The visiting room at the Federal Correctional Institution had that government-issue smell. Disinfectant barely covering sweat and the lingering odor of cheap cologne from anxious relatives trying to mask their fear. The fluorescent lights hummed and occasionally flickered, casting harsh shadows that deepened the lines on every face in the room. Metal detectors beeped irregularly by the entrance as a guard wanded a nervous-looking woman in a too-tight dress.
Tommy Ricci sat with his massive forearms on the metal table, tattoos faded but still visible beneath the dark hair. Prison had been good to him physically. His neck was thicker than it had been five years ago, shoulders broader from daily push-ups in his cell, but his eyes had that flat, dead quality that came from seeing too much. Deep crow's feet had formed at their corners, etched there permanently from squinting against cigarette smoke in back rooms for decades. The orange jumpsuit looked almost tailored on his frame. He had that ability – even prison clothes somehow looked expensive on him.
Across from him, Paulie Mancuso hunched forward. Thinner than Tommy, with deep hollows under his cheekbones and a sallow complexion that spoke of prison food and poor sleep. His nose, broken multiple times, listed slightly to the left. He constantly moved his hands when he talked, couldn't keep still, his fingers adorned with faded prison tattoos – blue ink dots and crude crosses. His jumpsuit hung loose around his diminishing frame, and a perpetual sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip despite the room's aggressive air conditioning.
"You hear from him?" Tommy asked. He never blinked when he talked. Never raised his voice either. His Brooklyn accent, though softened by years in federal custody, still shaped his words.
"Yeah. Last week." Paulie scratched at a spot on the table, his yellowed fingernails making a soft scraping sound against the metal. "Says he misses the old days. The property deals in Manhattan. The towers. The casinos." A ceiling vent rattled overhead, momentarily drowning out the murmur of other conversations.
Tommy snorted, a sound like gravel shifting. "Property deals. That's what we're calling them now? The concrete contracts? The union arrangements? The zoning board miracles?"
"That's what he calls them." Paulie glanced around nervously, his head making a slight twitch to the left – a tic he'd developed inside. A guard stood by the vending machine, pretending not to listen. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. "Says he's got bigger plans now. Much bigger."
"Like what?" Tommy's jowls, heavier now in middle age, barely moved when he spoke.
"Tariffs." Paulie said the word like it was made of gold.
Tommy frowned, the deep line between his eyebrows becoming a crevasse. "The fuck is tariffs? Something to do with the government?"
"Taxes. On stuff coming in from other countries." Paulie leaned closer, his chair squeaking beneath him. The scent of institutional laundry soap wafted from his clothes. "He says it's beautiful, Tommy. Fucking beautiful. You can pick winners, pick losers. Whole industries. Billions of dollars." His voice dropped to a whisper, though his excitement made it carry.
"So?" Tommy remained impassive, though one thick finger tapped silently against the tabletop.
"So you pick your friends to win." Paulie tapped his temple, where his hair was thinning prematurely. "He's got the power now. All of it. He says he can put tariffs on anything. China, Europe, Mexico, doesn't matter. Steel. Aluminum. Electronics. Cars. Just sign a paper and boom – prices go up 25% unless you're friends with the right people."
"And?" Tommy's voice remained flat, but his eyes had narrowed slightly, showing interest despite himself.
"And then you sell exemptions." Paulie's eyes lit up, bloodshot but animated. "Company wants out from under a tariff? They come see our guys. Make a contribution. Set up a factory in the right district. Hire the right consultant. Problem solved. They “save” millions, we get our slice. Clean as a whistle."
Tommy leaned back slightly, the chair too small for his bulk. "That simple? No paperwork? No oversight committees? No watchdogs?"
"He says it's better than construction in New York ever was." Paulie's smile revealed a missing molar. "Remember how we'd get those building inspectors to look the other way? Slip an envelope, suddenly code violations disappear? This is that, but bigger. Way bigger. And it's all legal, technically. Executive authority, he calls it."
"Who stops him?" Tommy's question hung in the air. From across the room came the sound of a woman crying softly as she said goodbye to her husband.
Paulie smiled wider, revealing a gold crown on his left incisor. "Nobody. That's the beauty. He says he's getting rid of all the watchdogs. Firing people left and right. Putting our guys in. Remember Skinny Pete's nephew with the law degree? He's at Justice now. Bobby Two-Toes' cousin is handling customs enforcement."
"Feds?" Tommy's eyes moved to the guards, then back to Paulie. The implication was clear.
"Can't touch him. He's untouchable. And he's walking away from all these international agreements. Says they're bad deals. WTO, NATO, climate accords, nuclear treaties. Says they're all garbage." Paulie made a sweeping motion with his hand, like brushing crumbs off a table.
Tommy nodded slowly, a barely perceptible movement. "The more chaos, the better for business. That's what my father always said during Prohibition. When nobody knows what's legal anymore, everything's for sale."
"Exactly." Paulie snapped his fingers, the sound sharp in the institutional quiet. "That UN, World Bank, all that shit. Says they get in the way. Too many rules. Too much transparency."
"And the family gets a cut?" Tommy's calm question betrayed nothing, but his right hand had formed a loose fist on the table.
"Through the shell companies. Same as always. Delaware corporations, Cayman accounts. But cleaner. Government contracts, consulting fees, speaking engagements. All the money, none of the heat." Paulie's foot tapped rapidly beneath the table, his excitement palpable.
Tommy finally smiled. Just a slight curl of his lip, revealing teeth still perfect despite years inside. "And the voters? The regular Joes? What do they get?"
Paulie waved dismissively, his thin wrist emerging briefly from the loose jumpsuit sleeve. "He says they don't understand tariffs. Most can't even spell it. They think it's patriotic, standing up to foreigners. America first and all that bullshit. By the time prices go up at Walmart, it's too late. They'll blame someone else. They always do."
"The perfect crime." Tommy's voice was flat, but there was something almost like admiration in it. "No guns, no strong-arm stuff, no bodies. Just paperwork and bank transfers."
"That's what he says." Paulie nodded eagerly, causing a lock of greasy hair to fall across his forehead. "Remember when we used to have to break thumbs to collect? Or torch a restaurant? Now it's all lobbying and policy papers. He says when we get out, there'll be positions. Consulting. That's what he calls it."
Tommy looked at the clock on the wall, its second hand sweeping relentlessly. "Guards coming in two minutes. Shift change."
Paulie sat back, his chair creaking. The overhead lights reflected off his sweaty forehead. "We did good backing him all those years ago. The loans when the banks wouldn't touch him. The workers when the unions got difficult. The zoning variances."
"We'll see." Tommy's voice had a finality to it. In the background, a guard's radio crackled with static and unintelligible voices.
Paulie tapped the table nervously, his fingernails making a light drumming sound. "You don't trust him? After all this time?"
Tommy's eyes were dead again, like stones in his fleshy face. "I don't trust anyone who isn't family. But he’s family. I like the plan. Global rackets instead of neighborhood ones. Same principles, bigger territories."
"It's beautiful, Tommy. Instead of shaking down store owners on Mulberry Street, it's shaking down whole countries. Instead of protection money, it's security agreements. Instead of loan sharking, it's international finance. Same game, bigger board." Paulie's enthusiasm made him speak louder than he should.
A buzzer sounded, harsh and insistent. The guards started moving, keys jangling at their belts, the smell of coffee and tobacco on their uniforms as they passed.
"I've got five more years," Tommy said, his face impassive. A muscle in his jaw twitched once, the only sign of emotion.
"He says he might be able to help with that." Paulie stood up, his knees cracking audibly. "Commutations. Pardons. He's been a bit busy."
Tommy didn't move. His massive frame remained perfectly still, like a statue. "Tell him to remember who was there at the beginning. Before all this government shit. When he was just another developer with cash flow problems and union troubles. When he needed favors that banks couldn't provide and problems solved that lawyers couldn't fix."
"He knows, Tommy. He knows who his real friends are." Paulie's voice softened, almost gentle. "He told me himself, 'Paulie,' he says, 'the beautiful thing about where I am now is I can finally repay old debts.' That's what he called it. 'Old debts.'"
Tommy's eyes flickered briefly. "Carmine used to run numbers out of his father's basement in Queens. Now he's disrupting global supply chains. Frankie Nails used to hijack trucks on the Jersey Turnpike. Now he's redirecting government contracts. The methods change. The money gets bigger. But it's still just a racket."
"The biggest racket of all." Paulie's voice dropped to a whisper as a guard approached. "And it's all perfectly legal. Well, once you got the judges it is! That's the genius of it."
As Paulie was led away, Tommy remained seated. Staring at nothing. The overhead light cast harsh shadows on his face, deepening every line, every scar, every year spent inside. Waiting for his own escort back to his cell, where he'd continue to wait. And plan.
Through the barred windows, the sound of transport trucks could be heard in the distance, moving goods even as the light faded and the darkness drew in.