Stiletto by Harold Robbins Page B

“Good. And when will I hear from you?”
    “Next month,” Emilio answered. “I will bring word to you of the council’s decision at the Gran Mexico sports car races. You will enter your Ferrari. Your mechanic will be detained in Italy and when you arrive in Mexico City the day before the race, you will receive a telegram that he is ill. You will hire one that I will send you. Then you will receive further instructions.”
    Cesare nodded again. “If there are any changes in my plans I will leave word for you at the restaurant of the Quarter Moon in Harlem as before.”
    Emilio smiled. “It is understood.” He embraced Cesare again and then took his hand. “I will die for you,” he said.
    Cesare stared at him for a moment, then he replied, “I will die for you.” Swiftly he turned and slipped out the door.
    Emilio heard the tumbler click. He turned the key on his own side and put it back into the medicine cabinet. Then he turned off the tap and started back to his room, shaking his head. Cesare had signed his own death warrant by refusing further alliance with the Brotherhood. Now, he too must seek Cesare’s death. Too bad he did not have the time to let the others know of his change of heart.
    ***
    There is a restaurant in Manhattan on Lexington Avenue where the steaks are reputed to be the finest obtainable anywhere in the world and the spaghetti better even than in the old country. It is only natural in such a fine restaurant that the prices are so high that someone wandering in from the street could ill afford to have even bread and butter served to him. It is also only natural that the only customers who can afford such a restaurant either live on an expense account or have cash in such sufficient amounts that if necessary they could use the crisp new bills they love to carry in the large green salads served to them with spicy dressings.
    Big Dutch stuffed a large piece of rare steak into his mouth and chewed on it. A tiny dribble of gravy slipped out of the corner. He swabbed at it with a piece of bread and pushed the bread into his mouth along with the meat. He chewed a moment more then looked over at his two companions. “I don’t care what any of youse guys say,” he mumbled, “I say we should hit him.”
    Allie Fargo stared at him. “But we ain’t even sure he’s the right guy. Emilio never came right out and told us.”
    Big Dutch swallowed his mouthful. His knife began to cut another piece of steak. “What difference does it make?” he demanded. “We ain’t got time to check him out. The newspapers already said the F.B.I. has questioned the guy. Then what happens to us if he starts to sing?”
    Dandy Nick looked down at his plate with distaste. This much food was wasted on him. He didn’t eat very much anyway. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Emilio said we should sit tight and wait word from Italy. He’s takin’ it up with Lucky and Joe.”
    “Emilio says, Emilio says,” Big Dutch burst out angrily, his mouth still filled with food. He swallowed quickly and went on. “I’m getting tired of what Emilio says. Them guineas sit over there on their fat asses while we stay here stickin’ our necks out! They think just because they started the business they still own it!”
    Almost unconsciously, Dandy Nick looked around the restaurant to see if they had been overheard. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Take it easy! That kind of talk will only wind up getting you measured.”
    Big Dutch stared at him balefully. “How do you guys know that they ain’t settin’ us up? Maybe they’re figgerin’ for this guy to take over? You know how them guineas stick together.”
    Dandy Nick was silent. He looked at Allie. Allie was eating stolidly, his eyes on his plate. After a moment, Allie looked up. He put his knife and fork down carefully. “It’ll make an awful big stink,” he said softly. “This ain’t no dock walloper in one of your phony unions, Big Dutch. This is a pretty important