Chapter 4 - The Boardroom Audit
The weekly meeting of the Callahan Logistics Board was held in the private dining room of The Drake Hotel, a space of heavy crystal chandeliers and red velvet drapes that had seen every major transition of power in the city since the days of Al Capone. Twelve men sat around the long mahogany table, their plates cleared of steak bones, their glasses filled with dark rye whiskey.
Sal Moretti sat at the far end of the table. He was sixty, short, with a gold tooth that showed when he smiled and a silk handkerchief tucked into the pocket of his double-breasted navy suit. He was the underboss of the West Side crews, a man who had spent thirty years waiting for Vincent Callahan to make a mistake.
"We’re looking at the numbers for the fourth quarter, Vincent," Sal said, tapping a thick finger against his ledger. "The rail transfers at the Blue Island yard are down fifteen percent. The union guys are saying the trucks aren't moving because the drivers are waiting for signatures that take three days to come down from your house."
Vincent didn't touch his drink. He sat at the head of the table, his fingers laced together on the white tablecloth, his face a completely unreadable sheet of stone. "The signatures are coming through, Sal. The yard is clear."
"It’s not clear enough," Sal countered, leaning forward, his gold tooth catching the light of the chandelier. "We have an agreement with the New York families for the November distribution. If the trucks are late because you’re playing nursemaid to a couple of sick kids, the commission is going to have to re-allocate the routes to someone who’s got his head in the business."
Two of the younger captains near the door shifted their weight, their hands moving closer to the lapels of their coats.
Vincent didn't stand up. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Sal’s with a cold, terrifying stillness that made the older man’s smile slowly fade.
"My children are going to San Diego on Thursday morning, Sal," Vincent said, his voice a tiny, sharp whisper that carried across the room like a razor blade. "The transport waiver has been signed by the federal judge. If a single truck is stopped at the state line, or if a single lawyer from your office makes a phone call to the medical compliance board between now and then, I won't just take your routes, Sal. I will take your name off the door of every social club on 26th Street."
Sal’s face went dark, his fingers curling into his silk handkerchief. "You’re threatening an underboss, Vincent? The commission won't allow it."
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"The commission isn't in this room, Sal," Vincent said, standing up and buttoning his jacket with a slow, deliberate movement. "But I am. The meeting is adjourned."
As Vincent walked out of the dining room, Mason Reed stepped into the space behind him, his eyes fixed on Sal’s hands until the heavy oak doors clicked shut, leaving the West Side captains sitting in the silence of a war that had just been declared over a pair of seven-year-old twins.
