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“What you’re gonna do when it rings is this,” Biaggio said, his eyes cold gray. “You’re gonna tell Bridges that you’ve done this thing, that it’s happening, then you’re gonna say you gotta go and you hang up. That’s it.”
“It’s not Bridges who’s calling,” Lucchese said defiantly.
This, he knew, was of course true—if not entirely transparent—because he also knew it was one of Bridges’s men who was supposed to call.
Biaggio shook his head, then exploded: “Then you fucking well tell whoever calls that you’ve done the fucking thing and it’s fucking happening! You got that?”
He paused, caught his breath.
Then he more quietly added, disgusted, “Jesusfuckingchrist, Tony. How stupid do you think I am?”
Slowly shaking his head, Lucchese looked down at his boots, then up and out the window, avoiding eye contact. This had all seemed so much easier when it was being planned.
How’d it go bad? Who talked?
As he watched a cable swing two U.S. Army one-ton Ben Hur trailers past the window en route to a ship hold, Lucchese thought that he might cry.
The phone rang.
Tony turned to the sound, looked at the phone, looked at the clock on the wall showing 8:01, looked at Biaggio.
It rang a second time.
“Go on and get it,” Biaggio said after a moment.
But it had stopped ringing.
“I’m supposed to answer on the third ring next time they call, at two after.”
Lucchese looked up at the clock and watched the second hand tick around the face.
When the phone had rung three times, Lucchese put the receiver to his ear and said, “Yeah?”
Biaggio sensed Mahoney moving, and when he looked at him he saw that he was leaning down and pulling his Colt .38 caliber revolver out from where he stashed it in the bottom drawer of his desk. Mahoney swung out the cylinder of the snub-nose, checked to see that it was loaded, then softly clicked the cylinder back in. He pulled up his left pants cuff, tucked the pistol in his sock, snugging it inside the top of his leather boot, then pulled the cuff back down. He looked at Lucchese.
“Uh-huh,” Lucchese was saying into the phone, his eyes glued on Biaggio. “That’s right. It’s done. I’ve passed the word.”
Lucchese listened for a moment, said, “Right,” then hung up the receiver.
He looked at Biaggio. “Now what?”
Biaggio stubbed out his cigarette.
“You wait,” Biaggio said. “Right there, by the phone.”
“Another call?”
“Let’s go, Mike,” Biaggio said, standing up. “We got work to do.”
“A call from who?” Lucchese pursued.
Little Joe and Iron Mike ignored the question.
Lucchese watched them pull on their heavy coats and thick knit caps and steel safety helmets, then go through the door without saying another word.
The icy wind blew in, and for a moment there was the loud drone of the heavy equipment outside before the door slammed shut with the wind.
The gang boss office was now quiet except for the sound of the radio playing. Softly, International Longshoreman’s Association gang boss Anthony Christopher “Tony the Gut” Lucchese started crying.
