He’d been quiet, letting Sonny pilot the truck through the Bronx. “Did you see that guy dive off the pier? Christ!” he said, laughing. “He was swimming like Johnny Weissmuller!”
“Which one was that?” Sonny asked. They were on Park Avenue in the Bronx, a few blocks from where they were going.
“The guy riding shotgun,” Nico said. “You didn’t see him? He heard the guns, bang!—right off the pier into the water!” Nico doubled over, laughing.
“Did you see the Romeros?” Sonny asked. “They looked like they couldn’t hold on to those tommy guns. They looked like they were dancing with ’em.”
Nico nodded and then sighed when he quit laughing. “I bet they’re all bruised up from the kickback.”
Sonny turned off Park and onto a quiet side street. He pulled up to the curb in front of a warehouse with a rolling steel door, and Corkpulled up behind him. “Let Cork do the talking,” he said to Nico, and he slid out of the car. He got into Cork’s Nash and drove away.
Angelo and Vinnie were on the sidewalk, waiting. Cork stepped up onto the running board of the truck and said to Nico, “There’s a bell next to the side door. Give it three short rings, wait a second, and give it three more short rings. Then come back to the truck.”
Nico said, “What’s the secret password?”
Cork said, putting on the Irish, “Ah, for Jaysus sake, just go ring the feckin’ bell, Nico. I’m tired.”
Nico rang the bell and then headed back for the truck, where Cork had gotten into the driver’s seat. The rain that had been threatening all night started to come down in a light drizzle, and he turned up his jacket collar as he came around the front of the car. Behind him, the steel garage door rolled up, spilling light out onto the street. Luca Brasi stood in the center of the garage with his hands on his hips looking like he was dressed for a dinner date, though it was probably one in the morning. He was well over six feet tall, maybe six-three, six-four, with thighs like telephone poles. His chest and shoulders seemed to go right up to his chin, and his massive head was dominated by a protruding brow over deep-set eyes. He looked like Neanderthal man dressed up in a gray pin-stripe suit and vest, with a gray fedora tilted rakishly to one side. Behind him, spread around the garage, were Vinnie Vaccarelli, Paulie Attardi, Hooks Battaglia, Tony Coli, and JoJo DiGiorgio. Cork knew Hooks and JoJo from the neighborhood, and the others by reputation. They were the big kids on the street when he was little. They all had to be in their late twenties at least by now, given he’d been hearing about them since kindergarten. Luca Brasi was a lot older, maybe late thirties, around there. They all looked like tough guys. They stood with their hands in their pockets, leaning against the wall or a stack of crates, or they had one hand in a jacket pocket, or arms crossed over their chest. They all wore homburgs or fedoras except for Hooks, who was the oddball in a plaid
New York American
and the
Mirror
, and then everybody was talking about it for weeks. When word got around that it was Dutch Schultz’s gang, he was relieved. Sonny didn’t like to speculate on what would happen if Vito found out what he was doing. He thought about it sometimes, though—what he would say to his father.
Come on, Pop
, he might say.
I know all about the business you’re in
. He rehearsed these talks with his father all the time in his head. He’d say
I’m all grown up, Pop!
He’d say,
I planned the Tidewater payroll heist, Pop! Give me a little credit!
He could always come up with the things he’d say—but he could never come up with what his father might say in response. Instead, he saw his father looking at him the way he did when he was disappointed.
“That was really something,” Nico said. He’d been quiet, letting Sonny pilot the truck through the Bronx. “Did you see that guy dive off the pier? Christ!” he said, laughing. “He was swimming like Johnny Weissmuller!”
“Which one was that?” Sonny asked. They were on Park Avenue in the Bronx, a few blocks from where they were going.
“The guy riding shotgun,” Nico said. “You didn’t see him? He heard the guns, bang!—right off the pier into the water!” Nico doubled over, laughing.
“Did you see the Romeros?” Sonny asked. “They looked like they couldn’t hold on to those tommy guns. They looked like they were dancing with ’em.”
Nico nodded and then sighed when he quit laughing. “I bet they’re all bruised up from the kickback.”
Sonny turned off Park and onto a quiet side street. He pulled up to the curb in front of a warehouse with a rolling steel door, and Corkpulled up behind him. “Let Cork do the talking,” he said to Nico, and he slid out of the car. He got into Cork’s Nash and drove away.
Angelo and Vinnie were on the sidewalk, waiting. Cork stepped up onto the running board of the truck and said to Nico, “There’s a bell next to the side door. Give it three short rings, wait a second, and give it three more short rings. Then come back to the truck.”
Nico said, “What’s the secret password?”
Cork said, putting on the Irish, “Ah, for Jaysus sake, just go ring the feckin’ bell, Nico. I’m tired.”
Nico rang the bell and then headed back for the truck, where Cork had gotten into the driver’s seat. The rain that had been threatening all night started to come down in a light drizzle, and he turned up his jacket collar as he came around the front of the car. Behind him, the steel garage door rolled up, spilling light out onto the street. Luca Brasi stood in the center of the garage with his hands on his hips looking like he was dressed for a dinner date, though it was probably one in the morning. He was well over six feet tall, maybe six-three, six-four, with thighs like telephone poles. His chest and shoulders seemed to go right up to his chin, and his massive head was dominated by a protruding brow over deep-set eyes. He looked like Neanderthal man dressed up in a gray pin-stripe suit and vest, with a gray fedora tilted rakishly to one side. Behind him, spread around the garage, were Vinnie Vaccarelli, Paulie Attardi, Hooks Battaglia, Tony Coli, and JoJo DiGiorgio. Cork knew Hooks and JoJo from the neighborhood, and the others by reputation. They were the big kids on the street when he was little. They all had to be in their late twenties at least by now, given he’d been hearing about them since kindergarten. Luca Brasi was a lot older, maybe late thirties, around there. They all looked like tough guys. They stood with their hands in their pockets, leaning against the wall or a stack of crates, or they had one hand in a jacket pocket, or arms crossed over their chest. They all wore homburgs or fedoras except for Hooks, who was the oddball in a plaid
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