Saul thinks of Sofia, coming in late, leaving early. The flush of her cheeks when she tells him how she told off Mario Bruno, the new guy who thought since she was a woman she wouldn’t notice him sneaking bottles of wine out of their delivery last week. You should have seen his face. I just went over and said, “Is there something wrong with those?” He put the bottles back so fast it was like they had grown teeth. I thought he’d never get his jaw off the ground.

“She seems happy,” says Saul. A little relief. This doesn’t seem like it is leading to a conversation about the ways Saul has betrayed all of them.

“That’s good,” says Joey. “That’s better for all of us.” Sofia’s work is a problem Joey has solved. He regards the situation with detached satisfaction. He has had many arguments with Rosa, who cannot believe her daughter is letting herself be degraded—first by the dinners, and then by the shipments, surrounded by gangsters and guns, Joey, what are you thinking? These outbursts are followed by hours of silence, the dinner plates slammed on the table, the stony yes, of course in response to his I think I know what I’m doing here.

“I agree,” says Saul. He sits back, leaning carefully against the dusty, wheezing old armchair. He sips his espresso and tells himself he will learn what he needs to know when he needs to know it. He tries to calm his heart.

“So listen,” Joey says. “Things have not been going so well.”

Saul does not react, or thinks he does not react. “How so, boss?”

“Well, I’m not alone here. You’ve seen how things are going. Ever since the war we’ve been flailing a little, Saul. You’ve seen this. It is not Prohibition anymore. The days of champagne fountains and rivers of cash are over. There is more and more competition—Eli Leibovich, as I’m sure you know, would love nothing more than to edge us out of Red Hook. And he’s getting more powerful, you know, he might be able to do it.” Joey pauses. Saul shivers. Eli has promised him he does not want that. “And as you know,” continues Joey, “we have extra expenses. The Fianzos have not, well. They have not lowered the rate of their percentage. That’s an obligation we have.” Joey looks down into his half-empty coffee cup, and Saul, on the edge of his seat, cannot tell whether he is being strung along like catgut on a violin or whether he is witnessing a genuine moment of vulnerability. “We have not quite found our stride,” says Joey. “And I still command a certain respect. But that is increasingly not enough.”

Saul leans forward and his chair creaks sadly in protest. “How can I help?”