“They all know his reputation.”
“Double the fee.”
“I tried that; the general response was, ‘You don’t have enough money.’ Apparently, the last guy who tried to serve Mr. Dattila didn’t make it home to dinner that night. Or any other night.”
“Why don’t you take off early tonight and drop off this summons?”
“Yeah, sure. I thought we already established that you can’t afford to lose me. You’re going to have to do it yourself, Stone.”
“You think I’m afraid of some two-bit wiseguy?”
“I read in the Post that Mr. Dattila is worth at least a hundred million dollars, and if you have any sense at all, you’re afraid of him.”
“You read the Post?”
“The New York Times is not a full meal for everybody; some of us need dessert.”
“Just book the table.”
Stone arrived on time at the Palm to find Joe Giraldi waiting for him at the bar. He remembered the guy now; his desk had always been way across the squad room. “Good to see you again, Joe,” he said, motioning the bartender for the cop’s bill. He was about to leave a ten on the bar, when the bill arriv
ed: fifteen bucks, not including tip. “Jesus, what are you drinking, Joe?”
“Johnnie Walker Black. Isn’t that in your budget?”
“Sure, sure,” Stone replied, leaving a twenty on the bar. Eggers would shit a brick, but that was okay with him. He steered Giraldi to their table. “Want another one?”
“Just to keep the flow of conversation going,” he replied.
Stone ordered another Johnnie Walker Black and a Knob Creek, and they looked at the menu. Stone gulped. He hadn’t been here in years, and inflation had taken its toll. He wondered if the waiter would speak to him if he ordered the hamburger steak, if they had a hamburger steak.
Giraldi didn’t even look at the menu. “I’ll have the Caesar salad and the Kobe strip,” he said to the waiter. “Medium.”
“I’ll have the same salad and the regular, ordinary American strip,” Stone said. “Medium rare.” He closed the menu before he could see the price of Kobe beef, which, allegedly, came from Japanese cattle that had been massaged daily by geishas, or something.
“Would you like some wine?” the waiter asked. The question was directed at Giraldi.
“Yeah,” Giraldi replied. “You got a Far Niente cabernet, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What year?”
“The 2000.”
“We’ll have that, and decant it, will you?”
Stone knew that bottle was going to go for close to two hundred dollars. “You come here a lot, Joe?”
“Whenever somebody wants to hear about the Mafia.” He sipped his Scotch. “Shoot.”
“Okay,” Stone said, taking a long draw on his Knob Creek, “my client was into a bookie called Carlo; you know him?”
“Yeah, his real name is John Quigley; he ain’t even Italian, but he passes. For some reason, his clients are more willing to pay if they think he’s Italian. He works out of a candy store on Second Avenue, downtown.”
“Who’s his boss?”
“A capo named Gianni Pardo, who’s known as Johnny Pop.”