It was an unusually cool, gray late-summer afternoon. Harvey emerged, flushed and glowing from a half-hour sun-treatment at the Rising Sun Tanning Salon on Greenwich Street. He walked slowly downtown, stopping in front of each restaurant to read the menu in the window. He wore a white dress shirt that made him look even tanner than he was, a blue blazer with gold buttons with little anchors on them, new blue jeans with the crease still in them, dark socks, and brown loafers. He looked at his watch, saw it was four-thirty, and picked up his step toward the Dreadnaught.
There was a basketball game on the courts on Sixth Avenue. A large crowd was gathered around the high Cyclone fence, watching a group of big black men in sweats and T-shirts running up and down the court. When somebody made a basket, the crowd erupted with cheers of approval and cries of exasperation. Harvey stopped to look, but his view was blocked by taller, wider people in front of him. He checked his watch again and continued walking down Sixth, eventually turning east on Spring Street. He rounded the corner and crossed over to the downtown side of the street. A block away from the Dreadnaught, a voice called out to him from a dark green Buick parked in front of a hydrant at the curb.
"Harvey!" said the voice. He stopped, took a few steps back, and approached the car. He leaned over to look inside. Sally Pitera's oversize hand darted out the passenger window and fastened itself to Harvey's collar. He was yanked off his feet, losing a loafer in the process, and pulled, headfirst, into the car. "OW!" he exclaimed.
His face came to rest awkwardly on the floor of the Buick, pressed up against the mat. His feet still stuck out the window at an angle. Sally pulled him up off the floor and into a disheveled but upright position in the seat. Sally slapped him hard across the face. Then he slapped him again, twice. Then again and again as he snarled, "Motherfucker. Motherfucker. Dirty little kike. I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna cut out your fuckin' heart. You know what you done? You know what you done, you dirty little prick? You know what you done to me?"
"What? What? What?" Harvey whined. "I didn't do anything!" He put his hands up in front of his face, but Sally pushed them away and continued to hit him.
"I didn't do anything!" protested Harvey.
"The fuck you didn't," said Sally. He grabbed Harvey's upper lip between thumb and forefinger and twisted it around in a tight corkscrew. Harvey squealed. Still holding him by the lip, Sally swatted him across the ears.
"What did I do? What did I do?" implored Harvey.
Sally let go of the lip and began to run his hands around inside Harvey's blue blazer. He moved his fingers up Harvey's back, around the sides, down his front, over his stomach. He felt inside Harvey's thighs, he patted his crotch. He felt inside his pockets, turned them inside out, pulled his shirttails out of his pants.
"Wha', wha', wha'd I do?" asked Harvey, again.
"Are you wearing a wire?" demanded Sally. "Are you wearing a fuckin' wire, Harvey?"
"No!" protested Harvey, in an indignant tone. "What are you talking about?"
"I'll tell you what I'm fuckin' talkin' about," said Sally. "I'll tell you what I'm talkin' about. I'm talkin' about money. Money is what I'm talkin' about. You piece of shit. Cocksucker. Brooklyn money. That's what I'm talking about, you piece of crap. You little ball a dried-up shit!"
Sally hooked his beefy fingers around Harvey's throat and forced his head back, over the seat. Harvey's face, already red, became even redder, turning bright crimson, his eyes bulging out of his head and sweat breaking out over his forehead. "Sop it! Stop it . . ." he gurgled.
"How much?" asked Sally, squeezing harder and pushing Harvey's head further back over the seat. "How much a their money you take?"
"Twenny . . . " gasped Harvey. "Twenny, I took twenny."
Sally released his grip. Harvey coughed into his hands, struggling to breathe.
"Twenty thousand dollars . . . " said Sally. "You go to them for twenty thousand dollars when you owe me. When I told you . . . when I told you to stay away from those guys. Didn't I tell you that before? Didn't I tell you to stay away from those people? Didn't I fuckin' tell you that?" Sally slapped him again. Harvey cringed against the door.
"I needed it," Harvey said. "I needed it to pay you."
"What else you done, Harvey?" demanded Sally, fixing him in a terrible stare. "What else you done I don't know about? You talkin to any cops lately, Harvey? You talkin' to some FBI maybe? 'Cause, so help me . . . Are you a fuckin' rat?" Sally feigned a couple of blows at Harvey's face, stopping short each time. Harvey winced and pulled away as much as he could with each near blow.
"Are you a fuckin' rat?" Sally continued. " 'Cause I know you're a treacherous, lying little cocksucker. I know that about you already. How 'bout it? You a rat, too? You been tellin' somebody some things?"
"No, no, no," insisted Harvey, gingerly feeling his upper lip. "I didn't say anything to anybody."
"You been talkin' to somebody about our business?"
"No, I swear," said Harvey.
"Them guys from Brooklyn . . . What's their names?"
"Dominic . . . Dom and Frank," said Harvey. "I don't know their last names."
"And you told them . . . you told them you owe me, right?" said Sally. "You told them that? They have to know that, don't they . . . And don't fuckin' lie to me, Harvey, 'cause I can make a fuckin' phone call and find out, I have to. Don't make me do that. You told them you owe me, right?"
"I didn't," Harvey said. "They knew already. They knew."
"Those miserable . . . " Sally muttered. He leaned out his window and signaled a young man standing across the street. He was of medium height with black hair combed straight back. He wore a loud checked jacket; a pink dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar; and beige, pleated slacks. He had a thin gold chain around his neck with a tiny gold cornucopia hanging down in his chest hairs. His shoes were white patent leather with decorative perforations on top. He crossed the street and came around the car, crouching down by Harvey's window.
"This is Victor," said Sally. Victor smiled, showing a silver-capped tooth. He didn't extend his hand. "Hi," he said.
"Victor's gonna be your new manager," said Sally. "Starting Monday, he's gonna be lookin' after my interest. He's gonna work with you, help you out, get the situation over there straightened out.
"But, but. . . but, Barry," stuttered Harvey.
"I don't care who you got over there, now. Give 'em their fuckin' walkin' papers. By Monday," growled Sally.
"I gotta give him some notice, I can't just cut him loose," said Harvey.
"Listen, asshole," said Sally. "I'm not gonna give you any notice when I shoot you inna fuckin' head."
Harvey looked silently down at his hands.
"Victor, here, is gonna be with you in there. He's gonna be right there lookin' after things. And me, I'll be comin' aroun'. We are gonna be sittin' on your fuckin' head every fuckin' minute and take every fuckin' dollar every fuckin' way we know how, until you straighten out what you owe. You don't make no more payments to them . . . When is your next time you gotta see them? When's the next payment?"
"Tuesday," said Harvey, weakly.
"Tuesdays . . ." mused Sally, "Tuesdays. I let you pay Fridays . . . You don't pay them no more. You don't have to see them. Fuck them . . . Got that?"
Harvey nodded.
"I told you before. I told you and you didn't fuckin' listen," said Sally. "Now you gotta listen to Victor. You do what Victor says. He tells you to sign somethin', you better fuckin' sign it. He tells you the place needs a fuckin' cargo container of fuckin' asswipes, you better order 'em. He says you need a thing for the restaurant, you better believe you fuckin' need it. Understand? You understand, Harvey? 'Cause I'm gonna tell you somethin' right now for free—the only thing that's keepin' you alive right now is I want my fuckin' money. That's the only thing keepin' you outta the fuckin' meat-grinder."
"I been paying . . . I been paying on time," Harvey said hopefully.
"You been fuckin' around with me is what you been doin'. I told you not to do something and you went out and did it anyway. I let you pay on Fridays, not Tuesdays like everybody else. I covered you outta my own fuckin' pocket. Things are gonna be different now."
Sally leaned in close to Harvey, shifting his bulk in the seat. "Lemme tell you somethin' else . . . I don't trust you. I don't believe a fuckin' thing comes outta your mouth. You're a thief. You took money outta my pocket. You borrow money from some other guys—that's stealing from me. That makes you a thief. You can be a thief, you can be a rat. That's the way I see it. You better hope I'm wrong about that."
Sally put his fingers around Harvey's skull like he was holding a basketball and banged it against the door frame. He leaned across Harvey and opened the door. Victor stepped back a few feet. "Have a nice day," said Sally. He pushed Harvey out of the car onto the sidewalk. Victor helped him to his feet, holding him at the elbow. Harvey found his errant loafer and put it back on. Sally roared away from the curb, the power steering shrieking as he turned the wheel.
Harvey did his best to rearrange himself. He tucked his shirt into his pants and patted down his mangled lapels.
"See you Monday," said Victor. He released his grip on Harvey's elbow, wiped his hand on his pants, smoothed his hair, and walked slowly across Spring Street.