Part 10 (1/2)
”Well, now wait. I respect your . . . I wouldn't, want to press a friends.h.i.+p, Johnny. But if there's something I ought to know, then I ought to know it. You can't do this, Johnny. You can't come in here and drop something like that, then just clam up. I mean, I pledge to you, on my solemn word and sacred blood, I'm telling you that I would never-no, never would I rat on a confidence from a friend.”
Bolan stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes, stretched his neck and said, ”I'm not telling you this, Steven. I wouldn't ever tell a man I respect as much as I respect you that his heir problems are over.”
”What?”
”I just couldn't say something like that to a man who has done so much in this outfit. For so many years. I mean . . I couldn't. Not even if I'd been sitting right there at the table when the problem got resolved, I still couldn't say a word.”
Don Stefano re-lit his cigar. The hands trembled. He sipped his wine and the hands trembled worse.
”When were you sitting at that table, Johnny?” he asked, the voice hardly more than a sigh.
”I shouldn't say, Steven. Please.”
”Today? Was it today?”
Bolan fingered the tape at his jaw. ”I only got to New York today. I been up in the country for nearly a month, ever since that Jersey job.”
”I see.” The old man was obviously seeing quite a bit. He said, ”Thank you, Johnny. One more thing. In strictest confidence. Look, I'm an old man. What could I do? What would I do? After all these years of loyalty, would I buck the outfit? What they want is what I want. But I got a right to know. After all these years. I got a right. What are they talking about doing to me, Johnny?”
Bolan hesitated, giving the moment its most dramatic play, then he sighed and told the old man, ”Not just talking, Steven.”
”So . . . what? Huh? Dammit, what?
”Why did they tell you I was coming here, Steven?”
”Well I-well, they-we couldn't talk right out. He just said he was sending me some help.”
”Some help to do what?”
”Well, this d.a.m.ned Bolan s.h.i.+t, what d'you think? Isn't that what they meant?”
”Did he say anything about some delegations coming down? Some boys from upstate? Some boys from New York downtown?”
”What are you saying? Why did you come, Johnny?” half off his stool. He said, ”G.o.d, I hate to be the” Bolan's glance slid to Frank the Kid, wobbling ”one to tell you this, Steven.”
”Let's be men, Johnny!”
”Okay.” Bolan's chin came up. He fixed the old man with a cold, hard stare and told him, ”Things just can't get to that, Steven.” The gaze flicked to Frank the Kid and back to Papa. ”Do you understand me? You wouldn't firm it up for yourself, so they firmed it up for you. They're not waiting, Steven. They're not waiting for you to die. Not with Frank the f.u.c.k-up and a hundred greasers backing him up. They say there will be blood in the streets, money down the sewer and h.e.l.l to pay all over this land, Steven. It's the sort of thing that keeps people like me so busy all the time. And they just can't have it. They will not have it, Steven.”
A long silence ensued.
Angeletti played with his cigar, toyed with his wine, smacked his lips, looked at Frank, looked at the Wild Card from New York who'd brought him such distressing news, smacked his lips some more then sighed, ”Well, I'm d.a.m.ned if they will.”
”You promised me, Steven.”
”I'd promise you h.e.l.l, Johnny. But I won't give you my only kid.”
”There's always Philippa.”
”That s.l.u.t?”
”Now, now.”
”You can't have him, Johnny.”
”I didn't come for him, Steven.”
”Then, what did you come for?”
”If you'd like to take a little walk, I'll show you.”
That old chin dropped and both hands crawled along the desk. Aghast, he asked, ”Me, Johnny?”
'Oh, G.o.d, no, don't even think that. What I came for, I already have. It's in the car. If you want to go see, okay. If not, forget it. Makes no difference. But don't think . . . aw, h.e.l.l, Steven, don't think. . .'
”I don't think I want to go out there in the dark with you, Johnny.”
”All your boys are out there. Your boys, not mine.” Bolan reached for the wallet and the old man jumped a foot. ”Hey, easy, I told you, don't even think . . here.”
He tossed the letter of credit from Cavaretta's wallet across the desk.
”Note the date on there. It's today. Look where it came from. Atlanta, Georgia-right? How did it get clear up here, so fast? It flew, by special courier. It flew to me, Steven. Look at the amount. Fifty gee, right? I picked it up right down here at NorthPhillyAirport at two o'clock today. Two o'clock, Steven. Now. If you'll just walk out to the car with me, dammit, I'll show you how I earned that.”
The old man's curiosity was definitely aroused. He sniffed and pushed the letter back across the desk, then slowly got to his feet.
”Show me,” he commanded.
A minute and a half later, Bolan showed him. Angeletti had to feel the face, manipulate the stiffening arms and legs, examine the weapons. He said, ”So that's the guy.”
”That was him,” Bolan said.
Stefano spun about suddenly and went back into the house. Bolan closed the exhibit for the second time and followed the Don inside.
At the library door, Angeletti asked him, ”What does it all mean? You say you got paid at two o'clock. I say I got hit by the guy at about six. What does it mean?”
”It means somebody's playing games with you, Steven.”
”Who?”
”Who did they say was coming down?”
Marble lips replied, ”Delegation from Buffalo, two from the city.”
”There you go. Maybe they got here early.”