Moving to the booth, Vincent Moraco motioned to the Mutt to join them. The waitress, in her tux, was there before they were all seated. "At Randy's," Randy said, "every waiter in the place is yours. Cindy here is my star. Cindy only takes care of this booth, Number One. She needs help she's got it."

Cindy took their orders and left.

Watching her go the Mutt spoke his first words, saying with a country accent that turned Randy's head to look at him, "Man, she could sell p.u.s.s.y 'long with the others, you know it?"

Randy had to ask him, "Where you from?"

"Indiana," the Mutt said. "You know where Bedford's at? On U.S. Fifty?"

Randy made a decision. He said, "Mutt, I don't need a Hoosier hotshot f.u.c.king with my staff. You got it?"

The guy seemed surprised. Vincent Moraco said, "He knows his place."

And Randy's role was established. He was accepting the arrangement-since he didn't see that he had a choice-but would remain the boss here. It was Randy's second step approaching gangland.

"The way it works," Vincent said, stirring his Canadian Club and c.o.ke, "your good customers from GM, Ford's, Compuware, call you over to the table. 'Say, Randy, you happen to know that redhead sitting at the bar?' You look over. 'Oh, you mean Ginger? You like to meet her? She staying at the hotel 'round the corner.' Then you say, 'We have a special arrangement, you want to party over there with Ginger, I can put it on your tab, here.' After that they know they don't have to carry extra cash with them, it's house-account p.u.s.s.y. The wife sees the bill, 'Jesus Christ, you buying drinks for the f.u.c.kin house?' What she don't accuse the guy of is get ting laid."

"How much a trick?"

"Five."

"They're all the same?"

"Stand 'em on their heads ...Yeah, all're five a trick."

"What about all night?"

"A grand, anything over an hour. The girls with baby-sitters get another two bills from the guy, over and above the tip."

"What if the customer, after he's down for one-"

"Wants to go again? The girl calls you and you put it on the guy's account."

"What's the girl get?"

"Three bills. There's a table of guys, out-oftowners here for a convention at Cobo, like the Society of Automotive Engineers, and they all want a piece of the action? The girl stays there at the hotel. You get the relay team going it makes it easier."

"The girl does everything the guy wants?"

"As long as it don't leave marks. The guy wants her to p.i.s.s on him, or take a dump on a gla.s.s-top coffee table while he's underneath looking up?" Moraco shrugged. "If she has to go, no problem. She don't, I don't know. Maybe the guy calls down for some prune juice."

Randy looked off at Cindy in her tux to get the picture out of his mind. He said to Vincent, "What's your take?"

"So you don't have to keep books, a flat eight thousand a week."

"Based on what?"

"An average night. Say four girls turning two tricks each, then times five nights, Monday to Friday, what's that?"

"Twenty thousand."

"They make twelve, we take eight. You pay every Sat.u.r.day, keep anything over eight for yourself."

"What about slow nights?"

"It's up to you to bring in the business."

"What if all the girls don't show up?"

"It can happen, say illness in the family."

"But you get your eight grand even if the girls don't make the nut."

Vincent said, "You have a problem with that?"

"I want to be sure I have it straight," Randy said, a sleepy look coming into his eyes as the image of Pierce Brosnan faded out and Lucky Luciano, without the pockmarks, faded in to take his place. "What you're telling me," Randy said, "the girls could all quit and become stockbrokers, you still get your eight a week."

Vincent was nodding. "As your partners."

By the end of April, nine months into the arrangement, Randy's mob connection had cost him $116,200 out-of-pocket. He still saw himself as a wiseguy, but no longer on the level of a Luciano. Christ, Luciano would've had Moraco whacked by now and taken over the girls.

Carlo was threatening to quit, not happy about some of the clientele, these goombas who'd show up, no reservation, and squeeze into Booth Number One without asking. The linen service, owned by Moraco's boss, cost twice what it should. And the Mutt, the Mutt was five bills a week down a rathole. What did he do? The girls, the ones who showed up, didn't need protection.

Randy had never been curious about the Mutt until one Sat.u.r.day, just before Vincent Moraco arrived for his free lunch and the eight grand, he had a talk with him, standing at the end of the bar.

"Tell me," Randy said, "what you do exactly."

It brought a frown. "My job? I keep an eye on you."

"For Vincent?"

"He don't talk to me either. I watch out for you 'cause I'm your bodyguard. But what you could say I do is no more 'n f.u.c.k the dog, 'cause you don't gimme any jobs to do."

Randy said, "Like what?"

"Like throwing the drunks out, the ones get loud and cause a commotion."

"Most of them are friends. What else?"

"What bodyguards do. Some guy's bothering you, I teach him a lesson."

"Well, I do have someone bothering me."

"Gimme his name, I'll tell him to leave you alone."

"Vincent Moraco."

That might've been too blunt, or too much all of a sudden for the Mutt to think about. He nodded, staring off, but after a moment said, "Mr. Moraco, huh?"

"I want you to be at the meeting," Randy said. "Listen to what I tell Vincent, keeping in mind who pays you."

Signed celebrity photos-not the caricatures- looked out from the walls of Randy's office, done in browns, recessed lighting and a lot of chrome. Vincent Moraco was seated across the desk from him, the Mutt over to one side, beneath a black-and-white photo of Soupy Sales.

"First of all," Randy said, "you realize that what my customers are paying to get laid ap pears on the books as profit, restaurant income."

Vincent said, "Yeah ...?"

"It means I'm paying taxes on income that isn't income, over three hundred grand in f.u.c.k money I can't write off."

Vincent said, "You look at it like you laundering the money."

"Yeah, but people who do that are paid a fee, they get something for the service, the risk they take."

"You need a bookkeeper know what he's doing."

"That's only half the problem."

"Yeah...?"

"You base your cut on four girls a night, but only two show up, once in a while three. And there aren't that many relay teams or allnighters."

"You have to understand," Vincent said, "you don't get this cla.s.s of girl off the street. You know who some of the best ones are? College girls. They work hard to pay for school and make something of themselves."

"But two, at the most three girls," Randy said, "even with Ph.D.'s and working their a.s.ses off, won't come close to making the nut."

"Why? You having trouble bringing people in? Business falling off?"

"Leveling off. Carlo said you have to expect that. No matter how well you open, after a while it's bound to settle down. We do okay all week and still go crazy weekends."

"So what're you trying to say?"

"I just told you, the way it is doesn't work. Either put on more girls and turn the place into a brothel that serves food, or cut back on your take. You're not gonna make a cent if we have to close."

"Cut it back to what?"

"Four, at the most. I'll do business with you, Vincent, but I can't pay you out of restaurant receipts and stay open. Your take's drawn from my personal account."

"The dough," Vincent said, "you f.u.c.ked that widow out of? I know how much you got, Randy. Everybody knows."

Randy had to ignore that one, let it pa.s.s. He said, "Up to right now, today, I'm out about a hundred and fifty thousand. And do you know what I get for that, Vincent?" Randy paused, playing his role. "I get to watch you eat lunch."

For the first time in nine months Randy saw Vincent Moraco smile. He watched Vincent look over at the Mutt and now the Mutt was smiling.

"You hear what he said?"

"He gets to watch you eat?"

Vincent said, "Mutt, you're a stupid f.u.c.k, aren't you?" He pushed out of the chair, still smiling a little, and said to Randy, "Lemme have the envelope and I'll get out of your way."

"Mutt, what was the main idea you got from the meeting?"

Mutt had to think about it, half closing his eyes, the brow above ridged with scar tissue.

Randy was patient. He said, "Mutt, I'm paying that man out of my pocket. You ever hear of a business partnership that works like that?"

"He don't care about you."

"What happens if I stop paying?"

"The first time you're late? Somebody shoots out your windows. That's what they do to bookies they don't pay their street tax."

"What if I said no more p.u.s.s.y on house accounts and stopped paying altogether?"

"I 'magine you'd have a fire. Have to shut down."

"What would he do to me?"

"You're paying him out of your cookie jar anyway, I 'magine he'd keep after your money."

"What would you do, go back to work for Moraco?"

The Mutt grinned. "That was funny what you said about watching him eat. I mean I wasn't laughing 'cause he was. I have no respect for Mr. Moraco and he knows it. Not being one of them's why he put me here."

"Why'd he hire you in the first place?"

"I was at Southern Ohio Correctional, the prison? There was an old boy there I looked after, saw no harm came to him. I got my release, it was Mr. Rossi set it up for me to come work here in De-troit."

"So Moraco hired you," Randy said, "out of respect for this Mr. Rossi."

"Yeah, but I never kissed Mr. Moraco's a.s.s like he wanted, so we didn't get along too good. I started out driving for Mr. Amilia. It was the first time I had to wear a suit of clothes."

"The boss himself, uh?"

"Yeah, but he said I drove too fast. So they put me on the street. You know, lean on the bookies, make sure they pay their street tax. I'd do a shylock collection if the guy fell behind."

Fascinating. Randy leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "What would you do?"

"You mean get him to pay? Stop by his home, meet his wife, talk to 'em. If there was a second time I'd catch him away from home and body-punch him good, break a couple of ribs."

"What if he was a big guy, two hundred pounds?"

"I can hit," the Mutt said. "I lifted weights and got into boxing again at Southern Ohio. Got pretty good."

"Why'd you go to prison?"

"I was in a bar fight and shot a fella, Bellefontaine, Ohio. I was working at the ski area there, making snow."