The Proposal

Chapter 9 Chapter 9 Roger had filled two spare syringes, one with morphine, the other with the Pentathol, and wrapped a piece of bandaging tape around the one with the morphine. He capped them and took them with him, leaving Frank to watch over the patient, and had gone to bed to get whatever sleep he could before he embarked on his attempt to reach Grecco. When he woke, it was to the sound of a soft knock on his door. "Yeah," he called. McPike stuck his head in. "It’s after midnight," he told Lococco. You wanted me to wake you up if you weren’t up by now," he reminded the former assassin. "Thanks," Roger replied, feeling as though he had been hit by a bus. He lay in the dark for several minutes before rising, then stripped and headed for the shower, ignoring McPike’s worried frown as he left his room. He stood under the scalding spray until some semblance of normality penetrated his fog of exhaustion. Much as he disliked admitting it, he was starting to feel his age. There had been a time when he had been known to go three days without sleep and then complete one of Mel’s ‘wet’ assignments and go on to make love to the first convenient and willing female. At the moment, he doubted his ability to rise to any of those occasions. He was going to have to resort to one of DeSilva’s feel-goodies, or he wasn’t going to make it downstairs, much less across town. Rinsing off the last of the soap, he got out and dried himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist, and returned to the sitting room. McPike was nowhere to be seen, so he stuck his head into Vince’s room. McPike looked up as Roger appeared in the doorway. "You still look like hell," he said bluntly to the weariness that lined Lococco’s face. "Thanks. I still feel like it, too. Toss me the speed DeSilva left for me," he requested, and caught the little ziplock bag out of the air, opening it and swallowing one of the little tablets dry. "How’s our patient?" he asked. "Asleep again," McPike replied. "You up to giving him his antibiotics?" Roger inquired. "He’s gonna need more morphine in about an hour, too." Frank nodded. "I was in the room when DeSilva showed you what to do," he answered, the usual cynicism clear in his voice. "Glad to hear it," Roger shuddered. "I’ve never been big on needles." He turned and headed back to his room to dress in the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn the night previously. By the time he was ready to leave, the amphetamines were starting to kick in. DeSilva had been right. They were considerably stronger than the ones he’d taken the day before, though he wasn’t sure he didn’t prefer the irritability induced by old ones to the euphoria the new ones triggered. If he wasn’t very careful, he would find himself cutting corners and taking risks without even being aware of it. He checked his weaponry, ensuring that the wrist sheath was working properly, then wrapped a garrote around the other arm, putting on his raincoat. The pistol stayed where it was, hung in its holster over the back of a chair, and the two capped syringes went into a coat pocket. For this job, he would have to rely on cunning, not force of arms. He stuck his head back into Terranova’s room. "See you around, F. D. Don’t let him pull anything stupid." "Watch yourself, Lococco," McPike replied. "You have my number?" Roger nodded. "Yeah." "Use it if you int into a jam," Frank told him. Lococco nodded and headed for the door to the hallway, pondering the circumstances that had turned McPike from enemy to ally. Before tonight, he would never have imagined that the OCB Regional Director would have been doing anything but cheering on anyone who looked able to put Roger on ice permanently. No love had ever been lost between them. If he wasn’t careful, Roger thought, he was at serious risk of developing a soft spot for the irascible little FBI agent. ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ Roger eyed the sleeping mobster coldly. So this was what ‘weasel’ looked like, up close and personal. The sight was far from impressive. Tony Grecco lay on his back, upper legs swathed in heavy gadresdressings, the left one immobilized by a steel armature that appeared to be holding icalical steel pins in place along a six inch length of the upper thigh. Lococco could not muster much regret that his shot had shattered bone. It wouldn’t matter in the long run. Or even the short one. Tony Grecco had reached the end of the line. Any hesitation he felt in killing the man was readily overcome at the memory of Terranova’s bloody body in his arms that afternoon. Roger found the injection port in Grecco’s I.V. line and began injecting the Pentathol into it. Nice trick, he thought. He would have to thank DeSilva for that little tip. Grecco stirred as the drug hit his system and Roger turned on the bedside lamp. The gangster’s eyes opened and Lococco could already see the wooziness in them. "‘Evening, Mr. Grecco. I believe you have some information a friend of mine needs. Are you up to discussing it?" "Fuck you," came the slurred response, and Roger eased a little more of the Pentathol into the I.V. line. "Sorry you feel that way. You are going to discuss it, though. Tell me where you stashed the money from Steelgrave’s dock operations." Roger’s voice had gone cold. "Fuck you," was the reiteration. "Tell Terranova he can go to hell." "Well in that case, he’ll be seeing you there, Buckwheat." Roger pushed another three cc’s into the line and waited. He had used this drug before, in Mel’s employ. It was generally reliable, though individual tolerance to it varied. Grecco appeared to have a greater than normal head for the stuff. "What’s your name?" he asked. He watched Grecco grit his teeth against the drugged loquacity that the Pentathol produced. A little more of the drug followed. "Your name." "Grecco," was the reply. Lococco could see that he stilstill fighting it, but the drug was finally overcoming conscious will. "Where is the money?" "The Caymans." Grecco surrendered at last. "Which bank?" It was obvious Roger was going to have to ask every question explicitly. Grecco was resisting the drug enough not to volunteer anything. "Cayman National Bank." "What’s the account number?" "Ring," came the obtuse response. "What?" Roger muttered imseimself. This was by far the most idiosyncratic reaction to Pentathol he’d encountered. "Ring? What does that mean?" "In the ring. Account number’s in the ring." Lococco hesitated over this for a split second, brow furrowed. Then his amphetamine-spiked system caught the sound of a hand at the door of Grecco’s room. With the speed of a striking snake, he had the light shut off, the syringe withdrawn and was wedged behind the open bathroom door in the darkness, listening to the stealthy opening of the door of the hospital room. The bedside light came on again and Roger peered through the crack between the doorjamb and the door, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on. He could see Grecco from the knees down, his torso obscured by the man who stood at his bedside. Grecco, drugged as he was, was incapable of mounting an effective resistance as a pillow was placed over his nose and mouth, and held there through the wild thrashings of his death throes. It was during Grecco’s last fitful movements that Lococco realized what the man had meant by ‘ring’. The gold and diamond pinky ring on his right hand flashed in the light and Roger grinned. Lococco bided his time while the assassin made sure he’d finished the job and finally crept back out of the room as quietly as he’d entered it. The fire Roger had set on the floor below had apparently provided an opportunity for more than just himself, he thought, removing the ring from the lifeless hand and slipping it onto his own finger, pausing just long enough to confirm the numbers engraved along the inside of the band. He peered cautiously through the door he’d cracked open and slipped out, hands sliding into the lab coat he’d appropriated from the hospital laundry, thankful that he’d swiped a set of scrubs while he was at it. The night staff, abuzz with the unaccustomed excitement, were returning to their posts, and he slipped among them, feeling a bit like a salmon swimming upriver as he moved counter to their flow up the stair well. The police officer he’d drugged with the morphine would undoubtedly be found within minutes and he increased his pace, exiting the stairwell three floors down and making for the elevator, his grin never wavering.   It was nearly three a.m. when he got back to the suite, wired out of his mind and not especially minding the amphetamine-induced euphoria, now that he had completed his mission. McPike was dozing in a chair beside Vince’s bed. Lococco nudged him gently, pushing Grecco’s ring off his pinky with his thumb. "Hey, Buckwheat, I’ve got something for you," he said softly as Frank stirred and sat up straight in the chair, rubbing his eyes blearily. "What time is it?" McPike asked, peering up at Lococco. "Three on a lovely Tuesday morning," Roger grinned at him, tossing the ring into the air. Reflexively, McPike caught it, turning it in his fingers as he gave it a cursory glance. "Not exactly my style," he said sarcastically. "Does this mean we’re engaged?" "Look inside the band," Roger prompted. McPike did as he’d been told, squinting at the engraving. Its significance sank in and he looked up at Roger. "This what I think it is?" he asked, interest clearly piqued. "Tony Grecco’s account number at the Cayman National Bank, Grand Cayman Island," Roger confirmed. "You really are as good as you think you are," Frank said, obviously impressed. "What about Grecco?" t;Det;Dead," Roger replied, glancing at McPike to see how that piece of news went down. At the gathering thunder clouds on McPike’s face, he held up his hands, placatingly. "Not my doing, Frank. One of Castellano’s guys did the honors. The only bodily injury I committed was drugging the poor uniform outside Grecco’s door and stashing him in a utility closet." "You didn’t stop them, either. That makes you an accessory, Lococco," McPike glowered. "Stop with the crocodile tears, Frank. Grecco was a loose end that needed tying off. I’d have killed him if I’d had to. Vince might not have survived Tony’s next performance in front of the Grand Jury. And given the choice between Vince and Grecco, I shouldn’t have to tell you where my loyalties lie. Look me in the face and tell me you’d have stopped the guy who suffocated Grecco, knowing it could mean Vince’s next ‘family’ get-together might be his last." Roger’s edgy temper flared at the accusatory look in McPike’s eyes. McPike scowled and looked away, watching the slow rise and fall of Terranova’s chest. The FBI agent's expression told Lococco what he'd guessed to be true: McPike would not have intervened in the murder of Tony Grecco under the circumstances, either. "The man was a scum-bag," Frank conceded. "My point, exactly," Roger answered, the grin back, full force. "And you have some digging to do, my friend," he told McPike as he pulled Frank out of his c and and walked him out of Vince’s room. "Where am I going?" McPike asked irritably. "To put together as much information as possible on that account. Bring anything you get with you when you and Carlucci connect up with us before the council meeting," was Lococco’s imperious command. "And we’ll need the ring back. It’s a beautiful little piece of stage-dressing, don’t you think?" McPike glowered as Roger snatched up the raincoat Frank had arrived with and escorted him to the door. "Sleep well, sweetheart," Lococco said, stroking the top of Frank’s bald hfamifamiliarly as he urged McPike unceremoniously out the door.   Frank departed the hotel, annoyed enough at the bum’s rush he’d just been given to be seriously reconsidering any slack he’d been inclined to cut Lococco, and knowing it had been the drugs in the man’s system that had amplified the worst of his annoying habits; condescension. He twisted the gaudy pinky ring around the finger he’d put it on and closed his hand in a fist. Stepping out onto the Waldorf’s portico, he hailed the cab that was parked there, getting in. "La Guardia airport," he said. "And make it snappy." ÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅÅ Vince woke out of opium dreams, rising to consciousness as might a swimmer surfacing from a dive, with weary effort. The painkillers had worn off, he knew, from the aching stiffness in every muscle, and from the relative clarity of his thoughts. Breathing was distinctly uncomfortable, the drawing of a lung-full of air straining intercostal muscles as though his ribs had been bound. Out of nowhere, a deep, hacking cough rose from his diaphragm and he rolled onto his side, curling around the tearing pain of the knife wounds as the sutures were stretched. The coughing subsided, leaving him sucking air through clenched teeth as he waited for the agony to ease. As his focus widened from the pain in his chest, he became aware of Lococco slumped in a chair beside the bed, deeply asleep. Even in the dim light from the sitting room, Vince could see the exhaustion in Roger’s face, lines and hollows more pronounced than before. The tousled hair and the dark sweep of lashes against his cheek gave him the look of a tired child. There was a disarming defenselessness in the limp sprawl of his body and in the astonishing innocence of his expression in relaxation that made Vince suddenly aware of the absence of the patina of long emotional pain Lococco wore in waking. He wondered what it would take to wipe that pain from his friend’s features permanently, wondered if it was even possible. Roger sighed softly and shifted, losing his blanket in the process. Vince watched him for a moment, but he showed no signs of waking. Vince sat up with painful slowness, stifling the cough that came with movement. Left arm pressed tightly against his side, he dropped his feet to the floor and reached down for the blanket. Retrieving it, he draped it back over Lococco one-handed, as gently as he could manage, knowing that Roger would never accept anything resembling tenderness in waking. The scars on his mind and heart were far too deep for the possibility of physical demonstrations of affection. Any attempt would simply trigger his reflexive homophobia. Vince respected those limitations on their friendship, even though it went against his own demonstrative nature. He had come to love this brilliant, irritating, damaged man as he had loved his brother. Unthinkingly. Unquestioningly. Without reservation, despite the horrors of his past deeds. Vince knew how fine the line separating them was. It would have taken very little for him to fall into the same darkness in which Roger had lost his way for so long. Having discovered that breathing was easier in an upright position, he methodically stacked the pillows against the headboard and leaned against them, resting his head against the wall. He sat in the darkness, breathing carefully, simply watching Lococco sleep. Gradually, he relaxed into a light doze. Roger could not have said what jarred him out of the state of total unconsciousness he had slipped into, but he came awake with every sense, every nerve engaged, sitting bolt upright in his chair with his heart pounding like a jackhammer. His abrupt movement woke Terranova and the two men stared at each other in the dimness. "Rog?" Vince asked, "You OK?" Lococco shivered, leaning back in the chair. "Night terrors," he replied, then straightened again. "You’re sitting up." "It’s easier to breathe this way," Vince answered simply. "So how come I didn’t hear you moving?" Lococco’s voice was edgy, stressed. "You were asleep, Rog," Vince said, aware of Roger’s distress but unable to understand the reason for it. Roger rested his forehead on bunched fists. "Hellova bodyguard I turned out to be," he said, self-mockery dripping from every word. "Nothing should move in here that I don’t know about!" his voice was fierce as he glared across at Vince. Vince frowned, clearly not liking Lococco’s agitation. "You were sleeping, Roger. That’s not a crime. You’ve been awake most of the past four days, ever since I dumped this load of crap in your lap." "I wasn’t just asleep, Vince, I was fucking unconscious!" Roger rose, pacing the length of Vince’s bed like some wild animal in a trap. "Don’t you get it? Anyone could have walked in here and finished what Castellano started and I wouldn’t have noticed a thing until I woke up to find you in a pool of blood with your heart cut out!" Vince stared at him in worried consternation. "Calm down, Roger. You were exhausted, you were in here with me, you trust me enough to shut your eyes on me and you fell asleep! I know you, Rog. If there was anything or anyone that didn’t belong here, you’d have been on your feet with a gun in your hand faster than most people could even sit up." Roger paused, staring down at Terranova, seeing the worry in his face. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Forced the irrational rush of adrenaline back down, forced himself to think instead of react. "It’s gotta be the speed," he muttered. "DeSilva said it would be rocky, coming off." He shivered involuntarily, resuming his pacing, though without it’s previous agitation. Lococco made a Herculean effort to pull himself together, using the task of checking the I.V. line to focus himself. Cautiously, Vince put a light hand on Roger’s forearm. "You OK, man?" and Lococco froze under his fingers. Roger exhaled, quelling the urge to jerk away from the touch on his skin. He held still a long moment, making it clear that it was a matter of trust over reflex that held him that way, then nodded sharply, moving away from the comfort of that touch, unable to help himself. He took up the vial of antibiotics and filled a syringe, injecting the medication into the I.V. port. The second bag was nearing empty, he noted, and checked his watch. 5:30 a.m.. Far too late for any morphine administered now to wear off in time for Vince to be at his limited best in time to meet with Capuzi. He swore softly under his breath, thankful that at least he hadn’t slept long enough for the bag to empty, sucking a lethal air bubble into Vince’s veins. "You’re going to have to make do with Demerol from here on out. There’s no way you’ll be coherent in time if I use the morphine now." Vince did not bother to conceal his relief. "Good. I hate the stuff. I’d rather hurt than feel like my stomach was trying to tie itself in knots around my throat." He shifted his position slightly, and began to cough. "Think I could get up?" he asked, ignoring the anxious furrow in Roger’s brow. "I’ve been on my back for fifteen hours. I need to use the bathroom and I want something to drink." "OK, Buckwheat, then I’m going to take the I.V. out. Too much hassle trying to get you and it moving in the same direction at the same time." Roger let himself focus on the task at hand as he untaped the I.V. line from its points of attachment along the inside of Vince’s right elbow. He found a gauze pad and held it ready over the catheter site, and removed the I.V. cautiously. The single drop of blood was easily handled by the gauze and Roger taped the pad in place. "Put some pressure on that," he told Terranova as he disposed of the bags and lines. Vince did as ordered, waiting for Roger to help him to his feet, looking as if he'd need it. Roger heaved him upright. He wasn’t wrong, Lococco thought, tightening his grip as Vince stood swaying apparently lightheaded as gravity drained the blood from his head. He clutched at Lococco’s shoulder, holding it hard, blinking his vision clear and waiting for the floor to stabilize under his feet. "Just give it a minute," Lococco told him, waiting patiently for Vince to gather his strength. Another bout of coughing wracked Terranova and Roger swore quietly. "DeSilva said you’d be coming down with pneumonia," he said, concerned, pulling Vince’s arm over his shoulder to better support him. "I guess he was right. Come on, let’s get you to the john before you break potty training." The sting of his words was salved by the gentleness he used in guiding Vince across the room and into the bathroom. Roger put Vince back to bed and brought him a glass of water and the Demerol, standing by and watching to ensure he took the drug. "You up to anything more solid than pain pills?" he asked9;&q9;"You mean food?" Vince inquired. "Yeah, I guess… Now that the morphine is wearing off, I’m more hungry than queasy." "Let’s see what we can do about that," Roger replied and picked up the room phone. "Hello, Room Service?" Twenty minutes later, a vaguely eclectic assortment of selections from the Waldorf’s kitchens was delivered to their door. Roger wheeled the cart into Vince’s room. "So what’ll it be? We have steak and eggs, we have a mushroom omelet, we have fruit salad, juice, coffee — we even have the ubiquitous donut or two." "Whatever’s sweet," was Vince’s reply. "Spoken like a true junkie," Roger ribbed him, then relented at the clouding of Vince’s expression. "I was kidding, Vince," he reassured him. "Sometimes, I wonder. It’d be real easy, you know, Rog?" Vince looked up at Roger, eyes dark with some old shadow. "To need what the pushers sell." "Not you, my friend. You don’t usually go looking for the easy way out. And I don’t see you starting anytime soon." Lococco dismissed this worry out of hand. "Besides, who needs junk? Your current drug of choice is love, Buckwheat." His exaggerated drawl brought a smile flickering around Vince’s mouth and Roger grinned. "They tell me it beats the pharmaceutical highs all to hell." "I’d have to agree with that," Vince smiled, a full wattage grin that lightened his eyes. "Maybe you should give it a try sometime." "Spoken like a true believer," Roger teased. "I don’t think so. I’ve had enough complications for one lifetime." Vince’s quirked eyebrow spoke volumes as he took the fruit salad that Lococco handed him. Roger had given Vince first choice from among the dishes he had ordered, and had then proceeded to polish off everything Terranova had rejected. Having gone without food since before Vince’s stabbing, he had no qualms about making up for the meals he had missed. The metabolic jumpstart the amphetamines had given him would ensure the calories would be burned off. "So how’d it go with Grecco last night," Vince inquired, having eaten as much as he could handle. He coughed, grimacing at the pull on his stitches. "Like clockwork," Roger said, letting a certain smugness color his voice. "I got the account number and the name of the bank outta the little weasel and then let one of Castellano’s guys fit him for wings. I’d say you’ve seen the last of Tony Grecco, Buckwheat." He stretched like a cat, with a feline aura of self-satisfaction. "I gave it to McPike and he’s gonna pull together everything he can find out about it and bring it with, when he and Carlucci show up." He checked his watch. "Think you’re up to calling Aiuppo and getting him to set up the meet with Capuzi?" Vince nodded and swallowed the last mouthful of coffee in his cup. "Hand me the cell phone," he requested. He dialed the number from memory, greeting his stepfather tersely. "Vincenzo, are you alright?" the old don asked, concerned. "There are rumors that Castellano’s blade man got to you." "Yeah, well for once the rumors are true. I’ve been holed up getting stitched back together. Capuzi wanted proof that your boys were going behind his back. I’d say a knife in the ribs qualifies." Vi#146#146;s voice was rough. "I need you to contact him and set up a meet. Neutral territory. I’m not coming alone." "Who are you bringing with you?" Rudy inquired warily, concern in his voice. "Lococco and one of Castellano’s accountants. He’s got a line on a second set of books that would put a whole different light on your current Brooklyn management," Vince replied. "I’m not walking into this without protection, this time. One shot at me is all I’m willing to givur gur guys, so clear it with Capuzi. And tell him I’ve got Grecco’s off-shore act nut number. I’m still working on getting the details, though." "I heard Tony ran out of luck last night…Was that your doing?" "No. Castellano’s guy did the honors. We just extracted the pertinent information." Vince denied. "Very well, my boy. I will talk to Chero. Where do I reach you when I have his answer?" "Use the cell number. I’ll leave it on." Vince turned off the cell phone and tossed it to Roger. "Rudy’ll call us when he knows when and where," he told Lococco, then coughed raggedly. He ran hands through his sweat-matted hair with a grimace. "If we’re gonna be paying social calls, I’d better get cleaned up." Roger frowned. "You sure you’re up to a shower?" he asked doubtfully. "Get me on my feet. I’ll be alright," Vince said, and proceeded to try to stand. Roger helped him to fee feet, steadying him. "So let’s see you walk, Buckwheat," he said grimly. Vince managed less than a dozen steps before his knees began to buckle. Roger caught him before he fell and slung Vince’s arm over his shoulder once again. "Come on, let’s get you hosed off. I can change your dressing when we’re through," he said, helping Terranova into the bathroom. He sat him on the john while he turned on the water and stripped off his shirt. He caught the odd look on Vince’s face and Roger ginned when he realized Vince was wondering if Roger intended getting into the shower with him. His interpretation of Vince's wary expression was confirmed by Terranova's next words. "I was six and I had the chicken pox the last time somebody gave me a bath," Vince said unhappily. Roger grinned as he ducked back out of the bathroom and returned with a danish modern wooden chair from the suite's entry way. He positioned it in the oversized shower stall under the heaviest of the spray, then turned to Vince, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Don't worry, sweetheart, your honor is safe with me," he smirked as he helped Vince into the shower. "This is humiliating," Vince muttered as he sagged into the chair Lococco had steered him towards. He glared up at Roger, water dripping off his aquiline nose and slicking his heavy, dark hair to his head, taking the bottle of hotel shampoo he handed him. "Maybe so, Buckwheat, but think how humiliating it would be to show up smelling like you just went eight rounds with a water buffalo and covered in yesterday’s dried blood," was Roger’s reply. "You’re gonna have to work on your sense of style. There are some things considered unacceptable in polite company." He stepped back out of the stall and slid the glass door shut, effectively imprisoning Vince. "Call me when you're through, OK?" he ordered, and snagging a towel for himself, he left Vince to his ablutions. When Vince summoned him, Lococco helped Terranova back into the bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed, then went to retrieve the bandaging supplies DeSilva had left for him. He laid out what he would need, ensuring that the gauze pads were well-coated with ointment, and tore off lengths of bandage tape, sticking them to the footboard of the bed. Carefully, he removed the sodden bandages from Vince’s chest, dumping the blood-stained gauze to the floor. He removed the pads covering the wounds and the needle aspiration site one at the time, quickly replacing them with the fresh dressings, then taped them into place. "You’d better not lie back down," he told Vince. "You’re gonna have to be mobile in a few hours." He collected briefs and Vince’s sweats, handing them to him. "Let’s see if you can handle getting some clothes on," he suggested. He watched, ready to intervene if necessary, letting Terranova discover for himself what range of motion was comfortable. Roger let him struggle with dressing, knowing his help was not likely to appreciated. Finally, Vince stood beside his bed, in sweats, bare-chested and barefoot, swaying slightly with the effort, but remaining upright. "You’ll do," he nodded. "C'mon, let’s get you into the other room," he added, letting Vince take hold of his shoulder and walking him out to the sitting room. "I’m gonna give you one of DeSilva’s jump-starters," Roger told him. "You’re gonna need the energy. Limping into that meeting is not gonna be the sort of entrance that’s gonna gain you any respect." Vince’s wryly quirked eyebrow spoke of his agreement with Lococco’s terse assessment of his unpromising coion.ion. "Just make sure you time it so’s I’m not coming down off the stuff till after we’re done," he made Roger promise. Roger nodded, glancing at the VCR clock. It was nearly eight a.m. He retrieved Vince’s cell phone from the bedroom and handed it to him. "I’m gonna get cleaned up myself," he told Terranova. "You got everything you need?" Vince nodded, waving the TV remote with a flourish. "Think I’ll see if Grecco made the morning news," he said to Lococco’s retreating back, and turned on the TV. Roger, having finished his own grooming, opened Terranova’s closet and considered the two suits hanging there. He decided on the conservatively elegant silk one. Its price tag would be obvious to everyone at the meeting that morning, declaring Vince a man of independent means. He rounded up all the sundry accessories necessary to a successful businessman and lay them on Von Vince’s bed. He walked into the sitting room with one of the amphetamines, the biotbiotics and a glass of water, handing them to Vince. "If you react to this stuff like I did, it’ll kick in in about twenty minutes, and you’ll be flying till at least three this afternoon." Vince swallowed the pills obediently, downing the entire glass of water. "Thanks. That should be long enough," he told Roger. "Rudy called. Capuzi’s not too happy about the extra guests at his little party, but he went along when Aiuppo told him who was coming and why. The meet’s set for one thirty, at this old packing plant Capuzi’s got on the East side." "Aiuppo’s lieutenants gonna be there?" Roger asked, his tone making it clear that if they did make an appearance, they would not likely be leaving under their own power. "Dunno," Vince’s reply was unconcerned. "If they do show up, though, they’re not gonna leave happy." "Not if I have anything to say about it, anyway," Roger confirmed. "It’s quarter after ten, now. Let me know when you start feeling the rush, and I’ll help you get dressed." Vince nodded. "And let’s try to keep the bleeding to a minimum, OK?" Roger said, as he snugged the burgundy silk tie around Terranova’s neck an hour later. "Ready to go impress the riff-raff?" he asked, stepping back. Vince was definitely looking better. The drugs had returned something near normal color to his face and his eyes were clear, though pain was etched in the lines around them. He was even standing and moving on his own with more assurance than he had two hours before. It was clear that discomfort road the broad shoulders, but he did not have the look of a man incapacitated by his injuries. Considering the way he’d looked less than twenty hours ago, it was nothing short of miraculous. "I’m gonna start wondering about your homophobic act if you don’t stop looking at me like that," Vince teased him, flushing under Lococco’s appraising gaze. He was rewarded, unexpectedly, by Roger’s laugh. "You’re just not my type, sweethearNot Not enough X chromosomes." Roger replied. Vince answered this with a laugh of his own. "Just so’s you aren’t suddenly confused by which end of the gene pool you’re swimming in, Buckwheat," he told his friend, pleased that Roger could laugh at something that would have sent him into a surly retreat ten years before. "Let’s go meet McPike," Roger said, handing Vince a new dark silvery-gray camelhair greatcoat. Vince nodded, and to Roger’s satisfaction, took the coat and walked slowly but steadily for the door of the suite. He paused at the door, looking back at Lococco, who was checking the contents of his own coat pockets. "Gimme a sec," Lococco said and disappeared into his room for a moment, returning, donning his gloves as he joined Vince at the door. He glanced back at the suite, shaking his head. "I think I’m gonna be hearing from the management about the mess," he told Vince, ruefully. "Just leave a few hundreds in an ash tray, Rog. Housekeeping isn’t gonna make trouble for a heavy tipper, no matter how big the mess is. I didn’t work Sonny’s hotel and casino for nothing. You got money — use it." Vince reminded him ironically. Roger cocked an amused eyebrow and fished out his money clip, peeling off an uncounted wad of hundreds and returned to the sitting room only long enough to place the cash under the ashtray on the coffee table. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around. ‘You are showing signs of becoming very helpful’," Roger said, quoting himself from a point early in their acquaintance as Mel Profitt’s toadies. Vince caught the allusion and grinned. "‘Gee, thanks, Roger,’" he answered as he had ten years before, though humor colored the cynicism in his voice, now. Companionably, they departed the hotel and headed for their first meeting of the morning, with Frank McPike and Mario Carlucci. McPike and Mario Carlucci were there to meet them in a deserted office on the seventh floor of a condemned building when they arrived an hour later. Carlucci, a soft-bodied and prematurely balding number-cruncher of about thirty five, eyed the pair of expensively clad, dangerous-looking men who emerged from the dilapidated elevator with wary curiosity. So this is what the OCB’s most successful operative looked like, he thought to himself. Frank performed the introductions, his presentation of Lococco as Vinnie’s partner raising an eyebrow. "I didn’t know the Bureau assigned agents in pairs," Mario said in surprise. McPike grimaced. "Technically, they don’t," he admitted. "But we have an unprecedented situation here. Aiuppo and Capuzi are looking to recruit Vince for a management role in Brooklyn, if he can give them enough on Brod and Castellano. If he’s under that deep, I want a safety net in place. That’s Roger’s job." Carlucci’s eyes widened in shock. "No wonder you wanted to shore up his cover!" he swallowed hard. "You know," he told Terranova, "they used the technique you developed to penetrate Steelgrave’s operation as a training exercise when I was coming up." Vince was startled. "I didn’t develop anything. I used a mutual interest to give myself a point of contact ‘cuz I didn’t want to do it the long way, working my way up from the bottom -" he jerked his head at Frank "- and my field supervisor made it pretty clear what he thought about that at the time," he stated bluntly. "I was in too big a hurry and only the fact that I was one lucky son of a bitch kept me from getting myself killed." Carlucci grinned suddenly. It was clear Terranova had no idea that his anonymous exploits had become Bureau legend. Far be it for him to enlighten him, he resolved. In Terranova’s position, he’d probably rather not know, either. "Have it your way," he replied, catching the amusement crinkling the corners of Lococco’s eyes. "Gentlemen," McPike interrupted impatiently. "We have an act to get together, and damned quick. You have an appointment to keep in slightly over an hour." "Alright, alright, Frank. What did you get on Grecco’s account?" Vince asked. In answer, McPike handed over the sheaf of papers he held. "Looks like the Winfield deal was not the only one he cut himself in on," Frank said. "There’s almost half a million in that account. I put all the stuff you could reasonably be expected to get access too in the folder on top. The rest of that you’d better keep to yourself. It has ‘Federal weight’ stamped all over it." Vince nodded, and handed the papers to Lococco. "What about the Brooklyn books?" he turned to Carlucci. "No hard copy, but I was able to hack into Brandon’s pet accountant’s computer. He’s definitely keeping an extra set of books.coulcouldn’t access them without tripping alarms and blowing my cover. But I can show don Aiuppo’s number-guy how to get to the records. That do you any good?" "Maybe," Vince said slowly. "I won’t know until I have a feel for how much Rudy and Capuzi already know, and how badly they want to rein the punks in." Carlucci nodded. "Just so the guns stay holstered," he muttered to himself. "You don’t have to get involved," McPike told him, firmly. "It’s just been a while since I went through the weapons training course," he admitted. "About the most physical action I see in my cover is the ‘percussive maintenance’ I practice on the piece-of-shit computer I work on." Terranova stifled a grin. "We’ll try to keep it civilized," he assured the accountant. "You carrying?" "Are you nuts? My cover is as a desk-jockey, not a soldier. I show up for a tête á tête with a coupla goombas who don’t know me from the corner grocer carrying heat and I’ll wind up as a paper-weight." Carlucci said emphatically. Vince nodded, approvingly. "Leave the violence to the professionals," he said dryly. "If it gets ugly, find yourself some cover and stay there." "Happily," Carlucci agreed.