*****************************************************
"You can't be serious!"
"I am Murph."
"He's only going to get in the way Laura and besides, how
high is his trust quota on this? Or anything come to that?"
"I know what I said about our cases and I'm not going back on it. He won't be working on a case. He'll be -"
"Yes?" Murphy prompted, scepticism plastered all over his face.
"He'll be wining and dining a woman on company time and expenses. There's a difference."
Detective Murphy Michaels shook his head. How like Laura Holt. For as long as he'd known her, being wrong was an anathema. She'd walk barefoot over fire first before admitting to being wide of the mark. Just one of the things he loved about her.
"That's a technicality and you know it."
"It's not a technicality," she stubbornly persisted. "It's a slight variation on the truth." Laura took a deep breath and calmly faced him. "I know you don't like it Murph but -"
"I don't like him either."
She paused for a second then jumped into the deep end. Head first. "We don't have a choice. We need a diversion and you've got to admit, if anyone can do this, he can."
Murphy stewed as the elevator steadily ascended. Finally he said, "Wrong."
"Wrong? You don't think he can sidetrack a woman while we're on a case? You're sure that -"
"I mean, you're wrong when you say we don't have a choice. We do. We can tie him up, dump him in the trunk and drop him at Leavenworth. Or we can tie him up, drive to San Francisco and dump him in the Bay. Or we can tie -"
"Believe me, I've thought about tying him up too but have you got a better idea?" Laura smiled. She could afford to be amused. This was the only option. And they both knew it.
"Yeah. We should cover him in jelly and leave him on an ant hill or we can -"
She laughed, warming Murphy from head to toe. Damn Gordon Hunter and his stupid Royal Lavulite. What a cruel hand fate had dealt tossing that double-dealing crook into their lap. Nothing had been the same since. And that included Laura. He couldn't put his finger on it. Was logical, rational Laura Holt slowly losing her focus? Dazzled by the glaring light of that creep's teeth?
The elevator doors opened and they stepped out.
Murphy pulled his closest friend and employer to one side. "You said 'advisory capacity' only. You said that that jewel thief would never work on any cases as long as you were in charge. You said we wouldn't even know he was here and all he's done is -" Murphy paused and looked askance. "Actually, what has he done?"
She shrugged. "Well since the Hunter case, he's sat on two committees with 'Save The Redwoods League' to preserve the redwood forests and -"
"He wormed out of one of 'em while you were off sick. Said he couldn't attend the second one because the first one was a sap fest and gave him headaches." Murphy held up a hand. "Nope. I'm wrong. He said some garbage like, 'the mere mention of sap induced violent migraines.' Something like that plus a bunch of other stuff, yak, yak, yak. He never shuts up either."
Laura attempted to smooth over the waters and briefly placed a hand on his arm. Murphy's hostility hadn't diminished with time. If anything, it had gotten worse. Like a lightening strike, it suddenly occurred to her that his dislike had been instantaneous, formed as soon as they'd met. Good lord. Was it mutual?
She thought back over the past couple of weeks and, to her amazement, realised that it wasn't. Because the man now calling himself Remington Steele had, from that very first day, met Murphy's disgust with indifference. And he continued to do so. What's more, he acted like he got some kind of perverse pleasure out of it. She'd never previously noticed, but when they were all together, one was barely concealing his temper whilst the other was cocky and full of himself. Her brow furrowed. Why?
So okay, the blue-eyed stranger had bombarded his way into their lives to steal. And he'd lied. And he'd cheated. And he'd deceived. And he'd made trickery an art form. But he'd also assumed Remington Steele's identity to such an extent that some sort of arrangement became a necessity.
It wasn't a decision she'd taken lightly either. Laura recalled how thoroughly the pros and cons had been weighed up. How every angle had been scrutinised and how she'd finally concluded that it made sense. This pact of theirs could work as long as she remained in the driving seat, exerted complete control and kept him firmly in line.
And whatever her reservations privately, she had to justify it publicly. In effect, Murphy's disapproval of their interloper called her judgement into question. Strange: they'd disagreed on more business matters in the past few weeks than they'd done over the entire course of their friendship. Well, business matters where his mysterious past intruded … And business matters involving his outrageous spending habits … Okay, all business matters to do with him. Actually … him. Period.
Snapping out of her reverie, she continued to reason with her partner. She had to, if only to save face. "He had lunch with Mr. Villiers to help us land that security contract last week."
Murphy shook his head. "He arrived just in time for dessert. You had to tell Mr Villiers that the great Remington Steele was concluding a case."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Yeah. Until he opened his mouth and blamed his masseuse. Said she sent him to sleep. Something about her 'expert, teasing, manipulations'. I think that's what he said anyway. The idiot. Remember?"
"I'm trying to forget," Laura crisply retorted. "But we got the contract."
"No thanks to him. He put his foot in it again."
"I need to work out a signal to shut him up."
"Electric shock?"
She smiled. "Something subtler."
"A kick in the groin?"
"No, he might enjoy that. He's twisted."
"No argument here. But you're wrong about what's he done. He's done nothing. We don't need him Laura. Admit it."
She snapped her fingers. "He's given interviews to the Tribune and had his picture taken. Good PR for the agency Murph."
"So you keep telling me but he likes that part. Doesn't count. Look at the wall of that office. He's turned it into a shrine! Every time I go in there I feel like I'm supposed to get on my knees and ask for his blessing."
She had to smile. Despite everything, that was kinda funny.
"Hell will freeze over before I bow to that crook on anything Laura. And what is it with him and toiletries? Seen that bathroom lately? He's got more stuff than Sears."
"But that's what we took him on to do. To be -"
"We? We partner? Two voices wanted him nowhere near us. And none of them were yours."
"He's performing a valuable service and that's why he's here. To bring the figment of my imagination to life, to be the attractive face of the organisation, to glad hand the -"
"Attractive?"
"Huh?"
Murphy crossed his arms. "To be the 'attractive' face of the organisation?"
"Who said that?"
"You did."
Laura's eyes opened wide. "I did?" She shrugged. "A slip."
"Sure it wasn't Freudian?" His eyes never left hers.
"I meant to say 'appropriate'. The appropriate face of our organisation. That's what I meant. Appropriate." She mentally drew a line under her words.
"Sure you did."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He took a deep breath. "It means I'd like to believe you."
She frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He turned her around to face the direction of Suite 1157. "Come on partner. There's work to be done."
Laura knew he'd changed the subject. Part of her was relieved. "Okay so it's settled, right? We tell him what we need him to do. He should be here by now. I told him not to leave until we'd spoken to him." She glanced at her watch and scowled. "That clown! I bet agency funds paid for that bottle of Dom Perignon and the -"
"What bottle of Dom Perignon?"
"I went to Rossmore last night and he had the nerve to offer me a glass of Dom Perignon. You won't believe the -"
"Champagne again? I thought you didn't like champagne. And why go all the way to his apartment? Isn't your phone working?"
She pushed open a suite door. "I had to see him about something. It was business."
Murphy strove to keep his tone even. "The pathologist digs up a vital finding in the Morten case and you call me about that but go see him about nothing?"
As they walked into the reception area, Bernice was busy taking down a message. She frantically motioned to them to remain where they were.
Laura nodded, picked up a stack of letters and resumed her conversation. "Murph, didn't the autopsy report go into detail about a circular fracture on the underside of Thomas Morten's skull?"
Murphy stared at her for a brief second. Unbelievable. At times she only heard what she wanted to hear. "Yeah. Blood in the ears too. Very typical of basilar skull fractures. Just as you suspected partner, his cousin lied to us. Morten's death wasn't caused by a heart attack."
Her eyes lit up. "Okay. We'll go back and have a little talk with -"
Bernice replaced the receiver and cried, "Mayday!"
"Huh?" The two detectives exchanged baffled glances.
"Did you ask our titular head to show up today?"
Laura lowered a letter she'd been reading. "Yes. Why?"
"One minute he was here, I went to the ladies room, I got a sandwich and then when I came back, pfft! He was gone."
Murphy jumped in. "Was he carrying suitcases? Was he chained to an FBI agent? Was he abducted by aliens? Was he -"
"Gone? Gone where?"
"He came, he saw, he annoyed the heck out of me. Then he disappeared into thin air. No note, no word, no call," Bernice shrugged. "Nada."
"Oh that man!" Laura barked. "That lousy ingrate! I told him not to leave until we'd talked to him. The devious, inconsiderate -"
"Take it easy partner," Murphy calmly urged placing his hands on her shoulders. "There's no point getting worked up. He's probably long gone. Face it Laura. He used us to set up some shady deals and now he's left for good and we'll never see him again because ... coffee anyone? I'll make it. Forget coffee, let's go down to Luigi's and celebrate in style. Who wants a beer? I'm buying. This is better than winning the lottery."
"No. That's not it." Laura moved away from him to pace.
Murphy tapped his fingers on Bernice's desk. "What's not it?" he queried.
"Your theory. It's good but it's not right. He's left but he hasn't gone."
"You've lost me partner. What are you talking about?"
"What I mean is that he's left the office but he hasn't gone. He's still here in Los Angeles."
"How do you know?"
"I'm with Murphy on this Laura. You hardly know the guy!" Bernice exclaimed. "What makes you so sure that he hasn't slithered back to wherever he came from?"
She turned to them. "Call it a hunch."
"Laura. This is ridiculous. You've never been -"
"Think about it logically for a minute Murph. He has a chance to stay in San Francisco with the Royal Lavulite, but he doesn't. For some reason he comes back here instead. Why leave now?"
"Maybe he's chasing after some other jewel?" Bernice suggested.
"Maybe," Laura conceded.
"I still say we've seen the back of him."
"No Murph," she shook her head. "I'm pretty sure he's still here. I just have this nagging feeling that he hasn't left yet."
"A nagging feeling? What are you, Yoda?"
Laura shrugged, "Would you leave if you were him? That jerk's got the best free ride in the city. Come on, we've got the Morten case to investigate. When our leader shows up Bernice, tell him to stay here so that I can slowly kill him!"
"Can I record it?" she smirked.
"Can I sell it?" Murphy added.
Laura smiled at her employees. "It won't be pretty."
"Want some help?"
"Hey partner, when you two finish, can I kill him again?"
**********************************************
A few blocks east of the border of Beverly Hills, in West Hollywood - a car turned into a drive. Steele had no idea where he was. More worryingly, he had no idea why he'd been brought there. He could still feel the knife pressed against his side. It was a tough call as to which was worse: suffering Carter's inane grin throughout the journey, or the gravity of the situation. The only comforting thought was that he was still alive. But for how long?
"C'mon. Let's move it. I don't wanna keep the boss waiting," Regan gruffly ordered. "He's had an itchy trigger finger ever since that damn horse lost."
"Horse?" Steele queried, "What horse?"
"Who's talkin' to you? C'mon! Bring him along."
Carter alighted and unceremoniously reached in, tugging Steele's arm. As he stepped out, the latter took a few seconds to adjust his tie, straighten his clothes and run his hands through his hair. The two henchmen stood either side of him, mouths agape, looking on in utter disbelief. They'd never seen anything like it.
When Steele reached inside his jacket pocket, retrieved a breath spray and gave himself a couple of hits, it proved the straw that broke Regan's back. "What're you doing?" he snarled, "This isn't 'The Dating Game' y'know. Who d'ya think's behind that door? Pam Ewing? Nobody's looking at you so c'mon!"
"Yeah c'mon!" Carter needlessly echoed.
The housekeeper opened the front door but offered no greeting. Instead she silently stood aside for the men to enter. Steele meekly followed his escorts but razor sharp eyes took in every detail: the imposing hallway, the marble floors, the family photographs hanging from every available space.
Regan opened one of several doors that led off the hall. "Boss said we had to wait in here," he informed Carter.
Steele dispassionately surveyed the room. It was large, square with wooden panelling halfway up the walls and ornate chintz wallpaper to the ceiling. There was an abundance of porcelain and carved ivory pieces carefully arranged on the white marble mantelpiece. The furniture commanded attention. Mainly because none of it matched: small round tables, Chinese lamps, hard maple and hickory chairs … inwardly, he groaned. The interior designer responsible for such a monstrosity deserved to be hung, drawn and quartered. Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps the poor fool had indeed met that fate. And all because of bad taste in - well, just about everything really.
It begged a pertinent question: what lay in store for him? Was this the end? And what exactly had he done to upset these Vieri chaps? Or not done? Steele swallowed and focussed on more cheering matters. Immediately, he suppressed an urge to wince. Cassius Marcellus Coolidge and his bloody poker-playing dogs. Uncanny. Irrespective of the continent, every crook had a thing for those paintings: the Beale's that ran South London, the Marwood's in the East End, even the Palermo Brothers in Naples. Was it asking too much for a fellow miscreant to steal something actually worth stealing for a change? A Van Gogh? Or a Monet?
Steele automatically appraised the works before him. Well what the bloody hell else was there to do? Coolidge's artistic specialty: the series of oil paintings from early in the century depicting dogs engaged in human activities. Flea markets, bric-a-brac stalls, jumble sales, rag and bone men and curio collectors around the world be lost without the likes of: 'A Friend In Need' - a dog slips an ace to another dog under the table with his hind leg. 'Pinched With Four Aces' - the police raid the dogs' poker game just as one of the mutts holds four aces. 'Waterloo' - two dogs battle to win the poker pot as the others look on. 'His Station, With Four Aces' - a dog finds four aces in his paw and finally, 'Sympathy' - the dogs tease another player. Good grief. This chap even had some of the lesser-known works like -
"Where the fuck have you been?" an impatient voice snapped, ripping into Steele's reverie. A tall, swarthy man of around forty stomped into the room, strode over to a desk and seated himself.
"Traffic Mr. Vieri boss," Regan offered apologetically.
"Sit down," he ordered. Everyone instantly complied, waiting in slight trepidation as he studied a large book. The only sound was the clock ticking and the occasional turning of a page.
With nothing else to do, Steele sized up the enemy: single breasted, 3 button, navy cashmere blazer with tan-coloured trousers and matching tie … he smiled to himself. The kind of attire that gave 'mass produced' a good name. Or should that be bad name? What a generous tribute to off the rack suits. Off the back of a lorry was probably closer to the god-awful truth.
After five minutes, the heavy book was slapped shut. The thud made everyone jump. "Mr. Steele, do you know what the penalty is for owing The Vieri's even a dollar? And you owe me, Bruno Vieri, $17,270."
Stunned, Steele could only respond, "Beg pardon?"
"What am I doin' here? Speaking Dutch? You owe me $17,270. The money you won at Bedard's. It's one of my places."
"Oh I see, I see. All gamblers are unequal but some gamblers are more unequal than others, eh?"
"What's he talkin' about?" Bruno flapped helplessly. "Regan, what's this guy sayin'?"
"Boss, he's being sarcastic. He's sayin' you're giving him some kinda unfair treatment."
Bruno pointed at Steele. "Is he right? You accusin' me of something like that? In my own house? In front of these bozos?"
"Boss," Regan whispered. "We're associates in front of people. Remember?"
"I merely made an observation based on this unanticipated state of affairs compounded by abdominal pain inflicted on my good self by your messenger boys."
Vieri stared. Finally he found his tongue. "Do I gotta get an interpreter in here or what? What's he sayin' now Regan?"
"We're back to that unfair treatment thing, boss."
"Why da fuck doesn't he just say so? Life's too short. Especially his."
"I believe it was Thoreau the great writer and thinker who astutely proclaimed, 'life is frittered away by detail … simplify, simplify!' "
"Look Steele, you'll help yourself by talkin' English for a start."
"Separated by a common language, eh?"
"Big-shot. Big, fuckin' private dick. I know all about you. You get around. Apart from my places you've been seen at Santa Anita, Fast Freddy's pool hall, Baxter's backroom for brag, poker and blackjack - and that's just this month. How d'ya think it would look to those in the know if word got around that you don't pay your dues? Y'know what I mean? Wouldn't look good for business would it? The great detective, Remington Steele. A wimp. A loser. A dink. I don't see you hustlin' to pay me Steele."
"Mr. Vieri, one of us is under the vastly mistaken delusion that the other owes him money. Would you care to elucidate?"
"Are you fuckin' nuts! I never touch the stuff."
"Boss," Regan interjected, "he means he wants you to tell him why he owes you that money."
"Why doesn't he just say that? Listen, it's simple. You guys play in my house; you don't play my house. Capiche?"
Steele allowed himself a small smile. "Mr. Vieri," he scraped his chair forward, "your card sharpers aren't sharp enough. That's your problem - not mine."
"What're you talkin' about?"
"It takes one to know one and I can categorically state that you've got amateurs dealing cards inside Bedard's. That's why I walked out of there with $17,270. Tomorrow, I plan to win a minimum of $50,000. This weekend, $80,000. Next week -"
"Regan, Carter - go make yourselves useful. Polish my Ferrari then get a bag of cement and some limes for the -" Bruno glanced at Steele, " - for the key lime pie. Me and the dick here are gonna talk business."
"But boss, don't you need me around? What if the Limey says somethin' that you don't -"
"What am I? The class clown?" Bruno gestured wildly. "Get the fuck outta here!" The henchmen reluctantly dispersed. Vieri waved at Steele. "You got some explainin' to do."
Steele nonchalantly surveyed his nails not caring that an obnoxious man was waiting. Eventually, he looked up and flashed a billion dollar smile. "Card conjuring, card manipulation - it's my forte. It's a skill; it's an art. Not everyone can pull it off - aptly demonstrated by my good fortune at Bedard's."
"Cut the crap and give it to me straight."
"A list of the fiascos committed by your dealers includes the false shuffle, the false cut, the stacked deck, the quick shuffle, dealing seconds, dealing from the bottom of the deck; the artful dodge, the pontoon certainty, the bluff bottom deal, a slip -"
Bruno groaned. "Didn't they get anythin' right?"
"The cull shuffle, if memory serves."
"The what?"
"With the cull shuffle, the required cards are on the bottom of the deck, okay? So to retrieve them, you hold the deck in your right hand and then you press your left thumb on the top card and simultaneously press the fingers of your left hand on the bottom card. You pull downwards so that the top and bottom cards slip clear of the pack and fall face down into your left hand. The other cards are then thumbed off onto these two cards," Steele tugged an earlobe. "That's how the house dealt its inside man three aces in that three-handed game of brag that I lost."
Bruno slapped his thighs. "Un-fuckin'-believable. They only got one thing right? All night? This is embarrassing."
"Well I must admit, witnessing the despoilment of such an illustrious art almost reduced me to tears. I assure you Mr. Vieri, the money I won as a direct result barely compensated."
"What a week. Danny's Dessert goes belly up and now I find out that -"
Steele's ears pricked up. "Danny's Dessert? The 19-1 long shot that pulled up injured in the Bremner Classic at Los Alamitos? The race won by Para Handy, the even-money favourite over 8-5 second-choice Garvie Queen?"
"First you're a dictionary, now you're the Racing Form. What are you? Some kinda schizo? This conversation's over. Here's your choice: my money or my money. What's it gonna be?"
Steele deftly avoided the ultimatum. "Mr.Vieri, do you have some kind of interest in Danny's Dessert?"
"Some kinda interest?" Bruno exclaimed, "I own him! That horse could run like the fuckin' wind. He'd been laid up for a couple o' months but he'd already won me $267,000. I shoulda known not to listen to that lousy vet. He told me Danny was ready to run. It don't matter anyway 'cos the boys taught him a lesson he won't ever forget so -" He stopped then recollected himself. "The boys took him bowling, alright? What's it to you anyway? Fatti i cazzi tuoi!"
Steele flapped his handkerchief, dabbed his forehead then leant forward, "A man of your stature, of your importance and prominence, style oozing from every pore, á la mode palatial residence, tasteful décor - naturally, you'd be the owner of that splendid racehorse."
A Hoover deluxe couldn't suck it up better.
"He's a thoroughbred," Bruno crowed. "You got that dick? A thoroughbred."
Ignoramus, Steele thought to himself. In racing circles they're all thoroughbreds! It was highly comical to hear the blindingly obvious expressed as a boast.
"He's nearly four years old. 15.1 hands. Chestnut skin and -"
"Coat."
" - and a diamond-shaped white patch on his forehead. I inherited him from this - well, let's just say that his last owner had a debt and couldn't pay it off. He preferred to lose the horse instead of his life … style. Instead of his lifestyle. Anyway, Danny's Dessert is history. Turns out he's lame for good now so I got no use for him. Sono fottuto! Gotta unload him."
"How surprisingly short-sighted for such an enterprising businessman. Tsk, tsk, tsk."
"Are you laughin' at me Steele?" a voice menacingly threatened.
"Calm down Bruno old chap, calm down."
"Bruno?"
"I think I have the solution to your Danny's Dessert dilemma. A very financially rewarding solution. For both of us."
"Us?" Bruno lit a Cohiba and puffed ferociously.
"A joint venture," Steele announced. "You have the commodity, I have the key to the bon ton of Los Angeles."
" 'Scuse me? Bon what?"
"High society. Not the 1956 MGM movie with Grace Kelly, Sinatra and Bing Crosby. However, in a sense it is rather fitting because I'm referring to the upper crust. The smart set. The elite, if you will."
"I can elite with the best of 'em. I got those very same things in spades bud. What they got, I got. Check out this pile o' bricks."
"And very nice it is too but -"
"You're damn right. And the Vieri's don't brag about how we make our money. We got class. Somethin' that Trump fella could do with."
"Yes. Class. Indisputably," Steele harrumphed. "But the message I'm labouring to get across here is -"
"See that carpet? Imported all the way from Pittsburgh."
"Impressive. Now Bruno, not to put too fine a point on it, the name of the great detective Remington Steele opens far more doors in this town than that of an umbrageous man of questionable commerce and -"
"Hey, I heard the word 'hombre' in there and we Vieri's ain't Mexican!"
"Bruno, I think you've misinterpreted my - never mind. I know it's -"
"Look, I can mix with the best of 'em."
"What I'm proposing requires you to be realistic." Steele took a deep breath. "Do you honestly think the likes of the Goodfriend's and the Parson's and the Lewis's et al, would associate with a mobst - would allow their pictures to be taken next to a suspected crimin - rest assured, this isn't personal. It's business."
"What're you sayin'? Be honest - I can take it."
"Bruno, if your hair was on fire, they wouldn't cross the street to spit in it."
"I said honest, not mean."
Steele told himself to be patient. "But that's where I come in. I will use my nous to -"
"Nous? What is that? Limey-speak for nose?"
"My nous? My practical intelligence, if you will. Or 'savvy' as you Americans say. Anyway, I will use it and put together a group of well-to-do horse owning investors. Investors with mares. Investors with mares interested in breeding said mares. Investors with mares interested in breeding said mares to a certain horse. A certain horse you own named Danny's Dessert. A horse that you will put out to stud and charge a sizeable fee for. His prowess will make you a very happy man financially. Imagine this scenario, Danny's Dessert sires a prodigy, like England's Grand National legend Red Rum or a Kentucky Derby winner, eh? Perhaps the next Seattle Slew whose -"
"Seattle Slew? The Triple Crown winner?"
"Think of the possibilities."
A voice bursting with awe could only repeat, "The Kentucky Derby. Seattle Slew."
"Everyone will know who you are then Bruno." Steele reeled his catch in, "The Vieri name will echo reverently throughout this great land - from north to south and from east to here in the west."
"Don't forget Brooklyn."
"As if I could Bruno. As if I could."
"So you're sayin' that -"
"Exactly," Steele confirmed.
"I gotta think about this."
"Think! What's to think about? Allow me to speak plainly. There are people out there with deep reservations about associating with someone very likely involved in organised crime, never mind actually doing business with them. And let's not kid ourselves, your traditional mobster rackets -"
"Who're you calling a mobster?"
" - like illegal sports betting, high-stakes gambling, extorting protection money, loan sharking, bootlegging, money laundering behind garbage hauling and construction etc. could land you a stretch in prison of at least fifteen years. And that's if the gods are smiling on you. Witness the protracted efforts Don Michael Corleone made to legalise his family concerns in -"
"The Godfather II, Paramount 1974. Al Pacino, Robert De Niro, John Cazale and Robert Duvall. Produced -"
"Excellent Bruno," Steele was suitably impressed. "Now as I was saying -"
"Produced, written and directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Based on characters from the novel by Mario Puzo. Winner of -"
"Yes-yes-yes Bruno. Your point is eloquently made, thank you. Now back to my contention of -"
"Winner of Academy Awards for best picture, best supportin' actor for Robert De Niro - he's a great fuckin' actor! The man is a fuckin' genius. He sounded like he was born in the old country. Best director for Francis Ford Coppola, best score for Francis's father Carmine - and very good too that it was all kept in the family. A son should honour his father that way - best art direc -"
"Bruno!" Steele irritably rapped. "My point is that Michael Corleone had no desire for Senate hearings, state investigations and over zealous Federal Agents. He strove all his life for the kind of legal opportunity that has fallen into your lap. With my assistance and the seminal fluid of Danny's Dessert, you can have what Michael Corleone never had. This can be your destiny. No." He solemnly held up a finger. "This will be your destiny."
"Destiny and the Vieri brothers go together like linguine and clam sauce or peanut butter and jelly. Can't wait to tell the boys about this. You gotta meet my brothers. There's Guido, Paolo, Roberto and Fredo - Frank. He changed his name a while back 'cos that movie spat on it. A word of advice, don't ever call him 'Fredo' to his face."
"Noted and appreciated."
Bruno leapt up from behind his desk as if he'd been detonated. He paced and puffed furiously then offered his hand. "You're on bud."
Steele couldn't resist a smile of self-satisfaction as he took it. "A wise choice Bruno old man. A wise choice."
"Let's make loadsa fuckin' money outta Danny's dick, dick."
"Very crudely put. But to the point."
"What're you talkin' about?" Vieri gestured. "It's a dick, ain't it? Che cazzo! And big fuckin' balls too. Madonn', that I should be that lucky! Y'know bud, this stud thing's gonna be good for us."
"Oh indeed. Y'know, we have an old saying where I come from, 'if you can't get into show business, get into someone else's.' "
"Yeah whatever," Bruno rolled his eyes. "One rule and one condition. The rule is, keep the fancy lingo to yourself. And the condition is, pay me half of what you owe me."
"What?" Steele cried.
"How would it look if word got out that I let you play my house and get away with it? You think I want people to say that Bruno Vieri is goin' soft? That Bruno Vieri lets anyone disrespect him? You think I want them to call me a finocchio? A wimp?"
"But-but we're partners now and surely -"
Bruno flicked his cigar ash. "We got a sayin' where I come from too."
"Oh?"
"Cement. The eighth wonder of the world."
"I'll have my bank call your bank."
"Cash."