Live by Night

Joe’s theory that the most terrifying men were also the most terrified went right out the window. There was no fear in Luciano. There was very little that resembled emotion, in fact, except a hint of black and endless rage in the furthest depths of his dead sea gaze.

The only thing this man knew about terror was how to infect other people with it.

He was dressed impeccably and would have been a handsome man if his skin didn’t look like veal that had been pounded with a meat tenderizer. His right eye drooped from a failed hit on him back in ’29 and his hands were large and looked like they could squeeze a skull until it popped like a tomato.

“You two hoping to walk back out that door?” he said when they took their seats.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then tell me why I gotta replace my Boston management group.”

They did, and as they talked, Joe kept looking for some indication in those dark eyes that he saw their point or didn’t, but it was like talking to a marble floor—the only thing you got back, if you caught the light right, was your own reflection.

When they finished, Lucky stood and looked out the window at Sixth Avenue. “You’ve made a lot of noise down there. What happened to that Holy Roller who died? Wasn’t her father police chief?”

“They forced him into retirement,” Joe said. “Last I heard he was at some kind of sanitarium. He can’t hurt us.”

“But his daughter did. And you let her. That’s why the word on you is that you’re soft. Not a coward. I didn’t say that. Everyone knows how close you got to take care of that yokel back in ’30 and that ship heist took brass ones. But you didn’t take care of that ’shiner back in ’31 and you let a dame—a fucking dame, Coughlin—block your casino play.”

“That’s true,” Joe said. “I got no excuse.”

“No, you don’t,” Luciano said. He looked across the desk at Dion. “What would you have done with the ’shiner?”

Dion looked uncertainly at Joe.

“Don’t you look at him,” Luciano said. “You look at me and you tell me straight.”

But Dion continued to look at Joe until Joe said, “Tell him the truth, D.”

Dion turned to Lucky. “I would have turned out his fucking lights, Mr. Luciano. His sons’ too.” He snapped his fingers. “Taken out the whole family.”

“And the Holy Roller dame?”

“Her I would have disappeared-like.”

“Why?”

“Give her people the option of turning her into a saint. They can tell themselves she’s immaculately concepted up to heaven, whatever. Meanwhile, they’d damn well know we chopped her up and fed her to the reptiles, so they’d never fuck with us again, but the rest of the time, they’d gather in her name and sing her praises.”

Luciano said, “You’re the one Pescatore said was a rat.”

“Yup.”

“Never made sense to us.” He said to Joe, “Why would you knowingly trust a rat who sent you up the river for two years?”

Joe said, “I wouldn’t.”

Luciano nodded. “That’s what we thought when we tried to talk the old man out of the hit.”

“But you sanctioned it.”

“We sanctioned it if you refused to use our trucks and our unions in your new liquor business.”

“Maso never brought that up to me.”

“No?”

“No, sir. He just said I was going to take orders from his son and I had to kill my friend.”

Luciano stared at him for a long time.

“All right,” he said eventually, “make your proposal.”

“Make him boss.” Joe jerked his thumb at Dion.

Dion said, “What?”

Luciano smiled for the first time. “And you’ll stay on as consigliere?”

“Yes.”

Dion said, “Hold on a second. Just hold on.”

Luciano looked at him and the smile died on his face.

Dion read the tea leaves fast. “I’d be honored.”

Luciano said, “Where you from?”

“Town called Manganaro in Sicily.”

Luciano’s eyebrows rose. “I’m from Lercara Friddi.”

“Oh,” Dion said. “The big town.”

Luciano came around the desk. “You gotta be from a real shithole like Manganaro to call Lercara Friddi the ‘big town.’ ”

Dion nodded. “That’s why we left.”

“When was that? Stand up.”

Dion stood. “I was eight.”

“Been back?”

“Why would I go back?” Dion said.

“It’ll remind you of who you are. Not who you pretend to be. Who you are.” He put an arm around Dion’s shoulders. “And you’re a boss.” He pointed at Joe. “And he’s a brain. Let’s go have some lunch. I know a great place a few blocks from here. Best gravy in the city.”

They left the office, and four men fell in around them as they headed for the elevator.

“Joe,” Lucky said, “I need to introduce you to my friend, Meyer. He’s got some great ideas about casinos in Florida and in Cuba.” Now Luciano put his arm around Joe. “You know much about Cuba?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN A Gentleman Farmer in Pinar del Río

When Joe Coughlin met up with Emma Gould in Havana in the late spring of 1935, it had been nine years since the speakeasy robbery in South Boston. He remembered how cool she’d been that morning, how unflappable, and how those qualities had unnerved him. He’d then mistaken being unnerved for being smitten and mistook being smitten for being in love.