Chapter Twenty-One

The Pickle Guys Meet

New York City’s Garment District, Manhattan’s Lower East Side, February 1985

The three men displaying button-holed white carnations on their jackets were seated at a window booth of the trendy restaurant. The window was open slightly and overlooked a busy Essex Street and New York’s famed Pickle Guys store.

“So name your price,” said the dwarf.

“If you will pardon the pun, given our location,” responded the man, “there we have what our British friends would call a pickle.”

“What the fuck you talkin’ about?” snarled the dwarf.

Luigi Rinaldi suddenly recognized in the man’s face, the features of a Jew. Rinaldi was immediately angry, and immediately suspicious. He had just sat here laying out to this guy what he wanted. He had expressly requested something which could get himself blown away, never mind anyone else. And he had done so to a Jew. He didn’t like Jews, and he didn’t trust Jews.

“When they find themselves caught between two stools,” qualified the man who had seen and was amused by the other’s discomfiture, “the Brits’ often say they’re in a pickle.”

Rinaldi was silent; he knew these Jew guys had a weird sense of humour. He stared across the booth trying to decide whether or not his chain was being yanked for fun. Then the guy’s irritating voice travelled across the booth again.

“The word is already out there on the street. The Gambino family don’t want any trouble with the Bartalucci family. Bad for New York business. Bad for Sicily and Rome business. And they don’t want to mess with the Vatican. Bad for business all round.”

Rinaldi watched as the face leaned in closer, and the irritating voice softly continued, “So if I take this contract, you, Mister Rinaldi, will be placing me in just such a pickle,” the man ended as he sat back in his seat. He looked to be perfectly calm.

Rinaldi was a currently angry man but not a stupid one, and forced himself to emulate the Jew guy’s calmness. Forza had recommended this schmuck, who seemed completely relaxed in the presence of his bodyguard. Rinaldi was intrigued by this; not many guys relaxed around Forza. He glanced outside, familiar with his current ‘Little Italy’ surroundings, feeling perfectly safe but nevertheless uncomfortable. He was in unfamiliar waters and knew he must tread carefully. He was putting out a contract against the wishes of the Gambino family council, of which he was a member. A council which had ruled that no hit was to be made on Canizzaro or the Orsinni kid, and Rinaldi knew the chance he was taking by going against their wishes.

Rinaldi sighed. As far as he was concerned the woman had it coming for taking down Frank Conti, and Canizzaro’s messing with Brantano had lost them millions of dollars. But now, it seemed, he had to negotiate with Jew guy here if this thing was ever going to happen. He tore free the button-holed flower which had been conditional for this meet. ‘Go figure these guys’, he thought, ‘all this James Bond shit for a contract.’

The scent of pickles was permeating the air being breathed in through his nose. Rinaldi loved pickles. He was crazy about pickles. He preferred the three-quarters sour variety which had been stored in the barrels filled with brine, garlic and spices. And he particularly liked the fact that they came without any of that chemicals or preservatives shit. And he particularly disliked the fact that this Jew guy sitting opposite him was being difficult.

Rinaldi glanced out the window at the Pickle Guys sign-painted legend above the store-front. ‘We Ship Nationwide’, said the sign, and he thought about having Forza stick this Jew guy in one of the shop’s own barrels for shipment to the bottom of the Atlantic.

“You don’t have to concern yourself with the business aspects,” said Rinaldi, annoyed beyond measure that he was having to pussy-foot with this guy, “You just have to prove to me,” he smoothly added the kicker, “that you deserve the reputation Carmine here tells me you enjoy. So just name your price before we all die of boredom here.”

Rinaldi then watched in amazement as the most frightening man he knew on the planet leant forward in the booth to smile at the Jew guy.

“I think my employer,” said Forza, quietly, “badly presents a perfectly good point Saul. Forget about the business crap, can you do the job?”

“Why don’t you do it yourself, Carmine?” responded the man as he returned the smile.

“I have to stay to stay close to my employer for the foreseeable future,” replied Forza.

“I seem to recall,” said the man who answered to the name Saul, “my former employers expressing an interest in you, Carmine. But here you are.”

“A misunderstanding,” acknowledged Forza, “The Mossad did send some people. But they stopped doing so.”

Rinaldi controlled his curiosity as he listened, and kept quiet. Forza was ex-CIA and had come to him when the spooks had shown him the door. There was a lot he didn’t know about Carmine, and he didn’t need to know. He knew enough. He knew he was safe with a guy like Carmine Forza watching his back.

“As you will no doubt appreciate, Mister Rinaldi,” said the man, “this is not how I would normally conduct this stage of any potential contractual arrangement. I chose this method of contact, and engineered our little... friction, because I wanted to be sure you considered the, shall we say the stakes?, worthy of the, shall we say the prize?” He looked squarely at Rinaldi as he added, “No offence intended.”

Rinaldi made a supreme effort to hold his temper in check, and mostly succeeded.

“So will you take the fucking contract?” he snarled.

“If you will accept my fucking price, yes,” replied the man with a benign looking smile.

Luigi Rinaldi finally relaxed. He wouldn’t let this schmuck irritate him anymore. He would pay whatever price was asked. If this Jew guy was only half as good as Carmine Forza said he was, then pretty soon Claudio Canizzaro and Maria Orsinni would be dead meat.