Malone kept at it. Nasty Ass—and only God knew where he got this kind of information—told him that Pena’s wife was holding a surprise birthday party for her husband at Rao’s, the famous East Harlem eatery.
Pena, he was sitting at the big table with his family, his friends, more than one business leader, a few local pols, and he was opening his presents and took out a big package that was a framed photo of three dead children with a note: From Your Friends at the Manhattan North Special Task Force—No Happy Returns, Baby Killer.
Malone heard about it—from the wiseguys on Pleasant Avenue. He got invited to a sit-down with Lou Savino, whom he’d known since he was a beat cop in the bag. They sat outside a café with cups of espresso and the capo said, “You piece of work, you. You gotta cut this shit out.”
“Since when are you a message boy for the tacos?”
“I could be offended by that,” Savino said, “but I’m not going to be. We leave wives out of our business, Denny.”
“Tell that to Janelle Cleveland. Oh, that’s right, you can’t. She and her whole family are dead.”
“This is a pissing match between two sets of monkeys,” Savino said. “You got your brown monkey and you got your black monkey. What’s the difference which gets the banana? It’s nothing to do with us.”
“It better not be, Lou,” Malone said. “If any of your people are moving Pena’s product, all bets are off, I’m coming after them, I don’t care.”
He knew what he was doing—letting Savino know that if he wanted to deal smack, it had to be with anyone but Pena. It might prompt him to put in a call to the Dominican.
The key to staying alive in any kind of organized crime outfit is very simple—make other people money. As long as you’re making other people money, you’re safe. Start costing people money, you’re a liability, and crime organizations don’t keep liabilities on the books for very long.
It’s not like they can write them off on their taxes.
Malone was turning Pena into a liability—the man was costing his bosses money and trouble, and he was becoming an embarrassment, a guy who was letting himself be humiliated, his wife insulted, his businesses trashed; he became the subject of jokes.
You’re running for toastmaster general you want to be a comedian. You’re trying to take over the ghetto drug trade, last thing you want to be is funny.
You want to be feared.
And if people are going Celebrity Roast on you, even behind your back, they ain’t scared of you. And if they ain’t scared of you, and you’re not making people money, you’re just a problem.
Drug organizations don’t have HR departments. They don’t bring you in, counsel you, instruct you on how you can improve your job performance. What they do is they send someone you know, someone you trust, who takes you out to drinks or to dinner and tells you, Cuida de tu negocio.
Take care of your business.
“Just sit down with the guy,” Savino said, “is all I’m asking. We can work something out.”
“Three dead kids. There’s nothing to work out.”
“It’s always good to talk.”
“He wants to talk,” Malone said, “he comes in and confesses to ordering the murder of the Cleveland family, then he writes a statement. That’s the only way I sit down with him.”
But Savino played his trump card. “This isn’t him asking, this is us.”
Malone couldn’t refuse a direct request from the Cimino family. They were in business together, he had obligations.
They met in the back room of a small restaurant in the East Harlem neighborhood controlled by the Ciminos. Savino guaranteed Malone’s safety; he, in turn, promised that there would be no bust and he wouldn’t wear a wire.
When Malone got into the room, Pena was already at the table. White shirt, overweight, ugly, even in a thousand-dollar suit. Savino got up to hug Malone and started to pat him down. Malone knocked his hands away. “You patting me down? You pat him down?”
“He’s got no reason to wear a wire.”
“I have no reason to wear a wire,” Malone said. “This is not a way to start this sit-down, Lou.”
“Where’s the wire?”
“Up your mother’s twat,” Malone says. “Next time you eat her out, don’t say anything incriminating. Fuck you, I’m outta here.”
“It’s all right,” Pena said.
Savino shrugged and gestured at Malone to sit down.
“Who you taking orders from these days?” Malone asked Savino.
He sat down across from Pena.
“Do you want anything?” Pena asked.
“I’m not breaking bread with you,” Malone said. “I’m not drinking with you. Lou asked me to meet, so here I am. What do you want to say to me?”
“This all has to stop.”
“It stops when they stick the needle in your arm,” Malone said.
“Cleveland knew the rules,” Pena said. “He knew that a man puts not only himself on the line, but his entire family. That’s our way.”
“This is my turf,” Malone said. “My rules. And my rules are that we don’t kill kids.”
“Don’t try to be morally superior with me,” Pena said. “I know what you are. You’re a dirty cop.”
Malone looked at Savino. “Is that it? We’ve had our conversation now? Can I go, get something to eat?”
Pena set a briefcase on the table. “There’s two hundred fifty thousand dollars in there. Take it and eat.”
“What’s this for?”
“You know what it’s for.”
“No, you tell me what it’s for, you piece of garbage,” Malone says. “You tell me it’s for giving you a pass for murdering that family.”
“Pat him down,” Pena said to Savino.
“You lay a finger on me,” Malone said, “so help me God, Lou, I will wipe this floor with you.”
“He’s wired,” Pena said.
“You are,” Savino said, “you’re not walking out of here, Denny.”
Malone ripped off his sports coat, popped his buttons, opening his shirt, baring his chest. “You happy now, Lou? Or you wanna put on a glove, stick a finger up my ass, you wop faggot motherfucker?”
“Jesus, no offense, Denny.”
“Yeah, well, I’m offended, by you and by this baby killer.” Malone picked up the briefcase, threw it at Pena. “I don’t know what you heard about me but I know what you didn’t hear. You didn’t hear I was going to let some mutt kill three children on my beat and walk away. You offer me that briefcase again I’m going to shove it down your throat and out your ass. The only reason I don’t hook you up and haul you in right now is I promised Lou I wouldn’t. But that don’t extend to tomorrow or the day after or the day after that. I’m going to put you on a slab, if your bosses don’t beat me to it.”
“Maybe I’ll put you on a slab,” Pena said.
“Do it,” Malone said. “Come after me. Bring all your people, though. You call the wolf, you get the pack.”
Russo and Montague appeared in the door of the restaurant as if they’d been listening. They had—they’d been sitting out in a car taping the whole fucking thing with a parabolic ear.
“You have a problem, Denny?” Russo asked. He was sporting a smile and a Mossberg 590 shotgun.
Monty wasn’t smiling.
“No problem,” Malone called back. He looked at Pena. “And you, shitbird. I’ll ass-fuck your widow on your coffin until she calls me Papi.”
They geared up, heavy.