behind.
“Welcome to the Grid Iron.”
***
The club was about the ritziest thing Sullivan had seen. The exterior was a crumbling warehouse, but the inside was a palace. The brick walls had been covered in blue and white curtains, and an actual chandelier had been hung from the rafters. There had to be fifty folks on the dance floor, and double that sitting along the bar, drinking themselves stupid on quality Canadian booze. The front of the space was filled with round tables and diners. The smell of fine cooking made Sullivan’s stomach rumble. The waiters were even wearing tuxes.
The back of the warehouse had a stage, and the music was both loud and good. A sparkling bridge spanned the stage over the band, darn near big enough to be an orchestra, and a long-legged dame was crooning a tune. She had great pipes.
One goon had remained at the door, and the other led Sullivan along the wall and up a flight of metal stairs. A balcony circled the room, and once at the top, they entered the private lounge, consisting of some leather couches overlooking Lenny Torrio’s kingdom. There were tables in darkness along the back, and Sullivan could make out a few shapes behind the glow of cigarettes. He had entered the inner sanctum.
There were two more muscle types camped at the top of the stairs. Jake saved them the trouble of the pat-down and handed over his spare gun. It was a beater Smith & Wesson Military & Police .38, but he couldn’t afford to replace his precious .45. “I’m gonna want that back,” Jake stated as the guard carried the revolver away.
Lenny Torrio was sprawled between two chippies in slinky gowns. He was wearing a red silk robe over his clothes. “Sarge! How you been?” he shouted in greeting. He snapped his fingers and the girls jumped up to leave. “Get outta here. Can’t you see I’ve got business to conduct?” He smacked one on the rump as they hurried away. “Have a seat. Have a seat!”
Sullivan settled his mass onto the couch across from Lenny. Physically, Lenny Torrio hadn’t changed much. He was still a skinny, bug-eyed, hyperactive type. The con was going bald now, but he’d slicked what was left over to one side in a failing attempt to hide it. “Hey, Lenny. Been a long time.”
“Sure has. You want a drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but clapped his hands. “Yo. Amish, get my boy a drink! What’re you waiting for?” Lenny turned back to Sullivan and frantically rubbed his nose. “Help these days . . . What can you do?”
Sullivan just nodded. “Nice robe . . . you supposed to be Rudolph Valentino?”
Lenny cackled, way too hard, slapping his knee. “You were always a crack-up, Sarge. Mr. Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Funny, huh? That I’m on top of the world, and last I heard you were a slave to the feds.” A pair of glasses and a bottle were placed on the table between them by a cross-eyed man, who quickly hurried away. “How’s that treating you?”
“Pays the bills.”
“Good thing I’m a legitimate businessman.” Lenny poured them both a drink. “And Rockville? Is it as tough as everybody says?”
“Worse.” Sullivan took the whiskey, pounded it down in one gulp, and set the glass back on the table. It burned going down. He’d never liked Torrio. The man was slime, always had been, always would be, and the only reason he’d been in the First was because a Brooklyn judge had given him the choice between serving his country or serving hard time, and for somebody like Torrio, that meant Rockville Special Prisoners’ Wing.
“So . . . you talk to Matthew lately?”
So that was why his door goons had asked him which Sullivan he had been. Torrio had always been scared of Jake’s big brother, and for good reason. He had been the meanest bastard in the First, after all. Sullivan shook his head. “You don’t want to go there. I ain’t my brother’s keeper.” He changed the subject. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“What? Just because
“Welcome to the Grid Iron.”
***
The club was about the ritziest thing Sullivan had seen. The exterior was a crumbling warehouse, but the inside was a palace. The brick walls had been covered in blue and white curtains, and an actual chandelier had been hung from the rafters. There had to be fifty folks on the dance floor, and double that sitting along the bar, drinking themselves stupid on quality Canadian booze. The front of the space was filled with round tables and diners. The smell of fine cooking made Sullivan’s stomach rumble. The waiters were even wearing tuxes.
The back of the warehouse had a stage, and the music was both loud and good. A sparkling bridge spanned the stage over the band, darn near big enough to be an orchestra, and a long-legged dame was crooning a tune. She had great pipes.
One goon had remained at the door, and the other led Sullivan along the wall and up a flight of metal stairs. A balcony circled the room, and once at the top, they entered the private lounge, consisting of some leather couches overlooking Lenny Torrio’s kingdom. There were tables in darkness along the back, and Sullivan could make out a few shapes behind the glow of cigarettes. He had entered the inner sanctum.
There were two more muscle types camped at the top of the stairs. Jake saved them the trouble of the pat-down and handed over his spare gun. It was a beater Smith & Wesson Military & Police .38, but he couldn’t afford to replace his precious .45. “I’m gonna want that back,” Jake stated as the guard carried the revolver away.
Lenny Torrio was sprawled between two chippies in slinky gowns. He was wearing a red silk robe over his clothes. “Sarge! How you been?” he shouted in greeting. He snapped his fingers and the girls jumped up to leave. “Get outta here. Can’t you see I’ve got business to conduct?” He smacked one on the rump as they hurried away. “Have a seat. Have a seat!”
Sullivan settled his mass onto the couch across from Lenny. Physically, Lenny Torrio hadn’t changed much. He was still a skinny, bug-eyed, hyperactive type. The con was going bald now, but he’d slicked what was left over to one side in a failing attempt to hide it. “Hey, Lenny. Been a long time.”
“Sure has. You want a drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but clapped his hands. “Yo. Amish, get my boy a drink! What’re you waiting for?” Lenny turned back to Sullivan and frantically rubbed his nose. “Help these days . . . What can you do?”
Sullivan just nodded. “Nice robe . . . you supposed to be Rudolph Valentino?”
Lenny cackled, way too hard, slapping his knee. “You were always a crack-up, Sarge. Mr. Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Funny, huh? That I’m on top of the world, and last I heard you were a slave to the feds.” A pair of glasses and a bottle were placed on the table between them by a cross-eyed man, who quickly hurried away. “How’s that treating you?”
“Pays the bills.”
“Good thing I’m a legitimate businessman.” Lenny poured them both a drink. “And Rockville? Is it as tough as everybody says?”
“Worse.” Sullivan took the whiskey, pounded it down in one gulp, and set the glass back on the table. It burned going down. He’d never liked Torrio. The man was slime, always had been, always would be, and the only reason he’d been in the First was because a Brooklyn judge had given him the choice between serving his country or serving hard time, and for somebody like Torrio, that meant Rockville Special Prisoners’ Wing.
“So . . . you talk to Matthew lately?”
So that was why his door goons had asked him which Sullivan he had been. Torrio had always been scared of Jake’s big brother, and for good reason. He had been the meanest bastard in the First, after all. Sullivan shook his head. “You don’t want to go there. I ain’t my brother’s keeper.” He changed the subject. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“What? Just because
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