NINE
Sam stopped by the Western Union, and found another telegram from Mr. Feldman was waiting for him.
JULY 1ST NOON PRESIDENTIAL SUITE WALDORF ASTORIA
Sam had done it, he had gotten them an invite to the auction. Now the challenge was getting hold of the scroll itself. Could get dangerous, especially if Dean is the one who comes up with the plan.
The obvious next step—they needed guns. Their usual contacts in New York were for the most part not even born yet, so Sam had to come up with an alternate solution. He decided to make his way to Little Italy. Thanks to his older brother, Sam had seen all the Godfather films dozens of times, and figured it couldn’t all be fictional. After all, Mario Puzo knows what he’s talking about.
Leaving Canal Street Station, Sam aimed for some of the smaller side streets of Little Italy. Ten minutes later, he stood in front of a restaurant with a CLOSED sign in the window. Inside, he could see several middle-aged men sat talking around a large table. A similarly weathered-looking man sat out front, picking grape seeds from between his teeth.
“Hi,” Sam began hesitantly. “I was hoping to speak to someone, about a... business arrangement.” Now that he was standing in front of what could be a real Mafioso, he had no idea what to say.
“Members only,” the man said looking up. Sam noticed that one of his eyes was swollen shut.
“That’s quite a shiner,” he commented.
“Look kid, move along if you know what’s good for ya.”
Normally, Sam wasn’t one to cause a scene. In this case, with the weight of the world resting on his shoulders, he was willing to break with tradition. He took a deep breath and plunged in.
“Listen, guy, I don’t have time for subtlety. I need guns. Lots of guns.” Sam pulled his remaining dollar bills from his pocket and waved the wad at the guy. “I’m willing to pay—”
“Whoa. Put that away.” The guy looked both ways along the street. He got up and pushed Sam roughly inside the foyer and against the wall and frisked him. Sam stood completely still. He knew better than to wiggle around when a Goodfella was getting handsy.
“Up there, second floor.”
Sam thanked him and headed for the stairs, passing the small cluster of guys who it turned out were playing a poker game in the main room—he made a mental note to tell Dean, in case they needed to replenish their cash reserves.
A small man, about forty years old and wearing a cable-knit sweater, sat at a desk on the second floor landing. Two bigger guys stood by the wall, their hands clasped in front of them. They were clearly packing some sort of weapon.
Sam cleared his throat and explained what he needed: two shotguns, two handguns, and no questions.
The transaction went very smoothly, all things considered. In the end Sam was only able to afford the two shotguns and ammunition, but within a few minutes he was holding a packed duffel and surrendering the last of his cash.
As he was preparing to leave, Sam hesitated.
“Um, actually,” he began. “I don’t know how I’m going to get these back uptown. See, I gave you all my money, and—”
“Bambi will drive you,” the cable-knit guy said. He motioned to the slightly bigger of the two men near the wall. Bambi nodded.
A black 1953 Cadillac idled in the back alley. Bambi held open the trunk while Sam dropped the duffel inside. Then Sam reached to open the back door of the car.
“Upfront,” Bambi ordered. “I ain’t a chauvinist.”
Sam was pretty sure he meant ‘chauffeur,’ but regardless, he did as he was told, and they were on their way. As they cruised up 5th Avenue, Sam stole a couple of glances at his driver. His mouth looked like it had been cut with a meat cleaver, with pock-marked skin that hung in indefinite wrinkles down his face.
Sam attempted small talk. “So, why do they call you Bambi?”
“’Cause of my doe eyes,” Bambi growled and looked at Sam with big droopy, brown eyes. They would have been adorable, if they weren’t filled with murder.
“Ahh.” Sam realized he was in a car with a complete sociopath. Give him a demon any day.
When they reached the apartment, Sam pulled the duffel bag from the trunk and said goodbye to Bambi. The car departed at speed.
Sam carefully stashed the shotguns in the small apartment, and smiled to himself, pleased with his hiding place. He then decided to see if Dean had made any progress at the Waldorf.
When he arrived at the hotel, he immediately spotted Dean. He was sat at the bar, chatting to the bartender, who clearly thought he was a lunatic.
“Aww, he’s great,” Dean slurred. “When they play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ he goes like, da dah daaaah.” Dean mimicked an air guitar. “You’re going to love them. Led Zeppelin—look out for them.”
Sam tapped his brother on the shoulder. Dean turned toward him, bleary-eyed. “Hey bro. How ya doing?”
“Dean, we’re in the middle of a job. What are you doing?”
“We’re in the middle of the century! Sit down, have a drink.”
“Not now Dean. Come on man, let’s go home.”
Dean scowled and slid off his seat. “Okay, fine.”
Dean stumbled away from the bar with Sam holding his arm. Then he looked at his brother, suddenly dead sober.
“What took you so long? I’ve been playing drunk for hours. That girl over there to the left—I had a drink with her. She said she had an appointment and she’s been lurking around the lobby ever since.”
Sam looked around, but he couldn’t see any girl. He wasn’t entirely sure that Dean was just playing drunk.
“Sam, I think she’s here for the auction. For the first hour, I just thought it was my animal magnetism, but I’m starting to think she’s onto us.”
“You don’t say,” Sam replied, pulling Dean along by the arm. “By the way,” he said, “I haven’t been sitting around wasting time at a bar. I scored us an invite to the scrolls auction, and the hardware we need to pull it off. Three days from now. Noon. Here.”
As the brothers walked out the door, the girl who called herself Julia Wilder followed close behind. She was now wearing a blonde wig and a light-green suit. It was the best disguise she could put together from her suitcase upstairs. Now that she had confirmed that the two young men were working together, she allowed them to escape from her sight and made her way to the lobby phones.
“Columbia 367,” she directed. After several seconds, a voice answered the phone. “Hi. It’s me. You were right, they’re together. Definitely casing the place.”
As the other party spoke into her ear, Julia’s face fell.
“No, I know. They won’t. I won’t let them,” she said.
With that, she hung up and went back to her room.