All of which were replacements of exactly what had been there before.
You didn’t fuck with tradition, as iAm said.
The only interior change was one nobody could see: A mesh of steel had been applied to every square inch of the walls and ceilings, and all the doors but one had been reinforced with the shit.
No one was dematerializing in or out unless management knew and approved.
Truth was, Rehv owned the place, but it was iAm’s baby, and the Moor had reason to be proud of his efforts. Even the old-school Italian goombahs liked the food he cooked.
Fifteen minutes later, the Bentley pulled up under the porte cochere of the sprawling one-story stretch of trademark red-washed brick. The lights were off around the building, even the ones that lit up Sal’s name, although the empty parking lot was illuminated with the orange glow from old-fashioned gaslights.
Trez waited in the dark with the engine running and the doors of the bulletproof car locked, clearly communicating with his brother in the Shadow way. After a moment he nodded and cut the motor.
“We’re cool.” He got out and walked around the Bentley, opening the rear door as Rehv palmed his cane and shifted his numb body off the leather seat. As the two of them crossed over the pavers and pulled wide the heavy black doors, the Moor’s gun was out and at his thigh.
Stepping into Sal’s was like walking into the Red Sea. Literally.
Frank Sinatra greeted them, his “Wives and Lovers” drifting down from speakers embedded in the red velvet ceiling. Underfoot, the red carpet had just been replaced, and it glowed with the same sheen and depth as freshly spilled human blood. All around, red walls were flocked with a black acanthus-leaf pattern and the lighting was what you’d find in a movie theater, i.e., mostly on the floor. During regular business hours, the hostess stand and the cloakroom were manned by gorgeous dark-haired women dressed in red and black short-and-tights, and all the waiters wore black suits with red ties.
Over to the side, there was a bank of public telephones from the fifties and two cigarette machines from the Kojak period, and as usual, the place smelled like oregano, garlic, and good food. In the background, there was also the lingering whiff of cigarettes and cigars-even though by law you weren’t supposed to light up in this kind of establishment, in the back room, where the reserved tables were and the games of poker got dealt, management allowed people to light up.
Rehv had always been a little tight-balled at being around all the red, but he knew as long as he could look into the two dining rooms and see that the tables with their white linens and deep leather chairs receded properly, he was okay.
“The Brotherhood’s already here,” Trez said as they went down to the private suite where the meeting was going to be held.
When they walked into the room, there was no talk, no laughter, not even a throat cleared among the other males in the space. The Brothers were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in front of Wrath, who was positioned in front of the one door that was not reinforced with steel-so he could dematerialize free in the blink of an eye if things came to that.
“Evening,” Rehv said, choosing the head of the long, thin table that had been set with twenty chairs.
There was a patter of hi-how’re-yas, but the tight knot of linebacker-and-then-some warriors was solely focused on the doorway he’d come through.
Yup, you fucked with their boy Wrath and you were going to get fed your future-right up your own ass.
And what do you know, they’d taken on a mascot, evidently. Off to the left, a glowing Oscar statue of a guy stood tall in combats, his blond-and-black hair making him look like an eighties headbanger looking for a backup band. Lassiter the fallen angel didn’t seem any less fierce than the Brothers, however. Maybe it was his piercings. Or the fact that his eyes were all white. Fuck it, the guy’s vibe was just hard-core.
Interesting. Given the way he was glaring at the doorway with the others, Wrath was clearly on the protected-species list with that angel.
iAm came in from the back, a pistol in one hand, a tray of cappuccinos on the palm of the other.
Several of the Brothers took what was offered, although all those dainty cups were going to become gum for their shitkickers’ heels if they had to fight.
“Thanks, man.” Rehv also took a cappuccino. “Cannoli?”
“Coming.”
The instructions for the meeting had been spelled out clearly beforehand. Members of the council had to arrive at the front of the restaurant. If anyone even so much as jogged the handle of another door, they assumed the risk of getting shot. iAm would let them in and escort them down to the room. When they left, it would be through the front again, and cover would be provided for safe dematerialization. Ostensibly, the security measures were because of Rehv’s “concern over lessers.” The truth was, it was all about protecting Wrath.