The next morning, while he soaked in a hot bath, Clint was still thinking about what Matthew had told him. The big man was 40 years old, and working on his third career—if you could call being a doorman a career.
A fighter, a lawman, and then a doorman. With all his experience, he could prove useful, if Clint was going to have to go up against Emory Bates and his nephews.
He told Matthew he appreciated the offer, and would let him know. After attending the party at the gallery, he’d know more.
Getting out of the bath, he dressed in some of the new clothes he’d bought at Roberts. The other, more expensive suit he was saving for the party.
He decided to leave the hotel to have breakfast in another New York eatery he’d never been to before. On the way out he saw an unfamiliar doorman, an older, leaner man who didn’t wear the uniform as well.
“Where’s Matthew?” he asked.
“The big guy takes a day off once in a while. Can I do something for you, sir?”
“No, thanks,” Clint said. “I’m just used to seeing him here.”
“We all are, sir.”
Clint waved at the man and started walking up 5th Avenue. He decided not to ask the doorman for a suggestion about where to eat breakfast. There were so many eateries on every block in New York that he was sure he’d find a likely place just by walking.
He went several blocks, past the two men’s clothing stores he’d shopped in, and sure enough, came upon a pleasant looking restaurant that was doing a brisk early morning business.
He went inside and was shown to a table that was far enough from the door and front windows to suit him. He ordered ham-and-eggs rather than chancing their steak-and-eggs, and told the waiter to bring him strong coffee.
“It’s the only kind we have, sir,” the portly waiter said, with a smile.
“Good,” Clint said.
He glanced around at the early morning diners, many of whom looked like businessmen in suits who had probably stopped in on their way to open their stores or go to offices. He was certain there was a doctor in the room, probably a lawyer, a politician or two, some shopkeepers, and he saw two or three couples. No one seemed to be paying much attention to him, which was fine.
The waiter came with his coffee and breakfast at the same time. Once again he’d found a palatable enough place to eat. He hadn’t yet had a disappointing meal, or cup of coffee.
He bent to the task of finishing his breakfast.
~*~
In Emory Bates’ dining room the man watched as Maggio proceeded to satisfy what was obviously a prodigious appetite. He had eggs and bacon and an impressive stack of flapjacks on his plate.
“You mind if we talk while you eat, Maggio?” he asked, only half serious.
Maggio didn’t seem to notice. “Fine with me,” he said.
“Tonight, at this gallery party, I’m going to need you to stand just behind me, looking as menacing as you can.”
“In a suit?” the big black man asked.
“Don’t worry,” Bates said. “I think you’ll be able to pull it off.” He looked at his man servant, who was standing off to one side. “Don’t you, Silas?”
“Oh, yes suh.”
Maggio shrugged, said, “Okay by me,” and stuffed a forkful of flapjacks into his mouth.
“I also may need you to hurt somebody,” Bates said. “And you’ll have to do it right away, with no hesitation.”
“Not a problem,” Maggio said.
“Good,” Bates said. “Now, in the event I need you to kill somebody—”
“Not a problem,” Maggio said again, and then added, “for the right price.”
“I’m going to pay you a thousand dollars to go to the party with me,” Bates said. “Five thousand if I need you to hurt someone, and ten if I need you to kill someone. How does that sound?”
“What if I don’t need to hurt or kill anybody?”
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars a day just to stay on until I do need you. Then the price is the same, five and ten thousand.”
“How many days you gonna need me?”
“I don’t know.”
Maggio sat back in his chair to deliberate, and finish chewing.
“The five and ten are good,” he said, “but I want a thousand dollars a week.”
“Maggio!” Silas snapped.
“No,” Bates said, raising his hand, “that’s okay, Silas. The man wants to negotiate. That’s part of my business.” He looked at Maggio. “What if I don’t need you for a week?”
“I want a one week guarantee,” Maggio said.
“Why’s that?” Bates asked.
“Because you may never ask me to hurt or kill anyone,” Maggio reasoned. “In that case, I never get five or ten thousand. This way, with a week’s guarantee, I know I’ll make at least two.”
Bates looked at Silas.
“Your nephew’s a smart boy, isn’t he, Silas?”
“Uh, yes suh.”
“Man,” Maggio said.
“I beg your pardon?” Bates asked.
“I’m a smart man. Not boy.”
Bates stared at the man, who continued eating. From his facial expression he didn’t seem disturbed, nor from his tone. But his words . . .
“I stand corrected,” Bates said. “You’re a smart man. Okay, I agree to your terms. One week’s guarantee. It may take me that long to close this deal, anyway.”
Maggio picked up a napkin, wiped his hands on it, then extended the big right hand to Bates, who shook it without hesitation.
“Deal,” Maggio said, and went back to eating with renewed vigor.
“Now,” Bates said, “as for weapons . . .”