A Day In The Life.
(By Ed Becerra)
oOo
Antonio woke with the dawn. It had been decades since the Old Country and a small village, but that was one habit that he never seemed to break. Despite New York's severe lack of roosters.
Of course, waking with the dawn in a penthouse apartment above a nice Italian restaurant wasn't bad. He kissed his sleeping wife and headed to the bathroom.
A shower, a shave, a nice suit laid out by his manservant, then he sat down to a prima colazione of tramezzino, fette biscottate and cafe latte.
After all, just because one was no longer in Italy didn't mean that one had to eat like a northern barbarian. Or like a German, God forbid.
And what the English ate for breakfast went without saying.
As he finished his coffee, Luigi brought him the day's paperwork for his legitimate businesses. His assistant and manservant had his usual frown - the boy disapproved not that he owned legitimate businesses to launder money, but of the fact that they were traditional Italian restaurants. Luigi felt that his master was pandering to the stereotypes.
Which he admittedly was. Oftentimes the best way to hide something was to show people what they already expected to see. A jovial Italian grandfather, a Mustache Pete, who owned a chain of restaurants. They saw what they wanted to see and looked no further. The smart ones looked deeper. But they were also smart enough to know the dangers of looking too deep.
Like Legend. Nice boy, that. Respectful, polite, and knew when to not look. Pity he was gay, but hey, he'd heard they might adopt. I'll have to send them something nice. Maybe set them up with a diaper service? Joey's grandkid owns one.
Once the daily paperwork for the dozens of restaurants up and down the East Coast was finished, Luigi brought him the real paperwork. The information and requests for information that was far too sensitive to ever get near a computer. He had learned that if you turned ANYTHING digital, it lived forever on the web. The only truly secure computer was the one that hadn't been built yet.
Hmm. Another request from Phil for the latest on the Family. His old acquaintance was interested in cleaning up Boston and wanted to know if word could be passed to the Family, Kaiju specifically, asking if she could remove some of the more irritating architectural eyesores in the city.
Probably his OCD kicking in again. Though one had to admit that when Phil set out to make something look impressive, he did the job handsomely. Just look at Roy's office.
Speaking of which, an email from Roy thanking him for the snitch. He sent off a quick reply in return, thanking Roy for helping him. Settling the inter-family war that Buscafusco started through his inability to keep his pants zipped up was a great favor indeed. He appended a request for a few photos of Miss Militia giving the fool a set of black eyes for trying to hit on her.
It would happen. The man just couldn't conceive that any woman could possibly refuse him.
Ah. An email from Ms. Costa-Brown through a HyperCrypt account. Who's being naughty now, Chief Director? Demanding everything I know about the Family? And a veiled threat, too? Shame on you, Rebecca.
He archived that email, setting it aside for now.
Oooh, look. Something from Johnny in Chicago. My, my, DiFronzo was STILL pissed. Antonio made a note to forward all the info on Skidmark, that little stronzo. The Unwritten Rules were one thing, but starting a war with something that could bench press a supertanker, then no-sell an attack by Eidolon was something else entirely.
So sorry, Adam, you sfigato, but I'm tossing you under the bus here.
Nah. Not sorry at all. Addio, Skidmark. Give my regards to Satan when you get there.
And hey, "Sal the Shark" Macelli was calling in a favor... damn. Skidmark strikes again. Pittsburgh now? Looks like the little zoccala was headed back towards Brockton Bay. Best warn everyone. He sent off a brief note to Danny. At least they were talking again. Maybe he might eventually get to see little Taylor again. She had been such a cute baby. Pity about Annette.
Curious how the driver who T-boned her car had another accident. Fatal, that second accident. Fell up a staircase and broke his neck. Danny didn't need to know about that, of course.
He fired off another HyperCrypt email, this one to eventually, anonymously, land in Dragon's mailbox. Gun running? Ok, it happens. But thermobaric grenades? That merda stopped NOW, before the PRT became pissed enough to up the ante. Killing PRT troopers was bad for business. No surprise that Communists were involved. He summoned Luigi, and gave orders to get Manny Bergman here, yesterday. The consigliere would know who those Commie bastards were, and that information would get to Piggot as fast as humanly possible.
Killing Commies was like killing Nazis. It's a public service. Heh.
He made a mental note to do something painful to Kaiser and his goose-stepping minions, someday soon. Tio Marcel would have wanted it that way.
Noting the clock, he pushed himself away from the keyboard. Luigi would be laying on a nice pranzo soon, and he'd always nag his boss about eating properly. It was a running gag between those in the know that the only two people who could nag Antonio were his wife and Luigi.
Luigi had laid on a nice pasta fazool and an insalata caprese. He and Serafina had been getting on him about his weight and his smoking. Eh.
Manny arrived, Luigi set a place for him, and they discussed the situation in Brockton Bay. Word would be put out. Danny Hebert was the Boss of the Docks in Brockton Bay, and nothing that might irritate him or his daughter would be tolerated. Gun running, hard drugs and working girls were out. Soft stuff like untaxed marijuana, tobacco, and alcohol were in. Running numbers was okay, so long as you didn't run them near the Docks. And if you had to break a few legs, take them somewhere else first before you broke them. Taylor was a young thing still, and while she had grown up in Brockton Bay, it wouldn't do to push any buttons. She'd already taken enough shit from that Hess girl, she didn't need her Uncle Tony's people adding to that list.
That would do for now. The Teamsters were keeping a watchful eye out in the Bay, and would let him know if Danny needed any help, or something heavier than the "gifts" he'd already sent. Though that was unlikely, given that the Family had already expressed its displeasure about fools traipsing around the docks. The fact that Kaiju, such a sweet gal, had already solo'ed Lung had the smart people headed off for pastures new. Only the stupid and the Merchants were left - wasn't that redundant? - and that problem was about to solve itself. Hopefully without too much bloodshed. NO ONE wanted Kaiju showing up on their doorstep, demanding that they clean up a problem they might be responsible for.
Bad for business, that.
With lunch over, he got a message off to the Russian mob, pointing out that Kaiju might just feel annoyed that it was a bunch of unreconstructed Commies who'd supplied the weapons used by the Merchants, and that they really should see to things in their own house, so to speak. That should be enough for now. But it was a temporary bandage on the problem. He'd have to do something more permanent, soon.
Something a little more final.
He got out a cigar and some of the limoncello that Roy had sent him and took a brief break from work.
Getting back to business, he made certain everyone knew that the idiot was headed back towards Brockton Bay (that one was a free one, getting rid of Skidmark was practically a public service), finished the last few favors of the day, and went to meet Serafina for dinner in the restaurant below.
After all, when the owner eats there, you know the place had to be good. Free advertising, that's what it was. And it was good. He'd gotten his hands on every good chef in North America, and quite a few elsewhere.
Dinner took a while - it was important for the "just another businessman" to be seen out and about with his wife. Nothing mysterious here, no sir. Tio Marcel had drilled that into him. Mysteries make people curious, and curious people weren't good for business.
Then, about nine in the evening, he turned in for a well deserved rest. He wasn't a spring chicken anymore. The late nights could be left to the young turks.
Speaking of which, he'd best keep an eye on Taylor. He had a feeling his grandniece was going places.
oOo