Class Act

18

Bob Cantor thought about this thing for a while. He’d gone as far as he could with Stone, maybe further than he should have. Maybe he’d see what he could find out without consulting him. After all, what people want in this sort of case is a result; even if they didn’t want to deal with the means.

Bob knew Tiny Blanco from his days as a cop, when Tiny was muscle for his predecessor. Tiny wasn’t stupid, but he was a bully — that is, he enjoyed siccing his boys on some hapless son of a bitch who couldn’t cover his bets. Bob viewed bullying as a weakness, a way inside a man’s head.

Bob drove his van down to Little Italy and put it in a parking garage around the corner from the alley where Tiny’s business operated. He remembered something about Tiny: he always lunched alone at the same Italian restaurant, probably because he didn’t want anybody to see how much he ate. He sat near the kitchen at a table behind a screen, sheltered further between his table and the kitchen by a tall piece of furniture that held the silverware in pigeonholes.

Bob walked down the street to the next alley where the restaurant, Luigi’s, was situated. He walked past the place slowly, casing it. The screen was still there. Bob checked his watch: a quarter past one; Tiny was probably there now. The place was more than half empty, catering as it did to an earlier lunch crowd. Bob walked back and into the restaurant, grabbing a menu on his way. He sat down at the table next to the screen and listened. Judging from the noises being made, either Tiny was behind it, or they were keeping pigs in the place now.

He leaned close to the screen. “Hello, Tiny,” he said.

The noises stopped for a moment, while Tiny tried to place the voice, then he chewed some more and swallowed. “Whozzat?” he asked.

“An old acquaintance,” Bob replied.

“Whaddaya want?”

“Just the answers to a couple of questions.”

“Not now, I’m eating.”

“Yeah, I know. I could hear the noises out in the street.”

“Maybe you would like to ask your questions to some friends of mine.”

“No, Tiny, just you. Give me straight answers, and I’ll be gone. Give me crooked answers, and I’ll shut you down, take your money, and pull out your phones. How’d you like to do a couple of years on Rikers? I hear they have a very fine chef there.”

“What do you want?” Tiny said, enunciating more clearly without a slab of veal in the way.

“You sent Willie Pasco to see Mickey O’Brien. Who told you to send him and why?”

“You don’t want to mess with that,” Tiny said. “Those people play for keeps.”

“Then what’s a small-time bookie like you messing with them?”

“I got a request,” Tiny said.

“That brings us back to my original question,” Bob said. “Who from and what for? And if I don’t get an answer I like, you’re going to hear the sound of police sirens before the next minute has passed.”

“From a guy in Florida,” Tiny said. “Manny runs things for the boys down there.”

“Keep going.”

“Manny Fiore. Every buck off a track or a card game in South Florida passes through Manny Fiore’s hands.”

“Where does he work out of?”

“He has an old trailer parked at the back of the parking lot of the Hialeah, one of them Streamers, or something.”

“Airstreamer?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Now get off my back, or I’ll call for some help.”

“And you’d need it,” Bob said. He slid out of his seat, left a twenty for the waiter, and left the restaurant.

Tiny was left wondering if he still had company. Finally, he pulled back the screen an inch and looked. Nobody there.

Back in his van, Bob Cantor called Stone.

“Yes, Bob?”

“I got a name for somebody who might be involved with trying to find your client.”

“And that would be...?”

“Manny Fiore, who deals with all the betting money in South Florida.” He told Stone about the Airstream trailer.

“I don’t guess you’d want to take a hop down to Florida and check him out.”

“He’s the kind of guy you don’t want to check out,” Bob said. “He hears somebody is looking into him, and first thing you know, the looker has a gun in his ear, and somebody’s pulling the trigger.”

“Then don’t go to Florida,” Stone said.

“Exactly what I had in mind.”

“I’ll mention the name to my client and see if it rings a bell.”

“Okay, but don’t ring any bells while you’re doing it,” Bob said. “People get hurt that way.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

Stone called Jack Coulter.

“Yes, Stone?”

“When you were in Florida, did you ever hear of somebody called Manny Fiore?”

“Certainly. Everybody who knows anything about the mob in South Florida knows that name. He’s one of the people who handled my money. And it wouldn’t have been refunded, if he hadn’t approved.”

“He’s been looking into you, I hear.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, but not surprised.”

“He works out of an Airstream trailer in the parking lot at the Hialeah track.”

“Ah.”

“You think he wants another shot at your money?”

“I think he probably regrets giving it back. It’s not really the sort of thing those guys do.”

“How’d you manage it?”

“I threatened him, and he took it seriously.”

“Jack, don’t threaten mob guys. You could get hurt again that way.”

“Thanks for the advice. I’ll take care of it.” Jack hung up.

Stone called Bob Cantor back. “The information you gave me meant something to my client. Is there anybody who can say you were asking about Fiore?”

“No, the guy I asked couldn’t see me at the time.”

“Whatever you say, Bob. I just don’t want you to get caught up in this thing.”

“I’m clear. Don’t worry about it.”