Tod Goldberg - Gangsterland

“Help me?” Fat Monte said. “This asshole broke my fucking nose and now wants to hobble me.”

“I know you helped get rid of Sal Cupertine,” Jeff said. “I know you killed Chema. I know you had Neto killed. So that’s two bodies on your sheet, plus aiding a fugitive who murdered federal agents. And now I’m pretty sure you killed Paul Bruno, too, because you opened your stupid mouth. You want that weight? You willing to spend the next five hundred years in prison? Because that’s what you’re looking at, Monte. No more in and out in a year. No more Ronnie greasing things so you’re living like a kingpin somewhere. Because now you’re a liability to him. So I’m talking the rest of your life in a supermax, solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day. That’s if you live through the week. All that, and your wife will have a bounty on her ass from the Gangster 2–6 for you killing two of their boys. You ready for that?”

“I talk to you,” Fat Monte said, “what can you do for my wife?”

Matthew shot Jeff a quick look. Fat Monte hadn’t just taken the hook, he’d swallowed it all the way down. Jeff wasn’t totally convinced this was the case, actually, though if there was something to be gleaned from all this, it was that Fat Monte understood what Jeff said was entirely true. Though, if Fat Monte actually went to his lawyer, well, there could be some problems. . namely that Matthew was impersonating an FBI agent. . though the odds were fairly good that Fat Monte Moretti would probably have some problems alleging that his civil rights had been violated, particularly since he was a known felon.

“We can get her protection right away,” Jeff said, which was a lie. But it was a lie he’d figure out how to make good on, if need be. He still had a few friends, somewhere.

“Like a house in Phoenix or some shit?” Fat Monte said. “Maybe a little place on an island? Get her some new tits, also? Maybe you put her up in business, like an ice cream shop or some little boutique place selling sweaters and scented candles?”

“This isn’t TV,” Jeff said.

“So don’t play me like I’m on TV,” Fat Monte hissed. He pulled the rag from his face and picked up a napkin from the table and dabbed at his nostrils to check for bleeding. It was down to just a few trickles, though once he saw himself in a mirror, he wasn’t going to be pleased. “Unless I see some marshals in this joint, you don’t even have the authority to make that kind of promise. You’re not the first feds to come knocking on my door with offers of immunity and shit.”

Jeff had long worked under the impression that Fat Monte wasn’t very bright. Of all the members of the Family he’d investigated, he was the one clear liability, the one part of upper management prone to common stupidity — over the years, in addition to his notable felonies, Fat Monte was pinched for drunk driving, got nicked for beating down a valet he accused of stealing three dollars in change from his car, even once tried to get on a commuter flight with a vial of cocaine in his pocket — never mind his propensity to kill other humans. Now, though, sitting here with him, Jeff was beginning to understand that Fat Monte wasn’t very bright, but he’d acquired some level of institutional intelligence.

“Okay, then,” Jeff said. He stood up and put his coat back on, Matthew followed suit, and then Jeff asked a passing waitress for a pen, scribbled his cell phone number on the back of a napkin, handed it to Fat Monte. “You call me, and I’ll get an ambulance for you.”

“That’s it? Your pit bull breaks my fucking nose, threatens me, and then you leave?”

“You don’t need to be Ronnie Cupertine’s bitch,” Matthew said. “You tell us where Sal Cupertine is, that’s all, and maybe we’ll forget about Chema and Neto.”

“They’re already forgotten,” Fat Monte said.

“Just like you’ll be when you’re not of any use anymore,” Jeff said. “I’m not asking you to tell me what crimes Sal Cupertine committed. I have that information. I’m just asking for a location. You point to a spot on a map, and your wife is safe for the rest of her life.”

“While I do. . what? Five hundred years? That what you said?”

“You chose this life, Monte,” Jeff said, his voice rising, and it was all he could do not to grab Fat Monte by his collar and shake him, but he managed to stay calm, managed to extend a single finger in Fat Monte’s direction instead of his gun. “Your wife didn’t. She could ask Jennifer Cupertine about that, see how life really works when your old man is left to sway in the wind by the Family. See how far the omertà goes when she can’t afford to flush the toilet.”

“Fuck you,” Fat Monte said again, and there still wasn’t much behind it.

“That’s what Ronnie Cupertine does,” Jeff said. “You don’t believe me, just you wait until he sees you with your twisted face and your story about how the feds roughed you up. He’s gonna have a lot of questions about why you’re not in jail, and next thing you know, we’ll be pulling your crispy body out of the landfill, too.”

Jeff started out the door, Matthew a few steps behind him, and it was only then that he realized how quiet the bar had become, primarily because he’d shouted at Fat Monte Moretti, killer of men and a regular at the Four Treys Tavern in bucolic Roscoe Village. Bad form, sure, but whatever.

Even though they’d been gone less than thirty minutes, the inside of Jeff’s Explorer was already freezing once they made it back, the steam rising from both men fogging the windows. Jeff took his gun from his ankle holster and put it back in the glove box. Matthew didn’t seem to notice. Jeff checked his reflection in the rearview mirror, wiped a speck of dried blood from his forehead.

“I could do it, you know,” Matthew said. “Put one right in his back.”

“I know,” Jeff said.

“I want to do it now. What’s stopping us from doing it right now?” Matthew said.

“Put your gun away,” Jeff said.

“We should take it to the next level,” Matthew said. He took his gun out, examined it for a moment. “I want to hurt him.” He looked at his hands, wiped them on his pants. “I’ve got his blood all over me.”

“You violated his civil rights,” Jeff said. “If you were still working for the FBI, I’d have to fire you.”

“I want to hurt him,” Matthew said again, like maybe he was trying to make sense of his own revelation. He dumped the gun in the glove box.

“I know,” Jeff said. He pulled off Damen, turned right on Roscoe, then came back down Wolcott and onto Henderson, headed back toward the bar.

“What are we doing?” Matthew said.

“I want to see what he does,” Jeff said. “If he walks home, back to the wife, we got him. If he sits in there and calls a couple of his boys, starts plotting how he’s going to kill us, we’ll need to make different arrangements.”

“He doesn’t even know my name,” Matthew said.

“He could get it,” Jeff said. “He knew who I was.”

“Do I need to worry about my sister?”

“We’ll know soon enough.” Jeff parked half a block away from the bar, in front of a blue walk-up that had both Cubs and Sox banners flying out front. Jeff took out his cell and tried Paul Bruno’s phone again. Voicemail still full. Shit.

“Anything?” Matthew said.

“No,” Jeff said. Matthew nodded, kept staring out the window, waiting for Fat Monte, or a bunch of guys in sweat suits, to appear. “If he’s dead,” Jeff said, “that’s on me.”

“It’s on him,” Matthew said. “What did you say to Fat Monte? That he chose this life? Same thing for your friend.”