just business—but he takes the pizza hijacking as a personal affront.
“They don’t got to do that!” he wails. “That’s just wrong!”
Which, Callan recalls, is how this whole thing started in the first place.
He glances up from the black book to see this fat guinea with a big grin on his face, holding a slice of pizza up at him.
“Hey!” O-Bop yells.
“It’s good!” Peaches yells back.
“They’ve got our pizza!” O-Bop says to Callan.
“It’s no big deal,” Callan says.
O-Bop whines, “I’m hungry!”
“Then go down and take it from them,” Callan says.
“I might.”
“Take a shotgun.”
“Fuck!”
Callan can hear the guys out in the street laughing at them. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t get to him the way it gets to O-Bop. O-Bop hates to be laughed at. It’s always been an instant fight with him. Callan, he can just walk away.
“Stevie?”
“What.”
“What did you say was the name of that guy down there?”
“Which guy?”
“Guy they sent to whack us.”
“Jimmy Peaches.”
“He’s in here.”
“Say what?”
O-Bop comes away from the window. “For how much?”
“A hundred thousand.”
They look at each other and start to laugh.
“Callan,” O-Bop says, “we got us a whole new ball game here.”
Because Peaches Piccone owes Matty Sheehan $100,000. And that’s just the principal—the vigorish has to be piling up faster than stink in a garbage strike, so Piccone is in serious trouble here. He’s in to Matt Sheehan deep. Which would be bad news—all the more motivation for him to do Sheehan a solid—except that Callan and O-Bop have the book.
Which gives them an angle.
If they can live long enough to play it.
Because it’s getting dark, fast.
“You got any ideas?” O-Bop asks.
“Yes, I do.”
It’s one of them desperate fourth-and-long plays, but shit, it’s fourth and long.
O-Bop walks out onto the fire escape with a milk bottle in his hand.
Yells, “Hey, you guinea bastards!”
The boys look up from the Continental.
Just as O-Bop lights the rag stuck in the bottle, yells, “Eat this!” and launches it in a long, lazy arc at the Lincoln.
“What the fuck—”
This is from Peaches, who presses the button to roll the window down and sees this freaking torch coming out of the sky straight at him, so he scrambles to get the door open and get his ass out of the backseat of the Lincoln, and he does it just in time because O-Bop’s aim is perfect and the bottle crashes onto the top of the car and flames spread across the roof.
Peaches yells up at the fire escape, “That’s a new fucking car!”
And he’s really pissed because he don’t even have a chance to shoot at nobody because a crowd gathers, and then there’s sirens and all that shit and it’s just a couple of minutes before the whole block is full of Irish cops and Irish firemen, who start hosing down what’s left of the Lincoln.
Irish cops and Irish firemen and about fifteen thousand fucking drag queens from Ninth Avenue, and they’re standing around Peaches screaming and screeching and dancing and shit. He sends Little Peaches down to the phone on the corner to make a call and get a new fucking vehicle, and then he feels metal pressed against his left fucking kidney and someone whispers, “Mr. Piccone, turn around very slowly, please.”
Respectful like, though, which Peaches appreciates.
He turns around and here’s this Irish kid—not the red Brillo-pad asshole with the bottle but a tall, dark kid—standing there with a pistol in a brown paper bag and holding something up in his other hand.
The fuck is it? Peaches wonders.
Then he gets it.
Matty Sheehan’s little black book.
“We should talk,” the kid says.
“We should,” says Peaches.
So they’re in the
“They don’t got to do that!” he wails. “That’s just wrong!”
Which, Callan recalls, is how this whole thing started in the first place.
He glances up from the black book to see this fat guinea with a big grin on his face, holding a slice of pizza up at him.
“Hey!” O-Bop yells.
“It’s good!” Peaches yells back.
“They’ve got our pizza!” O-Bop says to Callan.
“It’s no big deal,” Callan says.
O-Bop whines, “I’m hungry!”
“Then go down and take it from them,” Callan says.
“I might.”
“Take a shotgun.”
“Fuck!”
Callan can hear the guys out in the street laughing at them. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t get to him the way it gets to O-Bop. O-Bop hates to be laughed at. It’s always been an instant fight with him. Callan, he can just walk away.
“Stevie?”
“What.”
“What did you say was the name of that guy down there?”
“Which guy?”
“Guy they sent to whack us.”
“Jimmy Peaches.”
“He’s in here.”
“Say what?”
O-Bop comes away from the window. “For how much?”
“A hundred thousand.”
They look at each other and start to laugh.
“Callan,” O-Bop says, “we got us a whole new ball game here.”
Because Peaches Piccone owes Matty Sheehan $100,000. And that’s just the principal—the vigorish has to be piling up faster than stink in a garbage strike, so Piccone is in serious trouble here. He’s in to Matt Sheehan deep. Which would be bad news—all the more motivation for him to do Sheehan a solid—except that Callan and O-Bop have the book.
Which gives them an angle.
If they can live long enough to play it.
Because it’s getting dark, fast.
“You got any ideas?” O-Bop asks.
“Yes, I do.”
It’s one of them desperate fourth-and-long plays, but shit, it’s fourth and long.
O-Bop walks out onto the fire escape with a milk bottle in his hand.
Yells, “Hey, you guinea bastards!”
The boys look up from the Continental.
Just as O-Bop lights the rag stuck in the bottle, yells, “Eat this!” and launches it in a long, lazy arc at the Lincoln.
“What the fuck—”
This is from Peaches, who presses the button to roll the window down and sees this freaking torch coming out of the sky straight at him, so he scrambles to get the door open and get his ass out of the backseat of the Lincoln, and he does it just in time because O-Bop’s aim is perfect and the bottle crashes onto the top of the car and flames spread across the roof.
Peaches yells up at the fire escape, “That’s a new fucking car!”
And he’s really pissed because he don’t even have a chance to shoot at nobody because a crowd gathers, and then there’s sirens and all that shit and it’s just a couple of minutes before the whole block is full of Irish cops and Irish firemen, who start hosing down what’s left of the Lincoln.
Irish cops and Irish firemen and about fifteen thousand fucking drag queens from Ninth Avenue, and they’re standing around Peaches screaming and screeching and dancing and shit. He sends Little Peaches down to the phone on the corner to make a call and get a new fucking vehicle, and then he feels metal pressed against his left fucking kidney and someone whispers, “Mr. Piccone, turn around very slowly, please.”
Respectful like, though, which Peaches appreciates.
He turns around and here’s this Irish kid—not the red Brillo-pad asshole with the bottle but a tall, dark kid—standing there with a pistol in a brown paper bag and holding something up in his other hand.
The fuck is it? Peaches wonders.
Then he gets it.
Matty Sheehan’s little black book.
“We should talk,” the kid says.
“We should,” says Peaches.
So they’re in the
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