Scarface (24 page)

“Sure, Tony.”

Tony crossed toward the bar. He saw two of Echeverria’s men huddled over their beers. Echeverria did a lot of trade in Panama red, and Tony was sure they’d have a good update on the customs situation. One of the men looked up and waved to him. Tony headed over. Then suddenly someone stepped in front of him and laid a hand on his arm.

“Hello, Tony. You remember me?”

Tony turned with a white flash of anger, ready to fling his drink in the guy’s face. He jerked his arm away. The guy was paunchy, and his face was red and veiny from too much booze.

“Yeah, sure,” said Tony, simmering down. “Mel Bernstein, right? Homicide. Everyone knows you.”

“That’s right, Tony. I think we better talk.” He gestured toward the quiet end of the bar and made a move that way, but Tony stood his ground a moment longer.

“Talk about what? I ain’t killed anybody lately.”

“No?” said Bernstein dryly. “Gee, that’s a relief. How ’bout ancient history, Tony? How ’bout Emilio Rebenga? Seems to me you’re forgettin’ a whole bunch of Indians at the Sun Ray in Lauderdale.”

Tony laughed. “You know, Mel,” he said, “whoever’s givin’ you your information must have a lot of trouble talkin’ with his head up his ass.”

Bernstein leaned close and breathed in Tony’s face. He smelled of garlic and rotgut whiskey. “Are we gonna talk, Montana, or am I gonna bust your spic wiseass right here?”

Tony didn’t argue. He followed Bernstein to the end of the bar, noticing just at the last that Bernstein walked with a slight limp. He flashed on the man he’d seen get into the limousine with Frank. They took the two last stools in the corner, and Bernstein ordered a double Four Roses rocks.

“The news on the street is you’re bringin’ in a lot of yeyo, Tony. Congratulations. You’re not a smalltime hood any more. You’re public property, and the Supreme Court says we can invade your privacy.” It all sounded very friendly, like the grin of a shark.

“No kiddin’,” said Tony, cocky again. “How much we talkin’?”

“Well, let’s see now.” Bernstein pulled a Bic out of his shirt pocket and slid the paper napkin out from under his drink. He scribbled a figure and passed the napkin to Tony. It said “25,000.”

Tony snorted. “I still think you’re havin’ an information problem, Bernstein. I don’t even get my first shipment from Panama till next week.”

“Bullshit. You pulled in a hundred and eighty grand in the last ten days.”

No question about it, Bernstein’s information was getting better and better.

“How ’bout I give you ten?” said Tony.

Bernstein bristled. “Whaddaya think, I’m havin’ a sale? I want twenty-five by tomorrow morning, and that’s just for openers. Maybe you’ll have to eat hot dogs for a week, but I’m sure you’ll make it up. Everybody’s doin’ real good. Ain’t no recession down here.”

Tony knew there was no room to argue. Bernstein could bust him in five minutes flat, tie him up in a trial that could cost him a quarter of a million. He was just getting started, he couldn’t afford the hassle. He lit a cigarette. “What do I get for my money?” he said. “Protection?”

“
Protection
?” Bernstein was flabbergasted. “What do you think this is, New Jersey? You protect yourself, asshole. Believe me, if you’re like the rest o’ these guys you’ll be dead in a year.” He downed the last of his drink and signaled for another. “Let me tell you how the system works,” he said, and in a grotesque way he sounded almost avuncular, like he was a high school coach. “It’s a trade-off, see. You feed me a bust every now and then. Or maybe you call me if there’s a homicide, and when me and my boys get there we find a little present. Other day a Cube got clipped in Miami Springs, we found a hundred grand cash underneath him. Safe to say robbery wasn’t the motive. No use turning it in, the state’ll just spend it on niggers.”

Tony was gripped by the purest stab of hatred. He felt an almost physical hunger, as if he’d never be satisfied now till he’d torn the man’s face off. A list began to take shape in his head of those he would one day eliminate. The list was still hazy, just the one name at the top—Mel Bernstein—but he suddenly knew it would be a whole list before he was through. And whatever happened, they would never kill him till he’d got through his list.

“Works the other way too,” said Bernstein, positively cheerful now. “We tell you who’s moving against you. We shake down who you want shaken down. Course we collect. Hey, we’re eight guys. Professional work, Tony. When we hit, it hurts.” It sounded like he was advertising laundry soap.

“I’m real impressed. Is all of America this wonderful?”

“Just the colonies, Tony. Just where the spics have taken over.”

They both downed their drinks. They ordered another round. In fact they were both lucky, because neither one could kill the other. They needed each other too much.

“So how do I know you’re the last cop I gotta grease?” asked Tony, wondering now who else Frank was going to pull down on him. “What about Metro, Lauderdale, DEA? What rock are
they
gonna crawl out from under?” It was abundantly clear that Bernstein came from the same neighborhood.

Bernstein shrugged. “That’s
your
problem, José. We don’t cross no lines.” He drained his third drink in ten minutes as he stood up. “Look at it this way: I got eight killers working for me. If their reputations are compromised, their careers are gonna suffer. Which means their
families
are gonna suffer. Which means they’re gonna make
you
suffer.” He started to turn away, but something dawned on him. “Oh yeah, and two of my boys got a vacation coming up. Throw in two round-trip tickets to London, okay? First class. They’re real nice guys.”

Tony just stared at him now. Bernstein loved it. He reached out a hand and patted Tony’s cheek. “I like the scar. Just like Capone, huh? Real nice touch. But you oughta smile more, Tony. Enjoy yourself. Every day above ground’s a good day.”

With that he winked and limped away, waving to two or three men in the crowd as if he was a politician, which he was. Tony sat there brooding. It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t even that there were cops who had to be dealt in at every turn; that was part of the racket. No, it was Frank who was troubling him now. He didn’t think he’d have to go up against Frank so soon. If it had come to that, there was going to be blood.

Tony looked up, and his eyes drifted back to the dance floor. The burgundy suit was snuggling up to Gina as they danced. One hand was on her ass. Tony’s jaw tightened, and he stood up ready to barrel over and flatten the guy. But he’d hardly taken a step when something drew his eye to the entrance of the bar: Elvira had just walked in.

She wore a long slinky sequined dress, coral-colored, and her hair was up with gardenias in it. She paused in the doorway and looked around. Ernie was just behind her. Frank was slightly off to the side, his ear being bent by the owner. Tony moved toward her, he couldn’t stop himself. As soon as she saw him coming she glanced with a worried look in Frank’s direction, almost as if to warn Tony. But Tony didn’t take the hint.

“Well hello,” he said. “Did you think about what I said?”

She shook her head. “I never remember what anyone says.” Already Frank was eyeing them. He didn’t like what he saw.

“Why don’t I give you a hint? Coupla little kids—big mansion—happily ever after. Is it comin’ back to you?”

“Please Tony—”

But Frank was there now. He was grinning, but there wasn’t anything happy about it. “Hey Tony,” he said. “Long time, huh? When are you gonna get your own girl?”

Tony looked him right in the eyes. He said evenly: “That’s what I’m doing, Frank.”

The grin faded. Ernie seemed to hover a little closer.

Frank grabbed Elvira’s arm. “Then go do it somewhere else, Tony. Like get lost.”

Elvira said: “Frank, he was only—”

“What was that, Frank?” Tony cupped his ear like a deaf man. “I don’t hear so good sometimes.”

“You keep it up, Tony, you won’t be hearing anything.”

He made a move to push by Tony, dragging Elvira into the bar. Tony took a step right and blocked them. Ernie reached into his jacket.

“You gonna stop me, Frank?”

Frank’s whole body seemed to shake with rage. A snap of his fingers, and Ernie would have drawn his gun. But this was between the two of them. “You’re fuckin’ right I’m gonna stop you,” he said. “I’m givin’ you orders, Montana. Blow. Now.”

Manolo was suddenly there beside Tony. One hand was in his pocket, and he faced down Ernie grimly. Frank let go of Elvira and pushed her away.
Something
was about to blow, but it wasn’t Tony.

“Orders?” said Tony. “There’s only one thing gives and gets,
gusano.
And that’s balls.”

At that moment, it seemed amazing that the Babylon Club could go on dancing and drinking. All that laughter and hustle, and nobody even half-aware they were about to hit an iceberg. Ernie and Manolo now fronted each other like a mirror image, in an ancient pose of warriors. Tony and Frank looked ready to fight with their bare hands. It was Elvira who stepped between them.

“This is so fucking ridiculous,” she said, contemptuous of all of them. “I wanna go home and get stoned, if you don’t mind.”

Somehow the spell was broken. She stalked away to the foyer, beckoning for her sable wrap at the cloakroom gate. Frank turned immediately to follow her, fishing in his pocket for a fifty to tip the shaken maitre d’ who’d been waiting to show him a table. Ernie was more reluctant to go. He’d had his finger on the trigger for half a minute, and to break off now was like coitus interruptus. Yet he had no choice. He shot a final murderous glance at Manolo and turned to follow Frank. Manolo gave an audible sigh.

“What was that all about?”

“Scum put Mel Bernstein on me,” Tony said. He headed back to the table, Manolo nervous beside him and firing questions. “Had to be Frank,” said Tony. “Who else knew about the Rebenga hit? Omar’s fertilizer, ain’t he? Frank’s just lettin’ me know what kinda weight he can pull.”

Manolo was actually sweating, as if he’d been dancing all night long. “I don’t know, things don’t look so good here, Tony. Why don’t we put off the Panama deal. Get outa town for a while, y’know, go up to New York?”

Tony shook his head. “Too cold. I like the weather here.” Suddenly his eyes darted to the edge of the dance floor, where Gina and the burgundy suit were arm in arm and laughing as they headed up the stairs to the lounges. Abruptly Tony stood up from the table.

“Where you goin’ now?” asked Manolo, bewildered.

Tony didn’t answer. He strode across the dance floor, knocking a couple of people out of his way, who swore at him as he gained the stairs and barreled up two at a time. He reached the landing, but neither Gina nor the burgundy suit was visible. Tony plowed right into the ladies’ room. Several women ducked or dove for the stalls, as if they were used to jealous lovers spraying the powder room with bullets. In a flash Tony could see that Gina wasn’t there, and he stormed out as suddenly as he’d stormed in.

He crossed the hall to the men’s room and threw the door open. Three men were lined up at the urinals, minding their own business. There were two stalls at the end of the room, and under the door on the left two pairs of feet were clearly visible, a man’s and a woman’s. Tony raged across the room and hit the door with his shoulder. It crashed open, revealing Gina just as she was about to snort a spoonful of coke. The burgundy suit stood behind her, running his hands along her ass and kissing her on the neck.

They were both thrown off-balance as Tony exploded into the tiny space. Gina screamed. With a single blow to the head Tony dropped the burgundy suit to the floor. He began to kick at the guy’s face.

“Tony, stop!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

He whirled around and grabbed her hand. “What am
I
doing? You goddam whore, what do you want with this shit, huh?” He ripped the vial of cocaine from her fingers and scattered the drug all over the floor of the stall. Then he dropped the vial in the toilet. The burgundy suit had scrambled to his knees, and with one hand Tony lifted him onto his feet. He was chalk-white. “You get the hell out of here,
maricon,
I’ll kill you the next time!” Then Tony threw him out of the stall, and he tripped and fell heavily against the sink, splitting his lip open.

“Fernando, don’t go!” cried Gina. She began to beat at Tony with her fists.

Tony turned and pinned her against the wall of the stall. Fernando crawled to his feet and staggered out of the men’s room. Everyone else had already split. Manolo now rushed in.

“You think it’s cute, huh?” sneered Tony, holding her as she struggled and tearing the crepe at her shoulder. “Somebody puttin’ their hands all over your ass in a toilet. Is that how you want to grow up?”

“It’s none of your business, Tony,” she spat at him.

“The hell it isn’t! Three-dollar hooker, that’s all you are! Snorting shit like the rest o’ these pigs!”

Manolo hovered at the door of the stall, trying to quiet them down. The owner would probably be up in about two minutes, and they’d already had enough trouble.

“What are you, a priest?” shrilled Gina. “A cop? Look at
your
life, Tony. You can’t tell me what to do!”

Manolo said: “Let me take her home, Tony.”

Tony seemed shocked by the savagery in Gina’s voice. He loosened his grip, and she slipped away from the corner. He probably would have let her go without another word just then, but she wasn’t finished. Taunting and contemptuous she said: “I’ll go out with who I want, Tony. And if I want to screw them I’ll screw them.”

His face went pale with outrage. He lunged at her and smacked her face. She tried to run across the room, and he dragged her back by her hair. She tripped and fell in a heap, sobbing. Tony stood over her, desperate and confused. Manolo pushed him aside and knelt to console her. Now the door to the corridor was opened gingerly, and the maitre d’ stuck his head in.

“Get her outa here,” said Tony to Manolo, his voice cracking with something like grief. And he walked away, shoving the maitre d’ aside as he exited into the corridor. The little crowd of spectators parted to give him room.