Chapter 7 - The Gathering Storm
The phone call came at 2:15 AM on Saturday morning while Vincent was sitting in his study above the warehouse, going over the ledger for the dock security contracts.
The phone on his mahogany desk didn't ring twice before Bruno snatched it up from the cradle, listening for three seconds before his face turned the color of wet cement. He didn't speak; he just held the receiver out toward Vincent without a word.
"Moretti," Vincent said into the heavy black bakelite.
"Well, well, well," Sal Marcone's voice came through the line, thick with whiskey and a cold, vibrating malice that sounded like glass sliding across concrete. "Working late, Vincent? Or just worrying about your new friends down on 18th Street?"
Vincent didn't move a muscle in his face. "Say what you have to say, Sal, and make it quick. My time isn't cheap."
"Your time? No, your time is valuable. Especially when you're spending it playing sugar daddy to a broke waitress and her kid." Marcone let out a wet, ugly chuckle. "Word gets around the Outfit pretty fast when Moretti starts dropping five figures into parish school tuition funds and sending zoo tickets through the mail. Some of the boys are wondering if your head’s still in the game, or if you’ve gone soft now that you’re hanging out with schoolteachers."
"If you have something to say to me, Marcone, say it to my face at the social club at noon," Vincent said, his voice dropping into that dark, flat register that made lieutenants check their sidearms. "Don't hide behind a copper wire like a scared kid."
"Oh, I'm not hiding, Vincent. But I thought you'd want to know—one of my boys went down to the Royal Diner about an hour ago to leave a little message for your new girlfriend about minding her own business when she finds envelopes on the street. Only, when he got there, the place was locked up tight, and the landlord said she packed her bags and left with the kid twenty minutes before he pulled up."
Vincent's hand tightened around the receiver until the plastic creaked. "Where?"
"Now, why would I tell you that?" Marcone laughed again, a sharp, grating sound. "Unless you want to come down to the old rail yards behind the grain elevator and talk about it like old friends. Bring Bruno. Bring your favorite piece. Let's see if your new morals can stop a nine-millimeter slug, Moretti."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Vincent set the phone back in its cradle with absolute, terrifying precision. He looked up at Bruno, who already had his hand inside his coat, his thumb hooked over the safety of his Colt .45.
"Marcone?" Bruno asked.
"Marcone," Vincent said. He stood up, picked his heavy wool coat off the back of his chair, and slipped his arms into the sleeves with cold, methodical speed. "He thinks he can use a kid to get to the table."
May you like
"Where are they?"
"The rail yards behind the grain elevator," Vincent said, walking toward the door without looking back. "Let's go show him what happens when you break an account with Moretti."
