Dennis Lehane - Live by Night

And the rich…?

They gambled.

Joe could see it in a great smash of light. While the rest of the country lined up for soup and begged for spare change, the rich remained rich. And idle. And bored.

This restaurant he walked through, this restaurant that never was, wasn’t a restaurant at all. It was a casino floor. He could see the roulette wheel in the center, the craps tables over by the south wall, the card tables along the north wall. He saw a Persian carpet and crystal chandeliers with ruby and diamond pendants.

He left the room and moved down the main corridor. The conference rooms he passed became music halls—big band in one, vaudeville in another, Cuban jazz in the third, maybe even a movie theater in the fourth.

The rooms. He ran up to the fourth floor and looked at the ones overlooking the Gulf. Jesus, they were breathtaking. Every floor would have its own butler, standing at the ready when you got off the lifts. He’d be at the service of all guests on that floor twenty-four hours a day. Every room would, of course, have a radio. And a ceiling fan. And maybe those French toilets he’d heard about, ones shot water up your ass. They’d have masseuses on call, twelve hours of room service, two, no three, concierges. He walked back down to the second floor. The flashlight needed another rest, so he shut it off, because he knew the staircase now. On the second floor, he found the ballroom. It was in the center of the floor with a large viewing rotunda above it, a place to stroll on warm spring nights and watch others of bottomless wealth dance under the stars painted on the domed roof.

What he saw, clearer than any clear he’d ever known, was that the rich would come in here for the dazzle and the elegance and the chance to risk it all against a rigged game, as rigged as the one they’d been running on the poor for centuries.

And he’d indulge it. He’d encourage it. And he’d profit from it.

Nobody—not Rockefeller, not Du Pont or Carnegie or J. P. Morgan—beat the house. Unless they were the house. And in this casino, the only house was him.

He shook his flashlight several times and turned it on.

For some reason, he was surprised to find them waiting for him—RD Pruitt and two other men. RD, in a stiff tan suit and a black string tie. The cuffs of his trousers stopped just short of his black shoes, exposing the white socks underneath. He had two boys with him—’shine runners by the look of them, smelling of corn, sour mash, and methanol. No suits on these boys—just short ties on short collar shirts, wool trousers held up by suspenders.

They turned their flashlights on Joe, and it was all he could do not to blink into them.

RD said, “You came.”

“I came.”

“Where’s my brother-in-law?”

“He didn’t come.”

“Just as well.” He pointed at the boy to his right. “This here is Carver Pruitt, my cousin.” He pointed at the boy on his left. “And his cousin on his mama’s side? Harold LaBute.” He turned to them. “Boys, this here is the one killed Kelvin. Careful now, he might decide to kill you all.”

Carver Pruitt raised his rifle to his shoulder. “Not likely.”

“This one?” RD sidestepped along the ballroom, pointing at Joe. “He’s rat tricky. You take your eye off that pea shooter, I promise it’ll be in his hands.”

“Aww,” Joe said, “shucks.”

“You a man of your word?” RD asked Joe.

“Depends on who I give it to.”

“So you ain’t come alone like I ordered.”

“No,” Joe said, “I ain’t come alone.”

“Well, where they at?”

“Shit, RD, I tell you that, I spoil the fun.”

“We watched you come in,” RD said. “We been sitting out there three hours. You show up an hour early, think you get the drop on us?” He chuckled. “So we know you came alone. How you like that?”

“Trust me,” Joe said, “I’m not alone.”

RD crossed the ballroom, and his guns followed him until they were all standing in the center.

The switchblade Joe had brought with him was already open, the base of the handle tucked lightly under the band of the wristwatch he wore solely for this occasion. All he had to do was flex his wrist and the blade would drop into his palm.

“I don’t want no sixty percent.”

“I know that,” Joe said.

“What you think I want then?”

“Don’t know,” Joe said. “I suspect? I suspect a return to, I dunno, the way things used to be ? Am I warm?”

“You about on the griddle.”

“But there wasn’t no way things used to be,” Joe said. “That’s our problem, RD. I spent two years in prison doing nothing but reading. Know what I found out?”

“No. You tell me, though, won’t ya?”

“Found out we were always fucked. Always killing each other and raping and stealing and laying waste. It’s who we are, RD. Ain’t no Used to Be. Ain’t no better days.”

RD said, “Uh-huh.”

“You know what this place could be?” Joe said. “You realize what we could do with this spot?”

“I do not.”

“Build the biggest casino in the United States.”

“Ain’t nobody going to allow gambling.”

“Gotta disagree with you, RD. Whole country’s in the tank, banks going under, cities going bankrupt, people out of work.”

“ ’Cause we got us a Communist for a president.”

“No,” Joe said, “not even close, actually. But I’m not here to debate politics with you, RD. I’m here to tell you that the reason Prohibition will end is because—”

“Prohibition ain’t gonna end in a God-fearing country.”

“Yes, it will. Because the country needs all the millions it didn’t get the past ten years on tariffs and import taxes and distribution taxes and interstate transport levies and, shit, you name it—could be billions they gave away. And they’re going to ask me and people like me—you, for example—to make millions of dollars selling legal booze so we can save the country for them. And that’s exactly why, in the spirit of the moment, they’ll allow this state to legalize gambling. Long as we buy off the right county commissioners, the right city councillors and state senators. We could do that. And you could be part of it, RD.”

“I don’t want to be part of nothing with you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To tell you to your face, mister, that you’re a cancer. You’re the pestilence that gonna bring this country to its knees. You and your nigger whore girlfriend and your dirty spic friends and your dirty dago friends. I’m a take the Parisian. Not sixty percent—the whole place. Then? I’m a take all your clubs. I’m a take everything you got. Might even go by your fancy house and tear me off a piece that nigger girl ’fore I cut her throat.” He looked back at his boys and laughed. He turned to Joe again. “You ain’t got this yet, but you leaving town, boy. You just forgot to pack your bags.”

Joe looked into RD’s bright, mean eyes. Stared deep into them until he got all the way past anything bright and was left with nothing but the mean. It was like staring into the eyes of a dog beat so much and starved so much and uglied so much that all it had to give back to the world was its teeth.

In that moment, he pitied him.

RD Pruitt saw that pity in Joe’s eyes. And what surged up in his own was a howl of outrage. And a knife. Joe saw the knife coming in his eyes and by the time he glanced down at RD’s hand, he’d already buried it in Joe’s abdomen.

Joe gripped RD’s wrist, gripped it fiercely, so RD couldn’t move that knife right, left, up, or down. Joe’s own knife clattered to the floor. RD struggled against Joe’s grip, both their teeth gritted now.