After his center of gravity and breath came back, Billy crouched and tented his fingers over his nose, checking its integrity and position. He opened his hands as carefully as a missalette, relieved at the absence of tissue and non-mucosal fluid. Only then did something between a squeak and a nasal sigh find its way out of him. "Jeezus Christ, Loot! Goddamn it! Fuck! OW!"

Giovanni's nickname had double significance. It referred, first, to his facility for keeping his assigned clients off the tab, making for a large and reliable weekly take. This, his other physical skills, and mute loyalty had put him on the fast track to being made among men. The other reference was to his frequent and most favorite adverb.

Alain "Frankie" Valle, the club's self-anointed musician-historian, pitched a perfect low whistle.

"Holy shit, Loot! Where'd you learn that—Bruce Lee?"

"Naw—close, but no cheroot. Sun-Tzu. Art of Warfare."

Ricky Necroforo weighed in. "Art's son—who?"

Frankie was annoyed but undeterred. "Who's he?"

"Chinese warlord and philosopher," said Loot.

"Where's he from? Upstate?"

Loot sighed. "It's a book, Frankie. Centuries old. About strategies—like surprise."

Shock and awe—brought on whenever it was suspected that someone had scratched into something more deeply literary than the New York Post ("'Trick 'Em to Win!'/Says Gook Guru")—smothered that line of conversation.

"Still," Frankie managed, "That was fuckin' impressive."

"Abs'loot'ly," said Loot.

Loot adjusted his hand slightly on the nape of Billy's neck. He'd raised him up by the collar originally to get him to stop shuddering and whimpering; now he was patting him gently, to relieve Billy's embarrassment and replace it with a little respect. Loot was that kind of leader. He kicked a chair out and pointed; Billy sat. Loot bent from the waist and rocked on his knuckles until there was regular order—which wasn’t long. "Petey, give out what you got to those that ordered so's we can do some business."

Petey circled the table and did so as best he and they remembered, deflecting the sidelong glares of disappointment. There was no public protest, other than slightly nettled slurping and munching.

"Awright. Rev, where are we?"

Roberto Tucca already had a sheaf of spreadsheets out of his briefcase and on the table. He smoothed his retreating salt-and-pepper hair and adjusted his squarish reading glasses. His devotion to dark semiformal attire, his canonical intonation, and his ramrod posture were enough to justify the honorific "Rev." His glancing affair with the seminary, with the unpleasantness about lending to classmates at usurious rates and his inscrutable accounts that lent little in the way of actual proof, nailed it for him. Oh, he eschewed the title's use personally and discouraged it generally, remaining close enough to Holy Mother Church to fear the fires of Hell for such casual blasphemy. Nonetheless, he understood it was born out of admiration. His mastery of the entire Intuit suite and associated techno-jargon only reinforced his image in this subculture of the 'Burg as a mystic, a higher order of life.

"Right—third quarter results. We're 14 percent up on the pension fund skim, probably due to high-season day labor, and the take on the hockey and miscellaneous arena event tickets was up as well—even over better attendance numbers this summer—"

Loot dropped his hand on the ledger and pointed toward the corner. "Good job, Petey. Abs'loot'ly. You'll make it go on the baseball and the rock and highbrow stuff this season, too, right?"

Petey edged into the light a little and smiled. "Entertainment"—scalping and counterfeiting ducats—was his turf. Loot checked around for any sign of mockery. Satisfied, he lifted his hand.

"G'head, Rev."

"The construction and waste pads are holding their own. Documents are still depressed; the Chinese have really stepped it up, bringing the illegals in, in cans—

"Fuckin' Chinks," said Billy.

Rev cleared his throat. "'Miscellaneous'—broads; booze; drugs; loans; simple protection—we're still losing ground to the Cubans and crackheads. That's the overview."

"Ain't like it was, is it?" asked Gil Manobianco, their armorer and enforcer. They all paused to reflect briefly on changing times and tides, each according to his ability. Gil stubbed out his Camel. "Time was, anybody cut in on us like that, they got moved on—like, yesterday!"

Billy pounded down a fist. "AB-so-fuckin’—"

Loot's eyebrows twitched.

Billy caught himself in time. "—Ay!"

"What's the total, Rev?"

Rev flipped the page back and forth. "Goddamn it—I forgot to sum the last column! Little help, Petey?"

Petey slipped over and glanced at the pages. "Three million, six-ninety-nine, seven-forty-two—and change," he said indifferently.

"How much, EXACTLY?" demanded Billy, grinning like a yawning horse.

"Sixty-three cents." Petey smiled back. Loot blinked. Billy cursed.

It was Petey's only gift, other than his good and guileless heart. As Mama used to say, he was behind the door when God gave out everything else.

Loot banged his meat-and-bone gavel to adjourn. "Good—everybody outta this merdiao and on the street. Stay busy. 'A rubar poco si va in galera, a rubar tanto si fa cariera.'" (It was his favorite proverb, with which he ended every meeting at the Sons’: "Steal a little, go to jail; steal a lot, make a career.")

Petey hung back. "Can I take a little time to go check on Richey, Loot?"

"Abs'loot'ly. My best to Maria and her giovane. And, Petey—" Loot caught his arm, looking grave, but patted his cheek tenderly. "Don't get behind again. Yes?"

Petey turned the hand, kissed the ring, and disappeared.

"Cap!"