Chapter Text
Patrick Sloan was right: there's a lot you could learn about Paolo Diamante just by asking.
If you asked the workers at the casinos he ran, you'd learn that he ran the tightest ships in the metaphorical fleet that was the Nevada Gaming Commission. He knew every one of the dealers, cooks, and janitors, not just by name, but also by birth date and cigarette brand and favorite drink and most-watched sports team. Within a couple weeks he'd know the names of the pets of every new hire, and he'd completely change the menu of the restaurant if he had to account for the food allergies of the busboys. They'd tell you that Paolo Diamante knew that if you respect your workers, they'll respect you. But that wouldn't exactly mean he was a teddy bear. If you were good to Paolo Diamante, he was good to you. But if you mouthed off to him, or sulked around on the clock, or tried to steal something, your ass was gravy. His employees respected him, but, by God, he struck an unholy fear in them too.
If you asked the suppliers and contractors that stocked his shelves and furnished his floors, you'd learn not to take his business lightly. There wasn't a tougher negotiator in the country, they knew, but you'd be the envy of any industry to be able to do business with Paolo Diamante. If you tried to haggle on a contract, they'd tell you, you'd end up almost offering to pay him. What Broadway was to actors, a contract with Vantas and Son signed by Paolo Diamante was to dice manufacturers and slot machine providers.
If you asked his boss, Jose Vantas, he'd tell you to go shove a baseball bat up your asshole.
If you asked Aradia, his daughter, you might get beaten up by muscular gentlemen in Italian leather blazers. From this you'd learn two things. First, that Paolo Diamante was fabulously wealthy, providing the finest clothing, education and protection for his daughter, a sweet young lady around the age of 13, and providing both incredibly expensive tailored suits for her bodyguards as well as their hand-to-hand combat training with retired special forces. And second, you'd learn that he was fiercely protective of his dear progeny, a lesson that you would do well never to forget.
And if you asked the man himself, you would not learn a great deal. Because when it came to the important things, Sloan was wrong: there's a lot you couldn't learn about Paolo Diamante by asking. You wouldn't learn how he became a business associate of José Vantas, and thus how the same Jack Noir made him a member of the Midnight Crew. You wouldn't learn why he no longer lived with the man, nor would you learn that it was largely unrelated to their respective gains in wealth. You wouldn’t learn who his daughter’s mother was, nor would you be permitted to speculate. You wouldn't learn about his affair with Candice M. Crocker, the police commissioner for their fair city. And even if you did, you would certainly never learn that that neither of them felt particularly emotionally invested in it, even though, as you'd be just as sure to never find out, the sex was fantastic. It goes without saying that you'd never know that his morning began with him waking up at her condominium and concluded with him setting two dollars on her nightstand to pay for the pack of cigarettes he took from her shirt drawer while dressing.
But perhaps, Sloan thought, breezing into the front door of Diamond Estate, there were other ways of finding things out. If you cannot learn from asking, you can still, with patience and tact and a little bit of luck, learn a lot from the questions Paolo Diamante asks you. Which was why, as the butler led Sloan into the billiard room, Diamante's first question struck him with a particular and peculiar note of interest.
“Do you know how to play eight-ball pool, Mr. Sloan?” Diamante asked.
Sloan cocked an eyebrow and grinned, his favorite introductory face. “I take it introductions are a moot point, then?”
Diamante nodded to the butler. “That will be all, Arthour,” he said, and the butler left the room. “Surely, in your days working the mean streets in a city like this, one that knows a little too well how to keep its own secrets locked tight away, you must have sometime or another found yourself in a pool hall, looking for clues from some lowlife sleazeball who worked his life low playing sleaze with a cueball. A man like you certainly spent a few times or two in the less certainly reputable parts of this certainly unreputable town. Really, I doubt you could make much of a career as a private dick if you didn’t pick up a thing or two from a fool or two and learn about pool. So my question stands, Mr. Patrick Sloan,” Diamante said, retrieving pool cues and balls from an expensive and expansive rack firmly attached the wall, “Do you know how to play eight-ball pool?”
Sloan took his cue as it was offered and tested its weight. Its color was a rich matte black, with the diamonds of a set of playing cards engraved and filled in with a lustrous red enamel. “Well, t'be entirely honest, Mr. Paolo Diamante, the places I usually frequented shot more of the straight variety. Way's I understand it, eight-ball's a little bit of a different game, ruleswise.”
“Of course, of course,” Diamante nodded with a satisfied smile. “Well since English's boys fancy themselves to be the best pool hall proprietors in town, maybe you will indulge me if I take some time to familiarize you with their game, hm?”
“By all means, Diamonds Droog,” Sloan said, pointing at the table with the cue in his hands, “show me how these boys break.”
Diamante strode around the table, a surface of dark crimson velvet cased in mirror-polished ebony. As the immaculately dressed man approached, Sloan could not help but notice a number of the unique features of Diamante's cuestick. He made a series of mental notes—the way its green and gold color scheme matched nothing else in Diamond Estate's otherwise cohesive billiard room, the fact that it was clearly not the same cuestick that Diamante had used to threaten him back in their scuffle in the sewers, and most importantly the ornately carved gilt rams head that crowned its broad end. Tempting as it was to comment, Sloan knew that this cue held a clue or some tip that Diamante wouldn’t let slip.
“Could you please remove the rack?” Diamante asked, brushing past Sloan in a manner that would make a less confident man uncomfortable.
But Sloan was anything but a less confident man and carried on with trademark nonchalance.
“Of course, allow me,” he said easily, but as he reached down to pick up the triangular wooden frame that held the pool balls in place, he noticed that something was not quite right. A certain familiar weight was no longer present in his jacket.
“I do hope you'll forgive my forwardness,” Diamante said, “but I'd prefer if we conducted this interview without pointed interruption.”
Sloan looked up to see the well-dressed man displaying a pair of Sloan's trusty throwing knives. The deftness of Diamante's pickpocketing impressed Sloan almost as much as his pun. “Well,” Sloan said with a smirk, “They did tell me you were a rather disarming fella.”
Diamante smirked back while he weighed the throwing knives in his hands. “I'm sure they told you lots of things. Tell me,” he said, pausing for a brief moment to cast the knives into a dartboard behind him, “did you learn anything useful?”
If Sloan was intimidated—and he was, just a little bit—he didn't let it show. “I think you were going to explain eight-ball pool,” he said, looking the other man dead in the eyes.
“Of course,” Diamante said. His expression did not change as he rubbed chalk onto the tip of his cue. “Since there's a little more nuance to the rules of eight than the rules of straight, I'll start with the basics. There are four different types of balls you need to pay attention to.” He walked to the other side of the table and picked up a plain white ball. “The first is this, the cue ball, which you are familiar with. This ball hits the others, tells them where to go, what to do. When the game starts, you have it in hand, yours to move anywhere within the area called the 'kitchen'. If the opponent hits it in a pocket, it's called a scratch, and you likewise get it in hand. You following me?”
Sloan nodded, “Not too different from straight so far.”
“No, not so far,” Diamante said as he placed the cue ball about a foot diagonal from the left pocket, “though you get much less control over the cue ball here. The next two types of balls are the solids and the stripes. Solids are the balls numbered one through seven, stripes are nine through fifteen. Straight only cares about the numbers, calling each one as you hit it in, but there's a different purpose to these numbers here.”
Diamante carefully lined up his shot and let the cue ball loose at the tightly packed balls, striking the second ball on the left side. The force of the impact sent the balls careening around the table, and the blue colored two ball entered the left side pocket. “Since I got that ball in, I get to go again,” Diamante said. “Once a player has hit in a solid or a stripe, the player aims for those balls and those balls only. Six, right corner,” he called, and expertly fired the green six ball into the right corner pocket.
“You still have to call?” Sloan asked. “Thought you said that was a straight pool thing.”
A smile played on Diamante's lips as he strode to line up his shot on the other side of the table. “It depends on the house rules,” he said, pulling up his cue to chalk it again. “I prefer to play that way. Keeps me sharp. Three, left side.” He shot at the red three and connected, but it caromed off the rail just shy of the intended pocket. “Well, can't make them all. It's your turn.”
Sloan had been distracted by examining the knives in the dartboard. The impacts were spaced rather far apart; he chuckled, almost disappointed by the fact that they weren't both in the bulls-eye. But on closer inspection, one indeed was in the bullseye. What was more, the other was straight in the middle of the 20 Triple Score. There was no doubt in his mind that this was not just a lucky toss.
Diamante cleared his throat. “Mr. Sloan, I'm not trying your patience, I trust?”
Sloan turned with a graciously humble grin. “Not at all, Mr. Diamante.” He took up his cue and moved to find his shot. “I was just admiring your handiwork. Now I've gotta hit from nine to fifteen, right?”
“That's right, Mr. Sloan. The ones with the stripes.”
“Excellent, sounds good.” He spotted the blue-striped ten ball sitting rather fat and sassy, as he thought, not far from the right side pocket. A simple shot in his mind, but as he set up, he found he could not keep his cue stick still. Though he willed his hands to keep still, two days without nicotine had done something of a number on him.
“Oh, forgive me, where are my manners?” Diamante asked. He strode over to an end table and lifted a long silver case. “Can I offer you a cigarette?”
“No thanks, don't smoke,” Sloan lied through grit teeth, and he took his shot, accidentally nicking the top of the cue ball and sending it not even a paltry eight inches.
“Of course you do, Mr. Sloan,” Diamante said. “I'm no stranger to nicotine shakes myself. Have a cigarette.”
Sloan grunted, staring distastefully at the immobile cue ball. “Maybe I'm quitting.” He heard the distinct snapping hiss of a match being thumbed as Diamante lit a cigarette for himself.
“Or maybe you can't afford even the cheap stuff—say, the kind that come in those paper boxes like the one that was in your pocket.” Diamante displayed a crumpled package that Sloan distinctly remembered stashing in his coat alongside his trusty knives. “Of course, you wouldn't want to owe me anything you didn't offer on your own terms, proud and stubborn and Irish as you are, so you'd naturally refuse anything I'd give you. So let me assure you, I'm offering this gratis, no repayment required. Ever.” He extended the case again. “Go on, have a smoke.”
After a moment's hesitation, Sloan decided there was no point in arguing and helped himself. “Appreciate it. Got a light?” Diamante handed Sloan a match, which he struck against the heel of his shoe. “You know, it's a shame really,” he said as he took an enormously refreshing drag and felt his old self returning, “that you're not on our side more often. You figured me out pretty good. Between the way you did that and your throwing arm,” he nodded at the dartboard, “you'd make a real deadeye detective. Could use a fella like you. Ever consider changing professions?”
Diamante laughed coldly. Sloan doubted he knew any other way of laughing. “To be entirely honest,” he said, sizing up Sloan's disheveled clothing and grimy appearance, “I think I can live a little more comfortably with my current income. I appreciate the offer, though. The law has its uses. Right now, I think, we have a game to finish. Though I feel I should let you savor your cigarette as much as you can.”
“It's not a problem, Mr. Diamante, I can play.”
“No, Mr. Sloan, you enjoy your Winston. I've got a better idea.” He tugged on a small bell rope, and his butler opened the door. “Arthour,” Diamante began, “could you tell Aradia that her father would like her to join us in the billiard room?”
Arthour bowed and almost trotted off down the hall, returning shortly with the young woman that Sloan recognized as Diamante's daughter. “Will that be all, sir?” the butler asked, and upon a nod of assent he placidly exited, closing the door behind him.
“Mr. Sloan, allow me to introduce my daughter, Aradia,” Diamante began. “Aradia, this is Mr. Sloan.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Sloan!” Aradia said with an enthusiastic curtsy.
“Same to you, little lady,” Sloan said, doffing his hat with a sweeping bow.
“I like your hat!”
“You have good taste,” he replied with a grin. “You must get that from your father.” He noticed that her facial features were strikingly Eastern in appearance, in contrast with Diamante's darker Italian complexion. “Though I take it you get your looks from your mother, huh?”
Diamante smoothly changed the subject. “Aradia, did you finish your homework today?”
“Absolutely did, Daddy!” she said, beaming. “We only had five chapters left, so I went ahead and finished the book anyway.”
Sloan couldn't help but notice there was the slightest hint of genuine warmth in Diamante's smile. “Atta girl,” her father said. He turned to Sloan. “Aradia's the top student in her class. She's getting offers from top universities all over the nation.”
“Gonna be a college girl, huh?” Sloan asked. “Gonna study to follow in your daddy's footsteps, I bet?”
The girl's laugh was light and friendly, a far cry from her father's. “And spend all day at the company going through boring paper work? Yuck! No thanks!” she said, throwing her arms around her father. “No offense, Daddy, but you know I've always wanted to be an archaeologist!”
“Of course you have, Aradia,” Diamante said, smiling. “That's why she's going to study at Crosbetopolis University. Best archeology program in the world.”
“To be sure, to be sure, I know exactly what you mean,” Sloan agreed, not at all sure or knowing what he meant.
“Well I'm sure we can catch up later,” Diamante said, turning to his daughter, his arm around her shoulders. “For now, I was wondering if you wanted to help us out. Mr. Sloan and I were just having a friendly game of pool, but his arm seems to have a bit of a cramp. Perhaps you would take his place?”
Aradia's face lit up even more. “Ooh, could I?” She turned to Sloan. “You wouldn't mind, would you?”
Sloan winked and made an audible click. “Not at all, little lady. Knock yourself out.”
“Ooh, ooh, could I borrow your hat?” she asked. “I bet I'd look like a real pool shark!”
“Now Aradia, what did I tell you?” Diamante reprimanded. “Be respectful to our guests, sweetheart.”
“No, no, it's a great idea! She’s being real nice. Some people don’t care for the hat, but the girl has an eye,” Sloan said, and he carefully plopped his fedora right on top of the girl's head. “Doesn't look half bad on you, does it? Here,” he said, and he shifted the hat to tilt to one side. “There y'are. Looks like a regular lady Bogey, don't she?”
Aradia giggled. Diamante glared at Sloan, though his expression instantly changed to fondness when Aradia looked at him expectantly. “Spitting image,” he said. “Why don't you go first? You're stripes, sweetie.” Aradia went to line up her shot and Diamante's expression turned hard again.
The game went on, Diamante picking off solid after solid, his daughter just as accurate with the stripes. In the end, the only ball left on the table was the black eight ball.
“One moment, sweetie,” Diamante said, stopping the game, “I have something to explain to our guest. I hope you noticed that we never took a shot at the eight, Mr. Sloan?”
“I believe that thought did cross my mind,” Sloan replied, curious as to his host's intent.
“Good, you should take note of that. This is the most important rule,” he said, looking Sloan dead in the face, “that you never shoot the eight ball until the very end. If you try to knock off number eight before you've finished the rest of the plan, the jig is up.”
Sloan caught his meaning. “And how do I know which one's number eight?”
“Well, I could say that it's black,” Diamante told him, not breaking eye contact, “but there are other ways. Believe me, Mr. Sloan, when the time comes, you'll know which one is number eight. Easy way to remember it's like this: eight's a snowman, and when everything melts, the snowman's always the last to go, isn't it?”
“That's right,” Sloan said, “it is.”
“Then that's how you'll remember,” Diamante said. “Leave the snowman for the very last.”
Aradia looked from one man to the other, the meaning apparently lost on her. “Um, Daddy, can I shoot now?”
Diamante and Sloan stared each other down for a little bit more, then Diamante nodded and turned to his daughter. “Of course, sweetie. You make this shot, and you can use my Winchester in the shooting range tonight.”
Aradia bounced happily. “Really? Ooh, that one's my favorite!”
“But only if you are extremely careful with it and let Arthour supervise the whole time, understood?”
“Understood!”
“All right, sweetheart, go for the right corner pocket.”
“Yes sir!” the girl cried, and fired the eight ball right into the indicated pocket. She jumped up and down and hugged her father. “Good game, Daddy! Thanks for the hat, Mr. Sloan!” She handed Sloan his hat. “It was nice to meet you! Have a good night!” She rang the bell and waited for the butler to come in.
“Arthour,” Diamante said, “take Aradia to the shooting range and let her use the Winchester. Remind her to be careful.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door closed behind them, and Diamante gestured to the plush leather chairs on the other side of the room. “Maybe you’d like to have a drink and discuss what we just learned?”
Sloan cleared his throat. “Little girl like that shoots a rifle?”
Diamante nodded gravely. “If anything should happen, my daughter must be able to take care of herself. You didn't think I'd leave it all up to bodyguards, did you? In the end, if you want to take action, you can’t rely on anybody but yourself. I teach my girl to take care of her own problems.”
Sloan looked at the door again. “You don’t say,” Sloan said, softly trailing off. There was a great deal of meaning in those words, Sloan sensed. He got the feeling that Diamante was flaunting something in front of him, but he couldn’t figure out exactly what. He decided to file that away for later, and he turned back to Diamante. “Yeah, a drink sounds real nice. After you.”
The two men sat down in the luxurious seats. Sloan unconsciously stroked the leather while he watched Diamante pour them each a finger of scotch. There was a great deal nagging on his mind.
Diamante looked at him severely as he handed him a glass. “I know you have questions, Mr. Sloan. You said it yourself that I can read you pretty well, and you’ve got a veritable Bauhaus standard of clarity about your confusion. Ask away.”
Sloan nodded gravely. “So I get that English has fifteen enforcers. Knew that already, but now I see why. Though if you ask me, it’s a little bit silly.”
“The four of us have an affinity for playing cards, Mr. Sloan,” Diamante said. “Are you telling me you judge us too? Believe me, a theme might seem like a gimmick, but it inspires an almost familial familiarity. The Felt is a tight-knit bunch, and all of them share Lawrie’s distaste for disloyalty. It’s the sort of operation that you can only do with a combination of fear and love. And after all, Lawrie can ensure that they know he owns them when he gives them a number and takes away their name.”
Sloan mulled all of that over. It was almost frightening, when he thought about it. But it wasn’t what truly bothered him about this business. “I suppose that makes sense,” Sloan conceded. “I guess what I can’t work my head around is what's so special about number eight?”
One corner of Diamante's mouth curled up ever so slightly in a smile. “That's not important. What's important is that you play with the Crew, you play in my house, and you play by house rules. And our rules are that no matter what happens, you leave the Snowman alone until you get the say-so. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
Sloan looked him in the eyes again. “Whatever you say, I'm happy to agree with. Don't got much options.” He stuck out his hand. “That mean we got a deal?”
Diamante took his hand and gripped it. “That means we got a deal. Bring your boys to the hideout. Midnight, three days from now. We'll lay out the plans and deal out the hands.”
The detective grinned darkly. “You sure? You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men.”
The mobster glared back. “Mice and men, hmm?” He let out a small laugh, devoid of any mirth. “Mr. Sloan, I hope you will eventually realize that I am a little more than either of those.”