“Heavy machinery,” Aquafreddo said. “You know, like building elevators and shit. The union already owns the Riviera down the block.”
“Really,” Peaches said. He made eye contact with Lonzo. They’d need to move. Their rooms were probably tapped. “How do you feel about this, Ms. Silausk?”
“Call me Lori.” She waved over a waiter. Ordered a bottle of champagne. “As you can imagine, there’s significant pushback on my side.”
“I’m just looking for long-term stability for my family,” Aquafreddo said. “We’re putting a lot of money into the operation, and I don’t have an official 401(k), you know what I’m saying. Up the street, Trump has bought into a casino. So workers there, they feel pretty good. He’s not gonna go belly-up and leave them without a pension. Maybe we put our money there instead.”
“And then the Mexican Mafia?” Peaches asked. “They want health care? Seems like they could use it if I understand correctly.”
“Well, that’s the other problem.” Lester Aquafreddo started to rearrange items on the table. “You see the sugar caddy here? That’s the Mexican Mafia. They run the cocaine from the border up into LA. They got their leadership housed in Indio. About a block away from where our casino is.” He placed the saltshaker next to the sugar caddy. “They bought into the casino early on; isn’t that right?”
“They made an early capital investment,” Lori said, “back when we were still a bingo parlor. I was fourteen. So. I didn’t have any say on it. They continued to provide some needed protection for several years, but that time and that investment are up.”
Aquafreddo and Lori kept on with the details of the casino partnership, which ended up being that the LA families wanted to cut the Mexicans out, which would allow them to run the drugs on the property, wash their money in the casino, and provide protection, and in exchange they’d unionize, get LA-leadership health care and pensions and other shit they could loot if need be. But the Mexicans didn’t want to leave. So now the Mexican Mafia and the Native gangsters were beefing.
“Except Lori’s cousins and brothers don’t know how to shoot,” Aquafreddo said. He shifted forward again, his chest halfway into the bread dish. “So your nephew and I have been taking care of things when we have to.” He shook his head. “I’m sixty. I’m not doing fucking drive-bys anymore. I can barely see at night as it is. Which is where you come in to save the day.”
This fucking guy, Peaches thought. All these fucking guys. If there weren’t a hundred people in the restaurant, Peaches would put one between Aquafreddo’s eyes right now. Existing on a reputation that was formed in the 1970s and now they were pushing retirement age and didn’t have shit saved, so they still had to hustle the pyramid scheme that had been the basis of their business since Capone ran the streets. None of them had the sense of how to run a criminal operation in the twenty-first century, much less understood that robbing banks didn’t need to involve a gun and a Citibank branch. All of them threw cash around and kept two girlfriends on the side. They were leeches. Peaches knew he couldn’t just start killing them, because their lazy asses kept him protected. As long as everyone made rent, they were content to keep on keeping on, a big score always around the corner.
Mike said, “I told them how you brokered the deal between The Family and then our thing. And how you got all the Native Crips and Bloods to fall in line. How you know how to fix shit so everyone wins.”
“The gangster whisperer,” Aquafreddo said, “that’s what you said.”
Mike laughed.
Aquafreddo laughed.
Lori poured a flute of champagne, sipped it, looked off toward something in the far corner of the restaurant. Peaches followed her gaze. Two guys, fifties, expensive clothes, hands like fucking baseball mitts, crooked noses, kinda messed-up eyebrows, the sort of guys who led with their foreheads, with their eyes on her, like Lonzo had eyes on Peaches. Real subtle. Real ready to crack some fucking heads.
Maybe she was a gangster after all. Had Mike and this LA dupe doing her dirty work.
“You kick up to New York?” Peaches asked Aquafreddo. “Sixty years old, still paying freight?”
“Made a choice,” Aquafreddo said. “Can’t stand cold weather. So I pay my taxes; I just pay them to John’s kid now, instead of Uncle Sam. No difference. What about you? You got a W-9 with the Cupertines?”
“Mr. Cupertine is his own man. I am my own man. We’re a partnership. No one is anyone’s boss. Because I guess I don’t understand. Gotti is in prison, will probably be dead soon, you’re out here earning, and then, what, you’re FedExing cash to someone in New York?”
“Something like that,” Aquafreddo said.
“And you’re telling me how you want to do business?”
Silence.
Mike said, “We’re all friends here, Uncle.”
Silence.
Mike said, “It’s the Mexican Mafia that’s the problem.”
Silence.
Peaches said, “Don’t tell me who my friends are, nephew.”
Silence.
Lester Aquafreddo smiled. “There’s no want,” he said. “It’s either how it’s gonna be or how it’s not gonna be. We’re doing business with you, or we’re doing business with Trump and the other tribes and you’re out here holding your Chicago dicks. Respectfully.”
“You wouldn’t know respect if it was fucking your father in prison,” Peaches said. Loudly. Intentionally. Because Peaches was seeing the world so clearly now. It was as if time slowed down and Peaches was moving fast, fast, fast. He knew everyone’s moves before they even thought of them, because everyone in this room was living thirty years ago.
And just like that, Lonzo was sitting between Peaches and Aquafreddo. All the women with faces like cats were turned to him. The men, in their golf pants and polo shirts and oxygen tanks, whipped around. Lori’s two guys, halfway out of their chairs. No one speaking, everyone waiting, even the waiters, until Lori grabbed one. “A bottle of wine for every table, please,” she said, handing over her black Amex.
“Where’s your husband?” Peaches asked, once eyes had returned to plates.
“My husband, Rudy,” she said, “is doing fifteen in Corcoran.”
“When I did time,” Peaches said, “I met Richard Speck. Do you know who that is?”
“No,” Lori said.
“Murdered eight women in one night,” Peaches said. “This was in the 1960s.”
“And John Wayne Gacy did my floors,” Aquafreddo said. “What the fuck are we talking about here?”
Peaches put a finger up. “One moment,” he said, “and I’ll get back to you.”
“The fuck did you say to me?”
Lonzo said, “He said he didn’t want to hear your voice. You can stay quiet for just a minute, can’t you?”
