William Lashner - Bitter Truth

“It looks like everything’s changed,” I said.

“Not everything,” said Anton. “The same rules, just a different opponent.”

“How’s your chess?”

“I’m seeing deeper into the game every day.”

“Good. Maybe your rating will rise,” I said.

So Anton Schmidt was now with Calvi, and might have been all along. Of all the people in that room, me included, Anton, the chess master, was by far the smartest. Calvi was more powerful than I had thought if he had Anton doing his planning. Maybe Raffaello was right to step aside.

“Everything ready, Schmidty?” asked Calvi.

“The Cubans are in, waiting for orders. I sent them over the bridge where the bus won’t attract any attention. They’re at a diner in New Jersey.”

“They got good diners in Jersey,” said Cressi. “Tell them they should try the snapper soup.”

“We’ll know in a few minutes,” said Calvi.

Schmidt leaned over and spoke a few lines of Spanish to the two men, who nodded grimly and shot back some words of concern. Schmidt answered their questions and then turned to Calvi.

“Let’s do it,” said Calvi.

I had two phones in the apartment, a portable in the bedroom and one by the couch with a cord long enough to reach the table. I sat at the table with the corded phone, the line stretched taut from the outlet. Schmidt sat next to me and next to Schmidt was Calvi with the portable handset. Cressi sat across from us, his gun out of his pants and back in his hand. Caroline was sent to the bedroom, the door guarded by one of the two Cubans. Before she shut the door, Sam the cat scampered in after her. From behind the closed door we heard a shout.

“She has a thing about cats,” I said.

“Make the fucking call,” said Calvi.

I dialed the number I had memorized from the Rev. Custer message.

“It’s Victor Carl,” I said into the phone when it was answered. “Let me talk to him.”

“Who?” said the voice at the other end.

“Just shut up and put him on or I’ll rip off your face.”

Cressi broke into a big smile. Calvi and Schmidt remained expressionless. After a few moments of dead quiet I heard his voice.

“Hello, Victor,” said Raffaello. “What have you heard?”

“I’ve been approached about a meeting,” I said flatly.

“Who? Tell me who?”

I looked over at Calvi as he listened on the portable. He nodded.

“Walter Calvi,” I said.

“That bastard, that shit-smoking bastard. Is Cressi with him like we thought?”

Calvi nodded.

“Yes,” I said.

“Who else, Victor? Tell me who else.”

Calvi shook his head.

I looked at Anton Schmidt and said, “I don’t know who else. That’s all I’ve seen.”

“Dammit, that bastard. How strong are they, Victor, tell me.”

Calvi nodded. I looked at the Cubans and thought of the bus in New Jersey. “Strong,” I said. “They’re ready for a war.”

Raffaello sighed into the phone. “Did you tell them my offer?”

“Yes.”

Calvi looked at me and mouthed, “I want full control.”

“They’ve agreed to your proposal so long as you turn over full control,” I said.

“Of course. That is what this is all about.”

Calvi mouthed something else. “And you’ll have to leave the city,” I said.

“I understand. But he agrees no reprisals, no war, and he’ll guarantee my safety and my daughter’s safety?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“All right. When is this meeting to take place?”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece as Calvi conferred with Schmidt. “Tomorrow morning,” said Schmidt. “Five-thirty. Before the city awakes.”

I relayed the message.

“Fine,” said Raffaello. “That’s fine. We’ll meet at Tosca’s.”

Calvi shook his head. “The old RCA building in Camden,” said Schmidt into my ear. I repeated it into the phone.

“I’m too old to go to Camden,” said Raffaello. “No. It must be on this side of the river. Packer Avenue Marine Terminal, South Gate.”

Anton Schmidt shook his head and whispered in my ear. “The Naval Shipyard,” I said. “Pier Four.”

“That’s interesting,” said Raffaello. “Good neutral territory, the Naval Shipyard. But how are we going to get in? There are guards.”

“The Penrose Avenue gate will be open and unguarded,” said Schmidt.

“That Calvi he’s a rat-fucking bastard,” said Raffaello after he heard what I relayed, “but at least it’s not one of those Young Turks who don’t respect the traditions. Calvi I can trust to keep his word. Tell him tomorrow morning, five-thirty at the Naval Shipyard, Pier Four, is acceptable. Tell him I will leave town that afternoon. Tell him after all these years the trophy, it is finally his.”

“So,” said Calvi after Raffaello had hung up, “it’s exactly as you said, Vic. We’re all going to make so much money it will bring tears to our eyes.” He turned to Schmidt. “Is that the place we wanted?”

Schmidt nodded. “Get me a piece of paper.”

I found him a yellow pad and Schmidt quickly sketched a pier sticking out from a straight shoreline.

“This is Pier Four,” said Anton Schmidt. “It reaches out into the Delaware River. Docked on either side of the pier are two old Navy ships, mothballed for future use. Between the two ships is a giant hammerhead crane. We’ll have our men here, here, and here.” He placed X’s on either side of the pier, where the ships would be, and an X in the middle of the pier, where the hammerhead crane sat. “If we set up the meeting so you confront Raffaello here,” he said, placing two circles on the pier between the crane and the shore, “then during the whole of the exchange you’ll both be covered.”

“Who will be with the Cubans?” asked Calvi.

“Domino and Sollie Wags will be on the deck of this ship here, Termini and Tony T will be on the ship there, and on the crane will be Johnny Roses, keeping an eye on everyone.” These were all names of minor mobsters, generally known as the most vicious and impatient of the Young Turks, who had apparently switched allegiances to Calvi to hasten their rise. “With our men set up like I say, we’ll dominate the center.”

“That’s good. I don’t want no trouble until I get what I came for.”

“Raffaello’s a man of his word,” I said. “There won’t be trouble.”

Calvi looked at me and sucked deep from his cigar and let loose a stream of smoke that billowed into my face, leaving me in a spasm of coughs. “You’re dead right about that, Vic,” he said. “There won’t be no trouble.”

“The crossfire here,” said Anton, “could wipe out a division.”

“There won’t be no trouble at all,” said Calvi. “Now we need a signal, so everyone’s on board at the same instant. What’s Spanish for ‘now’?”

“ Ahora, ” said Anton, rolling the “r” like a native.

“A-whore-a,” said Calvi. “Good. That’s the signal. A-whore-a. When I say a-whore-a I want all hell to break loose.”

Schmidt turned to the Cubans and gave them instructions in Spanish. The only word I caught was ahora, a number of times, ahora from Schmidt and then ahora repeated by the Cubans with smiles on their faces.

“I’ll call Johnny Roses on the cell phone,” said Schmidt, “and set it all up. They’ll be on site in an hour.”

“Good work, Anton,” said Calvi. “We’re going to do great things together. You’re going to be my man in Atlantic City. Together we’re going to rule the board-walk.”

Schmidt nodded, a small smile breaking through those pursed lips. Then he went off to the corner with his cell phone.

“What about the girl?” I said.