This is episode twenty-one of the novel, From Here To 1137.
The Agreement
Tom walked toward Grasso’s table. Grasso was playing a game of Solitaire. Tom lifted slightly the chair that was across from Grasso and let it drop.
Grasso looked up to see Tom. Grasso tried to hide the surprise on his face.
Tom pulled the chair back and sat on it.
“It’s a lonely man’s game,” Tom said. “After my dad died, my mother worked crosswords.”
“I’ve never been good at words,” Grasso said.
“Crosswords are how you get good at words,” Tom said.
“I know enough words as it is,” Grasso sneered.
“Well,” Tom pursed his lips, “I suppose you’re wondering about your men, or not. Anyway, they’re probably going to a hospital. I’m sure one will have his jaw wired shut, and the other will have his ribs wrapped for a month or so.”
“You got people waiting outside?” Grasso asked.
“No,” Tom said. “Let’s just say I got in a couple of lucky punches.”
“I say the word and this whole bar will come down on you and tear you apart,” Grasso said.
“Mr. Grasso,” Tom said, “I have a SIG P219 in my coat pocket. I can put a round in your head before these heathens put their drinks down.”
Grasso swallowed hard and leaned back in his chair.
“Here’s the way it is going to be,” Tom said. “I’ll assume, because you accepted my bag of cash, that you accepted my offer to forget Edgar’s debt. Do you understand me?”
Grasso stared coldly.
“Mr. Grasso,” Tom said firmly, “I expect a nod or some sort of vocal affirmation.”
“Affirmation?” Grasso said, puzzled.
“See, you do need crosswords,” Tom said. “That means a ‘yes’ or a nod—either will do.”
Grasso nodded.
“Understand this, Mr. Grasso,” Tom said, “I don’t wish to cause you any harm or upset your criminal enterprise, but if my offer is not honored, bad things will happen. I know that you look at me and see a harmless farm boy, but I just sent two of your men to the hospital, walked in here with $100,000 cash, and I know everything about your business, your family, and that bimbo on 42nd Street.” Tom smiled and leaned closer. He held his hand to the side of his mouth and whispered. “I also know about the bathhouse in Passaic.”
Grasso’s mouth drooped as if he might vomit.
“Capisci, Mr Gasso?”
“Certo,” Gasso said sullenly.
“Grazie mille,” Tom said.
“My brother’s debts are forgiven. You go about your business. You will never hear from me again. If something bad happens to you, your family, associates, or enterprises, be assured, it is not me.”
Grasso gave a slow nod.
Tom stood. He reached across the table and offered Grasso his hand. Grasso grabbed his hand and shook once.
Tom pulled his hand out of Grasso’s grip. Tom looked in his eyes and sneered. He reached into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out the pistol just far enough for Grasso to see the handle.
“It’s quite a weapon,” Tom said. “Christmas is just around the corner. How ‘bout if I send you a gold-plated one? What grip would you prefer, pearl, ivory, or—it just came to me, something with your family's coat of arms? Anyway, it will be a little reminder of our brief experience—in case you might forget.”
“Who are you?” Grasso asked painfully.
A sneer left Tom’s face. It changed to cold and serious. “I’m Edgar’s brother.”
Tom walked out of Rossi’s and back to the alley.
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