snapped his fingers. “Spiro!” The muscle man by the door strode over carrying an attaché case and placed it on the table. Russo popped the locks and rotated the case to expose a stack of engraved documents.
Herman thumbed the edges of the bearer bonds, not counting to confirm there were sixty of them, just making sure they were real. With so much at stake Johnny Russo wouldn't dare hand Herman bogus paper, but Russo might have been screwed over by someone else. He looked at his watch and stood up. “I have a subway to catch.”
“You want me to send Spiro and the car to make sure you get home with that?”
Herman stared down at Russo. “You're kidding, right?” Herman wasn't about to have Russo know where his home was. Personal danger had nothing to do with it.
Herman rode the nearly deserted subway with the stainless-steel briefcase on the floor beside him. He sat patiently with his eyes closed.
He had dealt with some of the country's most infamous gangsters from the late 1940s. No matter what talent each possessed that had elevated them to their positions of leadership, not one in a thousand rose above the level of an expensively dressed ape. Herman had always admired Sam Manelli. He was remarkably intelligent, utterly ruthless, and knew more about human nature than anyone. He was also a man of his word. He would rather be tortured to death than inform on anyone. When Sam was gone, the last of the honorable crime bosses was gone, which was just as well. Even if a code of silence was possible with these new gangsters, modern electronics were making secrets a thing of the past.
At his stop Herman picked up the briefcase, got off the train, and walked slowly up the steps out onto the street. His building was near the Stock Exchange, Battery Park, and Trinity Church, and although the neighborhood was teeming with people during the week, it was fairly deserted after five-thirty and a ghost town on Saturday nights, when all the office buildings were empty.
Herman walked casually, swinging the briefcase containing 3 million dollars' worth of paper—every bit as negotiable as cash. He saw two men seated on a stoop in front of a closed deli a block away. He didn't make any attempt to cross to the other side of the street—he maintained a course that would place him an arm's length from them. He didn't look at the two men until they stood and made it impossible for him to pass without stepping off the curb.
One of the men was large and dark as pitch, with a deep scar that gave his cheek the appearance of buttocks. His clothes smelled like something that had been pulled from a muddy ditch and left wadded up for a few days. “Hey, man. You got the time?”
Herman stopped and looked at his watch. “Twelve-ten.”
“Nice watch, old man.”
The smaller man moved around and stood slightly behind Herman.
“It's platinum,” Herman said. “Do we share an appreciation for fine Swiss timepieces?”
The man behind him was a stocky, bandy-legged Mexican.
“You got a couple dollars?” the Mexican asked. “We han't eat all today.”
“Would you gentlemen use my money to buy food or crack rocks?”
The large man laughed. “What do you care? You're a rich man.”
“I certainly wouldn't stay that way if I gave it to every periodontally challenged crackhead I encountered.”
“Whas een jur shiny little suitcase?” the man behind Herman asked.
“Bearer bonds.” Herman took his right hand from his coat pocket. He held it up so both men could see the thick stack of bills in it, fixing their attention to one spot. “I have around two thousand dollars here. How about I let you have this, you forget the briefcase and go get all cracked up for a couple of days, and I'll just go on my way?”
Herman saw the large man's eyes flash a signal and he knew the smaller man behind him was moving to smash his skull or something equally unimaginative. If he hadn't been so tired he would have enjoyed this encounter. In
Herman thumbed the edges of the bearer bonds, not counting to confirm there were sixty of them, just making sure they were real. With so much at stake Johnny Russo wouldn't dare hand Herman bogus paper, but Russo might have been screwed over by someone else. He looked at his watch and stood up. “I have a subway to catch.”
“You want me to send Spiro and the car to make sure you get home with that?”
Herman stared down at Russo. “You're kidding, right?” Herman wasn't about to have Russo know where his home was. Personal danger had nothing to do with it.
Herman rode the nearly deserted subway with the stainless-steel briefcase on the floor beside him. He sat patiently with his eyes closed.
He had dealt with some of the country's most infamous gangsters from the late 1940s. No matter what talent each possessed that had elevated them to their positions of leadership, not one in a thousand rose above the level of an expensively dressed ape. Herman had always admired Sam Manelli. He was remarkably intelligent, utterly ruthless, and knew more about human nature than anyone. He was also a man of his word. He would rather be tortured to death than inform on anyone. When Sam was gone, the last of the honorable crime bosses was gone, which was just as well. Even if a code of silence was possible with these new gangsters, modern electronics were making secrets a thing of the past.
At his stop Herman picked up the briefcase, got off the train, and walked slowly up the steps out onto the street. His building was near the Stock Exchange, Battery Park, and Trinity Church, and although the neighborhood was teeming with people during the week, it was fairly deserted after five-thirty and a ghost town on Saturday nights, when all the office buildings were empty.
Herman walked casually, swinging the briefcase containing 3 million dollars' worth of paper—every bit as negotiable as cash. He saw two men seated on a stoop in front of a closed deli a block away. He didn't make any attempt to cross to the other side of the street—he maintained a course that would place him an arm's length from them. He didn't look at the two men until they stood and made it impossible for him to pass without stepping off the curb.
One of the men was large and dark as pitch, with a deep scar that gave his cheek the appearance of buttocks. His clothes smelled like something that had been pulled from a muddy ditch and left wadded up for a few days. “Hey, man. You got the time?”
Herman stopped and looked at his watch. “Twelve-ten.”
“Nice watch, old man.”
The smaller man moved around and stood slightly behind Herman.
“It's platinum,” Herman said. “Do we share an appreciation for fine Swiss timepieces?”
The man behind him was a stocky, bandy-legged Mexican.
“You got a couple dollars?” the Mexican asked. “We han't eat all today.”
“Would you gentlemen use my money to buy food or crack rocks?”
The large man laughed. “What do you care? You're a rich man.”
“I certainly wouldn't stay that way if I gave it to every periodontally challenged crackhead I encountered.”
“Whas een jur shiny little suitcase?” the man behind Herman asked.
“Bearer bonds.” Herman took his right hand from his coat pocket. He held it up so both men could see the thick stack of bills in it, fixing their attention to one spot. “I have around two thousand dollars here. How about I let you have this, you forget the briefcase and go get all cracked up for a couple of days, and I'll just go on my way?”
Herman saw the large man's eyes flash a signal and he knew the smaller man behind him was moving to smash his skull or something equally unimaginative. If he hadn't been so tired he would have enjoyed this encounter. In
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