Crime Incorporated. William Balsamo

of them gone and how many more laid up…”

      Argolia’s voice trailed off, then he turned to Yale, his face suddenly somber, and nodded his head in agreement.

      “But they don’t stand still,” Fury continued. “They pay us back quick…”

      “Right, right, right!” Yale snapped, his voice triumphant. “That’s my whole point! It’s tit for tat. And what I’m saying is that ain’t the way to play with them micks. Don’t forget—they been around a long time and they know the score. They know how to play the game…”

      Yale suddenly turned to the window and pointed a finger in a direction which he meant to indicate Chicago.

      “Look at. Johnny Torrio and Capone,” Yale said gravely. “They got their own Irish bastards up against them. And you know Johnny and Al ain’t no dumdums. They’re smart. Yeah, they’re smart and they know what to do. But they got that Dion O’Bannion and his bunch, and they can’t get nowhere yet. It takes time. Sooner or later they gonna put the micks down, but you can’t do a thing like that in twenty-four hours.”

      “And if you’re smart, you don’t pull no more ambushes for a big score, right, Frankie?” piped Augie the Wop, now at last finding his voice after Yale’s scathing denunciation.

      “Smart boy,” Yale complimented, pleased that he had finally gotten through to the numb-skulled Pisano. “I forgive you, Augie, because I know sometimes your brain sleeps while you are awake.”

      The office exploded with laughter, but Yale quickly called for quiet.

      “I got one thing I want to say,” he rasped, his eyes opening wide. “We are gonna even the score for what those goddam Irishers did. But it’s gonna be done nice and easy…”

      Yale narrowed his eyes and made his mouth a tight slit as he glared across the room at the plaque on the wall bearing the two broken knife handles hanging in memory of the number Altierri had done on Greaseball Pignatore, the squealer.

      “We know who the ones are who shot us up in Coney, don’t we, eh?” Yale asked meaningfully.

      “Sure, Frankie,” Argolia said, putting his hand up to his shoulder. “I know who hit me…that sonofabitch Charleston Eddie…” Fury drew in a deep breath. “And I also know he was one who got Anna,” he said slowly. “I know that because he was the only one who had revolver. The others all had big artillery.”