16.
Unable to tell his wife, Whitey slipped out for a highball and a meet. Kerrigan’s Pub. An Irish elbow room, tucked in the pocket of a seedy area. Neon shamrocks and cheap beer brands blazed port windows. Whitey entered a dark lonely orbit. Bar fly’s and ball games. A pool table, Blue Ribbon on tap, flannel shirts. Whitey breezed by boozy pool players debating a scratch. A row of warped booths hugged the rear wall. Faded funnel lamps glowed above. Weak, private baths.
Whitey slid into a booth, facing a fedora. Eddie Bones.
Tanned, relaxed, and ripping on his latest ruse.
"Get this one Whitey, he pays me, and I take off with the cash. I start havin' a fuckin' ball. I go to the track, Atlantic City. I even went down to Florida to see my mother."
"No shit, how’s she doin’?"
"She’s in better shape than me. The broad’s ninety two years old. Figure that one."
"What about this doctor guy?"
"This fuckin' clown calls me up, and wants to know the deal. I tell him I changed my fuckin' mind, and I want another ten grand.
Now, I beat him for twenty large." Whitey beams. Bones in action.
Still cranking. They spooled biz.
"You said somethin' about an armored car terminal?" Bones asked.
"What do you think?"
"I'm always interested in hearin' about a score. You sure about this thing?"
"Come on Bones--I know the place inside out. It's waitin' to be knocked off."
"How many guys you think we'll need for this?" Whitey mulled the quiz.
"Four, five gunmen, and a driver," Whitey answered.
"You know anybody? I mean, it ain't like it used to be. Most a the guys we ran wit', are dead, in prison, or in that fuckin’ rat program," said Bones.
"Some of the old crew are still around. We could do this."
"I'm with ya--I mean, what the fuck we got to lose?"
"Not that much--only a few million bucks." Whitey sipped his highball.
"I was hopin’ you’d say that." Bones drained his.