“And here I’d hoped you’d finally decided to just have a nice social call,” the great graying man said. “My great-grandniece just turned twelve. I thought maybe you were calling to offer congratulations. That’s why I picked up, you know.” He shook his head. “Your predecessor… we had our differences, but he liked to keep in touch. You’ve been heading the commission for what, uh… six, seven years?”
“Eight, Don Chamaeleontis.”
“Eight,” the don echoed. “Eight years, and in all that time you’ve never called, you’ve never written, you’ve never remembered me in your vidcast holiday greetings.”
“You watch those?”
“Every year. You should talk about your dog some more. I like those stories.”
“The, uh, dog died,” Krautmick said.
“Oh, my condolences,” Chamaeleontis said. “But, you see, if you had made an effort to keep in touch with me, I would have known that and would have known better than to bring it up. Now I just feel insensitive. Horrible, uh, horrible feeling.”
“I send you a card every Business Rivals’ Appreciation Day.”
“Your secretary sends me a card, Mr. Krautmick. What kind of name is that, anyway? Krautmick?”
“French-Canadian,” the commissioner replied. “That’s what my grandmother always told me.”
“Good, good,” the Lead Soprano said. “You should listen to her. Listen to your grandmother, Krautmick. Spending time with your family is very important. You can tell what sort of a man someone is by how he treats his family, did you know that?”
“Er… yes?”
“Did you?” Don Chamaeleontis said. “I think if you did, you wouldn’t have waited so long to do something about this Fortunato, a man who made his fortune by betraying his own flesh and blood.”
“Well, I personally…”
“And how has it worked out for you? He’s turned on you, hasn’t he? You don’t have to tell me. I already knew before you opened your mouth. A man who would turn on his family has no loyalty, uh, no limits. He will turn on anybody else if it suits him to.”
Privately, the commission head was not terribly impressed by the don’s predictive powers. Even if he didn’t have watchers in place aboard the Finger, there were few enough problems that would be sufficiently pressing for the Gaming Commission to reach out to one of their most powerful rivals.
“You’re very wise, Don Chamaeleontis,” Krautmick said. “Fortunato has become too big a problem to be ignored, and so the commission has asked me to hire you…”
“Hire me? We should be friends, Krautmick,” the Lead Soprano said. “Friends do things for each other. Friends take care of each other.”
“Well, whatever you’d like to call it, we would deeply appreciate it if you would take care of this for us,” Krautmick said.
“Such a thing would be far more easily accomplished if I felt welcome in your territory,” Chamaeleontis said.
“Obviously, we’d extend an invitation to your operatives.”
“I’m not talking about a day pass, Krautmick,” the Lead Soprano said. “The Fickle Finger is your territory, your home. I, uh, I’d like to feel welcome there. I’d like to feel like I can come in and break bread with you, you know? I’d like to feel at home there, too.”
“And what would it take for you to feel like that?”
“Fifty percent, Krautmick.”
“Our licensing fees to Fortunato amount to eight percent,” Krautmick said.
“When you invite someone into your house to break bread with you, you don’t give them a crouton,” Chamaeleontis replied. “I’m talking a, uh, what’s it called? A big loaf thing. A baguette. Broken in the middle, you know?”
“I’m just not sure my colleagues would see this as an improvement.”
“Not an improvement,” the aged man replied. “What have I ever done to make you so disrespectful to me? Not an improvement? If you told me there could be no understanding between us, and you kept your present arrangement, then you and your employers would stay shackled to a lunatic and you’d, uh, you’d end up raking in ninety-two percent of nothing by the time he’s done burning it to the ground. Are you going to tell me that having a partnership with a man of honor that pays fifty percent of a thriving concern isn’t an improvement over that?”
“Lead Soprano, no insult to your honor… but we wanted to hire you so we could regain control of our casinos, not so we could hand them over to somebody else.”
“Control? Control? What do I want to control anything for?” the don said. “I’m an old man, Krautmick. It’s young men in their folly who try to control things. I just want what’s best for my grandchildren. A little financial security in these uncertain times, you know what I’m saying?
“A silent partner?” Krautmick said.
“The time might come when I’d ask a favor, but you run a decent operation when you’re allowed to. I’m not a vain man, Krautmick. It takes, uh, it takes a vain man to think he can make things run better going around and putting his fingers everywhere. Trust. I work on trust. If I went around to every bakery I have a little interest in and made sure they were buttering the bread the way I like it, I’d never do anything else and the bakeries wouldn’t prosper. My men will take control of security operations and all receipts will be routed through my bankers, but I will not interfere in the running of the business.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I’m not a humorous man, Mr. Krautmick. I tell a joke, and it’s, uh, it’s like somebody died.”
“We’re just supposed to trust…”
“Yes,” Don Chamaeleontis said. “Yes, Krautmick. I’ll trust you to run the casinos and, uh, the waterparks and the zoo. You must extend some trust in return. It’s how we know that we are men of honor.”
“That’s not acceptable,” Krautmick said.
“Maybe you should hear what the rest of the commission thinks.”
“I can’t even go to them with this deal,” Krautmick said. “No disrespect to you, Don Chamaeleontis, but they wouldn’t hear it.”
“You come to me, on this, the day of my great-grandniece’s Bat Mitzvah and you tell me you have a problem and you want to hire me to solve it for you. I greet you warmly and you, uh, you treat me with disrespect, and when I lay out a serious proposal to you anyway, you reject it out of hand when I know… I know you don’t have the power to decide that. What is it? What have I ever done to you? Have I insulted you? Have I injured you in some fashion? Did I kill your mother, or something?”
“Well… uh… this is kind of awkward, but actually… you did,” Krautmick said. “You blew up the transport ship that was carrying her.”
“Oh,” the Lead Soprano said. “My apologies. I’m sure it was strictly business.”
“My dog was with her.”
“How regrettable,” the don said. “But we shouldn’t, uh, shouldn’t dwell on the past. You know my terms. Take them to your commission, and make sure everyone knows, the uh, the next offer won’t be so generous. You’ve never come to me as a friend. It’s only because it is the day of my great-grandniece’s Bat Mitzvah that I’m feeling so charitable.”
“Of course.”
“When all this is over, I’d like to pay you a visit,” he said. “I’ve never seen Fickle Finger in person.” He glanced down at his desk. “Sunday’s no good. That’s the octuplets’ birthday. We’ll say, uh, Tuesday? No, wait. That’s the day of my godson’s cellular rejuvenation. Wednesday I’ve got a baptism and a funeral to plan. Thursday’s right out. Fri… no, no, my youngest is getting married Friday. It’s not personal, but I never talk to anybody on the day of my daughter’s wedding. I shut myself up in my office, seal the windows and doors, and shut off every line in and out. It’s an old Sicilian tradition.”
“Of course,” Krautmick said.
“We’ll work it out. I have your secretary’s number,” Don Chamaeleontis said. “Listen, I’ll be here an hour from now waiting for your call. One hour.”
“Don Chamaeleontis, it will take time…”
“If it takes you longer than an hour to decide, then you don’t need my help,” the don said. He reached a hand out into the air, and right before the screen flicked off, he added, “Sorry again about the dog.”
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