His escort pulled up in front of an unmarked building with closed steel shutters and a metal door that was blank as a dead man's mind save for a peephole the size of a lentil. Bert stood close to his mousy companion as he approached the door and knocked. He knocked two times loud, two times soft, paused, then three times loud again.
After a moment the peephole slid open and a voice like a saw said, "Yeah?"
"Dis is Bert the Shirt," said the mousy man. "He's OK. Says he got business wit' the boss."
Some seconds passed. A cold wind poured down Broome Street, carrying sheets of filthy newspaper. The guy behind the peephole didn't like where Bert's right hand was. "Why the fuck you got your hand inside your coat?" he asked.
"I got my dog in heah," said Bert.
"Yeah? Lemme see."
Bert held up the chihuahua. The man inside saw drooping whiskers, legs hanging down scrawny as chicken wings.
Three, four locks clicked open quickly. The metal door fell back a quarter of the way. A huge hand grabbed Bert's arm, pulled him in. The door slammed shut and in the same instant Bert was twirled, face to the wall, to be frisked. It had been a long time since he'd been patted down; the feel of it was distant and naughty as the recollection of illicit sex. Don Gioivanni whimpered softly at the invasion of his master's lap and tummy. The doorkeeper stepped away and said, "OK. I'll take ya back."
The big man led the way past the pool table where no one ever shot pool, toward the sitting areas under the skimpy lights at the rear. Beyond the doorman's meaty shoulder, Bert saw mismatched chairs, cockeyed pictures of lounge acts. Then he saw four guys sitting at a green felt card table meant for six. He saw Aldo Messina in a topcoat. He saw a handsome punk and an ugly punk. And he saw Gino Delgatto, very much alive.
The four of them were deep in muffled conversation, huddled low, their heads turned in like the petals of a carnivorous plant converging on a bug. Bert had a few seconds to study Gino. His hair looked damp, like he'd just had a shower. He was freshly shaved, but his skin looked more yellow than pink. His clothes were clean but maybe they didn't fit exactly right. Something was wrong about his nose, though there weren't any marks.
The doorkeeper cleared his throat and everyone looked up. "The Twitch brought this guy in," he said. "Says he got business wit' youse."
Bert watched Gino. Gino's face crawled like there were worms beneath his skin.
Aldo Messina turned his doleful gaze on the visitor. "Bert d'Ambrosia, am I right?"
Bert gave the slightest of nods. He'd been active when Messina was a nobody. Messina remembered. That was good.
"So what's your business?" asked the boss.
Bert slowly raised the hand that wasn't holding the chihuahua and pointed a finger at Gino. "This guy," he said. "This guy's the business." He paused long enough to find out if anyone had anything to say about that, if anyone would flinch. No one did, and so the Shirt turned full face toward Gino. "Your father's been very worried about you. The way ya just disappeared and all."
Gino looked halfway up the old man's chest, couldn't seem to crank his eyes any higher. In a clenched monotone, he said, "Tell my father he don't have nothin' ta worry about. Everything's just fine."
Bert petted his dog. White hairs the length of eyelashes fluttered to the floor of the social club. "I'm glad ta hear it. I thought maybe there was a beef."
"There was a small misunderstanding," said Messina. "It's over. It's settled."
One of the punks, the handsome one with high hair, cracked his knuckles and said, "Lotta things are gettin' settled."
"Shut up, Pretty Boy," Messina said.
Bert smiled at the guy who'd been scolded, hoped to egg him on. Then he said, "Mind if I sit down a minute?"
"Bert, we're kinda inna middle a somethin' heah," said Gino.
Bert nodded understandingly, then reached up and spread a hand across his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm not feelin' very well." He lowered himself into a chair.
Messina rubbed his slender hands together. The other punk, the ugly one with a crescent scar, said, "Ya wanna glass a water, somethin'?"
Bert squeezed out a yes and Bo went to the bar.
The old man made a dismissive gesture, like they should just forget about him and carry on. They didn't. Messina looked down at his cuticles. Gino kept his eyes on the felt trough at the edge of the table.
Bo brought Bert some water. The old man raised the glass and said "Salud. Ta gettin' everything settled."
Pretty Boy gave a speedy little laugh. "Settled like two birds wit' one—"
Messina shot him a look. "Take a walk," he said. "Now."