at the trio that had interrupted his work routine grated him into an attitude of total belligerence.
“Get it over with, Mac,” Sullivan said raspily. “I got too much work to do. Tell me what business you got coming to this dock.”
Altierri’s hands fidgeted. He unbuttoned his heavy black overcoat, slipped his hands underneath, and placed them over his suit jacket around his waist. Sullivan could not know why Two-Knife’s fingers were drumming nervously. Nor had he any awareness of the scabbards and the deadly instruments hidden under Willie’s jacket.
“We come to ask you something,” Willie finally said slowly, every word measured and uttered with restraint. It was the way he spoke when his anger was aroused. Sullivan’s gruff attitude didn’t endear him to his visitors.
“Whaddaya want to ask me?” he snapped. “I’m waiting. Ask me.”
Willie pointed toward the door of Sullivan’s office.
“In there, if you’ll be so kind,” Willie said. “This is private.” His voice was commanding now. Sullivan wasn’t frightened, but he sensed the authority that Willie carried. This guy and his pals were after something. Maybe it was a good idea to listen to why the hell they were there.
“All right,” the superintendent submitted. “Haul your asses in there and I’ll be with you. I got a couple things to do so my schedule doesn’t get fucked up.”
Altierri, Polusi, and Capolla made their way into the office. Sullivan went back to the dock and checked on the progress his longshoremen were making. He glanced up at the sky and shook his head in disgust. It was starting to snow. He shouted commands. “Hey, let’s move it! We got to get these crates into the warehouse before we get buried under! Hurry it up!”
The forecast was for six to eight inches. The snow had not been expected until nightfall. But it had already begun, and Sullivan was afraid it would be a bigger storm. It would take at least another three hours to clear the freighter’s hold, and the only way that could be done was by riding the men relentlessly.
Now he had an interruption. Those three Italians in his office, waiting to talk with him. About what? Well, he told himself resignedly, he’d go in and get it over with.
As they reached the office entrance, he turned for one last look at the dock. The crews were hustling, just as he wanted them to. Okay. The instant he slammed the door shut, Big Beef Polusi slipped behind him and turned the lock.
“What the hell you doing that for?” Sullivan demanded, whirling around and reaching to unlock the door. Before he could touch the lock, a piece of cold steel was slapped against the back of his hand.
“You want to lose some fingers, you put your fuckin’ hand on that lock,” Altierri scowled.
Sullivan was courageous but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t survive the Marne and Belleau Woods battles by scrambling out of the trenches and charging blindly into the Krauts’ machine-gun nests. A well-aimed grenade was a much more sensible way to destroy the enemy than stupid bravery. The situation right now didn’t differ from the battlefront. Sullivan was surrounded by the enemy.
Capolla, Polusi, and Altierri hadn’t yet told the superintendent their business, but Jimmy had a good idea what he was up against. Big Beef and Rackets hadn’t even introduced themselves by name to Sullivan, but the .38-caliber automatics they were pointing at him announced their occupations more clearly than the fanciest calling cards they could have presented.
Altierri had told Sullivan his first name was Willie; but no one had to tell him Willie’s nickname after that introduction. The whack of steel against his hand followed instantly by the thrust of another sharply-pointed blade against the side of his thick neck signalled to Sullivan in the clearest terms that he was up against a two-knife killer.
“Okay, tell me what you want,” Sullivan said. His voice was more respectful, meeker.
“We gonna give you protection because we hear somebody is gonna put the torch to this warehouse tonight,” Altierri said through clenched teeth. “You catch?”
“What kind of protection?” Sullivan asked, not really surprised. “We already have protection from Denny Meehan—”
Altierri, who had been holding the flat side of his knife against Sullivan’s neck, suddenly turned the blade and pressed its razor-sharp cutting edge into the skin. The dock boss was gripped by palpable terror.
“Meehan can’t protect you no more,” Altierri wheezed. “That’s why Frankie Yale sent me to see you. He wants you to buy insurance from him from now on.”
Altierri dug the edge of the knife deeper into the fold of Sullivan’s neck. Jimmy knew that the slightest movement on his part would slit his throat down to his jugular.
“Look, gimme a break,” Sullivan pleaded, his voice almost a whisper. “Take that knife away and let’s talk this out…”
“No talk!” Altierri bellowed. “We here to make deal. We make deal right away. You ready?”
“Yeah, yeah,” stammered Sullivan. “But there’s something I got to tell you first.”
Two-Knife relaxed the pressure. He turned the flat side of the blade against Sullivan’s neck again.
“What you wanna say?” Altierri pressed.
“I gotta get the okay from my boss,” Sullivan said.
“Where is he?” demanded Altierri.
“At the home office—over on Pier 9.”
“You know the number or you want me to give you it?” Altierri asked snidely.
“Sure—sure I know it.”
“Then you call right away, eh?”
“Okay, okay…”
Altierri took the knife away from Sullivan’s neck and let him walk to his desk. Jimmy sat in the chair and picked up the phone.
“Operator, gimme President 0321,” he said nervously.
When O’Hara got on the line Sullivan explained what was going on.
“They’re gonna kill me, John,” he said. “They’re also gonna burn the warehouse tonight…”
O’Hara was reluctant to capitulate but he could sense that his pier superintendent’s life was in imminent peril. He asked what the “insurance policy” would cost, a detail Sullivan had neglected to learn in his fright.
“The boss wants to know how much?” Sullivan said to Altierri.
“Two thousand a week,” Willie replied without looking up. He had holstered one of the knives by now and was cleaning his fingernails with the point of the other one.
Sullivan relayed the information to O’Hara. O’Hara hit the ceiling.
“Mr. O’Hara says Denny Meehan is only getting fifteen hundred right now,” Sullivan told Altierri.
Willie stopped picking his nails. He edged over
