City on Fire (Danny Ryan, #1)(9)

Yeah, Peter is smart, but as smart as he is, Chris is smarter. Peter don’t make a move without him, and if Peter does make the big step up, Chris will be his consigliere, no question.

The Irish guys pull up chairs as a waitress brings two pitchers and sets them on the table. The men pour their beers, then Peter turns to Tim. “You went running to the Murphys?”

“I didn’t ‘run,’” Tim says. “I just was telling Liam—”

“We’re all friends here,” Pat says, not wanting to get into the protocol of who told what to whom.

“We’re all friends here,” Peter says, “but business is business.”

Liam says, “This place doesn’t pay tax. Never has, never will. Tim’s father and my father—”

“His father is gone,” Peter says, then looks at Tim. “May he rest, no disrespect. But the arrangement passed with him.”

“It’s grandfathered,” Pat says.

Peter says, “They’re tax-exempt forever because thirty years ago some bogtrotter boiled a potato in here?”

“Pete, come on . . .” Pat says.

Chris kicks in, “Who do you think got the Works Department to put this rock in, the place doesn’t turn into a raft, you’re Huckleberry fucking Finn? That’s thirty, forty grand of material, never mind the labor.”

Pat laughs. “What, you paid it?”

“We arranged it,” Chris says. “I didn’t hear Tim crying then.”

Tim says, “I already use your food supplier. What they charge me for meat? I could do a lot better someplace else.”

It’s true, Danny thinks. The Morettis are already making money out of this place, what with the vending machines and kickbacks from the wholesalers. Never mind the freebies.

“And the last time you had a health inspector really go through your kitchen,” Chris says, “will be the first time.”

“Then don’t eat my fucking food, all right?”

Peter leans across the table toward Pat. “All we’re saying is that we’ve had expenses related to the place lately and we think Tim should contribute a little. Are we being that unreasonable?”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” Tim whines. “I don’t have the money, Peter.”

Peter shrugs. “Maybe we can work something out.”

Here it comes, Danny thinks. The demand for a tax was just a come-along. The Morettis know that Tim don’t have it. That was just to open the door for what they really want.

“What do you have in mind?” Pat asks.

“One of our people,” Peter says, “went to do a little transaction in the men’s room here last week, and Tim here got heavy with him.”

“He was dealing coke,” Tim says.

“You laid hands on him,” Paulie says. “You physically threw him out.”

“Yeah, and I will again, Paulie,” Tim says. “If my old man knew that was going on in this place—”

Danny remembers an argument that Pat and Liam had, about Liam’s trips to Miami. He goes down there on what he calls “forni-cations.” Danny has his suspicions about Liam’s Miami runs.

So does Pat.

Danny was there when Pat cornered Liam and said, “Hand to God, Liam, if you’re bringing back anything from Florida besides herpes . . .”

Liam laughed. “What, you mean coke?”

“Yeah, I mean coke.”

“Lot of money in blow, bro.”

“Lot of jail time, too,” Pat said. “Lot of freakin’ heat from the feds and locals. We don’t need that.”

“Yes, Godfather,” Liam said. He went into his Brando imitation. “We’ll lose our judges, our politicians . . .”

“I’m not kiddin’ here, baby brother.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Liam said. “I’m not moving any coke, for Chrissakes.”

“See that you don’t.”

“Jesus. Enough.”

Now Danny remembers that conversation and has to wonder what the fuck they’re really talking about here.

“Look,” Peter jumps in, “maybe we can cut a little slack on the payments if Tim would be a little flexible on this other thing.”

“Why this place?” Pat asks. “In the winter it’s nothing but fishermen.”

“Fishermen don’t do coke?” Paulie asks. “Don’t kid yourself. The worse the fishing is, the more they need. The better the fishing is, the more they want.”

Danny don’t like the remark. Hard to make a living, support your family—guys take a little consolation where they can find it. Used to be booze, now it’s blow. Well, it’s still booze, but now it’s blow, too.

“I’m just saying there are other places you could do that business,” Pat insists.

It’s true, Danny thinks. He knows at least five joints up the coast where you can score coke.

“You can’t shake your dick at the urinal those places you don’t hit a narc,” Peter says. “I thought we were all friends here. A friend denies a friend a favor?”

“It’s a big goddamn ask,” Tim says. “I could lose my liquor license. Shit, they could confiscate the place.”