Live by Night

As they rode up to the top floor, Joe chatted with Ilario as easily as he had with Gino Valocco. In Ilario’s case, the trick was to talk about the man’s dogs. He bred beagles out of his home in Revere and was known to produce dogs of gentle temperament and the softest ears.

But as they rose in the car, Joe wondered again if maybe Dion had been onto something. The Valocco brothers and Ilario Nobile were all known gunners. They weren’t muscle and they weren’t brains. They were killers.

In the tenth-floor hallway, though, the only other person waiting for them was Fausto Scarfone, another artisan with a weapon to be sure, but it was him and only him, which left an even match to wait in the corridor — two of Maso’s guys, two of Joe’s.

Maso himself opened the doors to the Gasparilla Suite, the nicest suite in the hotel. He hugged Joe and took both sides of his face in his hands when he kissed his forehead. He hugged him again and patted him hard on the back.

“How are you, my son?”

“I’m very good, Mr. Pescatore. Thanks for asking.”

“Fausto, see if his men need anything.”

“Take their rods, Mr. Pescatore?”

Maso frowned. “Of course not. You gentlemen make yourselves comfortable. We shouldn’t be too long.” Maso pointed at Fausto. “Anyone wants a sandwich or something, you call room service. Anything these boys want.”

He led Joe into the suite and closed the doors behind them. One set of windows looked out on an alley and the yellow brick building next door, a piano manufacturer who’d gone belly-up in ’29. All that remained was his name, HORACE R. PORTER, fading on the brick, and a bunch of boarded-up windows. The other windows, though, looked out on nothing that would remind guests of the Depression. They overlooked Ybor and the channels that led out to Hillsborough Bay.

In the center of the living area four armchairs were arranged around an oak coffee table. A sterling silver coffeepot and matching creamer and sugar bowl sat in the center. So did a bottle of anisette and three small glasses of it, already poured. Maso’s middle son, Santo, sat waiting for them, looking up at Joe as he poured himself a cup of coffee and placed the cup down beside an orange.

Santo Pescatore was thirty-one and everyone called him Digger, though no one could remember why, not even Santo himself.

“You remember Joe, Santo.”

“I dunno. Maybe.” He half rose from his chair and gave Joe a limp, damp handshake. “Call me Digger.”

“Good to see you again.” Joe took a seat across from him, and Maso came around, took the seat beside his son.

Digger peeled the orange, tossing the peels onto the coffee table. He wore a permanent scowl of confused suspicion on his long face, like he’d just heard a joke he didn’t get. He had curly dark hair that was thinning up front, a fleshy chin and neck, and his father’s eyes, dark and small as sharpened pencil points. There was something dulled about him, though. He didn’t have his father’s charm or cunning because he’d never needed to.

Maso poured Joe a cup of coffee and handed it across the table. “How’ve you been?”

“Very good, sir. You?”

Maso tipped a hand back and forth. “Good days and bad.”

“I hope more good than bad.”

Maso raised a glass of the anisette to that. “So far, so far. Salud.”

Joe raised a glass. “Salud.”

Maso and Joe drank. Digger popped an orange slice in his mouth and chewed with his mouth open.

Joe was reminded, not for the first time, that for such a violent business, it was filled with a surprising number of regular guys — men who loved their wives, who took their children on Saturday-afternoon outings, men who worked on their automobiles and told jokes at the neighborhood lunch counter and worried what their mothers thought of them and went to church to ask God’s forgiveness for all the terrible things they had to render unto Caesar in order to put food on the table.

But it was also a business that was populated by an equal number of pigs. Vicious oafs whose primary talent was that they felt no more for their fellow man than they did for a fly sputtering on the windowsill at summer’s end.

Digger Pescatore was one of the latter. And like so many of the breed Joe had come across, he was the son of a founding father of this thing they all found themselves entwined with, grafted to, subjects of.

Over the years Joe had met all three of Maso’s sons. He’d met Tim Hickey’s only boy, Buddy. He’d met the sons of Cianci in Miami, Barrone in Chicago, and DiGiacomo in New Orleans. The fathers were fearsomely self-made creatures, one and all. Men of iron will and some vision and not even a passing acquaintance with sympathy. But men, unquestionably men.

And every one of their sons, Joe thought as the sound of Digger’s chewing filled the room, was a fucking embarrassment to the human race.

As Digger ate his orange and then a second one, Maso and Joe discussed Maso’s trip down, the heat, Graciela, and the baby on the way.