Chinaman’s Chance

Solly Gesini was so nervous that he arrived fifteen minutes early for his appointment with Reginald Simms. He was so nervous, in fact, that he had ordered a shot of Scotch to go with the Tab that he was now drinking in the back booth of the Sneaky Pete Bar & Grill — the same booth where Eddie McBride had had his thumb broken.

When Reginald Simms had called nearly an hour before and requested a meeting, Gesini had been so shaken that when Simms had asked Gesini to suggest a place, the only one that had come to mind was the Sneaky Pete — probably because Gesini owned thirty percent of it, although it hadn’t made him a dime in two years. Despite the fact that he had the books audited twice each year, Gesini still suspected that his two partners were somehow cheating him. The fuckers’ve got ways, he had darkly warned the auditors, ways you guys ain’t even thought of yet.

Reginald Simms arrived at the bar in Venice straight from Imperlino’s. Simms didn’t like cheap bars, never had, and decided to punish Gesini a little for having suggested it. He was still trying to decide what form the punishment should take when he reached the back booth. Gesini scrambled up out of it awkwardly, nodding and grinning foolishly at Simms as he tried to decide whether he should offer to shake hands. You never can tell with these ninety-nine-centers, Gesini thought. Some of them don’t like to go around shaking hands all the time. But maybe Mr. Simms would expect it. Gesini stuck out his hand. Simms looked at it for a moment as though it were deformed, nodded coldly at Gesini, said his last name in an equally cold tone, and then slid into the booth.

Oh Jesus Christ it’s gonna be even worse than I thought it was, Gesini told himself as he sat back down in the booth.

“What are you drinking?” Simms said, eyeing the glass of Scotch and the Tab.

“Scotch and Tab.”

“Scotch and Tab,” Simms said, pronouncing the words as if they were the name of some dread and newly discovered disease.

“I don’t drink very often,” Gesini went on, the words tumbling out of his mouth, falling all over themselves in clumsy haste. “I don’t drink very often, like I said, but when I do, I like something sorta classy like Scotch.”

“And Tab,” Simms said.

“Yeah, I drink a lot of Tab. You know, for the weight. What can I getcha, Mr. Simms? I get pretty good service here on account of I own a piece of the place.”

“A piece of this?” Simms said, looking around with obvious distaste bordering on revulsion.

“Well, you know, it’s just sort of a sideline.”

“I suppose a bottle of beer would be safe. Can you arrange that along with a fairly clean glass?”

“Sure, no problem,” Gesini said.

But there was a problem, because the waitress was mooning over some customer at the bar and didn’t see Gesini’s waves that eventually turned into wild gesticulation. Finally, the bartender, who was one of Gesini’s two partners, saw the now frantic signals and sent the waitress back. She took her time returning with Simms’s beer, and Gesini decided to have her fired that very night.

He watched as Simms inspected the glass, then took out his breast-pocket show handkerchief and wiped it. Carefully. Simms poured his beer slowly, examined it carefully, and then tasted it with extreme caution. After that he turned his eyes on Gesini and stared at him coldly for several long seconds. Gesini squirmed.