The Digger's Game

by George V. Higgins

  “I know that,” Torrey said. “I been looking for a setup like this all my life. No question about it.”

  “Well, all right,” Schabb said. “Now, what it is, the Greek. From what you say, the only way he’s comfortable is to have a lot of small-timers on the string. They don’t interest us. If there’s a guy that wants to borrow five bucks for three days, and that’s what the Greek’s interested in, for God’s sake, let the Greek have it and we’ll work this. We can really get something going. If the Greek’s out, he’s out. No hard feelings on my part. This may be a little hard. From what you say, the Greek wants the tit. Okay, let him have it. Get him out of this. They ought to understand that. The possibilities this thing’s got, it’s stupid to have the Greek in.”

  “That’s what I tell them,” Torrey said. “That’s exactly what I tell them. It’s stupid.”

  “He could wreck it all,” Schabb said. “Look, this’s important to me, you know? We oughta have a receptionist. We can get a good kid, eighty-five a week, all right? No shorthand or anything, but what we need her for is to answer the phone. It makes a nice impression, when we’re both out of the office. We can make this into a high-class operation.”

  “Sure,” Torrey said.

  “We should get some rugs in here,” Schabb said. “A nice blue shag, sort of turquoise. The tile doesn’t make it. Somebody wants a big tour lined up, you think I’ll bring him up here? This looks like a boiler room. We need more space. We should knock the wall out and go through. We should have private offices. We should have about six drawers, six stacks of filing cabinets.”

  “What’re we gonna put in them?” Torrey said.

  “You stick around,” Schabb said. “I met a girl the other night. Works down at the airport. For two bucks a copy she’s going to get me a copy of every international passenger manifest that comes through her desk. Name and address, every son of a bitch that’s got the dough to fly out of the country.”

  “Some of them’re on expense accounts,” Torrey said.

  “Because they’re making big money,” Schabb said. “That’s why they’re flying out of the country on expense accounts. That’s what we put in the files.”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” Torrey said.

  “This could be a blockbuster operation,” Schabb said. “I had half a chance here, I could be doing better’n I was doing before I got grabbed.”

  “Except for the Greek,” Torrey said.

  “That’s the way I see it,” Schabb said. “That’s the way you tell it to me, and I don’t have any reason to argue with you, either. I really need this, Richie. I’m used to having things better than I got them right now. I’d like to see this turn into something.”

  “And it’s the Greek,” Torrey said, “the fuckin’ Greek that’s fucking it up. He even pisses and moans about the rent.”

  “Richie,” Schabb said, “we gotta do something about the Greek.”

  “Well,” Torrey said, “there’s only one thing you can do, like I said.”

  “Which is?” Schabb said.

  “Lemme think awhile,” Torrey said. “Lemme talk to some people, too.”

  ON THE SOUTHERLY SIDE of Hancock Street in the North End of Boston, between Saint Sebastian’s Church and the Foreign Seafarers’ Mission, there is a block of three-story weathered brick buildings. The windows of the block are very narrow, framed in white-painted wood, glazed and puttied every year.

  On the first floor there is a butcher shop (specializing in veal cutlets and select cuts of pork), a drugstore (advertising Kodak film and Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia), and a variety store (in pink neon lights: “late papers—espresso”). On the second floor there are several businesses: a small insurance company, acting as agent, the only agent, for its own policies; a loan company which does not advertise; and Thomasina’s Restaurant. There is no sign outside for Thomasina’s.

  At seven twenty-five in the steamy twilight of the end of summer, Croce Torre in dark suit pants and a white shirt, open at the neck, stood on the sidewalk and listened to the children. Men in dark suit pants and white shirts, open at the neck, lounged against parked cars and discussed the difficulties encountered by the Conigliaros in major-league baseball. One leaned against a Buick and folded his arms. “The managements’re all Irish. What’s the manager, Polish? I dunno what Yawkey is. He’s from the South someplace. How come it’s Rico and Billy C, there, they got all the trouble? Yaz? He’s Polish too. He can’t do no wrong. You take Tony. Tony hits a lot of homers, there. They give him a contract the rest of his life, like Yaz, there? No. They trade him. His eyes’re bad. Okay, how come he hits all them homers?”

  Torre entered an unmarked door opening on a narrow flight of worn, wooden stairs. The light was one naked bulb. He climbed into the main dining area. There was no door. The light was dim white bulbs and brilliant blue bulbs. The room was festooned with plastic grapevines. On the tables there were Chianti bottles with the wax of dead candles stubbed in the necks. There was a broad brown fan suspended from the ceiling; it turned slowly in the murmur of talk from small groups of men, and young couples, seated at the tables.

  Thomasina stood ten feet from the top of the stairs. She was five-six and a hundred and sixty-six pounds. She wore a black, beaded dress. Torre nodded to her. She nodded in return, angling her nod to her right.

  Torre parted the beaded curtain to the internal corridor and stepped through. On his left the corridor was open to the kitchen. Three men handled stainless-steel pots in extreme heat under bright lights in the heavy smell of tomatoes and oil. In the far corner a youth pounded veal with the flat of a wooden-handled cleaver. At the end of the corridor there was a paneled door.

  Torre opened the door to the private dining room. He was hit with cold air from an oversized window air conditioner.

  In the room there were several Formica-topped tables pushed up against the walls. Upside down, on top of the tables, were bent wood chairs with rush seats. In the center of the room there was one rectangular table. Four chairs had been placed around it. The chair nearest the door was vacant.

  Torre shut the door. He bowed very slightly. He said, “Thank you for coming.” He sat in the vacant chair.

  On his left sat Giuseppe Maglia. He was seventy-six years old. He had lost most of his hair. He wore a black suit with narrow lapels, and a pale-blue Oxford-cloth shirt. It was open at the throat. His nose was sharp and long. His eyebrows were white and bushy. His lips were thin and his eyes were deep brown and dead. He had a small glass of Cinzano before him. He raised it when Torre spoke.

  Opposite Torre was Guido Masseria. He was forty-three years old. He wore grey slacks and a pale-yellow sports shirt, open at the neck. He had started to cultivate a mustache. His hair was black and razor-cut. “Our pleasure,” he said.

  Salvatore Barca sat at Torre’s right. He was twenty-seven years old. His hair was blond, and styled. His eyes were blue. He wore a red polo shirt and a lightweight, blue, double-breasted blazer. His elbows rested on the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. His hands dangled below the edge of the table. In front of him there was a double scotch-on-the-rocks. He said nothing.

  A young girl with heavy breasts, constricted in a white nylon uniform, entered from the kitchen. She carried a tray with four antipastos. She set one before each man.

  They began at once to eat. They ate salami and artichoke hearts and anchovy filets and black olives, removing the pits from their mouths and placing them at the edges of their plates.

  The girl brought a bottle of Asti Spumante and poured each of them a tumblerful. They drank.

  The girl removed the antipasto plates and brought scampi. She filled the tumblers and took the empty bottle away. Maglia squeezed lemon on his shrimp.

  The girl removed the scampi dishes and served eggplant parmigiana. She brought clean tumblers and a bottle of red Chianti. She set the bottle on the table and left. She returned with another bottle of Chianti. She opened both bottles. She poured from one of them into e
ach tumbler.

  Maglia tore bread and used a chunk to wipe sauce from his plate.

  The girl removed the eggplant casseroles. She served bracciole stuffed with peppers and mushrooms. She brought four dishes of zucchini.

  Maglia said, “More bread and butter.”

  The girl brought a basket of bread and a dish of butter. She refilled each of the tumblers and took the empty Chianti bottle away.

  The girl removed the plates and the zucchini dishes. She served espresso and ponies of Metaxa. She said, softly, “Would you like dessert?”

  Maglia stared at her. Barca did not look up. Torre said nothing. Masseria said, “Leave us alone.”

  The girl left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

  “Begin,” Masseria said.

  “It was an excellent meal,” Maglia said.

  “Thank you,” Torre said.

  “Begin,” Masseria said.

  “The trouble with the Greek continues,” Torre said. “No matter what I do, it continues. He will not listen to reason. I cannot control him.”

  “You were supposed to control him,” Maglia said.

  “Don,” Torre said, “that was because no one else had controlled him. He is uncontrollable. From the beginning of the enterprise I have constantly said that the Greek was uncontrollable. In the end he will ruin the business.”

  “He does not understand the ways,” Maglia said.

  “He’s an uncontrollable son of a bitch,” Masseria said. “I appreciate your problem, Croce.”

  “Have you tried to make him understand, Croce?” Maglia said.

  “I’ve done everything I could, Don,” Torre said. “It cannot be done.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Masseria said. “He’s an uncontrollable son of a bitch. Nobody’s been able to make that bastard listen to reason.”

  “And it is what I mean, also,” Maglia said. “All of this trouble that we have, we are relying upon people who do not understand the way that things are done.”

  “We haven’t got no fuckin’ choice, Don,” Masseria said. “I been saying that all along. It’s either people that don’t understand, or nobody. Guys that understand’re inna can. Mister Green went off, we had the Greek. He was the best available.”

  “It is necessary,” Maglia said. “Very well. It is necessary. But because it is necessary, Croce, what have you done, to make him understand?”

  “Everything except hit him with a shovel, I imagine,” Masseria said.

  “Croce,” Maglia said.

  “Don,” Torre said, “I have argued with him. I have tried to reason with him. I have even threatened him. He will not listen.”

  “There is nothing,” Masseria said, “nothin’ inna world dumber’n a dumb Greek.”

  “He does not change, Croce,” Maglia said.

  “He does not,” Torre said. “He can’t understand the potential of this business. He will ruin it, if he continues. He worries about petty things. He is, he’s a small-timer, and that’s all he ever will be. I said so from the start. I wanted Bloom.”

  “You should’ve had Bloom,” Masseria said.

  “The enterprise,” Maglia said, “can you run the enterprise without the Greek?”

  “Of course he can run the enterprise without the Greek,” Masseria said. “He needs a shy. Anybody can add, got muscles, can be a shy. Of course he can run the business without the Greek.”

  “Yes,” Torre said.

  “You know, of course,” Maglia said, “the Man depends upon the Greek.”

  “The Man is badly advised,” Torre said. “I said that when I was told that Mister Green had selected the Greek, for the Man. I said he should have trusted Bloom.”

  “You did not,” Masseria said. “I remember that. You said they’re both small-timers and you wouldn’t want to have to trust either one of them.”

  “And then I said,” Torre said, “and then I said, I hadda trust either one of them, it’d be Bloom. I didn’t know how Bloom was gonna act then. Nobody did. But he was a lot better bet’n the Greek.”

  “Bloom did not understand the ways either,” Maglia said.

  “Of course he didn’t,” Masseria said. “None of the best of them ever did. Mister Green didn’t understand the ways. You want a good shy, get a fuckin’ kike. Never mind the fuckin’ ways. Get the fuckin’ money.”

  “I recommended the Greek,” Maglia said softly.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’,” Masseria said. “I was just saying.”

  “Don,” Torre said, “you know of my respect for you.”

  “I do,” Maglia said. “I knew your father. Your father was a fine man.”

  “My father knew you,” Torre said. “On my mother’s grave, I respect you.”

  “I know that,” Maglia said.

  “The Greek,” Torre said. “I mean no disrespect to you, Don. The Greek will not listen. I cannot control him.”

  “Nobody can,” Masseria said. “Whaddaya wanna do, Croce?”

  “Bobby,” Torre said, “I’m gonna have to knock him off. There’s nothing else I can do. The fuckin’ guy, that fuckin’ guy’s right out the fuckin’ window, he’s so fuckin’ batty. Before he’s through he’s gonna fuck the operation. He won’t pull out and he won’t do what I say.

  “That,” Maglia said, “that is what you said when he was suggested, that he would complicate matters.”

  “I did,” Torre said. “I said putting him in Mister Green’s place was a bad mistake. I said it would end up, we’d lose a man that was perfectly all right on the small stuff, because he’d get a taste of the big stuff and it’d throw him and sooner or later you’d have to do something you wouldn’t like doing. I said it, and now here we are.”

  “And I opposed you,” Maglia said.

  “I know,” Torre said.

  “I agreed with you, Croce,” Masseria said.

  “You did,” Torre said.

  “Barca supported you also,” Maglia said. “I was the only one opposed.”

  “Mister Green would’ve sided with you if he’d been around,” Torre said. “He was, he couldn’t talk. You weren’t unreasonable.”

  “Nevertheless,” Maglia said, “nevertheless I was wrong. You were right. I will abide by your judgment. For me, you may do what you wish. To repair what resulted from my mistake.”

  “Grazie, Don,” Torre said.

  “You did this,” Maglia said, “when you need not have done this. I remember that. You might have insisted, and done what you wished. I was opposed. You honored my wish. I was mistaken. You may do what is necessary to correct it.”

  “Richie,” Barca said, “lemme ask you this: you really gotta knock him off? I mean, something else do it?”

  “I don’t think so, Sally,” Torre said. “I wish to God I did, but I really don’t. The guy’s in great shape. He works out every day. Carries, too, he’s got a fuckin’ permit. Look, a thing like that, it’d take three men and a boy, move him around. The gun and all, I wouldn’t want to be any one of them. It’s either hit him or live with him. Nothin’ inna middle.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Masseria said. “The Greek, who gives a goddamn about the Greek. But, I’d rather see somebody mark him up some.”

  “Me too, Bobby,” Torre said. “The thing is, you just can’t do it, is all. Look, I don’t hate the guy, I had my way, I’d say to him: ‘Greek, it didn’t work. Go on back the G.E. and hustle the chickenshit. No hard feelings.’ He’d knock my teeth down my throat. I gotta hit him and he knows I gotta hit him. It’s either him er me.”

  “You want a contract?” Barca said.

  “Nah, Sal,” Torre said. “He knows it, but he don’t really think I got the balls to do it. I can handle this one.”

  “Ah,” Maglia said.

  “Tell us what you want, Croce,” Masseria said.

  “Just the go-ahead,” Torre said. “This interest of ours. I was interested in what you thought.”

  “Sure,” Masseria said, “I go a
long. You can’t do nothing else. There isn’t a day goes by, somebody doesn’t come bitching to me about the Greek. Do the best you can. Take him out. Do me a fuckin’ favor. I won’t hold it against you.”

  Torre looked at Barca. “Look, Richie,” Barca said, “you’re there. I’m not. I agree with Bobby. Sooner or later the guy’s gonna have to be hit. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just a jerk. We made a mistake. Okay, we done that before. A beating won’t do it, okay, forget it, don’t work him over. Hit him. The business, I think the thing’s the business. Protect the business. You got something there you can build on.”

  “Don?” Torre said.

  “Your father would be proud of you,” Maglia said. “He also was a man.”

  “Grazie, Don,” Torre said. “You will, you will tell the Don? You will see that he is told? And Mister Green?”

  “For you,” Masseria said, “I’m the Don. The Don is told. Hit him clean.”

  Torre looked at Maglia. “He is the Don for you,” Maglia said.

  In the heat of the late evening the Oldsmobile Ninety-eight Classic Sedan pulled away with its windows rolled up tight, Masseria driving, Maglia riding. Torre and Barca watched the car leave. On Hancock Street the children had gone to bed. The men talked.

  “And another thing,” said the man who still leaned on the Buick, “they never treated Zarilla right, either.”

  In the group on the sidewalk a voice responded: “Jimmy, fuck off, willya?”

  “You keep a straight face better’n any man I know,” Barca said.

  “Whaddaya mean?” Torrey said.

  “How you can go through that shit, I dunno,” Barca said. “I seen it and I seen it and now I see it again. You didn’t order no fuckin’ snails. How come?”

  “I hate snails,” Torrey said.

  “So do I,” Barca said. “But still, you done everything else, make believe we’re still in Palermo or something.”