The bomb RD Pruitt threw into Phyllis’s Place wasn’t much of a bomb, but it didn’t have to be. The main room was so small a tall man couldn’t clap his hands without his elbows hitting the wall.
No one was killed, but a drummer named Cooey Cole lost his left thumb and never played again, and a seventeen-year-old girl who’d come in to pick up her daddy and drive him home lost a foot.
Joe sent three two-man teams to find the bugsy fuck, but RD Pruitt went hard to ground. They scoured the whole of Ybor, then the whole of West Tampa, then the whole of Tampa itself. Nobody could find him.
A week later, RD walked into another of Joe’s speaks on the east side, a place frequented almost exclusively by black Cubans. Walked in while the band was in full swing and the place was jumping. Ambled up to the stage and shot the bass trombonist in the knee and shot the singer in the stomach. He flipped an envelope onto the stage and walked out the back door.
The envelope was addressed to Sir Joseph Coughlin Nigger Fucker. Inside was a two-word note:
Sixty percent.
Joe went to see Kelvin Beauregard at his cannery. He took Dion and Sal Urso with him, and they met in Beauregard’s office at the back of the building. It looked down on the sealing floor. Several dozen women dressed in frocks and aprons with matching headbands stood on the sweltering floor around a serpentine system of conveyor belts. Beauregard watched them through a floor-to-ceiling window. He didn’t get up when Joe and his men entered. He didn’t look at them for a full minute. Then he turned in his chair and smiled and jerked his thumb at the glass.
“Got my eye on a new one,” he said. “What do you think of that?”
Dion said, “New becomes old the second you drive it off the lot.”
Kelvin Beauregard raised an eyebrow. “Good point, good point. Gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
He took a cigar from a humidor on his desk but didn’t offer anyone else one.
Joe crossed his right leg over his left and hitched the crease in the ankle cuff. “We’d like to see if you could talk some sense into RD Pruitt.”
Beauregard said, “Ain’t too many people had success doing that in their lives.”
“Be that as it may,” Joe said, “we’d like you to try.”
Beauregard bit the end off his cigar and spit it into a wastebasket. “RD’s a grown man. He’s not requested my counsel, so it would be disrespectful to give it. Even if I agreed with the reason. And tell me, because I’m confused, what the reason would be?”
Joe waited until Beauregard had lit his cigar, waited while he stared through the flame at him and then stared through the smoke at him.
“In the interest of his own self-preservation,” Joe said, “RD needs to quit shooting up my clubs and meet with me so we can come to an accommodation.”
“Clubs? What kind of clubs?”
Joe looked over at Dion and Sal and said nothing.
“Bridge clubs?” Beauregard said. “Rotary clubs? I belong to the Greater Tampa Rotary Club, myself, and I don’t recall seeing you—”
“I come to you as an adult to discuss a piece of business,” Joe said, “and you want to play fucking games.”
Kelvin Beauregard put his feet up on his desk. “Is that what I want to do?”
“You sent this boy up against us. You knew he was crazy enough to do it. But all you’re going to do is get him killed.”
“I sent who?”
Joe took a long breath through his nostrils. “You’re the grand wizard of the Klan around here. Great, good for you. But you think we got where we got allowing a bunch of inbred shit packers like you and your friends to muscle us?”
“Ho, boy,” Beauregard said with a weary chuckle, “if you think that’s all we are, you are making a fatal miscalculation. We’re town clerks and bailiffs, jail guards and bankers. Police officers, deputies, even a judge. And we’ve decided something, Mr. Coughlin.” He lowered his feet from the desk. “We’ve decided we’re going to squeeze you and your spics and your dagos or we’re going to run you right out of town. If you’re dim enough to fight us, we’ll rain holy hellfire down on you and all you love.”
Joe said, “So what you’re threatening me with is a whole bunch of people who are more powerful than you?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why am I talking to you?” Joe said and nodded at Dion.
Kelvin Beauregard had time to say “What?” before Dion crossed the office and blew his brains all over his enormous window.
Dion lifted the cigar off Kelvin Beauregard’s chest and popped it in his mouth. He unscrewed the Maxim silencer from his pistol and hissed as he dropped it into the pocket of his raincoat.
“Thing’s hot.”
Sal Urso said, “You’re becoming such a little gal lately.”
They left the office and walked down the metal stairs to the cannery floor. Coming in, they’d worn fedoras pulled down over their foreheads and light-colored raincoats over flashy suits so that all the workers could see them for what they were—gangsters—and not look too long. They walked out the same way. If anyone recognized them from around Ybor, they’d know their reputation, and that would be enough to ensure a consensus of faulty vision on the sealing floor of the late Kelvin Beauregard’s cannery.
Joe sat on Chief Figgis’s front porch in Hyde Park, absently flicking the cover of his father’s watch open and closed, open and closed. The house was a classic bungalow with Arts and Crafts flourishes. Brown with eggshell trim. The chief had built the porch from wide planks of hickory, and he’d placed rattan furniture out there and a swing painted the same eggshell as the trim.
Chief Figgis pulled up in his car and got out and walked up the redbrick path between the perfectly manicured lawn.
“Come to my house?” he said to Joe.
“Save you the trouble of hauling me in.”
“Why would I haul you in?”
“Some of my men tell me you were looking for me.”
“Oh, right, right.” Figgis reached the porch and put his foot on the steps for a moment. “You shoot Kelvin Beauregard in the head?”
Joe squinted up at him. “Who’s Kelvin Beauregard?”
“There endeth my questions,” Figgis said. “Want a beer? It’s near beer but it’s not bad.”
“Much obliged,” Joe said.
Figgis went into the house and came back out with two near beers and a dog. The beers were cold and the dog was old, a gray bloodhound with soft ears the size of banana leaves. He lay on the porch between Joe and the door and snored with both eyes open.