IRS, IRS, it’s always the fucking IRS. Talking to him, getting in his face, all little and whiny and remember, they got Al Capone on tax fraud.
The next person who says that to him, he is personally having whacked.
He’s been in a meeting with Sid for an hour and a half. No one should have to talk to Sid for that long. It is cruel and unusual punishment, is what it is, from an administration that couldn’t run a candy store, let alone a country, who make their little threats and send their little messages, and he can’t even send them messages back.
Like ears. Fingers. Something.
He thinks about running for public office, some days when the business is slow and he has time to fantasize. Do the country a favor. Vote Sonny Steelgrave. It’s good for making him snicker, at least. (Although he can come up with ten improvements he’d make in the first week, and he doesn’t even have to sit down and think about it.)
Vinnie comes in, shuts the door behind him, drops something on Sonny’s desk. Bottle of aspirin. He fucking loves this guy. “Thanks, Vinnie.”
“No problem.” Vinnie’s looking at the door. “Anything wrong?”
Sonny swallows three aspirin and rolls his shoulders. He needs to get out, do something real. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Accountant stuff. We got it under control.” They’ll go out tonight, he thinks, spend some tax-free money, pick up some tax-free girls. Maybe one to share, yeah, there’s an idea.
“Huh,” says Vinnie; he’s still worried, he’s got this crease thing happening on his forehead. “You sure it’s okay? I mean, this tax stuff can be serious—”
“Vinnie, you worry too much. And not enough, because you keep talking about how taxes are serious, I’m going to call Sid back in here and make you listen to him about how serious taxes are.”
That gets a real grin out of Vinnie—that guy needs to smile more. Sonny hops up, starts pacing, starts thinking. They’re definitely going out tonight. Sonny knows this one girl, blonde, what’s her name, Maricela or something, up for anything. Get her up to Vinnie’s apartment, lay her out on that bed, each take a side, work Vinnie out of his nonstop tight tension—what is it now, only noon?
“I get it, I get it,” Vinnie’s saying. “Nothing to worry about. No problems here. I’ll just try not to be hurt that you’re not sharing.”
“Vinnie,” says Sonny, “I share with you my wealth, my power, my women. You share my business dealings, legit and non. Most importantly, I share with you my friendship and trust.” Vinnie’s doing the thing he does, eyes flickering down, twitching a little. If Sonny was a shrink, he could probably tell all about Vinnie’s childhood from that. Since he’s not, he sets a hand on Vinnie’s shoulder, grips hard until Vinnie turns his eyes up, and says, “Believe what I say, Vincenzo. All true, every word. But also believe this: you do not want to share my taxes.”
Another laugh. Score two for Steelgrave. He grins, slides his hand up to the back of Vinnie’s neck, and says, “Now forget about Sid—please—and let me share with you what’s happening tonight.”