The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [171]
Giorgio always seemed to O’Hara like a man waiting for the action to start. He was never still, he fidgeted silently from foot to foot, chain-smoking nervously even at a nice relaxed affair like this. And he had heard there was no woman in Giorgio’s life—not since his wife died a few years back; fell off an ocean liner on her way to Italy, they had said.
Of course there had been some speculation about suicide. What need had a person like that to end her own life? Hadn’t she everything a woman could ever want? Money, jewels, furs, houses? And a faithful husband? At least, no one had ever caught Giorgio with another woman so his innocence must be assumed. They said having no kids was the great sorrow of her life. I mean, an Italian woman with no kids is like strawberries without sugar—a little tart, a little acid—and it was known that Giorgio had envied his brother his happy family life with his half-dozen children. Still, it left Giorgio an unknown quantity and one O’Hara was careful not to rile.
“Why you do this to us, O’Hara, huh?” Giorgio said in his quiet, husky voice. “We were good to you, treated you like family. Then you try to take our business away.”
O’Hara puffed on his cigar, coughing on the smoke. “Sure, and there’s enough out there for us all, Giorgio,” he said with a nervous grin. “Everybody in the world wants to go to a nightclub—yours, mine—what’s the difference?”
“Money,” Giorgio said softly, “a lot of money.”
Rico’s voice was suddenly cold as he said, “Me and my brother have discussed the situation, O’Hara. We have decided that in future you should buy all your liquor from us. Our rates, to an old friend, like you, will be reasonable. You know our system, how it works. Our men will contact you Monday for your first order.”
“And by the way,” Giorgio added, his tobacco-hoarse voice almost a growl, “there will be a premium to pay. Twenty-five percent. We reckon that’s the least you owe to put matters straight between you and the family.”
O’Hara’s eyebrows shot up. Giorgio was talking a lot of money here: 25 percent on top of his orders meant 25 percent less in his pocket and 25 percent of his profits in the Oriconnes’. “I’ll think it over,” he said, grinding his cigar into the immaculate turf.
Rico raised a finger to summon a white-jacketed servant. He pointed to the cigar stub, and the man removed it immediately. “Don’t think too long, O’Hara,” he said, taking him by the elbow. “And now, why don’t we join the party? It’s almost time for Graziella to cut her cake.”
Sure enough, the brothers’ man had shown up the following Monday, and sure enough, O’Hara had placed his order, but it was for only half the amount he needed. The rest he got secretly from a dozen small suppliers who were happy to have his business at favorable rates, and he reckoned he had cut the Oriconnes’ 25 percent down to 121/2. Even though that stung him, it was a small price to pay to keep them quiet. Their liquor arrived like clockwork every Wednesday night at four and was unloaded into his cellars swiftly and silently. The Oriconnes had always run a smooth operation.
That had been six months ago and now he was thinking of opening in Chicago. He had heard of some great premises on the south side, big enough to crowd ’em in but small enough to keep it exclusive. He had learned quickly that big numbers were not important, because when you charged top dollar you could make the same profit with half the outlay. King O’Hara had earned himself the reputation of being a smart operator.
His building and contracting business in Smallwood Hills, New Jersey, was going more slowly. For some reason he was having difficulty getting the proper permits, but he knew it was all a matter of time