it.
At times Mitch had given thought to that carpet and how many loose diamonds and other precious stones must have been carelessly dropped to it out of the many thousands of carats Riccio took in and dealt out. Mitch could imagine Riccio down on his knees searching the deep black for several D flawless caraters heâd accidentally sent flying from their unfolded briefke paper diamond containers when he put his feet up on his desk. An agitated, grumbling Riccio digging around in the tendrils, not finding, finally giving up and trying his best to put the loss out of mind. In that carpet a fortune lost.
Mitch looked up the stairs and knew what would be imminent. Riccio would sit there, backgrounded by a repaired wall enameled an avocado shade and punctuated by the faded prints of the Virgin and a De Beers magazine advertisement, and Mitch would have to endure Riccioâs invitation of congeniality, his latter-day version of all the spaghetti suckers and mustache Petes heâd ever seen portrayed. Not for an instant admitting how anachronistic he was, he in his pointed, black, cap-toed shoes and white silk socks and over-starched shirt. A one-of-a-kind pinkie ring. Paved ruby, diamond, emerald version of the Italian flag.
Mitch had been up there in Riccioâs lair maybe a half dozen times.
If he went up now heâd again have to stifle how amused he was by Riccioâs voice. A voice too small, too thin, too high-pitched for any mobster, especially one who took such effort to come off as one. It was as though at age thirteen his pubes had refused to drop.
Riccio was well aware of this shortcoming, tried to overcome it by speaking breathily with as little throat as possible. So, Mitch, if he went up, would have to strain to hear him, would miss words and have a hard time keeping from laughing when Riccioâs temper took over and he cocksuckered and scumbagged someone in his natural upper range.
Joseph Riccio.
Heâd come quite a ways since back when he was an all-around, have-around guy for Nick Russo, when Russo was running the diamond district for the people who got answered to. For nineteen years Russo was the man those in the trade went to when the bank said no way. There was hardly a dealer on the street who at one time or another hadnât strung out what he owed the bank beyond the bankâs tolerance. Many dealers were excommunicated for eternity by the bankâs computer.
Such unfortunates were some of Russoâs best customers.
Russo was also the man a dealer went to for fast money. When an opportunity came along that had to be jumped on right away or be lost. A packet of emeralds, for instance, nice Muzos that some coke mule from Columbia showed up with and was willing to let go at only slightly more than half what they were worth. Or a lot of nice-quality diamond rough that a black had carried in a white handkerchief all the way from Sierra Leone.
They came up, such chances, when going to the bank for a loan was out of the question. The bank would want to know all and require a week or so to process its forms.
Russo, on the other hand, wasnât interested in knowing anyoneâs reason for borrowing and there were never any papers. Ask for the money at eleven, it was there by noon, or sooner, politely delivered in a brown paper bag or a shoe box.
With the first weekâs interest of ten percent taken out in advance.
No matter, it was fast money, and also no matter that it was black money, the proceeds from pornography, extortion, numbers, bust-out bars, hijacking and the like. The important thing was it was there when needed, available with no more than a phone call. Forgive the usury. Whoever gave that illegal aspect much of a thought?
Thus Russo was a fixture on the street. In his criminal way a benefactor. Without him most of 47th wouldnât have been able to conduct business and many of those that could wouldnât have profited nearly as much.
That was
At times Mitch had given thought to that carpet and how many loose diamonds and other precious stones must have been carelessly dropped to it out of the many thousands of carats Riccio took in and dealt out. Mitch could imagine Riccio down on his knees searching the deep black for several D flawless caraters heâd accidentally sent flying from their unfolded briefke paper diamond containers when he put his feet up on his desk. An agitated, grumbling Riccio digging around in the tendrils, not finding, finally giving up and trying his best to put the loss out of mind. In that carpet a fortune lost.
Mitch looked up the stairs and knew what would be imminent. Riccio would sit there, backgrounded by a repaired wall enameled an avocado shade and punctuated by the faded prints of the Virgin and a De Beers magazine advertisement, and Mitch would have to endure Riccioâs invitation of congeniality, his latter-day version of all the spaghetti suckers and mustache Petes heâd ever seen portrayed. Not for an instant admitting how anachronistic he was, he in his pointed, black, cap-toed shoes and white silk socks and over-starched shirt. A one-of-a-kind pinkie ring. Paved ruby, diamond, emerald version of the Italian flag.
Mitch had been up there in Riccioâs lair maybe a half dozen times.
If he went up now heâd again have to stifle how amused he was by Riccioâs voice. A voice too small, too thin, too high-pitched for any mobster, especially one who took such effort to come off as one. It was as though at age thirteen his pubes had refused to drop.
Riccio was well aware of this shortcoming, tried to overcome it by speaking breathily with as little throat as possible. So, Mitch, if he went up, would have to strain to hear him, would miss words and have a hard time keeping from laughing when Riccioâs temper took over and he cocksuckered and scumbagged someone in his natural upper range.
Joseph Riccio.
Heâd come quite a ways since back when he was an all-around, have-around guy for Nick Russo, when Russo was running the diamond district for the people who got answered to. For nineteen years Russo was the man those in the trade went to when the bank said no way. There was hardly a dealer on the street who at one time or another hadnât strung out what he owed the bank beyond the bankâs tolerance. Many dealers were excommunicated for eternity by the bankâs computer.
Such unfortunates were some of Russoâs best customers.
Russo was also the man a dealer went to for fast money. When an opportunity came along that had to be jumped on right away or be lost. A packet of emeralds, for instance, nice Muzos that some coke mule from Columbia showed up with and was willing to let go at only slightly more than half what they were worth. Or a lot of nice-quality diamond rough that a black had carried in a white handkerchief all the way from Sierra Leone.
They came up, such chances, when going to the bank for a loan was out of the question. The bank would want to know all and require a week or so to process its forms.
Russo, on the other hand, wasnât interested in knowing anyoneâs reason for borrowing and there were never any papers. Ask for the money at eleven, it was there by noon, or sooner, politely delivered in a brown paper bag or a shoe box.
With the first weekâs interest of ten percent taken out in advance.
No matter, it was fast money, and also no matter that it was black money, the proceeds from pornography, extortion, numbers, bust-out bars, hijacking and the like. The important thing was it was there when needed, available with no more than a phone call. Forgive the usury. Whoever gave that illegal aspect much of a thought?
Thus Russo was a fixture on the street. In his criminal way a benefactor. Without him most of 47th wouldnât have been able to conduct business and many of those that could wouldnât have profited nearly as much.
That was
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