The books were open on the desk and the sun was on the books and the dust in the sun was on the words and Vinnie had been at this for an hour before either of them was supposed to arrive. The yellow pad on his right had four columns. The pen on top of the pad was the second pen of the afternoon because the first one had run dry halfway down the third column.
He heard the side door at five of three. Tommy.
"Vinnie."
"Tommy."
"Three coffees. I went to the Italian place on Bloomfield. The new kid did a thing where he tried to put cinnamon on top of mine. I had to use the word no twice."
"You let him."
"I let him the first time."
"Wise."
Tommy set the cardboard tray on the desk. Took off his coat. Hung it on the back of the chair across from Vinnie's. Sat. Looked at the columns on the yellow pad. Said nothing about them. He was a man who knew that when his boss was finishing a sentence on a page, the time to comment on the sentence was after the sentence was finished.
Enzo Benedetto came in twelve minutes later. He had a briefcase with him that Vinnie had not seen Enzo use since 1998. The leather was good. The latch was the kind that worked. He set the briefcase on the floor next to his chair and sat without putting his coat on the chair-back because at seventy-three Enzo Benedetto still hung his coat on a peg in the hall and not on a chair. He had done this in this house since 1979.
"Vincent."
"Enzo."
"You look at me like I'm late."
"You're twelve minutes late."
"I'm on Enzo time. Tommy is on Tommy time. You are on your own clock. That's how it has always been in this house."
He took the third coffee. Drank from it the way an old man drinks from a paper cup: tested the rim, found it acceptable, took the second sip from the same spot.
"Talk to me," he said.
Vinnie turned the pad around.
"Nine months of the year are on these four columns. Waste hauling — Jersey City core plus the partnership flow. Hotel — eight properties, three months of operations. Rossi auto body, thirty percent. Verrazzano — one month, partial. Newark East Ward construction lot — pre-operational. Newark East Ward Municipal — won in August, first revenue first quarter. Belleville recovered: Market Street plus the Italian Affiliated Grocers block plus the auto-glass row, four months in. Two soft losses I'm holding in line: West Caldwell vending sold Q1, the Bayonne joint that's running flat because Pussy's slot in the manifest is — was — taking up oxygen on what kind of paper we put on it. We've corrected that since June. Total gross through the end of September: a million, nine. Same period last year: a million, three-thirty. We're up forty-five percent. Legitimate share of the gross: forty-two cents on the dollar. January it was a dime."
Enzo did not look at the page yet. He looked at Vinnie.
"Say the dollar number out loud one more time."
"A million, nine."
"Nine months."
"Nine months."
"Vincent."
"Yes."
"That is the best nine months your father ever had. By forty percent."
"I know."
"He had a nine months in '87 that was a million, three. He talked about that nine months for the next four years. He thought it was the ceiling. He took your mother to Capri on it. He bought the Cadillac on it. He bought the Omega on it. That was the ceiling for him. You broke through the ceiling and you didn't talk about it. You are sitting here on a Sunday in a study with your sleeves rolled up and your second pen and you are telling me, in the same voice you tell me what time you ate lunch, that you broke the ceiling your father couldn't see over."
"Enzo —"
"I'm not done."
"Sorry."
"This is the best year this family has ever had. I want it said. I want it said in this room. By me. So that we three have heard it said. Now I'm done."
A silence.
Tommy lifted his coffee. Drank. Set it down. Looked at the page.
"Okay," Tommy said. "We did good. Now I'm gonna ruin it."
Vinnie almost smiled. He turned the yellow pad to the second sheet. The second sheet had three lines on it. Tommy's three lines.
"Go."
Tommy ticked them off on his fingers.
"One. The Bureau didn't disappear. They got pulled. They got reassigned. They don't lose interest in a name in a file. They lose budget, then they get budget back, then they look at the same names. We have a year, maybe eighteen months, before whoever has Elena's old desk at the Bureau side of the Hudson task force reopens the page that has Marchetti on it. We need to be more boring in eighteen months than we are right now, and we are pretty boring right now. So that's a planning thing for me and you both. Two. The Lupertazzi reorganization. Carlo says the same two guys from the borough have been by the auto body twice this quarter, asking the same not-very-good questions. They're not asking can we have a piece because they know what the answer is. They're asking what's the size of the piece. They're scoping. Probably they'll do nothing for six months. After six months I want a plan for that we don't have yet. Three. Internally. We got Ralphie quiet, we got the new yard kid who is doing well, we got Carmine still standing at the kitchen end of every social, we got Eddie at Verrazzano who is honestly a guy I trust, we got Vito who is Silvio's eyes and who is fine to be Silvio's eyes. Where we are thin is — the boss is at the lot with paint on his shoes and at Bethlehem with his lawyer and at the bank with the banker and at the Soprano house last Saturday for a roast and not at the social club. The guys talk. The talk is not against you yet. The talk is what's he doing. That's not a problem this week. It's a problem at six months if we don't sit at the social club twice a quarter."
Vinnie listened. Did not interrupt.
When Tommy finished he picked up the pen. Underlined each of Tommy's three points on the yellow pad. Wrote a single line under each.
Under FBI: Eighteen months. Boring multiplied.
Under Lupertazzi: Six months. Carlo and Silvio together at a table I am at. Name a number.
Under social club: First Thursday of every month, eight to ten, jacket. Twice a quarter is not enough. Six times a year is not enough. Twelve.
He turned the pad back around.
Tommy read the three lines. Nodded once.
"That's the right answers."
"Don't compliment me on writing three lines, Tommy. The doing is the work."
"I know it. I'm complimenting the writing because it's Sunday and we're not at the doing yet."
Enzo had picked up the pad while they were going. Looked at the social-club line. Looked at Vinnie over the top of the page.
"Twelve a year is right."
"Yeah."
"Your father did sixteen and he thought he was working hard."
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna say a thing."
"Say it."
"Your plan. You've told me your plan twice in this room since Sal died. The first time you told me your plan, you told me you thought you had five years to be majority legitimate. The second time you told me, you said three. You have been on three for the better part of this year and you are on three because of Elena. I want to tell you in front of Tommy what the actual number is now."
"All right."
"Twenty-four months. Two years from this Sunday. Sept '02. The criminal side stops contributing to anything that touches you personally — your name, your title, your signature, your office. It can still operate. It doesn't operate as Marchetti. It operates as somebody else. You walk away from your seat. You keep the construction. You keep the hotel. You keep the East Ward. You keep Rossi if Rossi cooperates. You become a man with three legitimate companies and a wife and probably a kid and you do not pay tribute again starting September 1, 2002."
"That's the plan."
"Your father would think you were crazy."
"I know."
"He'd say Vincent, you don't walk away from a tribute. You die, the tribute gets paid by your kid. You don't get out. The only out is the grave."
"I know what he'd say, Enzo."
"And then I'd say to him, like I'm saying to you. Sal, you're wrong. And by the way, you also got killed. So how good was your way of looking at it."
Tommy made the sound that was the start of a laugh and was held back to honor the room.
Enzo did not smile. His face did the thing his face did when he was at a wake and somebody had said the funny thing.
"I'm with you, Vincent. I've been with you since Tommy and I sat in this study in July. I'm telling you the plan is real. Tommy?"
Tommy did the thing where he wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. Looked at his coffee. Looked at Vinnie.
"I'm with you. I've been with you since Newark with the brick wall."
"All right."
Vinnie reached into the bottom drawer of the desk. Took out a bottle of something that had been in there for some time. Three glasses. Poured an inch in each. Pushed two of them across.
"I'm not going to make a speech."
"Don't make a speech."
"I want to say one thing. I couldn't have done this without either of you. I want you to know I know that. I'm not going to forget it. Whatever this turns into in two years."
Enzo lifted his glass.
"Vincenzo."
That was the only word he used.
Tommy lifted his.
"Boss."
Vinnie drank.
The phone in the hall rang then. Single ring. Then stopped. Vinnie looked at the doorway.
Tommy looked at his watch.
"That's the lawyer," Tommy said. "The thing about Tony."
"He said he'd call before five."
"It's four-fifty-three."
Vinnie set the glass down on the desk.
"Sit a minute. He'll call back in two."
The phone rang again.
He picked it up in the hall.
"Marchetti."
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