16

Vanni Aprile was even more arrogant than on the day he was born because the Prizzis had made him so much money. He thought life was a proposition whose odds were controllable. It wasn’t that he was a gambler—he had been a sure-thing bettor all his life and he had it in his head that it was a sure thing that Charley would negotiate a better deal because the other way was old-time stuff. That kind of thinking could be the only reason why he left the bank building by the front door and got whacked by Santo’s people before he could make it halfway to his car.

Matty Cianciani had more humility. He knew he was just a field hand as far as the Prizzis were concerned, so he took precautions before he went to the meeting at the bank. He sent his second man, Lucio Tasca, to the bank on Saturday afternoon when the relief shift was on. Lucio talked to the head watchman and gave him fifteen hundred dollars to spread around his Sunday staff; then he arranged for the head watchman to take Matteo out of the meeting—Matteo was the last one to leave the meeting room—and to take him upstairs to the bank president’s office on the ninth floor, where Matteo could make some telephone calls and get himself picked up at the back door of the bank at seven o’clock that night by four of his own men, but by that time there was nothing to protect Matteo from because Santo Calandra’s people had given up on popping Matteo as he strolled out of the front door of the bank, and the cops had finished making the chalk marks around Vanni’s body long before.

Matteo went straight to the airport, flew to Miami, and locked himself in. He sat quietly in a comfortable chair in the apartment that was his safe house and thought about the best way to set Charley Partanna up; to have him blown away.

On Tuesday morning he called Charley at the laundry in Brooklyn. Charley gave the high sign to Al Melvini to put a trace on the call; then he let 220 seconds go by before he picked up.

“Yeah?” Charley said.

“Too bad about Vanni and Sal.”

“Whatta you want me to tell you?”

“Charley, I wanna make a truce. I want peace.”

“Why not?”

“Listen, we can settle everything. I musta been crazy. I got hot and now I regret it. I wanna put in a bid for the franchise.”

“You got till tomorrow like everybody else. Send in your bid.”

“I wanna have a meet.”

“Where?”

“Someplace neutral. Not Brooklyn.”

“Where?”

“How about Miami?”

“Where in Miami?”

“Wherever you say.”

“After I get your bid.”

“How come?”

“Because there is nothing to talk about except if you put in the top bid. We can talk then about terms—nobody has that kind of cash—about collections and whatever.”

“Okay. I’ll send in my bid tomorrow.”

Al appeared in the doorway. He nodded and made a copacetic sign like he was the beer endorser in a TV commercial.

“Good, Matty,” Charley said into the telephone. “I’m glad you cooled down.” He hung up. He raised his eyebrows at Melvini.

“Up the coast from Miami a little,” Melvini said. “Hollywood, Florida. In an apartment on Forty-sixth Avenue, I wrote down the address, under the name of Fred Goldberg.”

“Gimme the address.” Melvini handed it over. “Santo out there?”

“Sure.”

“Send him in.”

Santo came into the office, closing the door behind him.

Charley said. “We found Matty.”

Santo grinned. When he was around bosses he was Captain Amiable.

“You got backup in Miami?”

“Sure.”

Charley passed the piece of paper across the desk. “Tell them to see Matty tonight.”

“I’ll handle it myself,” Santo said.

“Have somebody tip off the local papers after you see Matty. I wanna let people know we are serious about these franchises.”