Part 4 (1/2)
”Ten years ago, when Maniella opened his f.u.c.kin' dives, couple of our boys paid them a visit. Said they'd be back every month to collect.”
”How much?”
”Two grand per club.”
”Sounds reasonable.”
”We thought so.”
”So what happened?”
”A couple weeks later, 'bout a half hour before the noon opening, a dozen guys with Navy SEALs tattoos come busting into Friction.”
”Gra.s.so's place,” I said.
”Now, yeah, but it was Johnny Dio's before he got whacked.”
”Uh-huh.”
”The bouncer tried to stop them at the door, so they tossed him into the parking lot like he was f.u.c.kin' trash. Tore the place up pretty good. Smashed all the liquor bottles. Threw barstools through the f.u.c.kin' mirrors.”
”No s.h.i.+t?”
”Yeah. You ain't heard about this? We tried to keep it quiet, but I figured you mighta heard about this.”
”Anybody get hurt?”
”A few cuts and bruises. Nothin' worth cryin' over. Before the c.o.c.ksuckers left, a couple of 'em climbed up on stage, unzipped, and p.i.s.sed on the stripper poles like they was f.u.c.kin' dogs.”
”Marking their territory,” I said.
”Dio figured right off Maniella must've sent 'em. Wanted to drive out to Greenville hisself and whack the sonuvab.i.t.c.h. After we got him calmed the f.u.c.k down, we asked Maniella for a sit-down.”
”How'd that work out?”
”We invited the p.r.i.c.k to a nice meal at Camille's so we could explain the situation. Arena did most of the talkin'. Said if Maniella's clubs were doing as well as ours, he was raking in the f.u.c.kin' dough. Said two grand a month per club was a fair price for the right to operate.”
”Maniella didn't think so?”
”He said the money was fair and that his boys would be by the first of every month to collect it.”
”You're kidding me.”
”Have I ever?”
”What did Arena say to that?”
”First he had to grab Dio by the legs to stop him from climbing over the table to get at the a.s.shole. Then he said no f.u.c.kin' way.”
”And Maniella said what?”
”At first he just smiled and looked at us over the rim of his f.u.c.kin' winegla.s.s. Enjoying the moment.”
”And then?”
”And then he rolled up his sleeve and showed us his Navy SEALs tattoo. Said he knew plenty of guys with the same ink. Said he figured a dozen was enough but that he had the scratch to bring in fifty of 'em if he had to.”
”So Arena caved?”
”What the f.u.c.k could he do?”
”Arena and Gra.s.so still paying?”
”To Vanessa now, yeah. Every f.u.c.kin' month. But we never talk about it.” He took off his gla.s.ses and rubbed his eyes. ”It's f.u.c.kin' humiliating.”
”Not like the old days, huh?”
”f.u.c.k, no,” Zerilli said. ”Back when Raymond L. S. Patriarca ran this town, no way anybody'd try somethin' like this. Bobo Marrapese, Pro Lerner, Frank Salemme, d.i.c.kie Callei, Red Kelly, Jackie Nazarian, Rudy Sciarra-just whisper the names of the guys in our crew and a d.i.c.k like Maniella would have p.i.s.sed his pants. But it ain't the 1970s no more.”
”The ex-SEALs still around?”
”At least a couple are, yeah. Handling the collections.”
I thanked him and got up to go.
”Hold on a sec,” he said. ”Could you use a GPS for the Bronco?”
”Don't really need one. I got a map of Rhode Island stored in my head.”
”You go out of state sometimes, right?”
”I do.”
He got up from his chair, unlocked the door to a little storeroom behind the office, and came back with a Garmin GPS in an unopened box.
”A thousand of 'em fell off a f.u.c.kin' truck in New Bedford last week,” he said. ”I bought 'em off the Arcaro brothers for ten cents on the dollar.”
”What are you getting for them?”
”Forty bucks apiece, but yours is on the house.”
If I turned it down, my friend would be insulted. ”Thanks, Whoosh,” I said. ”And if you hear any chatter about the Maniella murder, give me a holler.”
”Mulligan?”