Whacking Jimmy: A Novel

Wil iam Wolf

Random House Digital, Inc. (1998)

Rating: ****

General, Mystery & Detective,

Tags: Fiction

Amazon.com Review

The Mafia is not an equal-opportunity employer, a fact made emphatical y clear to Annette Tucci, daughter of one mobster, daughter-in-law of another, and the worst mother since Medea. When Don Vittorio, head of the Detroit mob, anoints Annette's son Bobby as his reluctant heir, Annette hatches a plot to take the reins of the Family. It al hinges on the $40 mil ion the old man has promised Bobby once he's made his bones by whacking Jimmy--Jimmy Hoffa, that is.

Annette knows her soft-hearted kid is much more interested in his col ege classes, his girlfriend Til ie, and his burgeoning career as a rock musician than running the mob, so she stages a power play that pits the Don's first lieutenant and her own father (chief of the Chicago Family) against Bobby.

Wil iam Wolf's debut mystery is a romp that wil delight fans of Donald Westlake and Elmore Leonard, with plenty of local color and a cast of lively, picaresque minor characters (including Mendy Pearlstein, a Runyonesque mentor who steers Bobby through the shark-infested waters of organized crime; Til ie's mother, Ann, who's seduced by Mendy's charm and prefers him to her banker husband; and Rudy and Delbert, a couple of black street kids who take over the former clubhouse of the Purple Gang and turn it into a neighborhood youth club funded by grants from a Grosse Pointe foundation). Whacking Jimmy is a fast, funny novel that offers an intriguing, if implausible, solution to one of the biggest mysteries since Judge Crater disappeared. --Jane Adams

From Publishers Weekly

Whoever the pseudonymous Wolf may be, he knows how to add a fresh twist to familiar material. Although Jimmy Hoffa's 1975 disappearance has already been put through the fictional grinder by several authors, most recently Jon R.

Jackson in his excel ent Man with an Ax, Wolf gives his version of the story depth and originality by energizing characters who easily could have become cliches. Don Vittorio Tucci, the Detroit mob leader whose death kickstarts the plot, is an eminently nasty but utterly believable pragmatist. When his daughter-in-law suggests that his 21-year-old grandson Bobby should be his heir, Don Vittorio says, "Bobby's a sissy. He's got hair like a girl. He plays the guitar. Last Christmas he told me he wants to write novels, for Christ's sake. He wouldn't last ten minutes." But Bobby's mother, Annette (the daughter of a Chicago capo, and an astonishingly evil piece of work), persuades the dying man that under her tutelage the boy wil do just fine. The fact that Bobby hates his mother and has no desire to enter the family business is also refreshing: there's no instant Michael Corleone-type transformation from upstanding citizen to hoodlum. Wolf has created a gal ery of supporting players?a loyal, smart old Jewish sidekick; a pair of inspired black gangsters who keep a boxing kangaroo to soften up the opposition?who are original and often hilarious. As for Hoffa, his death happens far offstage and doesn't have much to do with the rest of the story. But Wolf does have a plausible theory about where his body is buried. 35,000 first printing.

Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. THE CHARACTERS AND DIALOGUE ARE

PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION AND DO NOT PORTRAY

ACTUAL PERSONS OR EVENTS.

COPYRIGHT © 1998 BY WILLIAM WOLF

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED UNDER INTERNATIONAL AND PAN AMERICAN

COPYRIGHT CONVENTIONS. PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES BY

VILLARD BOOKS, A DIVISION OF RANDOM HOUSE, INC., NEW YORK, AND

SIMULTANEOUSLY IN CANADA BY RANDOM HOUSE OF CANADA LIMITED, TORONTO.

VILLARD BOOKS IS A REGISTERED TRADEMARK

OF RANDOM HOUSE, INC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA WOLF, WILLIAM L.

WHACKING JIMMY / WILLIAM L. WOLF.

P. CM.

1. HOFFA, JAMES R. (JAMES RIDDLE), 1913- —FICTION

I. TITLE.

PS3573.04897W48 1998

813′.54-DC21 98-7708

eISBN: 978-0-307-76723-3

RANDOM HOUSE WEBSITE ADDRESS: WWW.RANDOMHOUSE.COM

v3.1

Dedicated to Annie,

the final edition

Contents

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

About the Author

Chapter

Chapter

One

Detroit, 1975

IT WAS FOUR in the afternoon. A mild June rain cleansed the already immaculate Grosse Pointe sidewalks and nourished the fat green grass on the grounds of the three brick mansions at the end of a narrow cul-de-sac. These had been built in the twenties by men who founded automobile companies. Today they were al owned by Vit orio Tucci, although only one, the four story Federal-style mansion in the center, was occupied. The others stood empty but guarded, mute brick testimony to Vit orio Tucci’s wish to be alone.

In the very center of the mansion, in a dimly lit, mahogany-paneled, windowless room, Vit orio Tucci sat sipping grappa and listening to Frank Sinatra’s Songs for Young Lovers. He was seventy-four years old and dying.

Despite Tucci’s love of privacy, there were seven people i n the house at that moment, each there to assure his physical safety and personal comfort. Such was the orderly nature of the household that he knew where every one of them was likely to be.

them was likely to be.

Johnny Baldini, once a sous-chef at “21” in New York, would be in the large kitchen in the rear of the house, along with his assistants, two Sicilian sisters of a certain age, distantly related to Don Vit orio. They were preparing the Tuesday meal: pasta primavera, chicken diavlo, and, lately, tiramisu. Over the years Don Vit orio had rarely indulged in dessert, just as he had seldom sipped grappa during working hours, but he was con dent that alcohol and sweet, rich cream could do him no harm now that cancer was feasting on his blood. Don Vit orio was not indi erent to his imminent demise, but a lifetime of observation had taught him that every adversity had its benefits. Even death.

Stil , he had no intention of dying in pain, which is why Joey Florio and a young nurse named Felice were on duty in the third- oor dispensary. Florio, whose father had been a member of the Tucci Family, had been put through medical school by the don. After his residency he became the Family doctor, dealing competently and discreetly with the Tuccis’ various medical problems. There was a bed in the dispensary, and Vit orio imagined that Joey and Felice were in it now, making love, as they did every afternoon.

His information on Florio, like most of the information he received these days, was provided by his consigliere, Luigi Catel o. Catel o’s domain was the basement, from which he had removed the bowling al ey, the indoor pool, which he had removed the bowling al ey, the indoor pool, and the other entertainments of the mansion’s former owner. He had replaced them with a secured electronic command-and-control center t for a smal NATO nation.

From this listening post Catel o maintained contact with the other Families and the politicians, judges, union bosses, journalists, stockbrokers, law-enforcement o cers, and divines of various faiths with whom the Family did its business.

There was a guard on duty inside the house and three more outside, al supervised by Carlo Seluchi, commander of the afternoon shift, who sat in the security o ce on the second oor monitoring the closed-circuit TV screens that covered the grounds. It was on one of these screens that Seluchi saw Annet e Tucci’s black Lincoln Continental arrive at the gate, stop brie y, and then head down the private road in the direction of the house. He buzzed the don, two short rings to let him know that his daughter-in-law had arrived.

Don Vit orio heard the signal without enthusiasm.

Twenty- ve years earlier, when his son Roberto had married, he had been pleased. Annet e was the daughter of Tommy “the Neck” Niccola, then a rising hood, now boss of Chicago. At the time, Don Vit orio was stil ghting to consolidate his grip on Detroit and the al iance with such a feared man had been helpful. But now Detroit was at peace, Roberto was dead, and Don Vit orio had no further use for his shrewish, demanding daughter-in-law or further use for his shrewish, demanding daughter-in-law or her vulgar father.

Don Vit orio took a hard black Di Nobli from his humidor, lit it, and expel ed a mouthful of acrid smoke.

Annet e hated the smel of cigars—she said it gave her cat, Scratch, a headache. Since this meeting was not one he was looking forward to, he hoped the air pol ution would keep it short.

There was a soft knock, and Seluchi ushered Annet e and her arrogant tan Abyssinian cat into the room. Annet e wore black, as usual, but she didn’t look like a grieving widow. Her dress was low-cut, exposing cleavage, tight across the hips, and short enough to show o her long, slender legs. Annet e Tucci wasn’t a beautiful woman—her skin was acne-scarred under her makeup, her nostrils were too large, and her jaw protruded slightly—but she was provocative and, now that her husband was dead, predatory.

The don knew this from personal experience. Several weeks after Roberto’s funeral, Annet e had propositioned him with an unemotional directness that shocked and impressed the old man. He had been tempted, too, although he turned her down. He let her think that he had refused out of a sense of propriety. In truth he was simply fol owing his lifelong practice of not get ing into bed with a woman he feared.

Now Annet e took a seat across the desk from the don, closed her brown eyes brie y, and said, “Songs for Young closed her brown eyes brie y, and said, “Songs for Young Lovers. Roberto’s favorite. I had to play it for him in the hospital, over and over.”

“I remember,” said Don Vit orio. He remembered, too, that Annet e hated Sinatra, which is why he had chosen him for today’s soundtrack.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

The don recognized this as a real question, not a pleasantry. He shrugged and raised his hands, palms up.

There was no reason to pretend; Annet e knew he was dying.

“You’re going to have to choose someone to take your place,” she said evenly. “It’s time.”

“Maybe I won’t choose,” said Don Vit orio. His voice was heavy, accented with just a touch of Sicily. “Maybe I’l just go to heaven and let Catel o and Rel i fight it out.”

“That wil never happen.”

The don smiled, revealing a set of strong yel ow teeth.

“You don’t think I’l go to heaven?”

Annet e ignored the question. “This is a family business,” she said. “It belonged to Roberto.”

“Roberto is dead,” said the don. “He died listening to Frank Sinatra.”

“Roberto’s heir is alive.”

“Roberto’s heir? A woman can’t head a Family. That’s the rule.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” said Annet e. “Women run corporations these days. You think I couldn’t run the Tucci corporations these days. You think I couldn’t run the Tucci Family? I’m not as smart as Rel i? Or as tough as Catel o?

Get out a here, I’ve lived my whole life with men like them.”

Vit orio nodded at the justice of her remark; Annet e Tucci was certainly capable of running the Family. She had a shrewd understanding of the realpolitik of their world—too shrewd, Vit orio knew, to imagine that she could actual y become a don. And so he merely smiled and held up his manicured hands. “I don’t make these rules,” he said mildly.

“Fine, we go by the rules. According to the rules, the control belonged to Roberto,” she said, xing her father-in-law with a fierce glare. “Now it belongs to Bobby.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, brown on brown. It was Vit orio who lowered his gaze rst and chuckled. “How old is he?”

“Twenty-one. What were you doing when you were twenty-one?”

“Bobby’s a sissy. He’s got hair like a girl. He plays the guitar. Last Christmas he told me he wants to write novels, for Christ’s sake. He wouldn’t last ten minutes.”

“He’s got Tucci blood and Niccola blood. And he’s got me. He’l do what I tel him.”

The don had no doubt that his daughter-in-law was right; it would take a far stronger character than Bobby Tucci’s to resist such a determined woman. “Even so, the men would never fol ow a boy,” he said.

men would never fol ow a boy,” he said.

“They wil if you say so.”

“While I’m alive, yes. But afterward?” The don shook his head.

“If there’s trouble, I can lean on my father.”

“I see,” said Tucci. Annet e was tel ing him that if he refused to anoint Bobby, she’d use it as an excuse to start a war and bring her father in to take over Detroit.

In the old days Don Vit orio might have murdered his daughter-in-law, but now, in the face of his own mortality, he had no heart for commit ing mortal sins. He cleared his throat and said, “You would be put ing your son at risk.”

“That’s what life’s about, risk,” said Annet e. “Bobby could crack up that Porsche you gave him. Or get himself shot in one of those nightclubs he plays in. Believe me, he’l be a lot safer where I can keep my eye on him. And once he makes his bones, the men wil look after him.”

“Jesus,” mut ered Don Vit orio, his voice a mixture of admiration and contempt. He had been right to fear this woman, a mother cold enough to make her son a murderer in the service of her own ambition.

“You know a man who doesn’t make his bones wil never get the respect,” she said.

Don Vit orio acknowledged to himself that she was right. That was the rule. He leaned back in his padded chair and drew thoughtful y on his cigar. Suddenly he felt exhausted. “I’l consider it,” he said.

Annet e rose and gave her father-in-law a gaze of frank Annet e rose and gave her father-in-law a gaze of frank appraisal. “You bet er decide quick,” she said. “No o ense, Vit orio, but you’re starting to smel like a bad oyster.”

Chapter

Chapter

Two

BOBBY TUCCI LET himself in with his key. Til ie was in the living room of their smal , o -campus apartment, curled up on the couch reading Tender Is the Night and eating ham-and-pineapple pizza. Bobby helped himself to a slice and plopped down next to her.

She put down her book and watched him take a huge bite of the pizza. “Debacle?” she asked.

“Fiasco,” said Bobby. His voice was clear, a lit le ironic, his articulation the product of twelve years of prep school tinged by a stint as the lead singer in an R&B band.

“How was dinner?”

Bobby took another bite and said, “I couldn’t get anything down.”

“She must have loved that.”

“Didn’t even notice. I just pushed the food around on my plate. Meantime, she’s tearing into her T-bone, socking down double martinis, and feeding Scratch Iranian caviar.”

“My mother would freak if she took me out to dinner and I didn’t eat.”

“Mine doesn’t freak, she freaks other people. You’re not going to believe what she wants.”

“I never believe anything you tel me about your

“I never believe anything you tel me about your mother,” said Til ie. “The Madame Defarge of Grosse Pointe.”

“More like Lady Macbeth,” said Bobby. “She says it’s time for me to learn about the family business. It’s my, quote, goddamn birthright, unquote.”

“She said that? ‘Goddamn birthright’? You’ve got to let me meet her.”

“It wil never be,” said Bobby with mock solemnity.

“I let you meet Big Sandy.”

“Not the same,” Bobby said. “Big Sandy’s a gent.”

“He’s scared shit of you, that’s al ,” said Til ie. This was true; Til ie’s father was terrified of Bobby.

Bobby and Til ie had met junior year, in an American-lit seminar. She had been at racted by his lean body and long, sculpted ngers, his quirky curiosity, and the fact that he was the lead singer of Cold Duck, one of Ann Arbor’s hot est bar bands. Bobby had been at racted to her for the same reason that every other guy on campus was, because she looked like Ali MacGraw in Love Story. “Only I’ve got bet er tits than Ali,” she told him on their rst date.

“How do you know that?”

“I get Breast magazine,” she said. “It features descriptions of famous jugs.”

A few weeks later Til ie took Bobby to Bloom eld Hil s to meet her parents. Ann Til man, a big blonde with a face ful of blue veins and good intentions, had been face ful of blue veins and good intentions, had been welcoming, but Sanford Til man I I had greeted him with snide remarks about musicians and Italians—until Bobby casual y dropped his last name and Big Sandy practical y choked on his eggs Benedict. Almost two years later it was a memory that made Til ie giggle.

Now she stirred on the couch, closed the Fitzgerald, and said, “This could be an opportunity.”

“No, thanks,” Bobby said, picking up his Fender.

“You’re not even curious? I mean, it is your family.”

“Your father’s a banker. Does that make you curious about banking?”

“Not exactly the same, is it?”

Bobby shrugged. “When I was a kid we went to my grandfather’s place every Sunday for lunch. I ate pasta while a bunch of old people kissed his ass in Sicilian.

After lunch, he gave me a silver dol ar and sent me outside to play catch with a guy in a stingy-brim hat. It’s not my kind of scene.”

“Who was the guy? In the hat?”

“It was a di erent guy every time. I never asked for names. Even then I realized that too much curiosity about my family might be dangerous.”

“You mean like your grandfather would have you bumped of if you knew too much?”

“Yeah, right. No, I gured I’d get dragged into it if I didn’t keep my distance. And that’s the way I stil figure.”

“Poor Bobby, forced to drive a Porsche at gunpoint.”

“Poor Bobby, forced to drive a Porsche at gunpoint.”

Bobby grinned. “Hey, I’m a Tucci, there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s got some advantages. I’ve got al the money I want, that’s cool. And it helps the band get gigs.

A lot of club owners don’t like to say no to Don Vit orio’s grandson.”

“See, you already think like a ma a man, shaking down club owners. It’s probably in your genes.”

“You’re a smart broad,” said Bobby. “You spil the beans to my mother, you’re gonna wind up at the bot om of the river.”

“Like I’l ever get to meet her. What did you tel her?

About the family business?”

Bobby took another slice of pizza. “I told her sure. Cool, no problem.”

“You’re actual y going to do it?”

“For a few days. That’s al it wil take to convince her that I’m not mafia material.”

“You’re gonna play dumb, is that it?”

Bobby shook his head. “Not dumb. She knows I’m not dumb.” He extracted a thin joint from his pocket, lit it, took a deep drag, and passed it to Til ie. “Flaky.”

Chapter

Chapter

Three

DON VITTORIO SAT alone in the rear of the armored Cadil ac limousine as it rol ed down Jef erson Avenue. Looking out the window he felt like the conqueror of an occupied city.

Tribute was everywhere. He saw a construction site where men from a Tucci-dominated union were using Tucci heavy equipment to build a municipal o ce tower on Tucci property; the Detroit River, across which Tucci operatives exported cocaine to Toronto and imported farm girls from the Canadian countryside; a Tucci massage parlor where the farm girls were employed; a Family-owned body shop where Tucci vehicles were serviced; and a strip mal whose merchants gladly paid a monthly security stipend to the Tuccis.

As the car approached the devastated downtown, Don Vit orio smiled a salute to the choice riverfront property, recently rezoned for development, that he owned in partnership with the aunt of a city councilman. He rol ed past the Tucci Building, corporate home of the Family’s legitimate businesses. In the distance he saw the spire of a large church, maintained, now that the Catholics had ed the city, by Tucci generosity.

The don hit the speaker but on. “Go up Michigan, a The don hit the speaker but on. “Go up Michigan, a couple blocks past the bal park to the Bul Pen Deli,” he instructed Seluchi. The don trusted Seluchi, but not enough to let him know in advance where he was headed.

Only Mendy the Pearl knew he was coming. Mendy he trusted absolutely.

Their relationship went back forty years. Vit orio Tucci had been the head of the Italian faction at Jackson Prison; Mendy Pearlstein was a young guy doing ve to seven for rebombing some laundries in a union dispute. Mendy was stacking cans of beans in the prison kitchen when Tucci walked in. Vit orio was a fearsome-looking man then, six feet tal and broad across the chest, with a head of wooly black hair, thick brows over narrow brown eyes, and an almost lipless mouth. There was a scar embedded in the leatherlike skin of his left cheek. When he spoke, his voice was loud and gruf .

“Take a break, kid,” he commanded, handing Mendy a Camel and lighting one for himself. “I got a proposition. I want you to learn me and some of my guys how to talk Jewish.”

“Aw,” said Mendy, shy in the presence of a celebrity. He was a smal man, half a head shorter than Tucci, with big brown eyes, a large broken nose, and a welterweight’s torso. “You’re joshin’, right?”

Tucci shook his head. “They got dago turnkeys al over the joint, but there’s no Yids. Capisce?”

Mendy nodded. “Yeah, but I ain’t no teacher. I only got Mendy nodded. “Yeah, but I ain’t no teacher. I only got through the fourth grade.”

“Hey, I don’t want no col ege prep, just a few hundred words to rat-a-tat-tat with,” said Tucci.

“There’s fel as here born in the old country. They talk Yiddish way bet er than me,” Mendy said.

“Yeah, but I want you.”

“How come?”

“I been watchin’ you. You got a pleasin’ personality. I’l give you two cartons of smokes a week. We got a deal?”

“That’d be swel ,” Mendy said. Two cartons a week would make him rich.

They shook hands and Tucci said, “Before you start, take it to the Jew click, so it don’t look like you’re sel in’ out the secret code.”

“What if they say no dice?”

“You tel Abramsky that Vit orio Tucci’s asking for a personal favor. And then you o er to split the smokes.

That’l do it.”

Tucci was right. “Just don’t learn them lokshen too good,” Bad Abe Abramsky instructed Mendy. “Enough so they can talk to each other, but not enough to understand us. Fershteit?”

At rst Tucci’s men cal ed Mendy “Professore” and mocked the gut ural sounds of Yiddish, but he won them over by teaching them a vocabulary they could appreciate: gonif for thief, curva for hooker, schtarke for strong-arm man. Soon he had them gleeful y cal ing one another man. Soon he had them gleeful y cal ing one another schmuck and dreck and mamzer and refering to Mendy respectful y as the melamed—the teacher. Tucci gave him a dif erent nickname: Mendy the Pearl.

NOW THE DON left Seluchi in the limo and went alone into the Bul Pen. The diner was closed and empty except for Mendy, who sat at the worn Formica counter sipping co ee. The two men embraced, and Mendy said, “You give me more warning, I would have whipped you up my spinach ravioli.”

Tucci made no e ort to feign disappointment. The Bul Pen was a popular gathering place for downtown types and nostalgic suburbanites, but it smel ed of corned beef and pickles and, to the don’s meticulous eye, appeared none too clean. He held Mendy at arm’s length and said,

“You’re the worst cook in town, but you’re lookin’ good, I got a admit.”

It was true. Mendy’s hair was white, slicked back, and fastened down by Yardley’s pomade. His skin was smooth, his features wel de ned, and his expression boyishly open. Although he had a smal gut, his body looked hard.

He scrunched his eyes shut and ducked his head, but he didn’t return his old friend’s compliment.

The don wasn’t surprised. Mendy the Pearl never lied except under oath, and tel ing the truth would have required him to say that Tucci looked awful. He had required him to say that Tucci looked awful. He had shrunk to Mendy’s height. His thick olive skin was mot led and gray, he had gone bald, and his hands shook. Only his eyes and his voice were stil strong. “How about a drink?”

he said.

Mendy reached under the counter, brought out a bot le of Seagram’s Seven, and poured three ngers into a chipped co ee mug—as a convicted felon he couldn’t get a liquor license. He handed the mug to Tucci, raised his own cup and said, “Salud.”

“L’chayim,” the don replied.

They sat down and Tucci said, “You remember Annet e?

Roberto’s wife?”

Mendy raised his eyebrows a rmatively. Nobody forgot Annet e Tucci.

“The other day she come to me with a proposal. I want your opinion.”

Mendy sat silently while Tucci recounted his conversation with Annet e. When he was nished, Mendy said, “Whew!”

“Yeah,” Tucci said. “So? Whaddya think?”

Mendy shrugged. In forty years, Vit orio Tucci had never once solicited his opinion except as a prelude to asking a favor. Mendy didn’t resent this. He knew his limitations.

There was no reason for a bril iant man like the don to seek his counsel.

Tucci said, “She puts out the word Bobby’s next in line, and I won’t even be cold before somebody whacks him.

and I won’t even be cold before somebody whacks him.

Rel i might not even wait that long. Then that no-neck old man of hers steps in and plants the Niccola ag in Detroit.”

“She’d do that to her own kid?”

“Remember Lot ie LaScuzz?”

Mendy nodded. Lot ie had been a Hamtramck madam who put her three daughters to work at a Dodge Motors whorehouse screwing autoworkers. When one ran away, she assured the loyalty of the others by hooking them on heroin. Lot ie had been dead for years, but she lived on in the memories of old-timers like Mendy and Don Vit orio, a reminder of the unreliability of maternal devotion.

“I don’t wanna see my Family go to those fuckin’

Niccolas,” said Tucci.

“You gonna go to war?”

Tucci sighed. “Look at me. Do I look like I can go to fuckin’ war?” He lowered his voice and said, “My goddamn memory’s shot. Half the time I forget what people tel me.”

A look of genuine concern spread over Mendy’s face.

“Jeez,” he said, “that’s lousy.”

“Yeah, wel . I can cover it up good enough to handle my business, but I’m not in shape to ght a war. I’d rather turn the whole thing over to one of the New York Families, let them deal with it after I’m gone. Only—”

“What?”

“Annet e got me thinkin’. Maybe Bobby does deserve a

“Annet e got me thinkin’. Maybe Bobby does deserve a shot. I mean, we’re not talkin’ about peanuts here.”

“He’s a col ege boy,” said Mendy.

“Yeah, but he’s a Tucci. He’s got the blood. What I wonder is, does he have the heart? Which is where you come in.”

Mendy held up a handful of crooked, broken ngers and said, “Hey, I’m retired.”

Tucci waved dismissively “Nobody’s talkin’ about a comeback,” he said. “Just meet the kid, sound him out like. Tel him some of your bul shit stories about the old days, see how he reacts.”

“Jeez, why don’t you just talk to him direct?”

“Cause I ain’t retired,” said Tucci. “He starts asking me questions, maybe he shouldn’t know the answers. You talk to him, see if the kid’s got any larceny in his soul. If he ain’t, no harm done. But if he’s got a taste for it—”

“I got two priors,” said Mendy “One more felony, I go back to the joint for life.”

Tucci took Mendy’s hand in his, pul ed him close, and said, “You think I’d get you in dutch? After al we been through together?”

“Aw,” said Mendy, embarrassed.

“Damn right, ‘Aw,’ ” said Tucci. He looked deeply into Mendy’s eyes and said, “I pledge to you I won’t do nothin’

to get you involved. You understand?”

Mendy held the stare for a long moment. Al his professional life he had been lied to by bosses; it was his professional life he had been lied to by bosses; it was his inability to know when and why that had kept him from an executive career of his own. Vit orio Tucci was a boss, but he was also a friend. Mendy blinked and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I’l talk to the kid.”

Tucci gave Mendy a lipless grin and pat ed his arm. He saw the skepticism in the Pearl’s eyes, but it didn’t worry him. Sicilians talked about loyalty al day long, but there wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t sel his mother. Mendy Pearlstein was the only truly loyal man he had ever met.

That was why Vit orio needed him. If Bobby had the makings, Mendy was the only one he’d trust to initiate the boy. Mendy, despite the life sentence hanging over his head, would never rol over on the kid. And there was something else. He could rely on Mendy to teach his grandson how to make his bones without fal ing in love with it.

Chapter

Chapter

Four

ALBERTO RELLI PULLED his four-year-old black Eldorado into the service bay of Cady Brothers Car Stereo & Sound, o Gratiot. The car seemed plain next to the other vehicles in the lot—a Rol s Silver Cloud and a gold custom-made van whose vanity plate read FLY. Rel i didn’t care that his car was drab. He had other ways of making an impression.

There were three men with Rel i. One stayed behind the wheel; the other two fol owed him into the squat brick shop. R&B blared from huge speakers. Four young black men dressed in striped bel -bot oms, neon silk shirts, platform shoes, and wide-brimmed Super ies lounged near the counter, moving to the thud of the bass. Cady Brothers was sound merchant to Detroit’s most musical y discriminating pimps and drug dealers.

Rel i saw Solomon Cady behind the counter. Cady was in his early twenties, an Iraqi Christian weight lifter who sometimes worked as a bodyguard for visiting rock stars.

A few months earlier he had borrowed $50,000 from a Tucci loan shark, and now he owed $125,000.

Rel i walked briskly to Cady and, in a uid motion, hit him across the head with a tire iron. Cady staggered and fel . Rel i went around the counter, kicked him in the fel . Rel i went around the counter, kicked him in the head, and began dragging him by his feet toward the soundproof listening room in the rear of the shop. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.

The black guys at the counter glanced at Rel i’s men, who were holding sawed-o shotguns. “Looks like y’al got business,” said one. “That’s cool, we’l swing back around later.”

One of Rel i’s men locked the door behind them and hung the OUT TO LUNCH sign. The other went into the soundproof demo room where Rel i was binding Cady’s hands and legs with telephone wire. Blood ran from the gash in Cady’s skul , but he was conscious.

“I told you to pay back the money by the rst of the month,” said Rel i. He was around forty- ve, not short and not tal , with a wiry body, strong, hairy arms, irregular features, and, already at noon, a heavy ve o’clock shadow. He spoke with a at Michigan accent. “You operating on some kind of special A-rab calendar or what?”

“Fuck you,” said Cady.

Rel i dragged Cady over to the largest set of speakers, placed one against each side of Cady’s head and secured them with wire, like huge electronic earmu s. “I talked but you didn’t listen,” Rel i said. “You turned a deaf ear.

Or maybe you got a problem with your hearing?”

“Fuck you,” Cady said again, but this time his voice shook.

shook.

“We’re gonna do an experiment,” said Rel i. “A hearing test.” He put a Sly Stone casset e in the master tape deck and began pressing but ons. When he found what he was looking for he slipped in a pair of earplugs and tossed a pair to his man, whose name was John Bertoia. Then he said to Cady, “Listen to this. Tel me how it sounds to you.” He gave the volume dial a vicious twist. Cady’s scream, as his eardrums shat ered, was drowned out by ten thousand decibels of “Everyday People.”

Bertoia watched in admiration as Cady writhed in pain.

After a minute or so, Rel i abruptly turned o the sound, leaving a silence almost as loud as the music.

“Did you get that?” Rel i hol ered to Cady. Then he hit ful volume again. Cady twitched in agony. Tears ran down his face. Rel i gave him a look of cold contempt and left him jerking on the oor, the music crashing against his ruined ears.

THEY WERE BACK in the Cadil ac, heading down Gratiot toward the far East Side, before the ringing in Bertoia’s head subsided enough for him to speak. “I never heard of nobody slammin’ a guy like that, using stereo speakers,”

he said. “You think it up yourself?”

“I came up with it watching the eggplants out on Bel e Isle, the big radios they walk around with,” said Rel i. “I figured, hey.”

figured, hey.”

Bertoia and the others shook their heads with appreciation for Rel i’s ingenuity.

“You keep your eyes open, you get ideas,” Rel i said.

Rel i dropped Bertoia and the others at the Palermo Inn, popped some Dean Martin into the tape deck, and headed for the freeway. He was running late for his meeting with Luigi Catel o, the consigliere. Rel i liked to be early for meetings; get ing there rst gave him an advantage.

Especial y when the venue was a new spot.

It was like Catel o to have chosen a Big Boy restaurant on the other side of town. The sensitive nature of the meeting dictated that it be held out of the way—Rel i accepted that—but he didn’t see why they had to meet in a fucking Big Boy. He worked hard al day long, and he looked forward to his meals. That was one of the di erences between a warrior like himself and a desk jockey like Catel o.

Rel i and Catel o were about the same age, and they had been rivals ever since Rel i joined the Family as a young recruit during the Mossi war of 1954. The war eventual y consolidated Tucci control over southern Michigan al the way down to the Ohio border, but when Rel i signed up the outcome was stil very much in doubt. Vit orio Tucci was in active command of his troops, which were outnumbered and outgunned by the men of Don Silvio Mossi of Cleveland.

Rel i had been assigned to a search-and-destroy squad Rel i had been assigned to a search-and-destroy squad that roamed the city looking for Mossi targets of opportunity Soon his skil and daring came to the at ention of Don Vit orio himself, who made a point of publicly praising the young soldier. When Rel i caught a Mossi captain in a roadhouse near Monroe and brought him in as a hostage, the don, in an almost unprecedented gesture, asked him to dinner at his own table. The don’s son, Roberto, invited him to join his regime as an underboss. It was a wartime rank, but even so, Tucci Family veterans could not recal a more meteoric rise.

It was at this dinner that Rel i rst met Luigi Catel o, who scurried in and out of the room several times, whispering in the don’s ear. Rel i had heard of him—

Catel o was Don Vit orio’s driver—but this was the rst time he had actual y seen him, and he wasn’t impressed.

Catel o was short and round, with a soft-looking middle and narrow shoulders. His hair, which he combed straight back, was already thinning, and he wore horn-rims.

Catel o’s most noteworthy feature, though, was a pair of large, rubbery lips. Al in al he reminded Rel i of his grandmother’s gnocchi, and that was the nickname he silently gave him.

And yet it was Catel o, the Gnocchi, who had eventual y come up with the master stroke that won the war for the Tucci Family—an idea so bril iant that even today, twenty years later, Rel i recal ed it with a combination of awe and jealousy. And although Catel o had never again and jealousy. And although Catel o had never again demonstrated such imagination and daring, that one time had been enough to put him permanently ahead of Rel i on the Family’s advancement track.

Catel o, in those days, was a quiet, unassuming young man with impeccable credentials—his grandfather and Don Vit orio’s father had come to America from the same Sicilian vil age—which is why he had been entrusted with the highly sensitive job of wartime chau eur. More than once he had sat silently at the wheel while, in the backseat, Don Vit orio discussed strategy and tactics with Roberto. He knew the Tuccis were losing the war, and one day he broke his silence.

“From what I hear, Don Silvio is a rare Man of Honor,”

he said. “Devout. Virtuous. A loving father to his children.”

The description was accurate, and it annoyed Vit orio.

“Maybe you oughta go work for him,” he growled.

Catel o was unfazed by the sarcasm. “Don Silvio has three children,” he said. “The oldest boy, Frank, is sick with polio. The other one, Pietro, is a priest. The way it looks, neither one’s gonna produce any kids.”

“So what?”

“Don Silvio’s also got a sixteen-year-old daughter, Maria.

They cal her Margie. She’s in school with the sisters out West in Arizona. She’s got bad asthma.”

“Mossi’s personal problems are none of my concern.”

“The way I see it, he’s got an awful lot riding on the lit le girl. She don’t make him grandchildren, that’s the lit le girl. She don’t make him grandchildren, that’s the end of his bloodline.”

“What should I do, nd her a husband?” asked Tucci impatiently.

“Snatch her,” said Catel o.

“You’re out a your fuckin’ mind,” said Tucci. “Civilians are of limits.”

Catel o shrugged. “What’s a civilian? When Truman dropped the A-bomb nobody beefed, ’cause it stopped the war. Same here. Snatch the girl, the war ends.”

“And as soon as I let her go, it starts al over again, only this time I got every Family in the country pissed of at me for violating the rules.”

“Not if Don Silvio makes the peace.”

“He’d never do it. I take his kid, he can’t forgive that.”

“Maybe not. But if you return the girl in the right condition, he’s gonna have his hands tied.”

Two months later, a despairing Don Silvio received a visitor from Detroit. The emissary was Catel o.

He spoke in Sicilian dialect to underscore the solemnity of his message. “Don Vit orio wants you to know while our Families are at war, that is business. He has been miserable over your personal misfortune. He has used al the powers at his command to nd your missing daughter.

And he has succeeded.”

Tears of relief wel ed up in Don Silvio’s eyes. “Thank God.”

“Maria is alive and safe. But”—Catel o’s voice faltered

“Maria is alive and safe. But”—Catel o’s voice faltered

—“I regret to tel you that she is pregnant.”

The blood drained from Don Silvio’s face. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Final y he managed to mut er, “Maria is a virgin.”

“She was raped,” said Catel o. “She fought for her virtue with al her might, but she was overpowered. Rest assured that the men who did this have been punished.”

“Men?” It was a hoarse whisper. “There was more than one?”

Catel o reached into a leather briefcase and extracted a dozen snapshots. They were the faces of rough-looking young men, ve black, six white, one Chinese. “These are the rapists,” he said. “Unfortunately we don’t know which one of them is the father.”

The word “father” made Don Silvio wince as if he had been slapped in the face. He put his head in his hands and wept. When he raised his eyes, he saw the sly smile on Catel o’s fat, round lips and he knew the truth. Catel o wanted him to know. His instinct was to y at the bespectacled man, to tear his tongue from his mouth. But Maria was stil a captive. Mustering al his self-control, Don Silvio said, “Bring me my daughter.”

“Don Vit orio thinks it best that she not return home just yet. After al , this is a delicate mat er. It must be handled with discretion.”

“Don Vit orio has thought of everything,” said Silvio Mossi. Blood was pounding at his temples, yet he Mossi. Blood was pounding at his temples, yet he managed to keep his voice level.

“There is also the mat er of your grandchild to consider,” said Catel o. His dropped his gaze to the gal ery of faces arrayed on the table before them. “We could, of course, make certain medical arrangements—”

“Infamita!” exclaimed Don Silvio. As Catel o had guessed, abortion was out of the question.

“In that case, the birth must take place, in utmost secrecy, and the child be given away. Don Vit orio wil be honored to make the arrangement.”

“I am capable of taking care of my own daughter.” said Don Silvio.

“Don Vit orio feels that a father should not be asked to make such an arrangement for his own daughter.

Especial y since outrage might impair a father’s judgment.”

“What do you mean?”

“No man, especial y not such a man as yourself, could al ow his daughter to be violated without thirsting for retribution. That is only natural. But such an impulse, noble as it is, would be disastrous. Should you take any action, word would inevitably get out that your daughter has been ruined, that she is the mother of a bastard child.

Then she would have no prospects for marriage—and you would die without a proper heir.”

Don Silvio went to the window and peered at Lake Erie in the distance. Then he sighed heavily and said, “I wil do in the distance. Then he sighed heavily and said, “I wil do as Don Vit orio wishes.”

“He wil treat your daughter as his own,” said Catel o.

“The story wil be that she spent a year in a convent. She failed to communicate with you out of a childishly devout belief that she must be cut o from the world. An accommodating mother superior wil corroborate this.

There wil be no scandal.”

“I see,” said Don Silvio. He went back into English and said, “What does Don Vit orio want in return for al this kindness?”

“Only an end to the war.”

“On what terms?”

Catel o permit ed himself a fleeting smile. “His.”

Once again, Don Silvio sighed. Someday he would take his revenge, but for now there was no choice. “Yes,” he said. “I agree. Please tel Don Vit orio that I won’t forget his kindness.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” said Catel o. He reached into his briefcase and took out a reel of lm. “There are only two copies. Don Vit orio has one; he wants you to have the other. As a token of his esteem.” He paused and added, “It features your daughter.”

Wordlessly, Don Silvio accepted the lm. He had been wondering how Tucci dared risking his anger. Now he knew.

When Roberto learned of Catel o’s mission he was furious. “You made a pact with the devil,” he told his furious. “You made a pact with the devil,” he told his father. “Someday it wil come back and destroy us al .”

Rel i was Roberto’s protégé, and that was enough to make him Catel o’s enemy.

Stil , there was lit le Rel i could do, and he had never quite caught up with Catel o. He was highly appreciated and wel paid by the Tucci Family, but a generation of peace had diminished the status of martial virtues. Over time he had become reconciled to the fact that in the placid, businesslike postwar world of the Tuccis, he had risen as high as a warrior could.

Then Roberto dropped dead of a stroke at the concession stand during the second period of a Wings game, and the don himself came down with cancer, and suddenly the set led world of the Tuccis was in flux.

Don Vit orio’s time was rumored to be short, and he had no successor. Rel i gured that Catel o would exploit his inside position to win the don’s blessing. If he did, the moment Tucci was dead it would be war—and in a war, Alberto Rel i’s military skil s would prevail.

Rel i saw the Big Boy sign up ahead. He pul ed into the crowded lot, scowling when he spot ed Catel o’s Cadil ac already parked near the door. The restaurant was ful of young guys from the nearby o ce towers, junior executives in wash-and-wear white shirts eating ground round while the bosses and their secretaries were down the street at Excalibur put ing two hundred bucks’ worth of wine and sirloin on the company tab. He spot ed of wine and sirloin on the company tab. He spot ed Catel o at a rear table, reading a newspaper, a gnocchi with bifocals.

“How the Tigers do last night?” he asked, slipping into a seat across from the consigliere.

“Stock page,” said Catel o, tapping the paper.

Rel i snorted. He could never understand how wiseguys who wouldn’t even consider bet ing on an honest horse race could get taken in by the Protestant shel game conducted daily on Wal Street.

A waitress in a starched white uniform set two laminated menus on the bare tabletop. “You got a wine list?” Rel i asked.

The waitress, a thirtyish woman with a honey-colored beehive, ample breasts, and a mouthful of spearmint, gave him a look.

The consigliere xed his rubber lips into a smile and said, “I’l have the Swankie Frankie, double fries, and a Coke. And an order of onion rings.”

“Water,” said Rel i tightly. “In a clean glass.” The waitress gave him another look. This time he gave her one back. She dropped her eyes and fled.

“Nervous broad,” said Rel i.

“She’s got her job to do,” said Catel o.

“What are you, bangin’ her?”

Catel o’s brown eyes blinked solemnly behind the thick lenses. “I invited you to lunch because we need to talk,”

he said. “But if it’s gonna be this way, why don’t you get he said. “But if it’s gonna be this way, why don’t you get up and leave?”

Rel i surprised Catel o by smiling. “I didn’t realize it was you inviting me,” he said. “I thought we was goin’

dutch.” He signaled for the waitress, who returned with obvious reluctance. “What’s good here?” he asked.

“Everything.”

“Yeah? Okay, bring me everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take the menu and gimme one of everything that’s on it,” said Rel i. “To go. Wrap it al up. And a piece of cherry pie and cof ee for here.”

“You’re kidding,” the waitress said.

Rel i gave her a cold smile and said, “Do I look like the kinda guy kids around in the fuckin’ Big Boy?”

She stared at him, saying nothing.

“What’re you, deaf?” said Rel i. “Jesus, is everybody in the fuckin’ city deaf?”

“Go ahead,” said Catel o quietly. Bertoia had already phoned him with a report on what Rel i had done to Solomon Cady. Catel o wasn’t banging the waitress, but the idea had crossed his mind, and he had no intention of al owing her to wind up with shat ered eardrums. “Wrap it up and give me the bil .”

Rel i picked up a laminated menu and began reading, his lips moving as he ran his nger down the price list.

Final y he said, “Seven hundred and fty bucks, give or take. Let’s nd out what’s worth seven- fty to talk about, take. Let’s nd out what’s worth seven- fty to talk about, far as you’re concerned.”

“The future of the Family,” said Catel o. “What happens after Don Vit orio dies.”

“Don Vit orio wil live for many years,” said Rel i formal y. He was wel aware that Catel o made a practice of recording his conversations.

“Hopeful y, yes,” said the consigliere. “But let’s be practical. He’s got cancer. How much longer can he have?”

It was a rhetorical question. Dr. Florio was on Catel o’s payrol , so he knew the answer: six months at the outside.

“However long it is, you and me are gonna be on opposite sides after the funeral,” said Rel i.

Catel o said, “You ever hear of Benjamin Franklin?”

“Sure,” said Rel i. “The guy who invented the kite.”

“He said, ‘We hang together or we hang separate.’ ”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that we got problems with Chicago,” said Catel o. “Annet e wants this thing for her old man. She’s gonna open up the door.”

“Get out a here.”

“Hey,” said Catel o. He fel silent as the waitress arrived with his meal and Rel i’s pie and co ee. Rel i waited for her to leave and said, “Let’s say you’re right, we got an Annet e problem. I don’t see why you’re gonna tel me about it. You got an answer to that, I wanna hear it.”

Catel o swal owed and dabbed his lips. “For right now I just wanna cal your at ention,” he said. “Things are gonna just wanna cal your at ention,” he said. “Things are gonna start happening in the Family. Sooner or later you’re gonna realize it. Then we can sit down and gure out how to work together.”

“Say you’re right again—what am I gonna need you for?”

“Information,” said Catel o. “Just like you don’t know about Annet e and I do? It’s gonna be the same right down the line. I got sources of information. You y blind in a situation like this, you get whacked. I’m the eyes.”

Rel i took a bite of cherry pie and thought it over.

Catel o was a master fucking spy, no question; he could never compete with the consigliere for military intel igence. “Okay,” he said, “put the question backwards.

You got these sharp eyes, whaddya need me for?”

“Tommy Niccola comes in to help Annet e after the don dies, it’s war. I can’t win a war against him and you at the same time. Same for you. That’s why we got a be on the same side.”

“Yeah, and when it’s over we beat each other’s brains in,” said Rel i. “So what’s the point?”

Catel o looked at Rel i for a long moment and then said,

“I’m playing my cards face up here. We beat Niccola, you and me could have a problem. But it don’t have to be that way. You got any idea how big the Tucci Family real y is?”Rel i smiled knowingly. Actual y he had no idea about many of the Family’s activities, but he wasn’t about to many of the Family’s activities, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“Okay,” said Catel o. “Then you know there’s plenty here for both of us. When the don goes, I want the legal businesses. I don’t have the muscle for the street stu .

Take it al , the gambling, the hookers, the smuggling, the protection, the unions, it’s yours.”

“You didn’t mention the drugs,” said Rel i. “What’d they do, legalize cocaine and I didn’t hear about it?”

“Drugs we got a split,” said Catel o. “There’s too much money in it for just one or the other. We buy together, you get the wholesale and the street business, and I do the laundering through one of our banks. We can work out the percentages later.”

“Jesus, you got this al gured out,” said Rel i. “You take this and I get that, like it’s your cal .”

“Come on, Alberto, you want to run an insurance company? Or a savings and loan? The split’s fair. I want you happy. Otherwise the deal’s no good anyway.”

“Who gets to be the don?”

“You want it, you got it,” said Catel o. “To me it’s an old-fashioned title.”

Rel i regarded Catel o with contempt; only a gnocchi would think such a thing. It was Catel o’s lack of honor and manliness that made his proposition believable. Rel i thought it over and decided there was no harm in going along—for a while. Sooner or later an enemy would surface—Tommy Niccola, the New York Families, Catel o surface—Tommy Niccola, the New York Families, Catel o himself with hired muscle, it didn’t real y mat er. Rel i had absolute con dence that when the time came, he had the bal s and the brains to beat al comers. He signaled for the waitress. “You got my order ready?” he demanded.

“There’s eighteen main courses on that menu,” she said.

“Wel , I changed my mind,” said Rel i, standing. “I just want the pie and the co ee. My friend wil take care of it.” He turned and walked away. The waitress cal ed after him, but he kept going.

“You already working on that order?” Catel o asked.

“They’re bagging up the salads and the desserts back there right now,” said the waitress. “Everything else is on the gril or in the oven. Sorry, but you’re gonna have to pay for it.”

“I got an idea,” said Catel o. “Let’s sel it.”

“Used food?”

“Who’s gonna know? Peddle the stu to customers.

Whatever you sel , great, you keep ten percent. The rest I’l spring for. What time you get of ?”

“This isn’t some kind of Health Department sting, is it?”

Catel o reached into his pocket and extracted a wad of hundred-dol ar bil s held together by a rubber band. He peeled o two and handed them to her. “I’m your rst customer,” he said. “Salads and pies for everybody, pass

’em around.”

The waitress smiled for the first time. “I get of at six.”

“Great, I’l see you then. And whatever the bil comes

“Great, I’l see you then. And whatever the bil comes to, bring me a receipt.”

“A receipt? What for?”

“The IRS,” said Catel o. “This was a business lunch. It’s deductible.”

Chapter

Chapter

Five

BOBBY SPOTTED MENDY Pearlstein as soon as he walked through the door. It wasn’t hard. There were maybe two hundred people packed into Trailers, a club in downtown Ann Arbor. Among the townies and a smat ering of students Mendy stood out; no one else was wearing a straw Panama, a yel ow sport jacket, a white tie on a black shirt, or a pair of black-and-white shoes.

From the bandstand Bobby watched Mendy say something to Eddie, the bartender. Eddie laughed, took Mendy’s hat, and poured him a drink. Bobby was impressed by how relaxed the old guy looked. He’d seen plenty of old people come into clubs; mostly they hung around for a minute or two with an uncomfortable expression on their faces and then split. The ones who stayed got plastered and acted pissed-o at everybody else for being young. But this guy just leaned against the bar like it was his regular spot, sipping a whiskey and moving his head to the beat of “Driving Wheel.” Bobby decided he must be a promoter or a club owner.

At the break Bobby went over and introduced himself.

They shook hands, and Mendy said, “Jeez, you guys are terrific.”

terrific.”

Bobby nodded his thanks and said, “We can talk in the back, it’s quieter.” He led Mendy to a table where Til ie was sit ing. “Mr. Pearlstein likes what we’re doing,” he told her.

“Cal me Mendy.”

Til ie looked him over dubiously. The rock business was ful of weirdos, but this one looked like a character out of Guys and Dol s.

Mendy signaled for a round of drinks and said, “What do you cal your combo?”

Bobby kept his smile to himself and said, “Cold Duck.

We do a lot of our own stu and some R&B classics—

Lit le Johnny Taylor, Hank Bal ard, Lit le Wil ie John—”

“Poor Wil ie,” said Mendy. “He was a nice kid, but he had a complex about his height. Died in the joint.”

“You knew Lit le Wil ie John?”

“Sure,” said Mendy. “I had a spot near the old Flame Show Bar, the Greenwood Inn. Wil ie used to drop by every now and then.” He closed his eyes tightly, concentrating. “I guess that would have been about 1950, give or take a year.”

“A nightclub?” asked Bobby.

“Nah, it was a gin mil ,” said Mendy. “For hil bil ies mostly. That place was so tough I had a guy working in the basement ful -time just repairing the furniture.”

Til ie giggled; she was stoned. “You’re just making that up,” she said.

up,” she said.

“Aw,” said Mendy.

“You ever manage any R&B acts?” Bobby asked.

“Closest I ever came was this one time, I won fteen percent of Jackie Wilson shooting craps.”

“The Jackie Wilson?”

“He wasn’t big back then. I traded my share of him to a bookie named One-Eye Finkel for a used DeSoto.”

The drinks arrived and Mendy raised his glass. “Here’s to the memory of Wil ie John,” he said. “May God bless him wherever he’s at.”

A pudgy young black man with a pu y Afro came up and said, “Hey, Bobby, starting time.”

Bobby said, “This is our drummer, Carver Cleveland.”

“You got a nice hand,” said Mendy.

Cleveland said, “Thanks. Come on, baby, they don’t pay no overtime in this place.”

Til ie watched Bobby go up to the smal stage. Then she turned to Mendy and said, “What kind of shows do you put on?”

“Me? I never put on a show in my life. I’ve got a lit le diner down by the bal park. The Bul Pen Deli.”

“Bobby thinks you’re a promoter.”

Mendy opened his brown eyes wide and said, “Jeez, what gave him that idea?”

“You know Bobby’s mother, don’t you?” said Til ie with stoned insight.

Mendy nodded.

Mendy nodded.

“She’s the one who sent you over here, I bet.”

“Annet e? Nah, I haven’t spoken to her since just after Roberto died. Bobby’s dad.”

“So what, you just happened to stumble in the door?”

“Aw,” said Mendy. “Bobby’s grampa told me about him and I decided to catch his act.”

“Bobby know that? That his grandfather sent you?”

“I didn’t get a chance to tel him, is al .”

“But you wil ?”

“Course.”

Bobby played a blues ri and began to sing a slow song about his best friend’s woman. “This is one he wrote,” said Til ie.

Mendy nodded, rose, and held out his hand. “Would you care to dance?”

There was no dance oor in the Trailer. Here and there people swayed in their seats, but no one was on their feet.

Til ie giggled. “Sure, why not?”

Mendy took Til ie in an old-fashioned clutch, right arm around her waist, left arm extended. She was an inch or two tal er than he was, but he held her easily and rmly, leading her with surprising grace through a step she guessed was the fox-trot. They danced between the tables in the back of the room, Mendy’s smooth cheek pressed against hers. “You got a nice light step,” he said.

“And you used to dance with Ginger Rogers, right?”

They both laughed.

They both laughed.

“Hey, watch it, gramps, you bumped my arm,” a voice said. Mendy turned and saw a beefy townie in his late twenties, with a red crew cut and a puddle of spil ed beer on the table in front of him.

Mendy said, “Sorry, buddy.”

“Yeah, buddy,” said one of the men sit ing with the crew cut. There were three of them, and they were drunk.

“Hey, you fucked up his tuxedo,” said the other. “Least you can do is pay the cleaning bil .”

“Aw, let’s just have a good time,” said Mendy.

“He your sugar daddy? You make him take his teeth out before he goes down on you?” said the crew cut.

“That’s not the right kind of language to use in front of a lady,” said Mendy evenly.

“What you gonna do, wash my mouth out with soap?”

Til ie made eye contact with Eddie the bartender. She saw him move around the bar, and she said, “Big ugly motherfucker. I bet you kil ed lit le babies in Vietnam, didn’t you, you muscle-bound chicken shit.”

The crew cut clambered to his feet, but Eddie intercepted him. “Time to leave, fel as,” he said calmly.

They looked at the Colt. 45 in Eddie’s left hand, climbed noisily out of their seats, and swaggered out the door.

“Sorry,” said Eddie. He knew who Bobby’s grandfather was.

“You done that like a pro,” Mendy said to him.

“Thanks. I’l send you over some drinks.”

“Thanks. I’l send you over some drinks.”

They went back to their table. “You al right?” asked Til ie.

Mendy blinked. “You got quite a way with words.”

Til ie leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re adorable, you know that?” Grass and adrenaline had given her a very nice buzz.

Mendy smiled and put his arm around her shoulder.

“You ain’t bad either, toots,” he said. “You’re the berries.”

The last set ended at one. “How about we hit a blind pig somewheres?” Mendy suggested.

“What’s that?” asked Til ie.

“It’s what you cal an after-hours joint.”

“Blind pig,” repeated Bobby. “Cool expression.”

“Let’s just go back to our place,” said Til ie. “It stays open al night, and the booze is already paid for.”

“You go ahead,” Bobby said. “I’l give Carver a hand breaking down the equipment and meet you at home.”

Til ie fol owed Mendy into the parking lot. Ten yards away the crew cut, a quart bot le of Blatz in his hand, was urinating on her van.

“Get away from there, you asshole,” she snapped.

The crew cut turned and faced them.

“And put that thing in your pants.”

“You put it in.”

Mendy said, “Aw, buddy, it’s late. Why don’t you just go home?”

“Why don’t you suck my dick, grampa?” He waved the

“Why don’t you suck my dick, grampa?” He waved the bot le drunkenly.

Bobby walked out of the bar carrying his Fender in a leather case. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“Hey, it’s Fabian,” said the crew cut.

Bobby made no reply. He had an expression on his face that Mendy couldn’t read.

“Let’s take a ride,” the crew cut said to Til ie.

She shot him the finger and said, “Take a ride on this.”

The crew cut took a step forward and said, “You talk like a ve-dol ar whore, you know that? Is that what you cost, five dol ars?”

Bobby stepped in front of Til ie.

“What’s your problem, Fabian? Five bucks ain’t enough?”

Bobby said, “Hey, I don’t want any trouble.” His left hand was outstretched, beseeching. His right held the Fender by the neck.

“Too fucking bad,” the crew cut said. He moved toward Til ie. Bobby swung in a short arc. The guitar hit the crew cut on the side of the head with a thump, like a basebal bat smashing a pumpkin. He crumpled to the asphalt.

“Cocksucker, I’l get you for this,” the crew cut mumbled.

Bobby knelt down next to him. “Fuck with me and I’l kil you. I’m tel ing you this in al sincerity.” Then he slapped him across the face, bringing tears to his eyes.

Mendy blinked and swal owed hard. He had something Mendy blinked and swal owed hard. He had something to report to Don Vit orio. His grandson was a Tucci.

Chapter

Chapter

Six

MENDY PUT A dish of scrambled eggs and salami in front of Bobby. It was four in the morning, and the Bul Pen Deli was empty. They had dropped Til ie o , but Bobby had been too wired to sleep. He and Mendy had driven down to Detroit together, Bobby gunning his Porsche up to 110

and talking nonstop.

Bobby ate a forkful of eggs and said, “Hey, not bad.

Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“Jackson.”

“Mississippi?”

“Prison. I learned in the joint.”

“What were you in for? I mean, if you don’t mind saying.” It was the kind of question he had been raised never to ask.

Mendy shrugged. “Nah, that’s okay. Which time?”

“How many times were there?”

“Two,” Mendy said. “Once for rebombing cleaning plants back in the thirties and another time for boosting some jewels. I did a couple years when I was a kid, too, but I don’t count that ’cause it was juvenile farm. Hey, you want something to drink?”

“Maybe cof ee,” Bobby said.

“Maybe cof ee,” Bobby said.

“I’d skip the co ee if I was you,” Mendy said. “You’re het up enough already.”

“I haven’t hit anyone since grade school,” Bobby said.

“I’ve never been in a real fight in my life.”

“Wel , you showed good stu ,” said Mendy. “I got a bot le of Seagram’s, you want a snort?”

“I’d rather smoke a joint,” said Bobby, extracting one from his shirt pocket. “If it’s cool with you.”

Mendy frowned. Bobby said, “Hey, it’s a lot bet er for you than booze.”

“Aw, it’s not that,” said Mendy. “I just don’t think it’s such a hot idea, you walkin’ around with drugs in your pocket.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me for possession of a couple joints? They’d have to lock up the whole campus.”

Mendy shrugged. “You’re not a regular col ege boy. You got a be more careful.”

‘“Cause my last name is Tucci?’ ” said Bobby, lighting the joint.

“You got a lot of your grandfather in you, y’know?”

“You two are old friends, huh?” said Bobby.

“We was in prison together, my rst stretch. He was up there for, I think, armed robbery. Yeah, I know him pret y good.”

“I hardly know him at al ,” said Bobby.

“That’s too bad. More eggs?”

“That’s too bad. More eggs?”

“No, thanks. Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s personal.”

“Hey.”

“Are you in the mafia?”

“Nah,” said Mendy. “There ain’t no Jews in the ma a.

Besides, I’m retired.”

“But you were a mobster.”

“Oh, sure.”

“A boss like my grandfather?”

Mendy laughed. “I’m a knock-around fel a,” he said.

“You’re grampa’s a bril iant man.”

“That’s one word for it,” said Bobby.

Mendy frowned. “You look around Detroit these days, you see a mess. But when your grampa was coming up, this place was hopping. Booze coming across from Canada, cars rol ing out of the factories, money everywhere. I bet there was ve hundred cathouses and carpet joints downtown. Nightspots, fancy restaurants, burlesque houses, opium dens—”

“Opium dens?”

“Sure, in Chinatown.” Mendy shut his eyes for a moment, a sweet memory animating his face. “We used to boost cars down there on Saturday nights and sel ’em back to their owners on Monday. See, back then they didn’t have no autotheft insurance.”

Bobby laughed.

Bobby laughed.

“Seriously.” said Mendy “In those days everybody wanted a piece of Detroit. Lansky, Luciano, Capone, al of

’em. Henry Ford had his own private army under Harry Bennet . Then later there was the union guys like Ho a.

The biggest hoods in America fought over this city, but it was your grampa who walked away with the pie. Hey, speaking of pie, you want some? I got apple and blueberry.”

“No, thanks,” said Bobby. Al his life he had avoided the secrets of the Tuccis. Now here was Mendy the Pearl revealing them with the blithe unconcern of a man gossiping over the back fence. “I wonder how many people my grandfather had to kil to get his pie.”

Mendy gave Bobby a mild look and said, “There’s no statute of limitations on that.”

“Meaning what?”

“Lemme tel you a story,” said Mendy, resting his elbows on the counter and assuming a con dential tone.

“There’s a guy used to come in here every morning for breakfast. Back in Pro’bition he did the job for the Purple Gang on a sthinker named Hyman Rivkin. A sthinker means a stool pigeon in Yiddish.

“Anyways, this guy got caught and spent years in the joint. When he come out he liked to have his breakfast here, shooting the breeze with the guys. He was a nice fel a, good sense of humor, and he knew a mil ion stories.”

stories.”

“Just your average, ordinary murderer,” said Bobby.

Mendy shook his head. “What the hel , he paid the price. He was entitled, y’know? Anyways, about ve years ago a story gets published in the paper. Some professor says he found out that, back in the thirties, a warden up at Jackson let a guy out one night to do a mob hit on a Detroit police captain.

‘That morning this guy I mentioned comes in for breakfast. One of the other fel as asks him wasn’t he up at Jackson at the time? This guy just gets up and walks out.

That was the last time he ever came in here. I see him around the neighborhood. He’s eighty years old, but he stil dresses sharp as a tack. Has his breakfast someplace else, I guess.”

“You’re saying this guy is the one who kil ed the police captain?”

Mendy shrugged. “Nah, I doubt it. But see, since there’s no statute of limitations on murder, that’s the one subject that talking about it don’t make sense.”

“In other words my grandfather’s a murderer but you don’t want to say so.”

“You want some more eggs?”

“I guess you’d say it’s just business.”

Mendy sighed and said, “Tonight, when you smacked that guy with your guitar, you coulda kil ed him, y’know?”

“That’s dif erent. It was self-defense.”

“That’s dif erent. It was self-defense.”

“Self-defense? He never even laid a hand on you.”

“You were there. You think I just happened to at ack a giant biker for the fun of it?”

“Course not. But a judge might not look at it the same way. See, he comes from a di erent world, maybe he ain’t never been up against a greaser in a parking lot. So he might not understand that it was self-defense.”

Bobby relit his joint and took a drag. “And I don’t come from my grandfather’s world, so I don’t have the right to judge him?”

“You got the right,” said Mendy gently. “You ever been to Oakland Avenue?”

“Never even heard of it.”

“Oakland Avenue’s where your grampa started out,”

said Mendy. “You oughta have a look sometimes.”

“He barely even talks to me,” said Bobby. “I don’t think he’s going to take me on a guided tour down memory lane.”

“Prob’ly not,” said Mendy. “He’s not feeling too good these days anyway. But you want me to, I’l do it.”

“Why would you want to?” asked Bobby warily.

Mendy picked up Bobby’s dirty plate and said, “Same reason I’ve done everything else my whole life. For the fun of it.”

Chapter

Chapter

Seven

JOHNNY BALDINI STOOD, trans xed, before a bin of fresh asparagus. The sight of a large young man, six foot three, 250 pounds, with a goatee and wire-rim glasses, wearing Bermuda shorts and a rapt expression as he gazed at vegetables was not as unusual at the Livingston farmers market as it would have been in a Grosse Pointe supermarket. The open-air stal s at racted the Johnny Baldinis of three counties, perfectionists wil ing to drive two hours for extra fresh arugula or individual y grown honey dews.

The Livingston market had another, even greater at raction for Johnny Baldini. Once a week he met Annet e Tucci there.

Baldini was thirty years old but inexperienced with women. In his life he had only known three wel : the grandmother who raised him and taught him to cook in he r cramped, aromatic kitchen in Queens; his twelfth-grade teacher, Sister Elizabeth, who recognized his talent and convinced him that cooking was a t profession for a young man; and now, Annet e Tucci.

Annet e was Johnny Baldini’s patroness, his champion, his con dante, his friend—and his lover. Before they met his con dante, his friend—and his lover. Before they met he had been a virgin, miserably certain that he was homosexual but terri ed of physical intimacy with a man.

Imperiously, brusquely, Annet e had plucked him out of his monkish isolation and plunged him into her sexual broths and gravies. Oddly, Baldini didn’t take the a air as proof of his own heterosexuality. He thought of Annet e Tucci less as a woman than a mighty, singular, irresistible natural force. He worked for Don Vit orio, but he belonged to Annet e.

Baldini had original y come to the Tuccis upon the recommendation of his uncle Mike, who did business in Detroit. On his rst evening in the don’s kitchen he had prepared one of his finest meals: rognocini trifolati al vino bianco—sautéed lamb kidneys in white wine—along with spinach- l ed crespel e and an asparagus salad. Don Vit orio had cal ed him from the kitchen and applauded, but Annet e had withheld her praise.

The next afternoon she had come to the kitchen. “Today I make dinner,” she said. As Johnny watched, she fixed the identical dishes he had prepared the night before. She worked with the uid, decisive motions of a professional chef, cooking from memory. When she was nished she set the meal before him.

Fearful y Johnny raised a forkful of sautéed lamb to his lips. The job with the Tuccis was important to him, but food was sacred; lying would be out of the question. He chewed tentatively and swal owed.

chewed tentatively and swal owed.

“Wel ?” said Annet e.

“Magnificent,” said Johnny.

“You’re an artist,” Annet e had said. “I just want you to know that you’re cooking for an artist.”

Now Johnny looked up from his asparagus-induced reverie and saw Annet e swaggering toward him on open-backed heels. She wore tight white jeans, a red halter top, and a half smirk that acknowledged the stares of the farmers in the market stal s. She walked up to Johnny and put her arms around his ample paunch, pinching the soft esh that hung over the waistband of his Bermudas. As usual he was surprised that she came only to his chin; when they were apart he always pictured her as towering above him.

“What have you got?” she asked.

“Fresh sage,” said Johnny with a fond look at his shopping basket.

She took his pudgy hand in hers and said, “Let’s walk around, see what else looks good.”

They took an unhurried turn through the market, stopping now and then to sni the oregano, ferret out glossy zucchini, inspect the dried wild mushrooms, and nibble at homemade blood sausage. At one of the stal s Annet e picked out several eggplants, but when she saw Johnny frown she put them back. The market was the one place she treated him with equality, even deference.

After a while they sat down under an awning to have After a while they sat down under an awning to have jelly donuts and weak American co ee. “Okay,” said Annet e. “What would you do with wolf?”

“That’s a good one,” said Johnny. It was a game they played, how to prepare dishes using protected species.

“Let’s see. Start with a marinade: olive oil, white wine, ground black pepper, sage, rosemary, parsley, and sweet marjoram. Is this an old wolf or a young wolf?”

“A tough old she-wolf,” said Annet e.

“In that case, I’d marinate for thirty-six hours. Then I’d stew her in her own juice with just a lit le celery, a bit of sugar, and a clove of garlic, basting with white wine as necessary.”

“Sounds delicious,” said Annet e.

“Add a dash of Romano at the end.”

“Why Romano?”

“In honor of Romulus and Remus.”

“What if it’s in honor of me?” said Annet e, sliding her hand down the inside of Johnny’s bare thigh. “What would you put in then?”

Johnny blushed.

Annet e laughed huskily and darted her hand into Johnny’s crotch. “Hey, big boy, is that a cotechino in your pocket or are you happy to see me?” she drawled.

Johnny started and looked around wildly; he was afraid, as he always was when she groped him in public, that she’d get them both arrested for indecent behavior. “Why don’t we go back to the motel?” he said. A Holiday Inn don’t we go back to the motel?” he said. A Holiday Inn down the freeway was their regular venue for sex.

“I like it here.” said Annet e. “Tel me, how would you fix puf erfish?”

“Pu er sh? I’ve never even seen one. I don’t think they’re legal in America.”

“Of course they’re legal,” said Annet e impatiently. “It’s just a fucking fish.”

“It can kil you if it’s not prepared properly. Something about excretions from the liver.”

“Forget that. How would you fix one?”

“Okay,” said Johnny. “Let’s see. First, is this a young puf erfish or an old puf erfish?”

“Hey, I’m not playing this time. I’m serious. I want you to cook me one.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“You wouldn’t dare not to,” said Annet e, glaring at him.

“That’s not fair,” Johnny said. He was pouting.

Annet e had forgot en how petulant he could be when it came to food. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were learning to live dangerously. I guess I’ve been kidding myself.” She looked away and waited.

“But why take the chance?”

Annet e seized Johnny’s jowly cheeks and pul ed his face close. “You are the greatest goddamn chef in the entire world,” she said with passionate conviction. “You want me to believe you can’t x a dish that every short-want me to believe you can’t x a dish that every short-order cook in Japan can make? That it’s beyond you? Is that what you’re saying?”

Johnny averted his eyes. “I guess I could find out how to do it.”

Annet e released him and said, “I knew I could count on you.” She took a sip of cold co ee. “Ready to hit the road?”

“Where to?”

“The motel,” said Annet e. “You’re being a good boy, and good boys deserve a prize.”

“I thought you didn’t want to.”

“That’s just the way women are,” she said. “Flighty as but er ies.” She extended her hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Johnny took it. They walked toward the parking lot, Annet e striding along with her head high, Johnny shu ing to keep up and sneaking puzzled looks at her from the corner of his eye. He didn’t know much about women, but he knew enough to know that Annet e Tucci was anything but a but erfly.

Chapter

Chapter

Eight

“NOW, OVER HERE’S where the Sugar House was,” Mendy was saying. “The original hangout of the Purple Gang.

Park right up there and I’l show you something.”

Bobby, who was driving Til ie’s van, gave Mendy an uncertain look. Al afternoon the three of them had been cruising Detroit, venturing into neighborhoods ful of AME

churches and barbecue joints and boarded-up apartment buildings where dark, brooding men sat staring through unfriendly eyes.

They had visited the site of the Col ingswood massacre; driven down Twelfth Street, now cal ed Martin Luther King Boulevard—the very epicenter of the 1967 riot—to view the shel of a restaurant where Vit orio had once hosted a dinner for Meyer Lansky and Frank Costel o; driven by what had once been Jew Mary’s whorehouse o Woodward Avenue (“I was in charge of security there.

Your grampa was her best customer”) and the now defunct Empress Burlesque. From there they had crossed Woodward into the even more forbidding East Side, to see Joey the Bum’s old tavern where Johnny Ray once sang (“He got paid in smack”) and the streets where Vit orio Tucci first began to make his name.

Tucci first began to make his name.

Mendy pointed out these places with none of the resentment white Detroiters used in describing their old haunts. Bobby was struck by his good cheer and lack of nostalgia. It was as if the city had never changed, as though Mendy expected to see Cherokee Levine, Frankie

“the Farmer” Deloni, or some other member of the old gang emerge from the tumbledown frame houses they passed along the way.

The Sugar House proved to be a vacant store in a row of vacant stores, al dirty cinnamon brick and busted glass.

On the corner Bobby spot ed two young black men who seemed to be eyeing them with interest.

“Come on, take a look,” said Mendy. He opened the door and climbed out, shaking kinks from his arms and legs. Til ie slid out after him, and Bobby reluctantly fol owed. As he locked his door he could see the black guys gravitating toward them.

“Hey, man,” said a tal , cocoa-colored young man who appeared to be the leader. “That’s a bad-looking van you got there. Y’al some kind of hippies?” He sounded amused.

Bobby’s stomach tightened. As a kid he had tuned in every day to Frantic Ernie D on WJLB, because he loved the music and because listening to a colored radio station forti ed his reputation as the family ake. Over the years he had mastered the guitar licks and copied the in ections of everybody from Bo Diddley to Jimi Hendrix. But he of everybody from Bo Diddley to Jimi Hendrix. But he had met very few black people in person, and in truth, they frightened him.

“No, man, we’re musicians,” Bobby said. “You know a cat named Carver Cleveland? He’s in our band.”

“Ah, no, I don’t believe we know that particular cat,”

said the tal guy dryly. He looked at Til ie and his grin widened. “How you doin’ today, princess?”

“It’s hot as shit out here, I can tel you that,” said Til ie.

She seemed relaxed enough, but Bobby was acutely aware that they were staring at her. Never had she seemed so white.

“I got some cool drinks up at my crib,” said the tal guy.

“Nah, that’s al right,” said Bobby.

“Didn’t nobody ax you,” said the short, light-skinned guy with freckles and a giant mushroom-shaped Afro. He wore a Black Panther pin on his khaki vest.

Bobby caught a glimpse of Mendy, who had wandered o in the direction of the vacant building. Before meeting him Bobby’s life had been a model of nonviolence. Now it seemed like he got into some kind of confrontation every time he left the house. He seized Til ie’s arm and said,

“We got a go.”

“Man, y’al just got here,” coaxed the tal guy in a mocking tone.

Mushroomhead took a step toward them. Bobby shifted his weight, preparing for an assault, just as Mendy came strol ing over with his hands in his pockets. “You guys live strol ing over with his hands in his pockets. “You guys live on this street?” he asked.

They looked up, surprised. Mushroomhead said, “What’s it to ya? You a cop?”

“Aw. Hey, did you know this street used to be the hangout of the Purples?”

“The what?”

“The Purple Gang. Don’t tel me you never heard of the Purple Gang.”

“They like them purple people-eaters?” asked the tal guy.

Mendy pointed to the abandoned shops. “That over there was a numbers bank. Pimples Warnick used to run it til one time the number come up seven-one-one and he went broke. Next door was a pawnshop, belonged to a one-armed fence named Seltzer. You could get rid of anything in there. His sister sold smack. Her name was Helen. I heard she’s out in California now.”

“Al that right there in them empty buildings?” asked the tal guy, sounding genuinely curious.

“Sure. You fel as live in a historical neighborhood.

Com’ere, lemme show ya.” Mendy began walking toward the building. To Bobby’s surprise, the black guys fol owed.

They entered one of the vacant stores, and Mendy said,

“We used to lock up guys in here. Fel as somebody had a problem with.”

“How you lock ’em up if you ain’t got no bars on the windows?” asked the tal guy.

windows?” asked the tal guy.

Mendy went to the back of the room and scu ed at the lthy oor with his two-toned shoes. After a moment he said, “Yeah, here it is.”

“What?”

“Trapdoor,” said Mendy.

“What’s down there?” asked Til ie.

Mendy shrugged his shoulders. “The jailhouse. Who’s got a knife?”

Mushroomhead whipped out a six-inch gravity blade.

He gave Bobby a long look before handing it to Mendy, who ipped it open and ran it along the crease of the trapdoor until he found the lock. There was a click and the door popped up a few inches. Mendy tugged and it swung al the way open, exposing metal stairs that led down to a dark basement.

“Cool,” said Til ie. “Let’s go take a look.”

“That’s up to—hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,”

said Mendy to the tal guy.

“Rudy. This is Delbert,” he said, pointing to the mushroomhead.

“You wanna go down, you got a ask Rudy,” Mendy said to Til ie. “This is his turf.”

Rudy gave Mendy an appreciative look and said, “Del, run by the A-rab and tel him I need his ashlight. And get some refreshments while you there.”

Delbert grumbled but did as he was told. While he was gone, Mendy reminisced about the Jewish and Italian gone, Mendy reminisced about the Jewish and Italian gangs that had once control ed Oakland Avenue.

“Man, those were some cool times,” said Rudy. “But let me ask you this—y’al back then, how you think you’d do up against us?”

“We wouldn’t stand a chance,” said Mendy. “It’s just like sports. Kids today are bigger and stronger. And smarter.

You’d wipe up the floor with us.”

Delbert returned with a powerful ashlight, a big bag of pork rinds, and two quarts of Jet malt liquor. Rudy took one look and said, “Man, Del, why you bring them rinds?”

“What’s wrong with ’em?”

“Don’t you know Jews don’t eat no swine? Go on back an’ get my man Mendy some potato chips. Potato chips al right with you, man?”

“Rudy, man, I ain’t no servant,” said Delbert.

“Aw, that’s al right,” said Mendy, taking a handful of rinds. “I don’t keep al the rules and regulations.”

Rudy icked on the ashlight. “Let’s go have a look at y’al ’s jailhouse,” he said. “Del, you stay up here and make sure don’t nobody come along and drop this top back down on us.”

The basement was dank and malodorous. Rudy sni ed and said, “Smel s like shit.”

“It’s the kangaroo,” said Mendy. “Henry Stutz used to keep a boxing kangaroo down here. We cal ed him Bat ling Australia. I remember this one time, Australia took on Sonny Rosenberg, who was supposed to be a took on Sonny Rosenberg, who was supposed to be a middleweight ghter, for fty bucks, and knocked him out. Sonny claimed it was a sneak punch, but Stutz wouldn’t give his money back. So Sonny snuck down one day and shot Australia right between the eyes. The place never smel ed the same again. It was like a curse.”

Rudy ashed his light into the far corners of the basement, but there was nothing there except a few empty tin cans. Bobby lit a match and inspected one of the wal s.

“Hey” he cal ed, “check this out.”

Rudy beamed the light at the wal , which was spot ed with gra ti. Some was writ en in ink, some carved into the plaster.

“Cool,” said Til ie. “Gangster hieroglyphics.”

“This one say LOUIE KANTER EATS SHIT,” said Rudy.

“Jeez, Louie,” said Mendy. “He was a nice guy. He got shot in the fties over a bad debt. His brother Morrie’s an Elk, very high up.”

“Here’s a good one,” said Til ie. “LOKSHEN KISS MY ASS.

Isn’t lokshen what you cal Italians?”

“It’s just a gure of speech in Yiddish,” said Mendy. “It means noodles.”

“Man, maybe you left a message up there,” said Rudy.

“Nah,” said Mendy. “Not me.”

“How do you know?” said Bobby. “This was like, what?

Forty years ago?”

“I know.”

“Man’s got too much class to be scribbling on wal s,

“Man’s got too much class to be scribbling on wal s, that’s what he’s tel ing you,” said Rudy.

“Nah,” said Mendy “That ain’t it. I just don’t know how to write.”

“At al ?” asked Til ie. She had never met anyone who couldn’t write.

Mendy shook his head.

“You could learn,” she said. “I could teach you.”

“Aw,” said Mendy. “Tel you the truth, I’m used to it by now.”

They came back up blinking into the dim light of the deserted building. “Y’al see some ghosts down there?”

asked Delbert sarcastical y; he was annoyed at having been left behind.

“Ain’t about what was, it’s about what wil be,” said Rudy.

“Sure,” said Mendy. “Clean it up a lit le and you got yourself a nice spot. Maybe spray something around, get out the kangaroo.”

“Man, you stil in the life?” asked Rudy. His tone was entirely respectful now, col egial.

“Nah, I’m retired, got a lit le diner down by the bal park, the Bul Pen Deli. You ever go to the bal games?”

“Ain’t no brothers go to no bal games,” said Delbert in an aggrieved tone. “The Tigers be some prejudiced motherfuckers.”

“Drop by anytime,” said Mendy to Rudy, “I’l x you

“Drop by anytime,” said Mendy to Rudy, “I’l x you somethin’ good to eat. I’m there til three every day but Sunday.”

“Yeah, I might wil do that,” said Rudy. “Talk about what it was like in the days.”

To his great surprise, Bobby felt a pang of jealousy. He said, “You dig rhythm and blues, you should come hear us play some night. As my guest. We gig around Detroit sometimes.”

“You and your friend, the one got a name sound like a colored high school?” said Delbert.

“Man, what’s your problem?” said Bobby. “You’ve been on my case since we got here.”

Delbert stif ened. “I don’t like white people,” he said.

Delbert and Bobby locked angry stares. After a long, tense moment it was Delbert who looked away. “Shit,” he said, “you ain’t worth the bother.”

On the way home Mendy said, “You and Delbert back there? You done it just right.”

“They cal it playing the dozens,” said Bobby; he knew that from an essay he had read by Eldridge Cleaver.

“You got a nice touch,” Mendy said.

And Til ie said, “Yeah. You one bad lokshen motherfucker.”

Chapter

Chapter

Nine

ANNETTE HIT O’HARE running, her high heels clicking through the crowded terminal. Directly outside, in a No Standing zone, a black stretch limo was waiting. Her cousin Jo-Jo Niccola was at the wheel. “Hey, cuz,” he said.

“Welcome to the Windy City.”

“Christ, it’s good to be home,” she said.

They fought tra c al the way from the airport down to Lake Shore Drive, where Jo-Jo wheeled the limo into a wel -guarded underground garage. The entire building, fourteen stories, belonged to Tommy Niccola. He lived in the penthouse, and his o ces were on the oor below.

The rest of the apartments were rented to members of the Family. Anyone trying to get to Tommy the Neck would have to fight his way through twelve floors of Niccolas.

The Neck was waiting at the elevator for his daughter. It had only been a week since her last visit, but when the door opened she ew into his arms. Annet e wasn’t more than ve foot six, but she towered over her father.

Niccola’s nickname was ironic; he looked like a giant weight had driven his head directly into his massive shoulders.

“How’s my honey?” he growled af ectionately.

“How’s my honey?” he growled af ectionately.

She nuzzled his cheek and said, “Hel o, big bear.” Then they tightened their embrace and kissed each other on the lips.

“How’s your father-in-law?” asked Niccola.

“Six months, tops,” said Annet e. Like Catel o, she had Dr. Florio on her payrol . “He’l be dead by Christmas.”

“Your mother died at Christmastime,” said Niccola.

“Did she?”

“Yeah. I got stuck with al her presents. Come on, princess, how about a drink?”

“Fix me one. I’l go get changed.”

Annet e went upstairs to what had been her mother’s bedroom and ung open the door of a walk-in closet the size of a squash court. It was ful of contraband—furs with the labels removed, counterfeit designer out ts in cleaning bags, stolen silk blouses and cashmere sweaters, boxes of lingerie stacked to shoulder level, and dozens of pairs of Italian pumps arranged by color. Her mother’s wardrobe.

Annet e stripped down to her bra and panties and inspected herself in the ful -length mirror. She was stil rm and supple. Bet er-looking at forty-three, she thought, than she had been at thirty. She slipped into a tight black cocktail dress, cut low in the back. Her mother had been a showgirl who kept her gure. Annet e remembered her in this dress.

There was a safe in the closet. Annet e spun the combination lock and extracted a blue diamond necklace combination lock and extracted a blue diamond necklace and matching earrings, a 1934 Cartier diamond watch, and a diamond-and-ruby tennis bracelet. She closed the safe and inspected herself once again. Sexier than her mother, she decided—sexier than her mother at her peak. She touched her neck and wrists with My Sin from the dressing table. It was her father’s favorite fragrance.

When Annet e came back downstairs she was rewarded with a low whistle of approval. “You’re a knockout, princess,” said Tommy. “You oughta take some of that stuf back with you to Detroit. The jewels at least.”

“They belong here,” said Annet e. “Besides, in Detroit there’s nobody to wear them for.”

“Okay, let’s talk about Detroit,” said Tommy. “You ready?”

Annet e nodded.

“What about Catel o?”

“I can handle Catel o,” said Annet e. “And Rel i, too.”

“Rel i don’t worry me,” said Tommy. “But that Catel o.

…” There was no need for him to complete the sentence.

Annet e knew her father was thinking about Catel o’s coup de grâce in the war against the Mossi Family.

“Believe me, when the time comes he won’t be around to worry you,” said Annet e. “You got my word on that.”

Tommy took a map from his desk and spread it on the table. It was his master plan, the outlines of a Niccola empire from the Canadian border to the Gulf of Mexico, bounded by Detroit in the East and Kansas City in the bounded by Detroit in the East and Kansas City in the West.

“The Center Cut,” he had cal ed it the rst time he revealed the plan to Annet e. “We start out at the top with Chicago, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, and Detroit. Then we drop down like a curtain, al the way to New Orleans and South America. In the middle we got the horses in Kentucky, the booze and the music business in Tennessee, and the oil and the gambling in Louisiana, plus the seaport in New Orleans and the Mississippi River. Hel , we even got Alabama. There must be something down there.

“But the best thing’s what we don’t got. We got no Five Families to ght with. We got no New York newspapers poking into our business. We got no Washington bureaucrats breathin’ down our necks. We got no Mormon politicians stickin’ their hands in our pockets like in Vegas. And we ain’t got no fucking California.” Tommy Niccola distrusted California because the TV programs came on at the wrong times. “What we got is the best part of America, the dumb America, America the stupid. The fuckin’ Center Cut. You see it?”

Annet e had seen it right away, and she had watched with admiration as her father brought one piece of the center after another into his domain. Now al that was left was Detroit, the gateway to the North and the East. Thanks to her, Detroit was about to fal , the dream was about to become reality.

become reality.

Tommy ran his stubby hand lovingly over the map and said, “What about Bobby?”

“Bobby’s Bobby,” she said dismissively.

“Bobby’s important,” said Tommy “If he gets the nod from Vit orio, the New York Families wil stay out. But if there’s a vacuum …” His neckless shrug was eloquent.

“I got Vit orio by the short hairs,” said Annet e. “He’l give it to Bobby.”

“I can’t stand the kid, but when I croak the whole Center Cut wil be his,” said Tommy.

“Not for years,” said Annet e. She let her a ection for her father dilute the irritation she felt when he spoke this way. When the time came, her father’s successor would not be Bobby. Bobby was weak like his father, Roberto.

Worse, he was a Tucci. Annet e jabbed a long, laminated ngernail into a scab on her left wrist and watched a tiny bubble of crimson rise to the surface. This is what would entitle her to her father’s empire. When the time came.

Blood. Niccola blood.

Chapter

Chapter

Ten

THE DOORBELL RANG twice, and Mendy, dressed in a worn red satin bathrobe, went to answer it. Out of long habit he stood of to the side and cal ed out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s the feds. This is a raid.”

Mendy laughed as he opened the door for Bobby and Til ie, who began serenading him with “Happy Birthday to You.”

“Jeez,” said Mendy. “How’d you know?”

“Same way we know your address—it’s on your driver’s license,” Bobby said.

“The other night you left your jacket on the chair with your wal et in it,” said Til ie.

Mendy said, “You drove al the way down here just to wish me a happy birthday?”

“And to take you out to dinner,” said Til ie. “I mean, you don’t turn seventy every day and—”

“Mendy, who’s there?” cal ed a woman from the other room. Her voice was young-sounding, ful of sleep and cigaret es.

“Just some pals stopped by,” Mendy cal ed out. “I’l be back in a minute.”

Bobby and Til ie looked at each other. “Oops,” Til ie Bobby and Til ie looked at each other. “Oops,” Til ie said.

“We bet er split,” said Bobby. “Looks like you’re already having a birthday party.”

Mendy said, “Tel you what. How about we meet around nine at the Riverboat. Mel Tormé’s there.”

Bobby grinned and said, “Table for four?”

Mendy nodded, then cupped his hand to his mouth in a conspiratorial gesture. “Tonight? Don’t say nothin’ about this, okay?”

“Don’t worry,” whispered Til ie. “We won’t embarrass her.”

A sheepish look came over Mendy’s face. “Nah, that ain’t it. See, I’l be comin’ with a dif erent girl.”

WHEN MENDY ARRIVED at the Riverboat with his date, a stylishly dressed woman in her mid-forties named Mildred, Bobby and Til ie were waiting in the parking lot.

“Whatcha doin’ out here?” he asked.

“They wouldn’t let us in,” said Til ie. “We’re under-dressed.” Bobby was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt, Til ie a miniskirt and tank top.

“Lemme talk to them,” said Mendy.

“It won’t do any good,” said Bobby. “I already had a few words with the prick at the door.”

“A few wel -chosen words,” giggled Til ie. They were both stoned.

both stoned.

Mendy went inside. Thirty seconds later he was back, along with a stricken-looking maître d’. “What a misunderstanding,” he wailed. He ushered them into the club, where waiters were already set ing up a table for four in the front.

“They must know you here,” said Bobby.

“Everybody knows Mendy,” said Mildred. She was a redhead with a big bust and merry blue eyes that darted around the room.

Til ie said, “I bet you slipped him a twenty al folded up in a lit le square, the way they do it in the movies.

Right?”

“Nah,” said Mendy. “I just used the magic word.”

“ ‘Please’?”

“ ‘Tucci.’ Bobby’s grampa owns this joint.”

“Figures,” said Bobby. “Wel , that’s another use for the family name, get ing in to see Mel Tormé.”

The manager arrived with a bot le of Moët ’69. “Next time, please let me know you’re coming,” he said to Bobby. “And if there’s anything else I can do—”

“No, that’s cool,” said Bobby. He sensed that people were looking at him.

The band struck up a Tommy Dorsey tune, and Mendy led Mildred to the dance oor, which was l ing up with middle-aged men in dark silk suits and women in clinging, sparkly dresses. One bald man danced with an unlit cigar in his mouth. “Can you believe this place?”

unlit cigar in his mouth. “Can you believe this place?”

Til ie giggled.

A man stopped at their table. He had wavy white hair and a giant diamond on his pinky nger. “Sam Zaramis,”

he said in a gravel y voice. “Me and your grampa go back.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Bobby.

“Pleasure’s al mine. Be sure an’ remember me to your grampa. Sam Zaramis.” He made an awkward half bow and walked away.

No sooner had Zaramis left than another man came up.

He, too, was in late middle age. He, too, wore a pinky ring. “Al ie Alkarian,” he said, shaking Bobby’s hand. “Me and your dad, Roberto, were close, God rest his soul.

Maybe he mentioned me sometime?”

Bobby shook his head. “Sorry—”

“Hey, I just wanted to come by and pay my respects,”

Alkarian said. “Enjoy the show.”

“And to think, I loved you even before I found out you were royalty,” said Til ie.

“Let’s dance,” said Bobby.

“To this? No way. You’l kil my feet.”

“You dance with Mendy and I’l take Mildred. She looks like she knows how to lead.”

They danced for a while, and then Mel Tormé came on.

Al through the show waiters kept refreshing their drinks.

When the rst set ended, Mildred rose and said to Til ie,

“Let’s go powder our noses.”

“Let’s go powder our noses.”

“Okay,” Til ie said. “But I have to piss first.”

As they walked away Bobby said, “Nice lady.”

“Sure. She’s tops.”

“Good thing you warned us about not mentioning this afternoon.”

Mendy hitched his shoulders and widened his eyes, like a mischievous kid. “Yeah, that wouldn’t have been too good.”

“Mildred’s the jealous type, huh?”

“Aw, it’s not that,” said Mendy. “But see, that girl I was with today? That was her daughter.”

“Whose daughter?”

“Mildred’s.”

Bobby threw his head back and laughed. “You’re screwing Mildred’s daughter?”

“It’s not a serious thing.”

“How old is she? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Karen? She’s, ah, about twenty- ve, twenty-six.

Somewhere in there.”

Bobby shook his head. “Un-fucking-believable,” he said.

“Prob’ly you shouldn’t mention it to Til ie,” said Mendy.

“It’s not the kind of thing a guy should tel a broad. Let’s just keep it between us.”

“Okay,” said Bobby He couldn’t wait to tel Til ie.

“Good. Hey, look who’s here!” Bobby turned and saw a man approaching. He was younger than the guys who had come over before, around forty, with less esh on his face.

come over before, around forty, with less esh on his face.

Mendy introduced him as Jackie Glass. When he shook Bobby’s hand his grip was strong. Bobby noticed that he wasn’t wearing a pinky ring.

“You’re Roberto’s kid,” said Glass, sizing Bobby up with a frank, almost clinical stare.

Bobby nodded; he didn’t like the vulpine look on the man’s face. “You were a great pal of my dad’s, right?”

“You got me mixed up with somebody,” said Jackie.

“Me and him did a lit le business from time to time, but that’s about it.”

“Oh.”

“You got the place buzzing,” Jackie said. “The two of you.”

“It’s my birthday,” said Mendy. “Bobby and his girl are helping me celebrate.”

“Many happy returns,” said Jackie. “Listen, Bobby, this isn’t a good place to talk, but I got a proposition the Tuccis might be interested in. I was going to speak to the don direct, but maybe you’d like to take it to him. You want, we could get together later and discuss it.”

Bobby felt light-headed from the champagne and grass.

What the fuck, he thought. “What kind of proposition?”

Jackie Glass shot a look at Mendy, who responded with an a rmative blink. “Without get ing into the details, a mil ion bucks in cash wil net you out three within thirty days.”

“How?”

“How?”

“It’s in the nature of an international nancial transaction,” said Glass.

“Drugs?”

Glass nodded. “Yeah.”

“Grass? Or coke?”

“The former.”

“Good shit?”

“Primo,” said Glass.

“Cool,” said Bobby. “Tel you what. You score real y good shit, I’l take a key. How’s that?”

Glass looked at Mendy and said, “I make a mistake here?”

Mendy shrugged.

“How about it, Bobby? I make a mistake talking to you?”

“Look, Mr. Glass,” said Bobby, “I don’t make drug deals with strangers in nightclubs. The only reason I’m buying the key of you is because you’re a friend of Mendy’s.”

Glass stood. “We never had this conversation,” he said.

“Sure, no problem,” Bobby said. “It’s been nice not meeting you.”

After the second show, Bobby and Til ie headed back to Ann Arbor, leaving Mendy and Mildred with a table ful of complimentary drinks. On the way Bobby recounted his conversation with Jackie Glass. “While he was talking I sat there thinking—two generations of Tuccis have spent their lives making deals with assholes like him.”

lives making deals with assholes like him.”

“Yeah, and for what?” said Til ie. “A paltry couple hundred mil ion dol ars.”

He laughed. “Think I blew it?”

“Wel , it doesn’t sound like we’re gonna get that key.”

“Know what Mendy said? He said, ‘I never like a fel a who’s too big to sel retail.’ ”

“Words to live by,” said Til ie. “You’re not going to believe what Mildred told me.”

“You’re not going to believe what Mendy told me,”

Bobby said. “You know that girl at his place today? Guess who she was.”

“Okay. I guess it was Mildred’s daughter.”

“How do you know?” asked Bobby.

“Mildred told me when we were powdering our noses.

She said not to let on to Mendy that she knows.”

“Poor Mendy,” said Bobby. “Busted. Mildred’s not pissed?”

“She didn’t seem to be,” said Til ie. “Of course she wouldn’t. Under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“Did Mendy happen to mention how he met her?”

“Mildred? No. How?” Her tone made him grin.

“At his wedding.”

“His wedding?”

“Yep,” said Til ie. She began to giggle. “He’s married.

To Mildred’s aunt.”

Chapter

Chapter

Eleven

ALBERTO RELLI DRESSED careful y for his date with Annet e Tucci. He considered himself a handsome man in a rough-hewn way, despite the fact that his prominent nose and his mouth bent slightly rightward, the result of a childhood il ness. When he was young he pat erned himself on Tony Curtis, until he found out that Tony’s real name was Schwartz. After that he chose Dean Martin for his model. He wore his hair like Dino’s—in a ducktail with a lit le curl up front—favored cashmere sport jackets, and rarely put on a tie. It was a look, he felt, that worked for him, a fact at ested to by his many romantic conquests.

Rel i’s wife was a blowsy peroxide blonde named Tina, the daughter of a smal -time loan shark he had married before his rise to prominence. They lived with their three teenaged children in Grosse Pointe Woods, a ritzy suburb not too far from the don’s mansion. Rel i kept his girlfriend, a tat ooed French-Canadian lap dancer cal ed Mitzy, in an apartment downtown, just across the river from the row of strip clubs known as the Windsor bal et.

He also had a longtime mistress, a cokehead named Sue, who taught seventh-grade history in Royal Oak. And lately he had rented an apartment near the airport for a he had rented an apartment near the airport for a Northwest stew with a dirty mind who spent weekends in Detroit. Rel i was wel pleased by these arrangements.

Unlike Luigi Catel o, who depended on pickups because he was too cheap to support his women, Alberto Rel i was rarely more than ten miles away from a homemade blow job.Tonight he was planning to add Annet e Tucci to his stable. She would be a sweet acquisition. When Roberto croaked, he had made some advances, which she had shot down in a snooty way. But now, with the don dying and power about to shift, Annet e had become friendly. That’s why she had invited him to dinner at her big house on Lake St. Clair. She was a smart broad, Annet e. She knew how things were headed.

When he thought about Luigi Catel o he had to laugh.

Catel o, who had said that Rel i needed him to be his eyes.

It was Catel o who was in the dark, Catel o who knew nothing about the don’s plans for the Family. Plans that would put Rel i at the top.

It crossed his mind that maybe Annet e knew something. Not that the don would tel her, but her old man had friends on the National Commission. Al the bet er, he decided. Just thinking about the contract he had been given by Don Vit orio gave Alberto a massive hard-on. Annet e was the kind of broad who would respond to that, no question.

A gnocchi like Catel o would be scared shit of Annet e.

A gnocchi like Catel o would be scared shit of Annet e.

But Rel i wasn’t scared of broads, and he wasn’t worried about Tommy the Neck making a move on Detroit. After he carried out the contract, Rel i would be named Tucci’s successor—he had the old man’s word on that—and the Commission would have no choice but to ratify it.

Combine that with the army he could put on the street, and he was in an unassailable position.

Rel i couldn’t believe his luck. Until yesterday he had been a hammer—tough, feared, respected, but no di erent from a dozen top enforcers around the country. But now he was destined to become not only a boss but a legend.

Not since the hit on Bugsy Siegel in L.A. had there been such a plum assignment for a man in his profession. By the end of the summer he would be known to the members of the National Commission and a few select insiders as Don Alberto Rel i—boss of Detroit, the man who whacked Jimmy Hof a.

After Rel i took over the Family, Luigi Catel o would be as dispensable as a used razor blade. Annet e was another story. She was royalty twice over, a Niccola and a Tucci.

An al iance with her would be a class move. Plus the expansion thing could work both ways; with the Princess of Chicago at his side, he might be able to stick a toe in the Windy City.

Rel i paused for a moment and thought about his wife.

Divorce was out of the question, but accidents happened.

On the other hand, Annet e wasn’t the kind of broad who On the other hand, Annet e wasn’t the kind of broad who would insist on a wedding ring.

Rel i took a fond last look at the mirror, pul ed in his stomach, and gave himself a loopy Dean Martin grin.

There were but er ies in his bel y when he thought about Annet e. People said he was a hard guy. Nobody knew how romantic he real y was inside.

ANNETTE CAME TO the door on five-inch heels and a cloud of My Sin. Her black silk dress clung to her body; around her neck she wore a pearl choker that made her look like a sexy nun. It was an out t Catholic men usual y found irresistible, and she saw from his expression that Alberto Rel i was not an exception. Rel i’s reputation as a ladies’

man amused her. She regarded him and his sunlamp tan, three-hundred-dol ar

Italian

loafers,

Brylcreem

pompadour, and Rat Pack smirk as not much more of a chal enge than Johnny Baldini.

Annet e led Rel i to a sunporch that overlooked the lake. The room was lit with candles, the table set for two; Mantovani murmured in the background. There was a steaming pot on the table. Rel i sni ed and said,

“Something smel s terrific.”

“Greathead stu ed with crab and shrimp,” said Annet e.

“Sautéed in but er with thyme and a lit le lemon. It’s my own recipe.”

“Greathead, that’s a fish?”

“Greathead, that’s a fish?”

“I hope you like fish.”

“Absolutely,” said Rel i. “Especial y if it’s cooked by you.”

During dinner they exchanged Family gossip as Rel i devoured his meal, washing it down with two bot les of chil ed white wine. Then Annet e brought in tiramisu and a bot le of Hennessy VO. “Let’s have our dessert in the living room,” she said. “It’s cozier.”

Rel i sank into the large white couch with a satis ed grunt. Annet e handed him a porcelain hash pipe. Rel i grinned; things were going just right. He took a hit, held the smoke, and then expel ed it with a violent cough.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Strong shit. Very nice.”

Annet e took the pipe and said, “I laced it with a lit le opium.”

Rel i stretched on the couch, let ing his arm fal over Annet e’s shoulder. “Great food, great dope, great looks, you got the whole package,” he said expansively. “How come you and me never got together before this?”

“We’re not together yet,” said Annet e. “I’m stil thinking about it.”

“You never thought I was in your league,” said Rel i.

“You weren’t.”

“But I am now.”

“Maybe.”

“Fuckin’ A,” said Rel i. He took another hit of the

“Fuckin’ A,” said Rel i. He took another hit of the hashish and closed his eyes as he exhaled. When he opened them it seemed to him that Annet e was looming very close and very large. “Just wait a few more weeks, you’l see what league I’m in,” he said.

“What’s then?”

“That’s when things break big for me,” said Rel i. He took another hit o the pipe and washed it down with some Hennessy.

“Oh?”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head. Rel i began to say something, reconsidered, and immediately forgot what it was. After a silence that could have been seconds or minutes long, Annet e stirred and said, “Let’s go down to the rumpus room and shoot some pool.”

Rel i’s stoned brain recognized this as a bad idea. It was dark, the couch was soft, and he could feel the warmth of Annet e’s body. Eight-bal would de nitely break the mood. He pul ed her toward him and said, “I’m gonna be the next don. After I do my thing.”

“What thing?”

More time passed and Rel i said, “Numb Hof a.”

“Jimmy Hof a?”

“He’s get ing whacked,” said Rel i.

“Right,” said Annet e. “They’ve been whacking out Jimmy Hof a since my first communion.”

“Except this time it’s for real,” said Rel i. “The

“Except this time it’s for real,” said Rel i. “The Commission gave the green light. Carmine Pat i was out here the other day set ing it up with the don.”

Annet e red up another bowl of hashish, took a hit, and passed it to Rel i. “The don’s a friend of Ho a’s,” she said. “He’s been to the house a dozen times.”

“The don’s hands are tied. Ho a’s pissed o ’cause he can’t get his union back. He’s threatening to rat out everybody. Friendship don’t figure into it.”

Annet e said nothing. The silence grew heavy, and Rel i closed his eyes and drifted o . When he opened them, she was standing before him, naked except for the choker and the heels. He stared at her with admiration. “You’re a beautiful broad, you know that?” he slurred.

“I’m gonna do something for you,” she said, lowering her nude body onto his lap. “Something you’re real y going to like.” She licked his ear. “And then, I’m gonna ask you to do something for me.”

“I don’t give head,” he mumbled.

She ran her hand down his thigh and said, “That’s al right, baby, I don’t need your head. Al I want is a lit le help.”

“Anything,” said Rel i. He was panting now.

Annet e darted her tongue into his thick, hairy ear. “Be a father to Bobby,” she whispered.

“Sure, babe,” gasped Rel i. At that moment he had no idea who Bobby might be. Then, from the deep recesses of his hash-fried brain came the realization that she was his hash-fried brain came the realization that she was talking about her son. Broads are al alike, he thought; no mat er how hot they act, they’re stil just mothers at heart.

Chapter

Chapter

Twelve

TILLIE INVITED MENDY to a Fourth of July picnic at her family’s cot age on Cass Lake. “Bring a date,” she told him on the phone.

“Nah, I’l come stag,” he said. “You never know when you’re gonna get lucky at the beach.” But when he arrived he wasn’t alone. Bobby, who was out in the yard stoking up the barbecue pit, saw Mendy’s old Plymouth pul in the drive-way, fol owed by a black limousine. Carlo Seluchi was at the wheel, and in the back, looking smal , sat Don Vit orio Tucci. Bobby blinked in disbelief. In his entire life he had never seen his grandfather outside the house.

Bobby darted into the kitchen where Til ie and her mother were making potato salad. “Mendy’s here,” he said excitedly. “And you’re not going to believe who else.”

Til ie said, “Don’t tel me he brought one of his ankens with him. That’s what he cal s women sometimes, flanken; it’s the Yiddish word for beef,” she explained to her mother.

“Oh,” said Ann Til man. She found the idea of having a retired gangster to lunch pleasantly confusing.

“It’s my grandfather,” said Bobby.

“It’s my grandfather,” said Bobby.

“Your grandfather?” said Til ie. “Which one?”

“Vit orio,” said Bobby. “He’s right out there.”

“How nice,” said Ann Til man. She turned to the cook, a dour Mexican woman who had been shel ing corn. “Lu, wil you nish up in here? I want to greet our guests.”

Without waiting for an answer, she went banging into the yard. “Welcome,” she cal ed. “I’m so glad you could come.”

Mendy do ed his straw fedora, gave Ann Til man a smiling once-over, and said, “Now I see where Til ie gets her good looks. Meet Bobby’s grampa, Don Vit orio Tucci.”

“Nice to meet you, Don,” said Ann. The old man nodded formal y, but Bobby thought he saw his lips twitch in amusement. If so, it was another rst; he could never recal his grandfather smiling before.

“I’m so sorry my husband, Sandy, isn’t here,” Ann said.

“He’s in Switzerland on business. Actual y I think you might know him, Don. At least he seems to know you.

Sandy Til man? International Bank and Trust?”

Tucci shook his head noncommit al y. He was dressed in a black silk suit that hung o his shrunken shoulders, a gleaming white shirt three sizes too big for his neck, and a subdued amber tie. His black wing tips glistened in the July sun, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

“If you’d like to go sailing before lunch I’d love to take you out,” said Ann. “We have some beach clothes here you out,” said Ann. “We have some beach clothes here that should fit.”

“You go,” said Tucci. “I wanna stay here and talk to Bobby for a while.”

“How about it, Mendy?” said Ann brightly. “Are you game?”

“I doubt if Mendy sails, Mom,” said Til ie.

“Are you kidding? Back during Pro’bition I spent half my time on boats. I even got shot once by the Coast Guard.”

“Where?” asked Til ie.

Mendy blushed. “In the tochis. The hind end. We was crossing over from Canada with a shipment of booze. I gure one of the other out ts paid the Guard to take a few potshots, try to scare us of .”

Ann Til man was incredulous. “They bribed the Coast Guard?”

Mendy shrugged and said, “You’d be surprised who you can bribe.”

Til ie took Mendy by the arm and started toward the dock. Bobby watched them go with anxiety. He had never before had a one-on-one conversation with his grandfather.

“Nice-looking girl,” said Tucci. “You planning to get married to her?”

“I dunno,” said Bobby. Seeing his grandfather waxy in the sun, dressed up like his own corpse, gave Bobby the creeps.

creeps.

“Her old man’s the Michigan bagman for the Republican National Commit ee,” Tucci said. “He’s lucky he didn’t go to jail with the rest of them Nixon guys.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

“I know him.” said Tucci. There was a long silence, and then he said, “You know why I told you that?”

Bobby shook his head.

“Because if you do marry her, somebody might think you’re moving up in the world, a Tucci marrying a Til man. So I want you to know her father’s a bum. Her grandfather was a bum too. He owned the worst slums on the East Side.”

“Whereas the Tuccis are paragons of civic virtue,” said Bobby.

“This might be my last day outside,” said Tucci mildly.

“Do me a favor, don’t fuck it up.”

“Sorry,” said Bobby. He wasn’t sure if he meant it or not. “So you came out here to do what? Commune with nature?”

“I came out to talk,” Vit orio said. “There’s a couple things we need to get cleared up before I croak—”

HEY, I GOT IT,” said Mendy. Til ie and Ann were already on board, but he had lagged behind, his eyes shut in concentration. Now they popped open and he snapped his ngers. “The Roostertail. You used to dance down his ngers. “The Roostertail. You used to dance down there, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Ann.

“There was a dancer looked just like you in the line at the Roostertail, back in, oh, ’49, ’50, around in there. I bet that was you.”

Til ie laughed. “My mother the chorus girl. I can just picture it.”

Ann smiled at Mendy and said, “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong girl. I’m embarrassed to tel you this, but I was away at finishing school.”

“Wel , you got your money’s worth,” said Mendy approvingly. “Besides, now that I think about it, you’re a lot bet er-looking than her. She didn’t have your creamy skin.”

“Watch out for Mendy, Mom,” said Til ie playful y.

“He’s got girlfriends al over the place. I hear he’s even got a wife stashed away somewhere.”

“Hey, how’d you know about her?”

“Mildred. So, are you real y married?”

Mendy shrugged. “I might be. I’m not sure.”

“You must know if you’re married,” said Ann, in the same tone she’d used about the Coast Guard.

“I was,” Mendy said, “but when I went in the joint she took o for Vegas and we didn’t keep in touch. She might have got a divorce, I dunno.”

“You got in a lit le trouble and she split,” said Til ie.

“Very nice.”

“Very nice.”

“Aw,” said Mendy. “I went up for six years. That’s an awful long stretch for a hard charger like Dixie.”

Til ie laughed. “Dixie Pearlstein?”

“Nah, she went by Dixie Dixx. Miss Dixie Dixx and her bag of Trixx. That was her stage moniker. Her real name was Dot y Kless.” A sweet smile crept onto Mendy’s lips.

“Jeez, she had some frame,” he said. “I hope she’s doin’

good, wherever she is.”

I’M HAPPY YOU and Mendy are buddies,” said Vit orio.

“Mendy’s a good man.”

“The grandfather I never had,” said Bobby, making no e ort to hide the sarcasm. He had decided to give Vit orio Tucci exactly what the old man had given him for the past twenty-one years—nothing.

A sudden chil made Tucci shiver—eighty- ve degrees out and his bones were cold. “You wanna know why I wasn’t palsy-walsy with you? Fine. First of al , your old man didn’t want me around you. He thought I’d fuck you up.”

“Bul shit,” said Bobby. “My father worshipped you. He pissed away his whole life working for you.”

“He worked for me, yeah, ’cause he didn’t know how to do anything else. Maybe that was my fault, but that’s how we raised our kids back then. But if you think he worshipped me, you’re ful of shit. In the beginning, yeah, worshipped me, you’re ful of shit. In the beginning, yeah, but not later. He said I made a deal with the devil.”

“Did you?”

Tucci shrugged. “I’l nd out soon enough. Anyway, that’s one of the reasons. Another one is your mother.

She’s an evil bitch.”

“Man, once you get started you don’t beat around the bush,” said Bobby.

“I hate her no-neck old man, and I hate her. After Roberto died, having you around meant seeing her, and it wasn’t worth it.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s the other thing,” said Tucci. “That snot y la-di-da way you’ve got of talking, it rubs me the wrong way. Like you think you’re so much bet er than me. Sometimes I see the look on your face when I talk, like my words are farts, stinkin’ up the place.”

“Maybe that’s because you talk like a Hol ywood gangster,” said Bobby. He had been stung by his grandfather’s bluntness. “You grew up in Detroit, not the Bowery.”

“You were born in Detroit, and you stil talk like fuckin’

Lit le Lord Fauntleroy,” said Tucci.

“It wasn’t my idea to send me away to prep school,”

said Bobby hotly. “I was just a lit le kid—”

“Your old lady sent you away ’cause she didn’t want you around, and Roberto was too much of a sissy to stand up to her. I gured you for a weak sister like your father, but to her. I gured you for a weak sister like your father, but maybe I got you wrong. Mendy says that underneath the long hair and the faggy accent you’re a tough kid. I hope he’s right, ’cause you’re gonna need to be.”

Bobby gave his grandfather a quizzical look. “Is it possible you just made me an apology?”

Don Vit orio grunted. “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “It’s a lit le late, but okay. I’m sorry I didn’t pay you more at ention.”

“Thanks,” said Bobby. This time he meant it.

“Only I didn’t come out here to make an apology,” said Don Vit orio. He leaned over and, with surprising strength, drew his grandson so close Bobby could smel the olive oil and garlic oozing from the old man’s pores. “I came to give you a warning.”

I WONDER IF IT would be rude to ask you a question.” said Ann. She and Mendy were sit ing in the rear of the sailboat as Til ie steered in the hot July breeze. The women had stripped down to their bathing suits. Mendy had removed his sport jacket and rol ed up the sleeves of his white-on-white shirt, but he kept his fedora planted rmly on his head. “Were you real y a member of the Purple Gang? You don’t have to tel me if you don’t want to, but—”

“That’s okay,” said Mendy. “We didn’t have no o cial memberships like the lokshen do, but sure, I bummed around with the Purples.”

“You’l think this is awful y funny, but when I was lit le

“You’l think this is awful y funny, but when I was lit le our nanny used to tel us, ‘Eat your supper or the Purple Gang wil come and steal it.’ ”

“No kiddin’?”

“Truly,” said Ann. “May I ask you another question?

Why were you sent to prison?”

“Which time?”

“When your wife left you.”

“A jewel heist.”

Ann’s blue eyes widened. “That sounds so romantic.

Like David Niven on the French Riviera.”

“This one took place in the railroad station downtown,”

said Mendy. “December of 1950. I was running an after-hours joint o Six Mile Road at the time—not a classy spot, but it made a nice dol ar and I was keeping my nose clean. Then one day I get a cal from Vit orio. He says a rabbi named Farber who works in the diamond business is coming to town with a satchel ful of stones. At rst I didn’t want any part of it. I mean, I’m forty- ve years old at the time, I got a wife, and I don’t wanna go back to the joint. But then I started thinking about it, and I decided what the hel .”

“How much money was involved?” asked Ann in a hushed voice.

“Half a mil ion bucks,” said Mendy. “But it wasn’t the dough. I was bored. I did it for the thril . Only it didn’t turn out so good.”

“What happened?”

“What happened?”

“When Farber come o the train I grabbed him and said, in Yiddish, ‘We need another Jew for a minyan’—

that’s like a quorum. At rst he didn’t wanna do it but I told him this guy’s mother just died a few weeks ago and he’s got a say the prayer for the dead only his train leaves for Chicago in twenty minutes. Farber’s a rabbi, he can’t say no to that. I bring him over to where I’ve got a few knock-around guys I hired for ten bucks each. Soon as they see us they start davening—that means praying. What’s Farber gonna do? He starts in too, holding his satchel against his chest with both hands. After a while he forgets himself and puts the bag down between his feet. I got this kid, Shel y the Sneak, over in the corner of the station in a pair of Keds. I slip him the high sign and he comes running up and snatches the bag. Farber tries to take o after him, but I give him the trip. By the time he’s back on his feet, Shel y’s out the door.”

“Poor man,” said Ann. “I suppose the diamonds were insured, though.”

“Shel y runs out of the station and bunks right into a cop. Al he hadda do was pretend he’s rushin’ to catch a cab. Instead he throws up his hands and says, ‘Don’t shoot, it was al Mendy’s idea.’

“Oh,” said Ann. “How awful.”

“Aw, I can’t blame Shel y,” said Mendy. “He was just a kid, he panicked. I shoulda planned the escape bet er. It woulda saved me six years.”

woulda saved me six years.”

“Six years seems like a very long time for a robbery,”

said Ann. “I’m no expert, but you weren’t even armed.”

“I had a lit le bad luck on that,” Mendy said. “I got a Jewish judge.”

Ann laughed uncertainly and said, “Is anyone else ready for lunch?” She was hungry, and she felt like a gin-and-tonic. Mendy Pearlstein was old enough to be her father, but to her great surprise she found him exciting. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her glad that her husband was in Switzerland.

VITTORIO TUCCI SAT with Bobby on the Til mans’ screened porch and watched the lit le sailboat bob on the water.

The sight of it sent a wave of nausea through him. He wanted to lie down with a wet towel on his head, but he wasn’t nished with Bobby yet. He summoned the wil to keep his voice strong and said, “In a few weeks, things are gonna pop around here. Maybe I’l be dead by then, but it don’t mat er, they’re gonna pop with or without me. And you’re gonna be in the middle. People are gonna come to you—your mother and her old man, Catel o, Rel i, the New York Families, and I dunno who else. They’re gonna promise you big money, tel you about your responsibilities, warn you about each other. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Why would anyone bother with me?” asked Bobby.

“Why would anyone bother with me?” asked Bobby.

“They know I’ve got nothing to do with the Family.”

Don Vit orio paused, thinking about Maria Mossi. There were certain things the kid didn’t need to be told. “You’re the last Tucci,” he said. “You got the name, and whoever gets you on their side has the strongest claim. In a bat le royale the name’s gonna carry weight. Now do you understand?”

Bobby nodded. Tucci said, “These people who come to you? Don’t trust any of them. Especial y not your mother.

This time when she’s done with you, you ain’t goin’ to no prep school. The only guy you can rely on is Mendy. He’s an experienced man, and he’s got your interests at heart.”

“That’s why you put us together?”

“Yeah, mostly.” A spasm of coughing shook Don Vit orio’s body and l ed his eyes with tears. Bobby said,

“Grampa, are you al right?”

“Fine,” said Don Vit orio. “You lean on Mendy the Pearl, but don’t let him decide for you. He ain’t the smartest guy in the world, and he ain’t no Tucci. You decide for yourself. Got it?” He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and took out an envelope. “This is for you.”

“What is it?

“Swiss bank-account numbers and the name of a guy in Zurich. The dough in the accounts is yours. Forty mil ion bucks.”

“Holy shit,” said Bobby. “I never knew you had that much.”

much.”

Don Vit orio’s ravaged eyes ashed. “Kid, forty mil ion ain’t even the interest on what I got,” he said. “But it’s al you get. The legit businesses go to the Roberto Tucci Foundation. I got a crooked judge set ing it up. As far as the action goes, just make sure you stay out of the line of fire.”

Bobby ngered the envelope. “Does Mendy know about this?”

“Al but the Swiss accounts,” said Don Vit orio. “Tel him if you want, he won’t give a shit. He don’t care about money. Okay, that’s what I came to say. Do me a favor, gimme a hand back to the car.”

Bobby took his grandfather’s arm and walked with him to the limo. “I wish we would have had this talk a long time ago,” said Bobby.

“Sure, forty mil ion bucks,” said Don Vit orio.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What, you think you would have discovered that I’m real y some lovable old geezer? Bul shit. I’m just who you always thought I was. The money I’m leaving you is blood money. The only reason you’re get ing it is because I got nobody else to give it to. Besides, I want a favor.”

“What favor?”

“I want you to come to my funeral with Mendy.” he said, grimacing as he lowered his body into the limo.

Perched in the plush backseat he looked tiny and pecked-at. “He’s gonna need a friend that day. He’l be the only at. “He’s gonna need a friend that day. He’l be the only guy there who misses me.”

Bobby wanted to tel his grandfather that it wasn’t true, that he’d miss him. Instead he took the envelope from his pocket and said, “I promise. And thanks for this.”

“That’s okay, kid,” said Don Vit orio, rol ing up the window. “I hope you live long enough to spend it.”

Chapter

Chapter

Thirteen

MENDY WAS BEHIND the counter kibbitzing with a downtown defense at orney and a bail bondsman when Rudy walked in. Mendy looked up and grinned. “My landsman from Oakland Avenue.”

Rudy took a seat at the counter, gave the white men a friendly nod, and said to Mendy, “You get a free minute, I got something to show you.”

“Sure,” said Mendy.

“Over on Oakland.”

“I nish in about an hour,” Mendy said. “Stick around, have some lunch. I got nice brisket.”

“Brisket be ne,” said Rudy. He gestured to the kitchen.

“You got any produce back there? Tomatoes, let uce, shit like that?”

“You want a salad?”

Rudy shook his head. “You got some extra, I’d like to carry it over there with us,” he said. “It don’t have to be fresh, you know what I mean?”

Mendy shrugged. Al his life he had heard strange requests from guys like Rudy. “Finish your lunch, you can go back in the kitchen and take what you want,” he said.

“Don’t worry, I got plenty.”

“Don’t worry, I got plenty.”

At three-thirty, when Mendy closed the diner, the vegetables were already loaded in the trunk of Rudy’s car.

“You wanna ride with me?” Rudy asked.

“Nah, I’l fol ow ya,” Mendy said. “That way you won’t have to bring me back.”

“Hey, that’s cool, I don’t mind.”

“Aw, you’re a young guy, you got bet er things to do with your time,” Mendy said, climbing into his Plymouth.

It took fteen minutes to reach Oakland Avenue. They parked and Rudy led Mendy toward the row of stores that had once belonged to the Purple Gang. “Check this out,”

he said proudly.

Mendy whistled and said, “Hey, not bad.” The dirty cinnamon brick had been scrubbed clean, new plate-glass windows protected by iron gril work instal ed, and there was a handsome wood door. Over it, in Old English let ering, were the words: DETROIT EAST SIDE PURPLE HEART

ASSOCIATION. Rudy read them to Mendy.

“This be the place where folks with a Purple Heart from the war against American racism can retreat for a healing hand.” he said. “I came up with that shit for the grant people at the Ford Foundation. What you think?”

“Sounds good.” said Mendy. “How much they give you?”

“Hundred thousand to start,” said Rudy proudly.

“Nice scam,” said Mendy. “Very nice.”

“Thanks,” Rudy said. “But you know what? I real y

“Thanks,” Rudy said. “But you know what? I real y chose that name in y’al ’s honor. The purple part. Since you the one pul ed my coat to the fact that this is a historical spot and al .”

“Jeez, that’s a hel of a gesture,” said Mendy. “Y’know, there’s a few of the boys stil around. I’d like to bring ’em by sometime. They’d be touched.”

“That’d be real nice,” said Rudy. He opened the front door with a key and said, “Come on in. I got another surprise for you. Something you gonna appreciate.”

Once again Mendy whistled. The room was freshly painted and spotlessly clean. Delbert, a black beret perched on his mushroom Afro, sat at a metal desk reading a copy of Jet. When he saw Mendy he scowled.

“Don’t pay Delbert no mind,” said Rudy easily. “He’s just sore cause he got an ass-whuppin’.”

“I hope you got in a few licks at least,” Mendy said to him.

Delbert exhaled a long “shit” and returned to his magazine. Rudy went to the trapdoor, popped it open, and said, “Hey, looka here.”

Mendy heard loud thumping noises. “What’s that?” he asked, peering down into the dark basement. Rudy ashed a light, and Mendy blinked in amazement. He was looking at a seven-foot kangaroo.

“Just like the one y’al had,” said Rudy. “I cal him Ali,

’cause he’s so quick and bad.”

“Jeez,” said Mendy. “He’s a beauty. Where’d you get

“Jeez,” said Mendy. “He’s a beauty. Where’d you get him?”

“Detroit Zoo,” said Rudy. “Me and Delbert picked him up last night. That’s who kicked Del’s ass, the kangaroo.

Ain’t that right, Del?”

“Shit.”

Mendy started chuckling. “What’re they, givin’ away kangaroos out there?”

“Al you need’s a big van and a Uzi, the man out there give you any damn animal you want,” said Rudy. He ipped Delbert his keys. “Del, man, I got a trunk ful of green groceries. Go on out and fetch Ali his dinner.”

“That kangaroo put another hand on me, I’m gonna shoot him in his motherfuckin’ ass,” grumbled Delbert, picking up the keys.

Rudy shut the trapdoor and led Mendy to a smal room in the back. A sign on the door said, EXECUTIVE OUTREACH

DIRECTOR. “This is my of ice,” he said. He produced a bot le of Chivas and said, “Care for a taste?”

“Sure.” Mendy raised his glass in a silent toast, tossed down the whiskey, and smacked his lips. “This is a hel of a setup you got here.”

“Yeah,” Rudy said softly. “You know what I told you out there? That I picked our name as a tribute to you? I meant it, man. You one inspiring old dude.”

“Aw,” said Mendy.

“I ain’t never met no real gangster before. You ever know Al Capone?”

know Al Capone?”

“Nah, I never met him,” said Mendy. “I knew a cousin of his, though. Ralph.”

“Ralph Capone?”

“Yeah. He was a cat burglar, worked a lot around Bat le Creek, Grand Rapids, up in there. Good guy.”

“Uh-huh,” said Rudy. He seemed disappointed. “How about er, ah, Dil inger?”

Mendy shook his head. “I think you got the wrong idea about me,” he said. “I was just a knock-around guy, like Delbert out there. I banged heads, I hauled booze, I did a few stickups, some loan-sharking. Once I ran a crap game at a hotel downtown. Another time I was the security guy for a whorehouse. I made a good living, I’m not complaining. But I was never big-time.”

“Yeah, but you was there,” said Rudy. “You seen it al .

Fine foxes sel ing Cuban cigars in nightclubs, private casinos where you got a say, ‘Joe sent me,’ al that shit from the movies.”

“Oh, sure, I seen it,” said Mendy.

“Y’al had style,” said Rudy. “Capone and Lucky Luciano and them. They didn’t play this Super y bul shit we got today.”

Mendy said, “I dunno. Seems pret y much the same to me. When you come right down to it, it’s stil tough kids tryin’ to make a crooked buck. Take you. You woulda t right in with the Purples, except you’re a colored guy. We didn’t have no integrated mobs back then.”

didn’t have no integrated mobs back then.”

“Say I would have fit right in?”

“Sure, I seen it the rst time we met,” said Mendy. He gazed around the refurbished headquarters. “Look what you done here, it’s beautiful. You’re usin’ your head, ripping o the Fords for a hundred grand. Hel , al we ever got out of ’em was twenty bucks a day for strike-breaking.” Mendy looked at his watch. “Hey, I got a scoot, I got a hot date with a banker’s wife and I need a manicure.”

Rudy said, “Man, how old are you?”

“Just turned seventy.”

“And you stil chasin’ pussy,” said Rudy with admiration. “You my role model, man. You ever need anything from the New Breed Purples, you let me know.”

“I’l keep it in mind,” said Mendy.

On the way out they ran into Delbert, whose mood had brightened considerably. “You feed Ali?” asked Rudy.

“Yeah,” Delbert said with a satis ed laugh. “I threw the food down there, and then when he come to get it I pissed on his got-damned head. Showed that motherfucker who’s boss.”

“You the boss of a kangaroo,” Rudy said dryly.

“Damn right.”

Rudy turned to Mendy and said, “This kangaroo-pissing motherfucker ain’t gonna make it to thirty That’s why you an inspiration, man. You may not be no Al Capone, but you got over. Seventy motherfuckin’ years old and you stil you got over. Seventy motherfuckin’ years old and you stil alive.”

Chapter

Chapter

Fourteen

SO, BOBBY, YOUR mom tel s me you’re a musician,” said Alberto Rel i. “Whaddya play? Disco?”

Bobby looked around his mother’s living room. Even Annet e would have been a welcome diversion, but she had dumped them together and gone into the kitchen, where she and Johnny Baldini were preparing dinner.

“Mostly rhythm and blues,” he said. “Soul music.”

“Sammy Davis, Jr., like that?”

“Not exactly.” Alberto Rel i was a man Bobby had known very slightly for the bet er part of his life. He didn’t know much about him, but he knew enough not to get smart. “Bobby Blue Bland? Hank Bal ard? Et a James?”

Rel i shook his head.

“It’s sort of like Motown.”

“Motown,” Rel i said. There was a name he knew. In Detroit it was widely rumored that the Tucci Family had been behind Berry Gordy’s sudden decision to relocate his company to California. Even Bobby had heard those stories. “That record business is a tough business. Before you sign any papers you talk to me.”

“I’m not planning to make a career of it,” said Bobby.

“I’m not planning to make a career of it,” said Bobby.

“But thanks for the of er.”

There was a long silence, and then Rel i said, “Me and your mom have got en pret y close lately. She mention that?”

Bobby shook his head.

“She’s a great girl, your mom. Maybe that sounds funny to you, somebody cal ing her a girl, but that’s how she seems to me. Understand what I’m saying?”

Bobby nodded, not trusting his voice.

“I mean it as a compliment,” Rel i said.

“Right.”

“I got al the respect in the world for your mother. I just want you to know that.”

“I’m sure it’s mutual,” said Bobby. Rel i shot him a look, trying to gure out if the kid was being snot y, but Bobby had a straight face.

There was another silence, and then Rel i said, “You a sports fan? I got a box at Tiger Stadium you wanna go to a bal game sometime.”

“Sure,” said Bobby. “That’d be good.”

“I played a lit le bal when I was a kid,” said Rel i. “The Tigers wanted to give me a contract, send me to Toledo.

But I went to work for your grandfather instead. I mean, why go down to Triple A when you can start out in the majors. Am I right?”

“Absolutely,” said Bobby.

“I was a lefty,” said Rel i, making a bat ing gesture with

“I was a lefty,” said Rel i, making a bat ing gesture with his hands. “What about you?”

“Only in politics,” said Bobby. It slipped out, and he regret ed it immediately. The way to play this game was to agree with everything and say nothing; provocative remarks only prolonged the agony.

“Yeah, I noticed you got long hair,” said Rel i. “Not that it means that much these days. Hel , I seen a Bonanno but on with a ponytail last time I was in Vegas, and he ain’t no homo, I guarantee you that. So you, what, voted for McGovern?”

“I was too young to vote.”

“I’m a Nixon guy al the way. That Watergate thing, that was a frame-up. Same as they done to Agnew.”

Bobby shrugged. “I didn’t fol ow it.”

“Yeah, what for? When I was your age al I cared about was money and pussy.” Rel i caught himself and glanced with alarm in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m talkin’

years ago,” he said.

Bobby nodded and watched Rel i run a blunt nger around his shirt col ar. Although the house was air-conditioned, he looked hot and uncomfortable. “Your mom tel s me you just finished school.”

“Right.”

“That’s good. You got a get your education when you’re young. Then you can learn the rest on the streets, so to speak. Like, you can study music in school, but you got a go into the clubs to get your chops. Am I right?”

go into the clubs to get your chops. Am I right?”

Bobby nodded. He was glad this moron was with his mother. She deserved him.

“Nixon was like that. He got there the hard way. But you know the thing I like most about him? He stood up.

He never rat ed anybody out. In my book, that’s the worst thing you can do.” There was a long pause; Bobby was aware that Rel i was scrutinizing him. “You feel the same way, Bob?”

“I haven’t thought much about it.”

“Yeah, wel you should. Squealing is the lowest thing a guy can do, especial y when it’s on his friends.”

Bobby nodded.

“I mean, let’s be realistic here. Let’s be fair. You got a guy, he’s maybe a made man or he’s connected, the point is, he’s doing business. And then he gets his bal s in a ringer and the rst thing you know he’s fucking Tony Bennet . Perry Como. See what I’m saying? A guy who sings on his friends …” Rel i pounded his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “You mind if I take another drink?”

“Help yourself,” said Bobby.

Rel i went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Chivas re l . Then he set led back on the couch and said,

“You’d be shocked at who turns rat. When you get to be my age, that’s one of the things that’s gonna disil usion you about your fel ow human beings. Joe Valachi, for example. Or Jimmy Hof a.”

Rel i’s intense stare was disconcerting. Bobby cleared his Rel i’s intense stare was disconcerting. Bobby cleared his throat and waited.

“I see you’re surprised I mentioned Ho a,” said Rel i. “I guess you haven’t heard.”

Bobby shook his head.

“Jimmy’s gone nuts. He’s pissed of about not get ing his old job back, so he’s threatening to talk to the feds. He does that, a lot of good people get hurt.” Rel i lowered his voice for emphasis and said, “Including your own family.

Over the years the Tuccis have done a lot of business with the Teamsters. What Ho a knows could put the don in trouble. I’d hate to see him spend his last days on earth get in’ dicked around by the fuckin’ FBI.”

“Yeah, that would be too bad,” said Bobby

“Fuckin’ right,” said Rel i. He stil couldn’t decide if this Bobby was a ake, like his mother said, or just a cold-blooded lit le bastard. Either way, he had made a promise to Annet e. “It’s not just the don, either. Ho a talks, your mom’s gonna get dragged in. They always go after the women, those federal creeps. They know that’s where the weak link is.”

Bobby couldn’t resist. “My mother ought to come as quite a shock to them, then,” he said. When Rel i scowled, he added, “I mean, I don’t think you could describe her as weak, do you?”

“She’s a stand-up lady,” said Rel i. “But she’s got a mother’s heart. She’s worried about you.”

“Me?”

“Me?”

“Sure, you. Once the feds get going, you think they’re gonna let the don’s only grandson of the hook?”

Bobby laughed. “I’ve never met Jimmy Ho a in my life.”

“There’s such a thing as a frame-up,” said Rel i darkly.

“They could use you to get the don to talk, or your mom.

It happens al the time.”

Bobby felt a flash of fear. Then he remembered what his grandfather had told him: Believe no one. “I guess I’l just have to take my chances,” he said.

Rel i leaned forward and said, “It ain’t gonna come to that. Hof a ain’t gonna talk to nobody.”

“I thought you just said he was.”

“I said he intends to. The powers that be got other plans.”

Bobby shifted uncomfortably. “Why are you tel ing me this?”

This was Rel i’s moment. He had danced the kid around enough; it was time to make his pitch. “You know, me and your dad was very close,” he said. “I was right there with him when he keeled over at the hockey game. You know what his last words to me were? He said, ‘Keep an eye on my son.’ ” Rel i stole a peek at the kid’s face. His expression was hard to read, but Rel i could tel he was moved. “That’s what he said, swear to God. So now, here comes this no-good fuck Ho a, out to destroy your grampa and your mom and you, and I got a ask myself, grampa and your mom and you, and I got a ask myself, what would Roberto want me to do?” He paused, waiting for Bobby’s response.

Bobby was tempted to say, “You don’t get an answer to a rhetorical question, you dumbass.” Instead he merely said, “What?”

“I think you already know the answer to that, Bob,” said Rel i. “You’re a Tucci, it’s in your blood. Your dad would want me to help you save your mom and your grampa.

He’d say, ‘Al, when you do what you got a do, take my boy with you. Give him the chance to do the right thing for his family’ ”

Bobby gulped. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to kil Jimmy Hof a, and you want me to help?”

Rel i winced at the boy’s cal ow stupidity. “I don’t need your help, Bob, that’s not the point. You know how many guys would kil for the chance to get in on this? We’re not talking about doin’ the job on some eggplant dope man.

This is a fuckin’ historical hit, like Kennedy or Bugsy Siegel. The guys who do this are gonna be made for life.”

He spread his hands, palms up, and said, “That’s what Roberto woulda wanted for you.”

“How about my mother?” asked Bobby. “Is this what she wants, too?”

“Is what what she wants?” asked Annet e. She had come out of the kitchen wearing a burnt-orange leisure suit and matching lipstick, mules with five-inch stil eto heels, and a Cut y Sark-induced grin.

Cut y Sark-induced grin.

“I was just tel ing Bobby about the Ho a deal,” said Rel i.

“It sounds kind of cool,” Bobby said, automatical y slipping into his agreeable-fool persona. “I mean, just being able to say I took part in something like that.”

Rel i squirmed himself into a corkscrew. “What are you, nuts? You do this, you can’t say shit to anybody. Ever.”

“Then how wil people know?” asked Bobby. “I mean, you said whoever does it wil be made for life. How wil he be made for life if nobody knows it was him?”

“Don’t worry, the right people are gonna know without being told,” said Rel i.

“I don’t see how that could be,” Bobby said. “Anybody could take the credit.”

“Christ, look at this kid,” said Rel i. “He’s got a question for everything.”

Annet e xed her son with a maternal glare and said,

“Al has al my con dence. He’s going out of his way for you, here. The least you can do is give him the respect.”

“Sorry,” Bobby said contritely. “Is it okay if I think it over?”

“Think during dinner,” said Annet e, motioning them to the dining room. “I got something special for you tonight.”

Rel i brightened instantly; al the talk had made him hungry. “Your mom’s a sensational cook,” he told Bobby.

“She’s got me eating things I never even knew about. You ever heard of greathead?”

ever heard of greathead?”

A joke sprang to mind, but Bobby sti ed it and shook his head.

“It’s a fish. Delicious.”

“Tonight we’re having kodai no shioyaki,” said Annet e.

“That means ‘salt-broiled porgy’ in Japanese.”

“Like Porgy and Bess,” said Rel i. Now that he was nished talking to Bobby he was in a jol y mood. He’d made good on his promise to Annet e; what the kid decided didn’t real y make much dif erence to him.

“It looks like it’s swimming,” said Bobby.

“That’s ’cause the skewers force it into a curve,” said Annet e. “Johnny Baldini showed me how to do it.”

“Baldini’s a fruit y.” said Rel i, digging into his sh. “I don’t know why you bother with him.”

“He’s a great goddamn chef, that’s why. We’re thinking about opening a Japanese restaurant. Right now we’re experimenting, put ing a menu together.”

“Hey, Bobby, looks like we’re just a couple of guinea pigs,” said Rel i. He took a slug of Sapporo straight from the bot le and laughed. “Baby, this Jap sh is fantastic.

You can experiment on me anytime.”

“Don’t worry,” said Annet e, “I got a few more recipes I plan to try out on you. You big Guinea pig.”

Chapter

Chapter

Fifteen

AFTER DINNER BOBBY stopped at a Sunoco station and cal ed Til ie. “How was it?” she asked.

“Just a typical evening with Annet e Tucci, al -American mom,” said Bobby.

“Seriously.”

“I’l tel you about it when I get there. Meantime, I need Mendy’s number. It’s in the book next to the phone in the kitchen.”

“He’s not home.”

“How do you know?”

“He cal ed just after you left to nd out what my mother’s favorite ower is. He wanted to buy her a corsage.”

“A corsage? You’re shit ing me.”

“They went dancing. I wouldn’t wait up for him tonight.”

“In that case I think I’l stay down here, get over to the deli first thing in the morning.”

“Sure, stay out al night,” said Til ie. She lowered the receiver and yel ed, “Hey, Ramón, x me another brandy Alexander. Don’t worry, Bobby’s not coming back.”

“Very funny. Listen, I should be up there by ten, ten-

“Very funny. Listen, I should be up there by ten, ten-thirty tomorrow morning. Wait for me at home, okay?”

“You al right? You sound freaked out.”

“I am, a lit le. Actual y, more than a lit le. I’l tel you tomorrow.”

“You sure? I could drive down.”

“Let me talk to Mendy rst,” said Bobby. “And tel Ramón he bet er be careful, I know a guy who’l give him a pair of cement cha-cha boots for the price of a Japanese fish dinner.”

Bobby spent the night at the Holiday Inn o Michigan Avenue. He arose at six, took a quick shower, smoked a joint to calm his nerves, and drove the few blocks to the Bul Pen. When he got there he saw a patrol car out front and a smal curious crowd peering into the deli. He felt a ash of fear, but when he pushed his way in Mendy was sit ing calmly at the counter, sipping co ee and chat ing with a cop. A nun and a dozen or so wel -behaved kindergarten kids sat nearby, eating cereal from plastic bowls.

In the rear of the deli another policeman was talking to a sul en young guy around Bobby’s age. He was tal , six-two at least, and muscular. His forearms were tat ooed, and there was blood on his white T-shirt.

“Hey, Bobby,” said Mendy brightly. “How about some breakfast? I got flapjacks.”

“No, thanks. What’s happening?”

“It already happened,” said the rst cop, a beefy, red-

“It already happened,” said the rst cop, a beefy, red-faced young guy with a beginner’s mustache. “Mendy cold-cocked Roger over there.”

“Aw, he’s just a junkie from the neighborhood. How about a cup of cof ee at least?”

Bobby shook his head. “What’d he do?”

“He came in and started cursing,” said Mendy. “I asked him to leave, but …” He shrugged his shoulders.

“So you kicked his ass and cal ed the cops,” said Bobby.

Mendy blinked and ducked his head. “Hey, I’d never do that.”

“Would you believe Roger cal ed himself?” said the cop with glee. He had a great station house story, and he was happy to rehearse it. “He reports an assault and bat ery.

When we get here he’s out in the parking lot with blood al over his face. He starts tel ing us what happened, and my partner says, ‘Man, if I was you I’d be too embarrassed to admit I got my ass kicked by a guy that old.’ ”

“I caught him with a sneak punch,” said Mendy. “It’s an old fighter’s trick.”

“You were a professional ghter?” asked Bobby. “I never knew that.”

“Sure. Everybody was a ghter back then,” Mendy said.

“Mostly I just fought smokers against my cousin. His name’s Mendy Pearlstein, too.”

“That must have confused ’em,” said the cop.

“Nah, one of us was always Kid Kennedy. We switched o . It didn’t make no di erence, the ghts was al xed o . It didn’t make no di erence, the ghts was al xed anyhow.”

“Wel , you stil got a hel of a punch,” said the cop.

“Roger lost three teeth, and he’s gonna need stitches.”

“You’re not going to press charges, are you?” asked Bobby.

The cop gave Bobby an incredulous look and said,

“Against Mendy?”

When the cops were gone, Bobby said, “There’s something we need to talk about.”

“I hope this ain’t about Til ie’s mom,” Mendy said with a guilty grin.

“It’s about my mom. I had dinner with her and a guy named Alberto Rel i last night. You know him?”

“Sure.”

“He’s going to kil Jimmy Ho a, and he invited me to come along for the ride. According to him, it’s a real career opportunity.”

Mendy sat down slowly on one of the plastic-covered counter stools. “Jeez, you knocked the wind out a me,” he said.

“He says Ho a’s going to testify against—wel , I don’t know exactly against who, but the contract’s supposed to be from the National Commission, whatever that is.”

“I know Jimmy since he was a kid bagging groceries at Kroger’s out in Pontiac,” said Mendy. “No way he’d talk, not in a mil ion years.”

“I’m just repeating what I was told. Maybe it’s bogus.

“I’m just repeating what I was told. Maybe it’s bogus.

He’s hot to impress my mother.”

“I bet er cal your grampa,” Mendy said. He poured Bobby a Coke from the fountain, went to the kitchen, dialed Vit orio’s number, and spoke brie y. Then he came back frowning.

“What’s the mat er?” asked Bobby.

“Catel o says he’s not feeling strong enough to talk right now.”

“Catel o? What happened to Carlo Seluchi? He’s the one who usual y answers the phone.”

Mendy shrugged. “He said Seluchi’s out in Vegas.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“Seluchi’s been your grampa’s driver for twenty years. I don’t see him going on vacation at a time like this.”

“How about talking to Catel o, then?” asked Bobby.

“He’s consigliere.”

“Listen, I know two things for sure. One, your grampa wouldn’t want you mixed up in a hit on Jimmy Ho a.

And two, Catel o’s a snake.”

“Okay, but right now Rel i’s the problem. Maybe Catel o could help.”

“Everybody’s the problem,” said Mendy. “What we got a do is keep our eyes open and play dumb until we gure out what’s what.”

“Maybe we should get out of town until things blow over,” said Bobby. “Me and Til ie. Just split.”

Mendy shrugged.

Mendy shrugged.

“Why not?”

“Out of town there’s the whole world to get in trouble in. This is home court.”

“It’s Rel i’s home court, too.”

“Yeah, but I been playin’ on it for so long, we might have a lit le advantage.”

Bobby put down his Coke and said, “If this wasn’t so serious it would be funny. My whole life I’ve been trying to avoid the Family, and now—one dinner and I’m in the middle of a hit on Jimmy Hof a.”

Mendy blinked, coughed, and said, “Bobby, that guy Roger? When I smacked him I was wearing these.” He held up a pair of brass knuckles.

“No wonder you knocked his teeth out.”

“In this kind of ghting there’s no rules. Especial y with bosses like Rel i and Catel o. You use what you got.”

“Great,” said Bobby. “What do we have?”

Mendy said, “We got each other.”

“You think that’s going to be enough?”

Mendy shrugged. “Jeez. I dunno. I’ve never been up against guys like them before.”

Chapter

Chapter

Sixteen

IT TOOK THE combined e orts of John Bertoia, Hedda Hopper, and the Mouse for Luigi Catel o to put the pieces together and gure out what was happening right under his nose.

First came Bertoia’s information: Rel i was spending a lot of time at the home of Annet e Tucci. Bertoia, Alberto Rel i’s cousin, was Catel o’s informer in the Rel i regime.

The father of six, he intended to have a job no mat er who won in the Tucci Family’s war of succession.

Next, Hedda Hopper came to town. Hedda’s real name was Chuckie Fina, and he occupied a unique place in the landscape of American crime as the ma a’s uno cial but universal y recognized gossip columnist.

Fina was a handsome, personable young man, the scion of a respected Staten Island family, whose parents were kil ed in a tra c accident on the Triboro Bridge when he was eleven. For the next ten years he bounced around among adoring aunts in Los Angeles, Brooklyn, St. Louis, and Miami. Al Chuckle’s relatives were connected, and soon the peripatetic boy with the long eyelashes, sweet smile, and tragic story became wel known in mafia circles across the country.

across the country.

It was the time of the McClel an hearings; people were nervous about writing let ers or talking on the telephone.

They began asking Chuckie to pass along bits of information—the engagement of an underboss’s daughter, an aging don’s successful hernia operation, a consigliere’s plan to build a new house in the suburbs—to friends and relations in the cities he visited. The information was innocuous, but no one wanted to unwit ingly give the government even the slightest bit of help.

Soon Chuckie, with his keen eye for personal detail, became a much awaited messenger. Not only did he announce engagements, but he gave amusing accounts of the courtship, embel ished medical news with tidbits of bedside gossip, and brought word of new styles of dress, architecture, and home decor in the various Families.

“This kid hops o a plane, tel s me things about my own brother I never even knew, and then he hops back on the plane and disappears,” Don Alphonse Almonte of Portland once remarked, and it gave birth to Chuckle’s nickname: Hedda Hopper.

As he grew into manhood, gossipmongering became Chuckie’s ful -time occupation. Luigi Catel o was one of the rst who saw his intel igence value. Catel o cultivated him with smal con dences and unfailing courtesy and, in return, he often got information more valuable than wedding announcements or fashion tips. This is how he learned that something big was about to happen in Detroit learned that something big was about to happen in Detroit around the end of July. Hedda Hopper didn’t know what it would be, but he had heard that the National Commission was involved.

Catel o’s next step was to get Mouse Campanel a to bug Annet e Tucci’s house.

Mouse was a reluctant electronics wizard. As a boy his 152 IQ had been a source of wonder to his parents, simple people who ran a Tucci Family numbers operation in Pontiac; but for Mouse himself, his brains had been a curse. He did not have a scholarly temperament, and he resented the expectations and demands of his teachers. He also despised the goody-goodies in his advanced classes.

From an early age Mouse Campanel a was determined to find antisocial uses for his intel ectual gifts.

Unlike most guys with his nickname, Mouse didn’t look like one. He was of average height, with a powerful upper body, a dark complexion, and jet-black hair worn in a crew cut. He got the name in high school for performing

“mousectomies”—recreational brain surgery on stolen laboratory mice.

After graduation, Mouse enlisted in the navy, where his IQ got him assigned to radio school and then to a spy ship of the coast of Vietnam. His talent for snooping won him a promotion; his involvement in drug smuggling got him two years in a military prison and a dishonorable discharge.

Mouse returned to Pontiac, where he used his parents’

Mouse returned to Pontiac, where he used his parents’

contacts to gain an appointment with Luigi Catel o. The consigliere was immediately impressed by the young veteran’s technical expertise and larcenous character and o ered him a job. In just three years he worked his way up from entry level to running the communications facilities in the basement of the Tucci mansion. Most young men would have been satis ed, but Mouse was ambitious. He knew that he could rise only so high in the Family as a technician; the senior posts would always be reserved for made men, wel -rounded mobsters with street credentials. This he knew from Catel o himself.

Despite the di erence in their ages and status, Mouse and Catel o became close. They shared a taste for fast food and the slow women who serve it. And they were both avid hunters. Every autumn they spent a long weekend at the Tucci Family’s private preserve in northern Michigan, where they mowed down deer from a jeep equipped with mounted machine guns. As their friendship deepened, Catel o spoke to his protégé with rare frankness about Tucci politics. So when Mouse played the tape of Rel i and Bobby Tucci discussing a hit on Jimmy Ho a, he was unsurprised by Catel o’s reaction: “That rot en prick Rel i.

We had a deal.”

“We going to BOB?” asked Mouse. BOB stood for Brains Over Brawn. It was Catel o’s contingency plan for eliminating Alberto Rel i and instal ing himself as the new don.

don.

Catel o stroked his double chin. “This Ho a thing is a new wrinkle,” he said. “If the Commission gave the contract to the don, and the don gave it to Rel i, that’s bad.”

“How about tipping o Ho a? Let him take care of the Rel i problem.”

Catel o shook his head. “I can’t go up against the Commission. They nd out I dropped a dime, I’m a dead man. We got a take Rel i out in a way that don’t seem like a hit. Then I step in, handle the Ho a contract myself, and everything’s tied up in a neat package.”

“What about Bobby? If he goes along with Rel i, he’s gonna have a claim.”

“I’m more worried about his old lady,” said Catel o.

“Bobby’s just a kid. If Rel i’s talking to him, Annet e’s behind it. That means we got a neutralize her.”

The Mouse laughed. “There’s a lot of guys around who would volunteer to whack her out. I wouldn’t mind myself.”

“You’re not thinking,” Catel o said. “Annet e gets whacked, we got her old man to deal with. No, this thing has to go by the numbers, one step at a time. Step number one, ask Joey Florio to come see me.”

DR. JOEY FLORIO was in the midst of a postcoital afternoon nap in the upstairs in rmary when Mouse cal ed. “I’l stop nap in the upstairs in rmary when Mouse cal ed. “I’l stop by tomorrow morning,” he said grumpily.

“Don’t worry, I’l tel Eileen I’m working late and we can go to Joe Muir’s for dinner,” said Mouse. “Fucking you makes me want to eat a juicy lobster.”

“What?”

Mouse repeated himself in an expressionless voice and waited for Florio to recognize his own words; they were the last thing he said to Nurse Felice before dozing of .

“Fucking spook,” Florio said. “Shit. Okay, I’l be down in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten,” said Mouse, hanging up.

Florio arrived red-faced with anger. “Bugging my clinic isn’t going to do you a fucking bit of good,” he told Catel o. “You think I care if Eileen knows about me and Felice? Give me the phone, I’l cal her myself and tel her.”

“Come on, Joey, you know I’d never blackmail you,”

said Catel o. “Tel me, how’s the don doing?”

“You got me out of bed for that?”

“It’s important to me, Joey.”

“He’s doing al right,” said Florio, unable to sti e his professional pride. “He’s responding to the protocol.”

“He could live to a hundred,” said Catel o. “Right?”

“Six months at the outside,” said Florio. “But these are six months he wouldn’t have if he wasn’t get ing the right treatment.”

“You told Annet e,” said Catel o.

“You told Annet e,” said Catel o.

“Like hel I did. I don’t talk to Annet e.”

“You want me to play you the conversation?”

“She’s got a right to know,” said Florio defensively

“She’s his daughter-in-law.”

“Joey, you’re a bright man and I’m not going to insult your intel igence,” said Catel o. “Since you’re taking from Annette, obviously the money you get from me isn’t big enough to buy your loyalty So we’re going to change the nature of our relationship. Let me start with a simple question: How’s the don doing?”

“I just told you, he’s doing okay,” said Florio cautiously.

He was one of the few members of the Tucci Family who knew how the fat consigliere had risen to power.

“I think he’d be bet er of in a coma,” said Catel o.

“What?”

“Maybe ‘coma’ ain’t the right word,” Catel o conceded.

“Laymen talk medicine, it sometimes comes out wrong.

What I want is for you to make him unconscious and keep him unconscious until I tel you to pul the plug. After the funeral you receive a mil ion-dol ar severance package and get lost. That’s clearer, right?”

“I’m a doctor, not some fucking greasebal hit man,”

said Florio. He was shaking; Catel o wasn’t sure if it was from anger or fear.

“If that’s what you tel yourself, that’s ne,” Catel o said mildly. “Mouse!”

Mouse Campanel a came into Catel o’s o ce. He was Mouse Campanel a came into Catel o’s o ce. He was carrying a Smith & Wesson .38 with a silencer. Florio began shaking harder. Now Catel o was sure it was fear.

“The Mouse has been after me to let him make his bones,” Catel o said in a mat er-of-fact way. “So either you do what I tel you or he’s going to shoot you and toss your body in a lime pit. Right, Mouse?”

Mouse nodded; he was ready.

Florio took a deep breath, trying to col ect himself. If he disappeared, there would be questions, but he knew Catel o would have answers. “What about Annet e? What do I tel her?”

Catel o shrugged. “Tel her the truth, that the don’s out.

She wants to see him, that’s okay.”

“What if she brings in another doctor?”

“Use something another doc won’t pick up on,” said Catel o. “You got medicine like that?”

Reluctantly, Florio nodded.

“Good. And don’t worry, I’l see to it there’s no autopsy.”

“How about Seluchi? What if he wants to take the don to a hospital?”

Catel o’s round face broke into a smile. “Seluchi is on his way to that lime pit I just mentioned. You hurry, you can catch up to him. Or you can walk away a mil ionaire.

You’ve got five seconds to choose.”

Florio saw Mouse looking at his watch with a hungry expression. “Okay, okay,” he said.

expression. “Okay, okay,” he said.

“That’s great, Joey,” said Catel o. “You’re too good a man to die over something like this. Mouse, go upstairs, kick the nurse out, and get things ready.”

Mouse ashed the doctor a resentful look and left with his head down.

“Did you know that his IQ is one fty-two?” said Catel o. “He could get into Mensa if he wanted to. You happen to know your IQ?”

Florio shook his head.

“I don’t know mine, either. Hey, look, Mouse is going to lm you in the clinic. Just tel the camera what you’re doing. Give details, the type of medicine and al . Then he’l lm the don once he’s unconscious. That plus the tape of this conversation wil be enough to keep you honest. I don’t mean to insult you, but you did try to fuck me before with Annet e. This time we both know how things stand. Okay?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I’m afraid of that at itude,” said Catel o. “I want you to be happy, not angry. Because if you’re not happy you’l be dangerous. And if I think you’re dangerous, you’re going to wind up in a place that makes the lime pit seem like fuckin’ Bermuda. So, let me ask you one more time. Are we okay?”

“We’re okay,” said Florio.

“You’re happy?”

“I’m happy.”

“I’m happy.”

“Good,” said Catel o cheerful y. “Now I only got one problem left.”

Florio said, “What’s that?”

“I got a find the Mouse somebody else to kil .”

Chapter

Chapter

Seventeen

ANNETTE LEFT THE don’s mansion with Alberto Rel i. They had seen with their own eyes that the old man was unconscious, heard Dr. Florio say the odds were he wouldn’t be back. “You’ve got to handle the Hof a contract before he kicks,” said Annet e. “Otherwise the whole succession thing gets thrown into an uproar.”

“I already thought of that,” said Rel i. “I got a meet with Lit le Jimmy al set up.”

“Don’t forget Bobby.”

“Hey, I promised,” Rel i said. “Tomorrow me and Bertoia are gonna walk through the hit. Tel Bobby to meet me at noon at the Sav-on Drugs at Maple and Telegraph. He can tag along.”

“He’l be there,” said Annet e. She pressed her lips to Rel i’s ear and whispered, “Don Alberto.”

Rel i put his hand on Annet e’s behind, but she moved away. “Somebody wil see us,” she said. “Come by my place after you do Ho a, and we’l real y have a party.

Johnny Baldini’s got this new sh that costs four hundred dol ars a pound. I’l have him cook it up for us while we’re making love, and we can eat it for dessert.”

“What the hel do we need Baldini for?”

“What the hel do we need Baldini for?”

“He’s the don’s chef, right? So he’s gonna belong to you.

You might as wel get used to him. Don’t worry, he won’t bother us.”

“Whatever you say, babe,” said Rel i. He was too happy to argue. He had everything a man could look forward to.

In just a few days he would pul o the hit of the century, become head of the Tucci Family, and then celebrate his good fortune with a four-hundred-buck sh and a mil ion-dol ar blow job.

WHEN MENDY OPENED the door to his apartment Bobby said,

“Are you al alone?”

“Sure. Come on in.”

“With you I never know who I’l nd,” said Bobby. “A niece, a showgirl, a nun, Til ie’s mother—”

“Hey, I never been with a nun in my life,” said Mendy.

Bobby’s expression grew serious. “I’m supposed to meet Rel i tomorrow in a strip mal in West Bloom eld. There’s some restaurant out there where Rel i’s planning to meet Hof a.”

“The hit’s tomorrow?”

Bobby shook his head. “Tomorrow’s just the dress rehearsal. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m actual y sit ing here talking about this. It’s so fucking weird.”

“What did you tel your mom? About going with Rel i?”

“I told her sure, I’d meet him.”

“I told her sure, I’d meet him.”

“Good. Go along for the ride, see what’s what. Then we can figure out our next move. I hope.”

“Me, too,” said Bobby. He took a deep breath and said,

“You know something? I’m scared, I admit it.”

“Jeez,” said Mendy.

“But I guess it’s only natural. I mean, anybody would be scared in this situation. Right?”

Mendy shrugged. “I bet Rel i ain’t scared,” he said.

MOUSE WAS IN the basement of the mansion working the New York Times crossword when Catel o came in and said, “I just heard from Bertoia. Tomorrow’s your big day.”

“Kind of short notice,” said Mouse.

“Forget it, then, somebody else can do it. Some other ambitious young comer.” When Mouse ushed with anger, Catel o said, “Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, I’m just kidding.”

“I don’t see the humor,” said Mouse.

“Relax, I got everything al worked out. Tomorrow after the walk-through, Rel i and Bertoia are gonna drop Bobby o and head out to Pine Lake. Dean Martin’s there, and Rel i’s invited for drinks before the show. On the way they’re gonna stop at the Family warehouse in Pontiac, so that Rel i can pick up a new sound system for his Cadil ac.

There won’t be anybody there but you. They arrive, There won’t be anybody there but you. They arrive, Bertoia shoots Rel i in the head, stu s him in the trunk, drives him up to the farm in Washtenaw County, and buries him in the cornfield. Simple as it gets.”

“Where do I come in?”

“On the way out to the farm get Bertoia to brief you on the details of the Ho a job—where, when, what. When you get to the farm, he’s gonna dig a grave. Give him a hand, then shoot him in the back of the head and dump him along with Rel i. Afterwards dispose of Rel i’s car. I’l leave that one up to you.” Catel o paused; he was beaming at Mouse with fond condescension. “A guy with your IQ, you got a do at least a lit le independent thinking to make your bones.”

Mouse stared at Catel o in what the consigliere mistook for awe. Then he said, “Bertoia’s one of us. He’s on our side.”

“Bertoia’s a loose end,” Catel o said. “Not to mention a traitor. He sold out Rel i and that’s his own cousin; imagine what he’d do to me.”

“Yeah, but—”

Catel o sti ened and said, “Hey, you fuckin’ mouse, I’m giving you a chance. You ain’t up to it, you can rot down here in this basement.”

“I’m sorry, Luigi,” said Mouse. “I wasn’t thinking.” That was a lie. Mouse was thinking. He was thinking that when Rel i and Bertoia were dead, he would be nothing but a loose end himself.

Chapter

Chapter

Eighteen

BOBBY OPENED HIS eyes and Til ie said, “You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“What’d I say?”

“Something about your mother. I hope you’re not developing an Oedipus complex.”

Bobby snorted and looked at his watch. “Speaking of mothers, what time are you meeting yours?”

“One-thirty.”

“I can drop you of .”

“I’l take the van and meet you later. She’s going downtown afterward.”

“Mendy?”

Til ie frowned. “I’m not so sure I like what’s going on,”

she said. “At rst it was a grunt, but it’s get ing a lit le sick. I mean, he’s old enough to be her father.”

“So?”

“I dreamed about them in bed together.” said Til ie with a smal shudder.

“You’re the one who’s get ing oedipal,” said Bobby. He slid out of bed, put Otis Redding on the stereo, and went into the bathroom to shower.

Til ie fol owed him in. “I wish you’d tel me what the Til ie fol owed him in. “I wish you’d tel me what the hel ’s going on,” she said.

“It’s bet er if I don’t,” said Bobby. “Mendy thinks so, too.”

“Next time you’re in the mood for sex, get it from Mendy,” said Til ie, and went back to bed.

Bobby made the drive from Ann Arbor to West Bloom-eld in forty- ve minutes. He went into Sav-on Drugs and bought the new Rol ing Stone. There was no sign of Rel i, so he sat in the Porsche reading about Eric Clapton and listening to a Falcons tape. He was so absorbed in Clapton’s problems that the sound of a heavy metal ring clinking against his window made him jump. He looked up and saw the dark, uneven features of Alberto Rel i grinning through the glass.

“Relax, kid,” said Rel i. “Hey, what kind of stereo you got?”

“Sony,” said Bobby.

“Is it any good? I can’t tel with that jig music you got playing.”

Bobby nodded. “But it’s not just the stereo, it’s the speakers. You have to get the whole system right.”

“That’s somethin’ to remember,” Rel i said. “You ready to rol ?”

“Are we taking my car?”

Rel i laughed. “I’d have to hack Ho a up like a fuckin’

Caesar salad just to get him in the backseat.”

Rel i led Bobby to his Cadil ac, where Bertoia was Rel i led Bobby to his Cadil ac, where Bertoia was waiting behind the wheel. Bobby knew him by sight and nodded. Rel i pointed to a building at the far end of the parking lot. The sign read: MACHUS RED FOX. “You know this place?” he asked.

“I’ve passed it,” said Bobby. “I’ve never eaten there, though.”

“It don’t cater to the col ege crowd,” said Bertoia.

“Okay, let’s run through this,” said Rel i. “Bertoia, you be Hof a.”

“Whaddya mean, be Hof a?”

“Be Ho a,” Rel i repeated in an exasperated tone. “You pul in, I’m waiting in the parking lot. I wave and come over. You open the window. Go ahead, open it.”

Bertoia opened his window. Rel i got out of the car, came around to the driver’s side and leaned in. “Hey, Jimmy, right on time.”

Bertoia looked blank. “Say something, dummy,” Rel i snapped.

“Like what?”

“Say, ‘How’s the wife and kids?’ Ho a’s always askin’

about the wife and kids.”

“Hey, how’s the wife and kids?” Bertoia said. He had a disgusted expression on his face.

“Good, Jimmy, how’s yours?”

“They’re al fuckin’ dead,” said Bertoia. “They got hit by fuckin’ lightning.”

“Hey, that’s good to hear, blah blah blah. Now I say,

“Hey, that’s good to hear, blah blah blah. Now I say,

‘Jimmy, there’s this piece of farmland out Inkster Road that’s about to get rezoned for a giant shopping mal .’

Ho a’s a sucker for real estate. Now you ask me, ‘Who else is in?’ ”

“Who else is in?”

“Just you, me, and Bobby.”

“Who the fuck is Bobby? Right?”

Rel i nodded. “Bobby Tucci, the don’s grandson. He’s a col ege boy, just get ing his feet wet, but he’s good people.” Rel i glanced at Bobby to make sure he was enjoying the show; he could imagine the kid describing it to Annet e later on. “Now I point to my car and say, ‘He’s sit ing right over there with Bertoia. Ride out with us, we can talk on the way’ ”

“What about his driver?” asked Bertoia.

“Ho a drives himself, and he don’t have a bodyguard.

It’s a tough-guy image thing with him.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t just RR.,” said Bertoia. “You know how many push-ups the guy does a day? I was readin’ in the Free Press.”

“Hey, I don’t know how many times he takes a dump, either,” said Rel i impatiently. “Listen to me. Ho a gets in the back, I get in back with him, we’re heading out into the country. We pul of at a certain spot, we get out, and I pop Ho a in the fuckin’ head. Then we stick him in a plastic bag and put him in the trunk. Bertoia, you drop me and Bobby o at the South eld Athletic Club. We me and Bobby o at the South eld Athletic Club. We spend the afternoon there with a mil ion witnesses while you dump the body at the farm.”

Bobby said, “If somebody sees you talking in the parking lot, and they determine the time of death, won’t the police put two and two together?”

“Hey, look at you, Perry Mason.” Rel i ru ed Bobby’s hair and said, “They can’t do that without the body. Come on, let’s take a run. Bertoia, drive nice and easy, just the regular speed. I wanna time the trip.”

The spot, o Inkster Road, was twenty minutes out and twenty-two back. When they returned to the parking lot Rel i said, “Bob, I’m gonna ask you to do me a personal favor. Come with me to Pontiac, help me pick out a good stereo for my car.”

“Sure,” said Bobby. A ride out to Pontiac would give him the opportunity he had been looking for.

“Good. How about you let me drive the Porsche and Bertoia can fol ow us?”

“Why not?”

Bertoia said, “Hey, Al, I got a make a phone cal .”

“Bul shit,” said Rel i. “You can cal your fuckin’ bookie from the warehouse. Let’s go.” He climbed into the sports car, turned the engine over, and said, “Smooth.” Then he reached into his jacket pocket and handed Bobby a casset e.

“What’s this?”

“Dino’s Greatest Hits,” said Rel i, wheeling the Porsche

“Dino’s Greatest Hits,” said Rel i, wheeling the Porsche onto Maple Road. “Something a white man can hum along to.”Bobby said, “I want to thank you for let ing me in on al this. It’s real y exciting.”

“Hey, a promise is a promise.” Rel i checked the rearview to make sure Bertoia was fol owing. “What’d you think of my plan?”

“I’m no expert, but it seems very realistic.”

“Bob, it don’t get more realistic than this,” Rel i said.

“That’s so cool. I can’t believe I’m going to get to see a real mafia hit. I’l bet Mario Puzo never did.”

“Puzo, the guy wrote The Godfather?”

“Right.”

“Why’dya mention him?”

“Just the name of another writer that came to mind.”

“Another writer? Who’s the other writer?” Rel i looked at Bobby sideways and said, “Don’t tel me it’s you.”

“I haven’t actual y published anything yet,” Bobby said modestly. “What I real y want to do is screenplays.”

Rel i made a sound in his throat like an electric dril boring into a cantaloupe. “You ain’t thinkin’ of writing about this,” he said. It was not a question.

“Course not,” said Bobby. “I mean, I might use some basic details, but I’d change everything around so that nobody would get into trouble. Like, I’d set it in, um, let’s say Bu alo or Pit sburgh. The victim could be in the Steelworkers Union, not the Teamsters. Maybe instead of Steelworkers Union, not the Teamsters. Maybe instead of the farm he gets dumped at sea. Trust me, nobody wil ever guess—”

Rel i glanced at the long-haired rich kid prat ling on in the passenger seat and silently cursed himself for agreeing to take him along. Bobby caught the look on Rel i’s face and smiled inwardly. So much for his career as a junior hit man. Rel i would never let him within a mil ion miles of the Hof a assassination now.

AS THEY PASSED the Miracle Mile shopping center on the outskirts of Pontiac, Alberto Rel i was already formulating a new plan. Bobby Tucci was going to die in the Ho a assassination. There was no other way to play it, even if he wanted to—the kid already knew way too much.

Annet e would probably be pissed and upset for a while, but she’d understand; these things happened.

Rel i checked the rearview once again and saw Bertoia two cars behind. He felt a twinge of regret that he’d have to whack Bertoia, too, but he couldn’t kil the don’s grandson and leave a witness. He turned down the music and said, “You ever catch any of Dino’s movies?”

Bobby shook his head.

“You should, he’s a hel of an actor. Okay, here’s the warehouse.” He pointed to a large redbrick building next to some railroad tracks. Rel i turned into the driveway, waited for Bertoia to pass him, and fol owed him around waited for Bertoia to pass him, and fol owed him around back. Bertoia opened the loading dock door with a remote and drove into the dark building. Rel i fol owed.

Bertoia’s hands were sweating as he switched o the engine. Catel o hadn’t said anything about Bobby Tucci coming along. He decided that he would shoot Rel i as planned and then he and the Mouse could tie up Bobby and bring him out to the farm. From there they would get in touch with Catel o and nd out what to do with the kid. He parked the Cadil ac and took his Magnum .357

from under the seat. The next step would be simple; just walk directly up to Rel i and shoot him in the face. He decided he’d wait until Rel i left the car. Bertoia didn’t want to accidental y hit Bobby or damage the Porsche.

Mouse Campanel a hid in the shadows in the rear of the warehouse and watched the scene unfold. He recognized Bobby Tucci’s Porsche and wondered what the hel he was doing here. Typical, Mouse decided: a fuckup. He was constantly amazed at the sheer incompetence of the Tucci Family’s operatives.

Mouse felt a ush of exasperation. Catel o should have let him hit Rel i instead of relegating him to the role of grave digger and second gun, simply because he had no hands-on experience. Bertoia’s fuckup showed how much so-cal ed experience was worth. It was something to remember when he became consigliere. For now, though, there was nothing to do but hunker down and observe.

Rel i honked loudly, but there was no response. “Where Rel i honked loudly, but there was no response. “Where the fuck is everybody?” he mut ered. “They were supposed to be here to show me fuckin’ stereos.”

Bobby sti ed a snort. One of the many things he disliked about wiseguys was their chronic cheapness. Rel i was probably a multimil ionaire, but he was wil ing to drive al the way out to Pontiac to save a couple hundred bucks on a hot car stereo. His old man had been the same way; he never paid for an appliance in his life.

Rel i opened the door and swung his legs out of the Porsche. Suddenly he swiveled and looked hard at Bobby, who said, “What the mat er?”

“It’s a trap,” said Rel i softly. “Bertoia’s a fuckin’ traitor.”

He pul ed a pistol from his shoulder holster as Bertoia walked quickly toward them with his arm outstretched.

There was a ash of light fol owed by a thunderous reverberation and the sound of a man screaming. The man, Bobby realized after a moment, was him. He opened his eyes and saw that Rel i was gone. He sat, frozen with fear, the voice of Dean Martin crooning in the background.

The keys were stil in the ignition.

Suddenly there were more explosions. Bobby jumped behind the wheel, backed out, put it in rst, and burned rubber onto Telegraph Road. He was shaking so badly that he was al the way to Twelve Mile Road before he was steady enough to eject Dean Martin and toss him out the window.

Mouse watched Bobby peel away. He waited a long Mouse watched Bobby peel away. He waited a long time in the dark, listening, but there were no sounds. The warehouse stank of cordite. He drew his pistol and walked tentatively toward the Cadil ac. Alberto Rel i and John Bertoia lay dead on the ground, not more than six feet from each other. Bertoia’s face was blown away, but Rel i’s was stil intact, his mouth formed in an O of childlike perplexity.

Mouse shook his head; Rel i was supposed to be the toughest guy in the Family. He closed the warehouse and walked to his car, a ’67 Mustang parked on the other side of the railroad tracks, next to a thirsty-looking elm. He was glad that disposing of the bodies—and deciding what to do with Bobby Tucci—would be Catel o’s problem. It left him free to concentrate his 152-megawat IQ on the thing that mat ered most: how to convince Catel o to let him make his bones on Jimmy Hof a.

Chapter

Chapter

Nineteen

THE FUNERAL OF Don Vit orio Tucci was the biggest event in the history of Detroit’s underworld. The cathedral was ooded with owers and packed with three thousand mourners: made members of the Tucci Family, hangers-on, assorted high rol ers, middlemen, and lowlifes. Delegates from crime families throughout the country and as far away as Sicily mixed uncomfortably with a large contingent of reporters and a few highly visible agents of the FBI.

Most of the mourners, though, were the lit le people whom Don Vit orio had touched in his seventy-four years on earth. Some, like the Sicilian sisters who cooked for the Great Man, rent the decorum of the mass with their sobbing. Others, bene ciaries of the don’s largesse who had never been al owed to forget it, sat dry-eyed, wondering who would take his place and inherit their markers. More than a few were there to silently celebrate the passing of the man who had visited some terrible injustice on them or their loved ones.

In the front pew sat Annet e and Bobby Tucci, Tommy the Neck, and Luigi Catel o. As consigliere, Catel o had presided over the funeral arrangements, taken care of the presided over the funeral arrangements, taken care of the out-of-town delegations, and seen to the details of the actual interment. There was no autopsy; everyone understood that the don had died in a coma induced by his advanced lymphoma. It was a sign of the Tuccis’

con dence in Dr. Joey Florio that he was seated with the next of kin in the front pew.

Usual y when Joey Florio at ended a funeral he came prepared for the possibility that he would be cal ed upon to treat some distraught, grief-stricken relative. Looking at the Tucci family, however, he was con dent that today his services would not be needed. Bobby was pale and somewhat glassy-eyed—Florio could tel from the aroma of marijuana coming o the kid’s black suit coat that he was stoned. Annet e seemed composed to the point of indi erence. Tommy the Neck stood facing the rear of the church, scanning the crowd for friends. Only Catel o seemed moved by the death of the don.

As he gazed at Vit orio Tucci’s co n, Joey Florio conceded that his course of treatment might have been ethical y questionable. Stil , in the larger scheme of things, he had no regrets. After al , the don was going to die anyway, and soon. Get ing himself thrown into a lime pit could not have helped the old man in any way. He had merely operated in accordance with his new mot o: Two deaths don’t make a life.

Florio had eased the old man out gently. Thirty mil igrams of liquid Valium in his evening cognac had put mil igrams of liquid Valium in his evening cognac had put him into an unarousable sleep. Twice-a-day pentobarbital and scopolamine-powder suppositories had kept him that way. Then, when Catel o had given him the word, he had sent the don to heaven with a triple dose. Even if there had been an autopsy, it would have revealed nothing.

Only a blood test could have disclosed the amount of barbiturates in Don Vit orio’s system, and no one administered postmortem blood tests to seventy-four-year-old lymphoma victims.

Actual y, Florio felt, he could congratulate himself on his humane treatment. Don Vit orio Tucci was a man who could have died a violent, brutal death in the streets or su ered a horrible, pain-wracked demise at the hands of his cancer. Instead, he lay in his casket with a beati c smile on his lipless, waxen countenence. The smile eased Dr. Florio’s conscience; that, and the knowledge that his medical skil s would soon be available to the sick and infirm of his new home, the Cayman Islands.

As the archbishop began the eulogy, Catel o craned his neck, looking for Carmine “Pat y Cakes” Pat i. The dignitaries from the various Families sat up front, but Pat i wasn’t among them. A young man, not yet thirty, he was a troubleshooter for the National Commission, in Detroit to make sure that the don’s death did not interfere with the Hof a contract.

Pat i was seated next to Mouse in the rear of the church.

He hadn’t known Don Vit orio, and he felt no sorrow at He hadn’t known Don Vit orio, and he felt no sorrow at his passing. The don’s death was merely a complication, and solving complications was his business. He spent most of his time gazing at the Ali MacGraw look-alike sit ing across the aisle next to an old man. He concentrated his stare on her neck, trying to make her turn around. Final y she did, and smiled.

Carmine Pat i was considered the most eligible bachelor in the American ma a. He was wel over six feet tal , blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a straight nose and strong chin. His father was a Bonanno Family al y in Arizona. In high school and at the University of Arizona, Pat i had been a footbal star. He got a law degree from the University of Nevada before coming east to work for the Commission. He had done such an outstanding job that he was already spoken of as a future national figure, a Frank Costel o, Al Capone, or Vit orio Tucci.

Mouse noticed the exchange of smiles and nudged Pat i.

“That’s Bobby Tucci’s girl,” he whispered. “Her name’s Til ie.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey,” said Mouse. He had been trying to ingratiate himself with Pat i al day. At Metro Airport, when Pat i asked why Alberto Rel i hadn’t come to pick him up, Mouse had made a knowing face and said, “Catel o wil explain it to you after the funeral.” Pat i had nodded crisply and asked no further questions. It was an executive style, terse and decisive, that Mouse found appealing, style, terse and decisive, that Mouse found appealing, something to emulate when he became consigliere.

Catel o spot ed Mouse and Pat i in the back of the chapel. The consigliere had been furious at Mouse for his passivity in the warehouse, but now that he had time to think about it, he realized the situation had worked out pret y wel . Bet er than pret y wel , actual y. Rel i and Bertoia were up in Washtenaw County, growing with the corn, and Bobby Tucci had lost his virginity.

Catel o was sensitive to the lingering damage that kidnapping Don Silvio Mossi’s daughter had done to his image. Going after Vit orio Tucci’s innocent col ege-boy grandson would have been a PR disaster. But by joining up with Rel i, Bobby had become fair game.

The boy, Catel o realized, held the key to his ambitions.

Bobby had the two things that stood between Catel o and unchal enged control of the Family—the details of the Ho a hit, and his status as the last living Tucci. Luigi Catel o ful y intended to divest him of both.

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty

AS THE FUNERAL procession formed outside the cathedral, Carmine Pat i felt Luigi Catel o’s pudgy hand on his elbow. “Let’s ride out to the cemetery together,” he said.

Pat i nodded. Mouse, standing nearby, was again impressed by the tal Arizonan’s cool demeanor.

Compared to him, Catel o was a lump of dough in sizzling olive oil. “You want me to bring the car around?” he asked.

“I’l drive,” said Catel o. “Wait for me at the house.”

On the way to the cemetery, Catel o said, “Some funeral, huh? The whole country’s here.”

“Everybody except Alberto Rel i,” said Pat i evenly.

“Yeah. Poor Rel i.” Catel o paused for dramatic e ect.

“He’s dead.”

“I thought he might be,” said Pat i. “How did it happen?”

“He got shot by his own cousin, Johnny Bertoia. He managed to whack Johnny back before he croaked.”

Catel o shook his head. “Say what you want about Rel i, he was a rough customer.”

“What was Bertoia’s beef?”

Catel o shrugged his round shoulders eloquently. “Some Catel o shrugged his round shoulders eloquently. “Some family thing. I think maybe Al was playing around with Bertoia’s wife, there was a rumor like that. Anyways, he’s gone. They both are.”

They drove in silence for a while, Pat i looking out the window. Final y he said, “Convenient for you.”

“Yeah, I can’t deny it,” said Catel o. “Rel i would have had a tough time accepting my authority over the Tuccis.”

“Don Vit orio picked him, not you.”

“The don never told me that.”

“Maybe not, but he told the Commission.”

“The Commission don’t decide,” said Catel o. “It’s a local mat er.”

“Unless the Commission doesn’t accept the local decision,” said Pat i. “You know the precedents.”

“You sound like a lawyer,” said Catel o.

“And you sound like a defendant.”

“How does a defendant sound?”

“Innocent,” said Pat i. “Always innocent.” He laughed and gave Catel o a charming smile that broke the tension.

“Look, Luigi, I didn’t come out here to bust bal s or interfere in Tucci Family business. I’ve only got one concern—”

“Hof a,” said Catel o.

“The don told you?”

“We didn’t have secrets. I got it under control. You can tel the Commission that it’s gonna go right on schedule.”

“I need more than that. Don Vit orio’s death has made

“I need more than that. Don Vit orio’s death has made people nervous. They’re going to be even more nervous when they nd out Rel i’s dead. I can’t convince them things are stil al right unless I’m convinced rst. You understand, right?”

Catel o drove for a while in silence. Final y he said,

“Rel i had a meet with Ho a coming up, which is when he was going to hit him. I got the word to Jimmy that Rel i had to go to Sicily for a couple days, to protect the Family’s interests now that the don’s dead, but that he’l be back in time for his meet. When Ho a shows, we’l take him out.”

Pat i tapped the dashboard with his manicured ngernails. “It won’t work unless you know exactly what Rel i set up.”

“I got the details,” Catel o lied. “Rel i fil ed me in before he died.”

Pat i gave Catel o a skeptical look but said nothing. In al likelihood, the consigliere would be the next head of the Tucci Family, and it wouldn’t do to cal him a liar to his face. Not unless Catel o had to be kil ed—and it was stil too early to come to that conclusion. In any event, that wouldn’t be Pat i’s cal ; he acted at the discretion of his client, the Commission. “Who else knows about Rel i?”

he asked.

“Only the Mouse.”

“What about Rel i’s wife and kids?”

“Rel i was on the revolving-door plan at home,” said

“Rel i was on the revolving-door plan at home,” said Catel o. “He’d have to be gone for a month for his old lady to notice.”

“You trust Mouse?”

“Absolutely,” lied Catel o once more. He had never absolutely trusted anyone in his entire life. Besides, the Mouse had punked out in the warehouse, proving he wasn’t top executive material. As soon as the Ho a business was over and he was set led in the don’s mansion, the Mouse would be a candidate for permanent retirement.

“What about Bobby Tucci?” asked Pat i.

“What about him?”

“I hear he’s some sort of hippie.”

“He’s a col ege kid. They’re al hippies.”

“The old man told us he’s not involved in the business.”

“Correct.”

“What’s the story on his girlfriend?”

“She’s a rich bitch from Bloom eld Hil s,” said Catel o.

“A real piece of ass. I guess you noticed.”

Pat i winced at the vulgarity. “Are they serious?”

“Who the fuck knows with kids? I mean, it’s the fucking sexual revolution, right? That’s what they say on Phil Donahue anyway.”

“They’re not engaged?”

“Not as far as I know.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the cemetery Pat i headed straight for Til ie. She reached the cemetery Pat i headed straight for Til ie. She looked up, saw him approaching, and grinned.

“We seem to be constantly smiling at each other,” said Pat i easily. “Very inappropriate for such a sad occasion, don’t you think?”

“Shocking lack of decorum,” Til ie agreed.

“I take it you weren’t close to the deceased.”

“I’m close to his grandson.”

“Bobby.”

“How do you know?”

“I asked. It’s not a secret, is it?”

“Secret? The prince of the realm has no secrets from his subjects. Only from his girlfriend.”

“I think I’l leave that one alone. I know your name is Til ie. Mine’s Carmine Pat i.”

“You don’t look Italian,” she said.

“The closest I’ve ever been to Italy is Mulberry Street.”

“Isn’t that something from Dr. Seuss?”

“It’s a street in New York. Lit le Italy.”

“That where you live? New York?”

“New Jersey, actual y.”

“Long way to come for a funeral,” said Til ie.

Pat i smiled. “How come you’re not with the family?”

“Bobby didn’t want me to come at al . He’s afraid his mother’s going to cast some kind of evil spel on me.”

Pat i nodded toward Mendy. “Who’s that, your grandfather?”

“He’s a friend. His name’s Mendy Pearlstein. They cal

“He’s a friend. His name’s Mendy Pearlstein. They cal him Mendy the Pearl.” She giggled. “That’s his gangster nickname. And he’s courting my mother.”

“Mendy the Pearl,” Pat i repeated, running it through his memory. He had never heard of Mendy the Pearl. “I guess your parents aren’t together.”

“The understatement of the year,” said Til ie. “Right now, as we speak, my father is screwing his head o in Zurich. How’s that for originality? I mean, who goes to Switzerland for sex?”

“Your mother doesn’t mind?”

“My mother doesn’t have a mind,” said Til ie. “Just a good soul and great legs.”

“What about your father?”

“He’s got a mind,” she said. “Sick and greedy and soaked in alcohol, but it’s there. Anything else you want to know?”

“Lots, but I’d rather find out gradual y,” said Pat i.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine. Does that seem old to you?”

“ ‘Never trust anyone over thirty,’ ” said Til ie, grinning.

“That gives you a year.”

“Not that gradual y. Let’s have dinner together tonight.”

“I don’t do dinner. Besides, I haven’t made my mind up about you yet. Tel you what, you can buy me lunch.”

“What about Bobby?”

“What about him?”

“Won’t he mind?”

“Won’t he mind?”

“Lately he’s been acting like a dick. He just mooches around with his big secret spread al over his face like chocolate pie. Suddenly he’s John Wayne, he doesn’t want to trouble my pret y lit le head. That’s not the way relationships work, at least not mine.”

“Are you going to want me to reveal al my secrets?”

asked Pat i, with a half smile.

“Definitely not,” said Til ie. “I want you to keep them to yourself.”

“How come I get an exemption?”

“Because I don’t love you,” said Til ie. “God, for a guy as old as you, you’re dumb.”

MENDY WASN’T SURPRISED when Til ie told him she’d be leaving with Carmine Pat i. He had noticed them irting in church, and on the way out to the cemetery she had asked about him. Mendy had told her that he had no idea who he was, and at the time it was true. But he knew now, thanks to Morty Klein, a Teamsters lawyer with a brown toupee, thick gray eyebrows, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the mafia.

“What’s Pat i doing here?” Mendy had asked him.

“Go know what these lokshen got with funerals,” Klein said. “Don Vit orio got a hel of a turnout.”

“I notice Jimmy’s not here.”

“Ho a? What are you, nuts? The man’s trying to get his

“Ho a? What are you, nuts? The man’s trying to get his union back, al he needs is to be consorting with known hoodlums, no o ense. He sent owers. Tea roses in the shape of a rosary. Class al the way, that’s Lit le Jimmy.

Hey, look who I see.”

Mendy fol owed Klein’s gaze to an old man wearing a wel -pressed, threadbare black suit and a black stingy brim with a red feather. He was standing alone with an expression on his smooth, hard face that said he wanted to stay that way.

“Since when does he at end funerals?” asked Klein.

“Him and Vit orio go back.”

“You know the guy, right? I mean personal y” There was excitement in Klein’s voice.

“He used to eat breakfast in my joint.”

“I remember when I was a kid coming up on Hastings, he was the toughest guy in town. Everybody was scared of him.”

“Yeah,” said Mendy. “He was plenty tough.”

Klein leaned forward and said, “Between us, you think he did that police captain from jail?”

“You’re a lawyer, you know there’s no limit on that.”

“In other words, you think he did it?”

Mendy pat ed Klein on the back. “Give Jimmy my regards when you see him,” he said. He walked into the crowd, mingling, and then circled around to the guy in the black suit. “Yank,” he said.

“Mendy. How you feeling?”

“Mendy. How you feeling?”

The question made Mendy pause; it was the rst time al day anyone had asked him. “Sad,” he said. “Vit orio was a friend.”

“Yeah,” said Yank, “same here.”

The two old men stood side by side in silence as Vit orio’s co n was lowered into the ground. Mendy cleared his throat and said, “How’d you get out here?”

“I took the bus.”

“How about I give you a ride back?”

“You’re not going to the house?”

Mendy ducked his head and said, “Nah, there’s nobody there I want to see. Besides, this is an opportunity. I got a situation maybe you could give me some advice about.”

“I hope it ain’t of a criminal nature,” said the old man.

“According to the terms of my parole I ain’t al owed to discuss nothing of a criminal nature.”

“Aw,” said Mendy. Then he looked into the old man’s cold, clear blue eyes and saw they were smiling. “Tel me, you know how to find Nobody?”

“Nobody Nussbaum? Yeah, he’s living with his daughter out in Birmingham.”

“You think he’s available?”

“He’s been available since 1959,” said Yank. “You want somebody tailed?”

“Yeah,” said Mendy. “I think it might be wise.”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-one

IN ALL THE years the don had lived in the compound at the end of the cul-de-sac there had never been so many cars parked in front, so many people crowded inside the main house. The staid Protestant neighbors watched the activity from inside their gated mansions and told one another that this was the inevitable result of al owing foreigners to move into Grosse Pointe.

The public reception was Catel o’s idea; he wanted the world to see that he was the new master of the House of Tucci. Uniformed at endants parked the cars. Johnny Baldini prepared mountains of canapés and sweets. There were two bars stocked with the nest liquors and wines.

Verdi played softly in the background, drowned out by the din of a hundred conversations. When the delegates from the Families went back home, they would report that Luigi Catel o had started out on the right foot.

Catel o passed among the crowd, shaking hands and greeting the mourners with subdued a ability. When he came to Annet e Tucci he said, “I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”

“You’re glad I’m here,” she repeated in a voice loud enough to turn nearby heads. “This is my father-in-law’s enough to turn nearby heads. “This is my father-in-law’s house, you fat fuck. It belongs to my son, Bobby, now.

Who in the hel are you, tel ing me you’re glad I’m here?”

Catel o turned to Tommy Niccola and said, “A scene don’t do nobody no good.”

The Neck grunted his assent and put a restraining hand on his daughter’s arm. “Catel o’s right,” he said. “We talk in private. There’s people here might be looking to hurt the Family”

Catel o saw that a few words from Annet e’s father were enough to calm her. He also registered the Neck’s proprietary tone. Chicago imperialism would develop into a problem, unless he could talk sense to Annet e.

Tomorrow Judge Barbera would be reading the wil . He wanted an understanding with her before that.

Catel o took a deep breath. “We could go into the don’s of ice right now.”

“Okay,” said Annet e. “Daddy?”

“You two go,” said Tommy the Neck. “This is Tucci Family business. It don’t concern me.”

Annet e gave her father a look of sheer adoration. By sending her in alone with Catel o he was trusting her with his cherished Center Cut.

“You’re sure?” Catel o asked the Neck.

“A hundred percent,” Tommy said. “You sit down with Annet e, you’re the one’s gonna need help, not her.”

Annet e kept her shoulders straight as she fol owed Catel o down the hal way to the don’s old study. There Catel o down the hal way to the don’s old study. There were tears of pride in her hard brown eyes. Never in her life had she felt more like a Niccola.

ANNETTE HADN’T BEEN in the don’s o ce since the day she talked to him about Bobby, but except for the absence of cigar smoke and Frank Sinatra it seemed exactly the same.

When Catel o sat down behind the huge mahogany desk she scowled and said, “What’s this supposed to be? Like when they make some kid mayor for a day?”

“I don’t want to swap insults,” Catel o said.

Annet e gave him a contemptuous look and said, “When Al Rel i gets back, he’s going to knock your fat ass right of that chair, gnocchi-head.”

Catel o gave it an extra beat and said, “Al Rel i’s not coming back.”

“Bul shit. I got a telegram from him this morning. From Palermo.”

“ ‘Stay strong, babe, big Al is on the way’? That one?”

“Where did you read it?”

“I didn’t read it, I wrote it. I sent it. Rel i’s dead as a fuckin’ doornail, may he rest in peace.” He lowered his eyes for a moment and said, “I guess Bobby didn’t tel you.”

Annet e shook her head. For once she seemed ba ed and deflated. “What’s Bobby got to do with it?”

“He was right there when Rel i got it,” said Catel o. “On

“He was right there when Rel i got it,” said Catel o. “On the walk-through for the Ho a job. Maybe he didn’t want to worry you.”

Annet e snorted. “The day that lit le prick thinks about anyone but himself, that’l be the day. Who whacked Rel i?”

Catel o noted the “Rel i.” No more Big Al. He almost felt sorry for the guy. “Bertoia. And Rel i did him back before he croaked. What gets me is, why? Those two, they were like brothers. They were blood.”

“Blood doesn’t always mean so much,” said Annet e.

“It’s thicker than water, big deal. You ever hear anybody say blood’s thicker than money?”

Catel o shook his head. “You and me, we got a pie here,” he said. “We divide it up into two, we each get a nice big piece. We ght over it, it could wind up on the floor. You with me so far?”

Annet e nodded and tapped her ngers impatiently.

“You want to cut the pie.”

Catel o said, “Look, I’m going to play with my cards face up. We got a be straight with each other, hard as that might be. Otherwise this whole deal”—he gestured around the study—“is gonna eat us up, just like it did Rel i.”

“You said Bertoia did Rel i.”

“Yeah, but why? I got a come to just one conclusion.

Bobby.”

“Bobby? Get serious.”

“You know who he’s been hangin’ out with?” Catel o

“You know who he’s been hangin’ out with?” Catel o asked.

“Yeah, Blind Wil ie somebody and Deaf Rufus somebody else and every other old spade with a guitar and a pair of shades in the metro area.”

“You ever hear of Mendy Pearlstein?”

“Sure, he was a friend of Roberto’s and the old man’s,”

said Annet e. “Mendy the Pearl. He used to be some kind of second-rater.”

“He was at the funeral today.”

“So? I just got done saying he was a friend of the old man’s.”

“With Bobby’s girlfriend. They rode out to the cemetery together.”

“Yeah?”

“Her and Bobby have been hanging around with the Pearl for months now. They went clubbing together, even, at the Riverboat.”

“Bobby and the Pearl?”

“From what I can see, the don put them together. The question is, why? I couldn’t gure it until Rel i got hit.

See, Rel i goes down, you go down with him. I’m next in line. Then I go down, who’s left?”

“Bobby? You’re crazy. He’s a lit le boy, afraid of his shadow. He can’t even swal ow his food in front of me.”

“Pearlstein’s not a lit le boy,” said Catel o.

“Pearlstein’s a nothing. Where does he get the bal s to go up against a guy like Rel i? And anyway, what business go up against a guy like Rel i? And anyway, what business is it of his?”

Catel o opened the don’s top desk drawer, extracted a piece of paper, and slid it across the desk. “Tomorrow Judge Barbera’s reading the wil . Here’s who’s invited.”

Annet e squinted at the names: Roberto Tucci, Jr., Annet e Niccola Tucci, Monsignor Frank DeLucca (representing the Archdiocese of Detroit), Luigi Catel o, Alberto Rel i, and Mendy Pearlstein.

“The old man probably left him a gold watch or something,” said Annet e.

“There’s a power play going on right here, in front of our eyes,” said Catel o. “Pearlstein’s helping Bobby take over the Family. That’s why the don told the Commission that whoever whacked Ho a’s the new boss. Bobby’s the only one who knows the plan. Pearlstein does the job, gives the credit to him, and bingo, you got the old Jew sit ing next to the throne whispering in Don Bobby’s ear.”

Annet e bit her lip in concentration. “Let’s say you’re right. Bobby takes over, you’re out, I see that. But I’m not out, I’m in. I’m his mother. So fuck you.”

“Uh-uh,” said Catel o. “I drop a dime to Ho a, the hit’s o . Maybe he even goes after Bobby. Either way, the Commission’s got a send in their own guys to do the job.

Once they get their nose in here, Detroit ain’t gonna be Tucci territory no more … Mrs. Tucci.”

“Maybe,” said Annet e.

“Hey, don’t take my word for it, go ask Carmine Pat i.”

“Hey, don’t take my word for it, go ask Carmine Pat i.”

“Who?”

“He’s here to oversee the job for the Commission. Ask him what happens if the Tuccis don’t ful l the terms of the contract.”

“Since when did the Commission get so powerful?”

asked Annet e.

“Since we got weak. We get strong again, they go away.

But we don’t get strong if we ght each other. You ever hear of Benjamin Franklin?”

“What’s he got to do with anything?”

“He said, ‘We got a hang together, otherwise we hang separate.’ In other words, cooperate.”

Annet e said, “What kind of cooperation are you looking for?”

Catel o paused, let ing the gravity of the moment ripen.

“I’m ready to split with you,” he said. “The legal stu , the street business, the whole shot.”

“Fifty-fifty?”

Catel o shook his head. “Seventy-thirty. I know where everything is, which means I can do without you. You can’t do without me. That’s why I get the biggest piece.”

“If you could do without me, we wouldn’t be having this talk,” said Annet e. “What do you want?”

“You got a promise to keep Chicago out of Detroit. And I need some information from Bobby. He’s the only one who knows the whole plan for the Ho a hit. I get that, I can do the job. You ask Bobby, he’l tel you.”

can do the job. You ask Bobby, he’l tel you.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“I shake it out of him.” Catel o said. “I won’t use more muscle than I need, that I guarantee.”

Annet e said, “How much money are we talking about here?”

“The street action alone is around a hundred mil ion a year, and that’s during the recession. The legal stu is maybe half that. Your share would come to maybe forty-five mil ion a year.”

“I want sixty,” said Annet e.

“That’s—”

“Forty percent.”

Catel o shook his head. “Forty points is too much.”

Annet e leaned forward and said, “You’re asking me to maybe give up my own kid, you lit le cockroach. You think I’d do that for a lousy third?”

“When it’s over, I want Bobby out of town, for good,”

said Catel o. “You can make whatever nancial arrangements for him you want, but he can’t be hanging around Detroit. Agreed?”

Annet e nodded. “Yeah, agreed.”

“And Mendy the Pearl gets whacked.”

Annet e shrugged. Mendy Pearlstein was of no interest to her.

Catel o sat back in the don’s chair. This had been easier than he imagined. “Okay, then, we got a deal. You got your forty percent. From now on we’re partners.”

your forty percent. From now on we’re partners.”

“Partners,” said Annet e. Then she surprised Catel o by smiling warmly. “I’l tel you something, since we’re partners. A lot of bad words have passed between us over the years, but I’ve always admired the way you do business. You’re a smart guy, and I like smart.”

“Thanks,” said Catel o. She had never smiled at him before, and he was genuinely pleased. Annet e Tucci was a sexy broad, no two ways.

“We should celebrate,” she said. “Raise a glass. You like fish?”

“Hey, what dago don’t like fish?”

Annet e laughed. “After the Ho a hit, let’s get together at my place and I’l make you a sh dinner you won’t forget.”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-two

WHEN BOBBY AND Mendy arrived at Judge Anthony Barbera’s o ce in the Fisher Building, the others were already waiting. “Sorry we’re late,” said Mendy, do ng his fedora and set ling into one of the padded leather chairs around the long conference table. They were late because Bobby had spent a sleepless night on Mendy’s sofa, nal y dozed o around six, and then refused to wake up. He wore yesterday’s rumpled suit and a dazed, red-eyed expression.

Barbera, a former three-term congressman and retired recorders-court judge, was an impressive man with a mane of white hair, a pair of reading glasses perched on his prominent nose, and a look of absolute probity not matched by his career in the legislature or on the bench.

He had known Mendy for forty years. Bobby he had never seen before.

The judge had a reel of lm and a stack of documents in front of him. “This is the original wil with a copy for each of you,” he said, tapping the papers. “It was drawn by me in May of this year and signed in the presence of my secretary and a notary. Does anyone know of a subsequent wil ?”

subsequent wil ?”

The people around the table—Mendy and Bobby, Annet e, Catel o, and Monsignor DeLucca—al shook their heads.

“I understand Mr. Rel i is away?”

Catel o nodded. “On business.”

At the mention of Rel i’s name Bobby’s mouth twitched.

He looked at Mendy, who pursed his lips and winked reassuringly.

“In that case,” said the judge, “we can begin. Al of you here know that Vit orio Tucci was an extraordinary man.

He liked to run things personal y, and this meeting is no exception. He made this lm”—he held up the reel—“just a week before he entered his fatal coma. In it he explains his bequests in his inimitable style.”

The judge put the lm into the projector, switched it on, and sat back to watch with the others as the ruined face of Vit orio Tucci flashed onto the screen.

“Since you’re watchin’ this, that means I already croaked,” Tucci said in a surprisingly strong voice. “Don’t worry, it’s gonna happen to you, too.

“I got some things to give away, starting with Frank DeLucca. I’m leaving the compound and al the furnishings to the church. Turn it into a convent or a monastery, whatever. The main thing is, I want Catholics crawling al over Grosse Pointe. Also, I’m leaving you my farm in Washtenaw County. Make it a camp for colored kids, see how the hil bil ies up there like that.”

how the hil bil ies up there like that.”

Tucci laughed and coughed violently into his handkerchief, inspected the contents, and said, “Remind the archbishop he promised to get every priest and nun in Detroit praying for me. I can see you from here, so no cheating. Okay, that’s it for you, Frank, you can leave. You don’t wanna hear the rest.”

Barbera stopped the projector, handed DeLucca a copy of the wil , and said, “If you have any questions, feel free to contact me. Now, if you’l excuse us—”

“I can’t wait to tel the archbishop about this,” the priest said. “A movie from purgatory.”

“He should be so lucky,” Annet e mut ered as the priest left.Barbera restarted the projector, and Vit orio Tucci reappeared. “Now we get down to brass tacks,” he said.

“First, I’m asking Judge Barbera to set up the Roberto Tucci Foundation, to which I’m leaving the Tucci Building and al the assets of the Tucci Corporation and the subsidiaries. Barbera’s got the list. The trustees of the foundation wil be him, my grandson, Roberto junior, and Mendy Pearlstein. Do whatever you want with the money.

What do I care? I’m dead.” Tucci burst into a paroxysm of laughter that quickly became violent coughing.

Catel o looked around the room. Annet e was scowling, Mendy blinking back his disbelief. Bobby seemed even paler and more disoriented than before. Only Catel o remained unmoved. As far as he was concerned, the old remained unmoved. As far as he was concerned, the old bastard could divvy things up any way he wanted—it was only a movie. The real division of spoils would take place in this world, not the next one.

On the screen Tucci said, “As far as personal gifts go, Bobby, you already got yours, and I hope you hang on to it. You want my advice, don’t work too hard, that’s what kil ed your old man. Take life easy and be an American.

“Mendy the Pearl don’t get a cent, ’cause he don’t appreciate money. You coulda been rich, you dumb Jew, al you hadda do was talk to Greenberg, we could have xed the ’45 Series.” A brief smile lit Tucci’s face, and Mendy grinned back at the screen. “Go to the house before the archbishop gets his hands on it and grab anything you want from the old days, mementos like. And take one of my cars; that Plymouth of yours is a piece of junk. That’s it, boychick. Zei gezunt.

“I got a few other smal gifts,” Tucci continued. “A hundred thousand each to Carlo Seluchi and to Doc Florio, providing I died with a smile on my face. The same to Chef Baldini plus a let er of recommendation. Fifty grand to each of the sisters and tickets back to Sicily.

“Okay, now we come to the point. Who’s gonna take over the Family? I already informed the National Commission that I’m goin’ with Rel i. Catel o, you’re a good consigliere, but you ain’t cut out to be a don. I never shoulda let you talk me into that Mossi thing.”

Catel o snorted. “Say hel o to Don Alberto Rel i in hel , Catel o snorted. “Say hel o to Don Alberto Rel i in hel , you old bastard,” he thought to himself.

“Rel i, I’m leaving you my Family,” said Tucci. “I got just one piece of advice for you—the future’s in the suburbs.

“Last but not least, I come to my daughter-in-law, Annet e Niccola Tucci. This is for you.” Tucci ashed a mirthless grin and opened his phlegm-stained hankie for a long close-up. Then the screen went blank.

“Yeah, wel this is for you, you toothless old cocksucker,” said Annet e, extending her middle nger at the screen. “Come on, Bobby, drive me home.”

“I don’t have my car here,” he said.

“We’l take mine,” said Annet e, tossing him her keys.

“You can grab a cab from my place.”

Mendy said, “Go ahead, I’l meet you back at the joint.”

YOU AND PEARLSTEIN are thick as thieves,” said Annet e.

They were heading down Woodward Avenue toward the river. The expressway would have been faster, but Annet e preferred surface streets. It was a thing she had learned from her father; there were no business opportunities on the freeway. “You got a watch out for people like him, they glom on to money. How much did your grandfather leave you?”

“Not much, just some savings bonds and stu ,” said Bobby. His eyes itched.

Bobby. His eyes itched.

Annet e glanced at her son. She wondered how a kid with such good bloodlines could be such a terrible liar. He was his father’s boy, weak and unmanly. She wouldn’t miss him when he was gone.

“I know Al Rel i’s dead,” she said.

Bobby’s ngers tightened around the steering wheel of his mother’s T-Bird.

“And I know you were there when it happened. What’d you think, you were going to keep it a secret from me?”

“Yeah, since when do we have secrets,” Bobby mut ered.

“Open your smart mouth to me and I’l slap it shut,”

said Annet e. “What the hel were you doing in that warehouse?”

“He wanted me to help him pick out a sound system for his car. Something that would do justice to Dean Martin.”

“And then what happened?”

“I dunno. Bertoia just started shooting at him, and he shot back.”

“Nobody said anything?”

“Not that I heard. I was scared shitless, I can tel you that.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Annet e; she didn’t sound sympathetic. “What about the Hof a walk-through?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Bobby. “As far as I’m concerned, I wasn’t there and it never happened. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. I want to know the plan.”

“I forget,” said Bobby stubbornly.

“I forget,” said Bobby stubbornly.

“There’s some men in town who’l help you remember,” said Annet e. “Tel ing me wil be a lot easier.”

“You’re real y something,” said Bobby.

“Why? Because I want to save you a beating? You should be grateful, you lit le shit.”

Bobby swerved to the curb in front of the Fox Theater, brought the T-Bird to an abrupt stop, and opened the door. Half a dozen downtown people stood at a nearby bus stop. “Drive yourself home,” he said, stepping out.

“You get back in here,” barked Annet e.

“No,” said Bobby. He had never directly de ed his mother before.

“Get back in here!”

“Fuck you!” Bobby screamed.

A heavyset black woman in a white nurse’s uniform shook her head in dismay.

Annet e sprang from the car. Red-faced with fury, she stalked to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“Fuck you!” Bobby screamed again. The nurse shook her head again, but the rest of the crowd whoo-whooed and knee-slapped.

Suddenly Bobby caught himself, stared at his mother in disbelief, and bolted across Woodward. The crowd exchanged appreciative high ves and broad smiles. Say what you want about downtown Detroit, it was stil a place you could see white folks acting the fool right in the place you could see white folks acting the fool right in the middle of the street on a hot summer day.

IT WAS ABOUT noon when Til ie reached her parents’ house in Bloom eld Hil s. As soon as she arrived she announced that she had a stomachache. Ann Til man poured her a cup of Earl Grey and regarded her with concern.

“I wouldn’t have asked you to come if it weren’t important,” she said. “I have some news I’m afraid may upset you, and I want you to hear it from me, face-to-face.

Your father and I are get ing a divorce.”

Til ie felt the muscles of her stomach relax, and she laughed. “That’s al ? Jesus, Mom, you scared me to death.”

“We’ve been married for twenty-three years.”

“Even murderers get out after twenty.”

“You know, Mendy said something just like that. He said, ‘You’re a lucky broad, you done a life sentence and you’re walkin’ at a young age.’ Not that I’m young, but I feel young, I real y do.”

“You’re not leaving Daddy for Mendy?”

Ann laughed. “For Mendy? Mendy’s a wonderful friend, but he’s not interested in a serious relationship.”

“He’s not interested? Mother!”

“Don’t be such a snob, Til ie. After al , you’re the one who introduced us.”

“I’m not a snob, it’s just that he’s so old. And he’s a gangster.”

gangster.”

“He doesn’t seem so old to me. And as for him being a gangster, he has ten times more character than the men I know. Your father’s a gentleman, and look what a shit he is.”Til ie giggled. “I can’t believe I’m hearing right. I’ve wanted to say that to you since I was fourteen.”

“You think I needed you to tel me?”

“Why now?” asked Til ie. “I mean, if you’ve felt this way for so long?”

“Why not now? You’re grown up. There’s no reason I shouldn’t get on with things.”

“Where wil you live?”

“Right here,” said Ann serenely.

“Daddy’s going to let you keep the house?”

“And the place at the lake,” said Til ie. “And our duplex in New York.”

“We have a duplex in New York? I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I, until recently,” said Ann. “I understand it’s just around the corner from Sotheby’s. Feel free to use it anytime, there’s loads of room.”

“Daddy’s just giving al this to you?”

Ann nodded.

“Why? He doesn’t have a generous bone in his body.”

“No,” Ann agreed. “But this is more a mat er of self-interest on his part. You might even say self-preservation.

It appears that your father’s been having an a air with Harley Malcolm’s daughter. She’s much younger than he, Harley Malcolm’s daughter. She’s much younger than he, of course, and married, but I must say they make a photogenic couple.”

“You’ve got pictures?”

“And a film. It’s quite something.”

“You put detectives on Daddy? That’s so not you.”

“Mendy arranged it. Apparently this particular detective owed him a favor.”

“I bet Daddy freaked,” said Til ie.

“Yes,” said Ann. “Harley’s the bank’s biggest depositor, it seems. That’s why your father decided to be so generous.”

“So you get the house and the apartment, and he takes the film?”

“It seems a fair arrangement,” said Ann. “Of course I’l have an extra copy. For a rainy day.”

Til ie stared at her. “What have you done with my real mother?”

Ann laughed and said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Ann Til man is a goldfish. You’ve turned into a shark.”

“Yes,” said Ann, with a laugh. “It seems that I have. Isn’t it marvelous?”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-three

MENDY WAS ALONE in Vit orio Tucci’s living room, inspecting photos in silver frames, when a wel -built young man with an intense expression walked in. “Hi,” he said, “My name’s Mouse. I work for Catel o.”

Mendy extended his right hand. “Mendy Pearlstein,” he said.

Mouse raised his own right, in which he held a Smith & Wesson .38 with a silencer. “Lean up against the wal ,” he said.

“Hey, buddy, I got permission,” said Mendy. “Vit orio left me his keepsakes.”

Mouse ran his hands over Mendy’s back and under his arms, looking for a weapon. “I’m taking you for a ride,”

he said. The sentence, which he had practiced al day, came out smooth and professional.

“You’re making a mistake,” said Mendy calmly. “Cal Catel o, he’l tel you.”

“Catel o’s who sent me,” Mouse said. He handcu ed Mendy and prodded him with the pistol, leading him out the back door and into the passenger side of a black Lincoln. Then he drove down to the gatehouse, waved to the guard, and eased into the sweltering Grosse Pointe the guard, and eased into the sweltering Grosse Pointe afternoon.

“I’m taking you to a place in Waterford,” Mouse said.

“When we get there, you’re gonna cal Bobby Tucci and tel him to meet you. Once he shows up, you’re o the hook. Simple as that.”

Mendy said nothing. After a long silence Mouse cleared his throat. “If you got any questions—”

Mendy remained silent, his expression mild and calm, like a man out for a pleasant Sunday ride. Mouse cleared his throat again and said, “Nobody’s gonna hurt Bobby. I just need to talk to him. Understand?”

Mendy nodded.

“Jesus, say something, wil ya? You’re givin’ me the creeps.”

“I don’t wanna make you nervous,” said Mendy.

Mouse forced a laugh. “I got the gun, you’re sit in’ here in cuf s, and you don’t wanna make me nervous? What are you, senile?”

“Aw,” said Mendy “I can tel you ain’t had much experience is al .”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m worried about me,” said Mendy. “Get a new guy jumpy, there’s no tel ing what he’s gonna do.”

“I’m not jumpy,” said Mouse. “And I’m not new, either.”

“I’m just goin’ by what I see,” said Mendy in a conciliatory tone. “You want me to give you a ferinstance?”

ferinstance?”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, ferinstance, you didn’t frisk me the right way.

You forgot to pat down my lower legs. I could have an ankle holster.”

A look of alarm crossed Mouse’s face. He pul ed up the cu s of Mendy’s trousers, revealing nothing more than thick ankles encased in calf-high black silk socks. “Very funny,” he said.

“Another ferinstance is the cu s,” said Mendy. “You didn’t lock ’em right. Look.” He twisted his hands, and the right one slipped free.

“Hey,” said Mouse, tightening his grip on the .38.

“Relax,” said Mendy. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He slipped his hand back into the cu . “Another giveaway is how you said, ‘I’m takin’ you for a ride,’ back at the house

—it sounded like a line from a George Raft picture. And mentioning Catel o’s name, that gives me information I don’t already have. Plus I shouldn’t be sit ing in front unless you need me up here to give directions. And—”

“Okay, I get the point, shut the fuck up,” said Mouse, waving his pistol. “I been with the Tuccis for three years, for your information.”

“Sure, if you say so.”

“When Catel o takes over I’m the new consigliere.”

Mendy shook his head. “You got a be a made man to be consigliere.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

Mendy said, “Kid, I been doin’ this al my life. You’re a virgin. It sticks out.”

“Maybe I’l lose my virginity on you,” said Mouse. Now that he said it, it seemed like a good idea, sort of practice for Ho a. Once Bobby got to the house in Waterford, Catel o wouldn’t give a shit what happened to the old man.

“Nah,” said Mendy. “Kil ing me won’t count.”

“What do you mean it won’t count?”

“To make your bones you got a do somebody on a contract from your don.”

“I never heard that.”

“Hey, if al you hadda do is whack somebody, that guy on the tower down in Texas would be a made man. Think about it.”

“So, I get Catel o to give me the go-ahead before I do you.”

“Catel o ain’t got the authority. He ain’t the don.”

“He wil be,” said Mouse.

Mendy shook his head and said gently, “It’s never gonna happen. Don Vit orio named Rel i. When the Commission nds out Catel o kil ed him, they’re gonna do the Ho a job themselves. That’s why Carmine Pat i’s in town. I seen you two sit in’ together at Vit orio’s funeral.”

“How do you know about the Hof a hit?”

“Do me a favor, put the gun down before you shoot me,” said Mendy. “I can’t concentrate.”

me,” said Mendy. “I can’t concentrate.”

“Sorry,” said Mouse distractedly. He laid the pistol on his lap.

“You got the safety on?”

Mouse checked the safety and nodded.

“Good. You’re not careful, you can shoot yourself. It happened to a friend of mine, Wil e the Schmeckler, back during Pro’bition—”

“How do you know about the Ho a hit?” Mouse repeated.

Mendy gave him a sincere, brown-eyed look and said,

“Mouse, you’re a bright fel a, I can tel that about you. But the world you’re livin’ in right now, everybody knows more than you do. Especial y your boss.”

“Catel o?”

“He told you to get me to cal Bobby, right? Catel o knows I’d never give up Vit orio Tucci’s grandson. So what do you do? You got a whack me, which sets you up for a murder-one rap. You wanna spend thirty years in the joint for kil in’ a guy my age? What kinda sense does that make?”

“You’re not gonna cal Bobby?”

Mendy shook his head. “I’d rather shoot myself. Hand me the gun, I’l do it right here.”

“Why does Catel o want me to whack you?”

“Keep me quiet. Plus I just got made a trustee of the Tucci Foundation. I go down, he maybe gets my job.”

“Shit,” said Mouse. He ran his ngers over his scalp and

“Shit,” said Mouse. He ran his ngers over his scalp and pounded his hand on the padded steering wheel. They drove for a couple of minutes in silence. Then he said, “I got an IQ of one fifty-two.”

Mendy whistled. “That’s high, huh?”

“It’s the same as Al Haig’s,” Mouse said. “Genius is one-sixty.”

“No kiddin’? See, I knew you were a smart kid.”

Mouse gave Mendy a sharp look, but the expression on the old guy’s face matched the sincerity in his voice. “I feel pret y stupid right now,” he confessed.

“Aw,” said Mendy. “Like I told you before, you’re green is al . Take me. I can’t even read and write, I just been around a few years. You get to be my age, you’l prob’ly be the savviest guy in the whole country.”

Mouse was moved by Mendy’s fatherly tone. His wise humility made Carmine Pat i’s crisp e ciency seem cal ow and Catel o’s cunning, cheap and grasping. “What do I do now?” he asked.

“You want my advice, you got a change sides,” said Mendy.

“Dump Catel o?”

“Kid, there’s a limit to loyalty.”

“I do that, he’d come after me in a minute.”

“Not if you go after him first.”

“Me go after Catel o?”

“Sure, why not? That’s how you get experience. Besides, you wouldn’t be alone.”

you wouldn’t be alone.”

Mouse said, “I dunno. I got a think about this.”

“There’s a Denny’s right up ahead. Pul in and we can get a cup of cof ee. That’s the think drink.”

Mouse turned into the Denny’s parking lot, unlocked Mendy’s cu s, and holstered his revolver. “You mind if I give you one more piece of advice?” said Mendy.

“Go ahead.”

“I were you, I’d lock the pistol in the trunk. A lot a cops tend to stop o at Denny’s, and they got tough carry laws out here.”

“No sweat,” said Mouse, tapping the gun under his jacket. “I got a permit.”

Mendy blinked hard and swal owed but said nothing; Mouse’s ego had taken a bad-enough beating for one day.

He threw a fatherly arm over the younger man’s shoulder and squeezed. Later he would tel Yank and some of the other old-timers about his new friend the genius who went out on a job carrying a licensed pistol.

FOR HALF AN hour they drank co ee, picked at an order of fries, and dissected the situation. Then Mendy went to the pay phone, made two cal s, and came back grinning.

“Your turn,” he said.

Mouse said, “Just like that? Things are moving so fast.”

“This kind of works like the army,” said Mendy. “You sit around al the time, and then bang, you got a move.

sit around al the time, and then bang, you got a move.

Not that I was in the army, but guys told me.”

“I was in the navy,” said Mouse. “I got a dishonorable discharge, though.”

“Go make your cal ,” said Mendy gently. “We’re runnin’

on a timetable.”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-four

THE PLACE IN Waterford was a boxy white shingle cot age on a smal lake. It was dusty and stank of beer and oregano, domestic cigars and unchanged bedsheets. “Nice spot,” Mendy said approvingly.

“The guys use it for fishing,” said Mouse.

“Nobody’s out here now?”

“Nope. You got a clear it through Catel o.” Mouse felt a pang at the thought that he was stabbing his boss in the back. It lasted approximately two seconds.

“Okay then,” said Mendy. “We wait. There a deck of cards around?”

“You don’t want to play cards with me,” said Mouse.

“You wouldn’t stand a chance. It’s al probabilities, statistics.”

“Aw,” said Mendy, ducking his head, “ya got a play gin while you wait, that’s how it’s done. What about just a penny a point? That way I won’t get clobbered too bad.”

Mouse shrugged. “Okay, I warned you. I don’t want hard feelings afterwards.”

They played gin and drank beer for two hours before they heard the sound of a car pul ing into the driveway.

Mendy went to the window and said, “Here’s Rudy.

Mendy went to the window and said, “Here’s Rudy.

Lemme go out, show him where to park out of sight.”

“Okay, but we keep playing when you get back,” said Mouse. He was down $215.

“The longer we play, the more you’re gonna lose,” said Mendy. “I’m cheating.”

“Cheating?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna col ect. I just like to keep in practice.”

Mendy was gone for a minute or so. When he returned he was accompanied by a tal black man made even tal er by four-inch platform shoes and a wide-brimmed Borsalino.

“Meet Rudy,” Mendy said to Mouse. “Boss of the New Breed Purples of Oakland Avenue.”

“At your service,” said Rudy, touching the brim.

“Thanks for comin’ out on such short notice,” said Mendy. “It’l be a while before Catel o gets here.”

“I see you gentlemen are playing at cards,” said Rudy.

“Gin rummy,” said Mouse.

“How about a lit le tonk?”

“What’s that?”

“A game of chance from the ghet o. Give me those cards and I’l teach it to you right quick.”

Mouse concentrated as Rudy explained the game, which was a variant of gin rummy. After the third trial hand he said, “Okay, I got it.”

“Penny a point?” asked Rudy.

“Penny a point?” asked Rudy.

“No problemo,” said Mouse, giving Mendy a wink.

“I’l sit out awhile,” Mendy said. He went into the kitchen and rummaged around until he found a box of Ritz crackers and a half-empty jar of Skippy peanut but er.

He spread the Skippy with his pocketknife, placed the hors d’oeuvres on a plate, and brought them into the living room. Then he took a seat near the window where he could keep an eye out for Catel o while he watched Rudy swindle Mouse at tonk.

They were in the middle of a hand when Mendy saw Catel o’s Cadil ac pul up. There was no one with him.

“Mouse, put the cu s back on me,” he said. “Rudy, you bet er wait in the bedroom til I give you the high sign.”

When Catel o walked in, he nodded and said, “Hel o, Mendy.”

Mendy nodded back and said, “Luigi. How about let in’

my hands loose here?”

“Where’s Bobby?” Catel o asked Mouse.

“Mendy won’t make the cal .”

“Cal Bobby and you can go,” said Catel o.

“Aw, I can’t do that,” said Mendy.

“We’re not going to hurt the kid,” said Catel o. “I just need some information.”

“He’s a col ege boy,” said Mendy. “Al he knows is the names of rock-and-rol bands.”

“Bul shit,” said Mouse. “He knows the details of the Hof a hit.”

Hof a hit.”

Catel o’s head snapped in Mouse’s direction. “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

“That’s what this is al about?” said Mendy. “You shoulda said so back at the don’s house, I woulda saved everybody the trouble.”

“You know about the Hof a job?”

“Bobby told me about it when he came back from the warehouse in Pontiac. He was pret y shook up about Rel i.”

“Yeah, wel , accidents happen,” said Catel o. “Besides, Bobby had no business being there in the first place.”

“That’s what I told him,” said Mendy. “Certain things kids got a learn for themselves. I was the same way. I remember this one time, I musta been maybe nineteen, around in there—”

Catel o held up his hand and said, “You know the details of the job?”

“It’s so simple it’s ridiculous,” said Mendy. “Rel i meets Jimmy in the parking lot of the Red Fox on Thursday at four-thirty. Jimmy fol ows Rel i, to see some piece of property in the sticks. They get there, Rel i shoots him, dumps the body, and that’s that.”

“Hof a know where this property is?”

“Out Inkster Road’s al I know.”

“That’s good enough,” said Catel o. “I pul up in the Red Fox lot and I go, ‘Hey, Jimmy, howya doin’? Rel i’s stil in Sicily, he asked me to show you the property, fol ow me.’

Sicily, he asked me to show you the property, fol ow me.’

We pick some nice quiet place, and when we pul in, Mouse, you’re waitin’. We take Ho a, you dump the car and lose the body, and that’s that.”

“What makes you think Ho a’s gonna fol ow you?”

asked Mendy.

Catel o picked up a Ritz cracker and munched thoughtful y. Final y he said, “Me and Jimmy have history.

He’s got no reason to worry about me.”

“What about Bobby?” asked Mouse. “You gonna let him of the hook?”

“Fuck Bobby,” said Catel o. “We don’t need him anymore.”

“Now you’re talkin’,” said Mendy. “How about you spring these cuf s? They’re cut in’ of my circulation.”

“You know bet er than that,” said Catel o. “Mouse, you want to make your bones? Tonight’s the night.”

“You want me to kil Mendy?”

“Hey, come on, I’m sit in’ right here listenin’,” said Mendy.

“Sorry,” Catel o said. He took Mouse aside and quietly said, “Wait til I leave, then smother him with a pil ow and drop him someplace.”

“Where?”

“There’s a mil ion lakes out here. Choose one.”

“You do this, the Purples are gonna come after you,”

said Mendy.

Catel o laughed and said to Mouse, “You bet er get Catel o laughed and said to Mouse, “You bet er get moving. If he croaks from Alzheimer’s, it don’t count as an of icial hit.”

“Hey, I’m serious, the Purples are back. They’re al over the place.” Mendy paused, waiting, but Rudy didn’t appear. He raised his voice and cal ed, “Even out here.”

“What are you yel ing about?” Catel o demanded.

“Me,” said Rudy, ambling out of the kitchen on his two-tone platforms, a peanut but er and Ritz in one hand and an Uzi in the other.

Mendy twisted his hands free and said, “Jeez, I thought you forgot me.”

“I was enjoying myself, just watching you work your show,” said Rudy. He turned to Catel o and said, “I can’t help it, man, whenever I’m around this old dude he takes my black ass clear out of the moment.”

Catel o gave Mouse a do-something signal with his eyes, but Mouse simply returned a de antly resentful glare.

“You didn’t tel me it doesn’t count if it’s not an o cial contract,” he said to Catel o. “You never mentioned that.”

“That’s crap,” Catel o snapped. He was ghting to regain his poise. Turning to Rudy he said, “Look, kid, I don’t know what kinda bul shit you been hearin’, but my name is Luigi Catel o. That mean anything to you?”

Rudy shook his head. “Nope.”

“You heard of the Tucci Family, right?”

“Yeah, they the I-talian mafia.”

“Good. Wel , I’m the head of the Tucci Family. That’s

“Good. Wel , I’m the head of the Tucci Family. That’s who you’re fuckin’ with. Now put down the gun and beat it.”“Wait a minute,” said Rudy. “If you the head of the Tucci Family, how come your name ain’t Tucci? What are you, some kind of brother-in-law?”

“Mouse, explain it to him,” said Catel o.

“He’s an interloper,” said Mouse. “That means—”

“I know what it means, motherfucker,” said Rudy.

“He don’t mean no harm,” said Mendy. “He su ers from a high IQ.”

“Yeah, sorry,” said Mouse. “No of ense.”

“No damage, no foul, my man,” said Rudy.

Catel o said to Rudy, “Give me the gun and you can have a piece of the smack and coke action on the East Side. You’l be the richest eggplant in town.”

“Nah, I’m already independently wealthy,” said Rudy easily. “Besides, I got a feelin’ you sel in’ me wolf tickets.”

“Listen to what I’m tel ing you—I can make you the fuckin’ colored don of Detroit.”

“Man, I got a problem with that don shit, on account of Don Ho.” He turned to Mendy. “What we gonna do with the godfather here?”

“I been thinkin’,” said Mendy. “You stil got Muhammad Ali?”

Rudy’s dark eyes lit up. He turned to Mouse and said,

“This man, just one thought from his mind be enough to blow of the whole top of a average motherfucker’s head.”

blow of the whole top of a average motherfucker’s head.”

“Who’s Ali?” asked Mouse.

“Whatever you’re get ing, I’l triple it,” said Catel o to Rudy.

Rudy ignored the o er and said, “Ali is our mascot. He gonna love Mr. Softbody here.”

“Mouse, you fuckin’ wop, when this is over I’m gonna put a piece of you in every gravel pit in Michigan,” said Catel o. “What are you, nuts, siding with a nigger?”

“What kind of mascot?” asked Mouse. “Like a stu ed animal?”

Rudy smiled and looked directly into Catel o’s brown eyes. “Bet er not let Ali hear you cal him stuf ed,” he said.

“He’s a kangaroo,” said Mendy.

“Yeah, but not no regular kangaroo. He’s a pissed-o , seven-foot ying purple people-eater, that’s who Ali is.

And I’l tel you one other something. Delbert, this militant friend of mine? He been readin’ Elijah Speaks to Ali until he thinks he’s some kinda Muslim. Got that animal al ful of race pride. So if I was you, my man, I’d just ease o on that nigger talk, ’less you want a seven-foot kangaroo dick up your pasta-fied ass.”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-five

WHEN BOBBY GOT back to the apartment he found Til ie in the bedroom reading Vonnegut. “We’ve got to talk,” he said.

“Final y,” she said, closing the book.

Bobby took a deep breath and said, “The other day, when I went to Detroit I met a guy named Al Rel i. He’s a friend of my mother’s. Was. He’s dead.” He paused.

“Keep going.”

“He was going to kil Jimmy Ho a. And I was supposed to tag along as an apprentice hit man sort of. Only he got numbed in a shoot-out in a warehouse in Pontiac.”

“Where were you?”

“Right there. Ten feet away, maybe. I could smel the gunpowder or whatever it is. I can stil smel it.”

“Jesus,” said Til ie.

“I panicked. For a while I just drove around. Then I went to Mendy’s.”

Til ie threw her book at Bobby. “I can’t believe al this was happening to you and you didn’t say a thing to me,”

she said.

“I didn’t, you know, want to get you more involved than you had to be.”

you had to be.”

“I feel like I don’t know you at al . You were actual y going to kil Jimmy Hof a?”

“Are you kidding? I was going to get out of it, convince Rel i I was weird.”

“Jesus, no wonder you were freaked out the other day,”

said Til ie. “Wel , since this Rel i guy’s dead, it’s al over.

No?”

“I wish it was. Mendy heard from one of his cronies that some ma a honcho was sent in to make sure the Ho a job gets done.”

“Sent in? From where?”

“New Jersey,” said Bobby. “What di erence does that make?”

Til ie was silent for a long moment. Then she looked directly into Bobby’s eyes and said, “I think I met this guy at your grandfather’s funeral. Is his name Carmine Pat i?”

Bobby nodded.

“Oh, shit,” said Til ie. She was grinning.

“What?”

“He tried to hit on me.”

“And?”

“I was tempted. The way you’ve been acting.”

Bobby surprised her by smiling back. “I sure pissed you of ,” he said.

“You sure did.”

“How do I get back on your good side?”

“Try communicating for a change.”

“Try communicating for a change.”

“Isn’t there an easier way?” Til ie stared at him, and Bobby said, “Hey, I’m only kidding.”

“I know when you’re kidding,” said Til ie. She sighed. “I don’t feel like being mad at you right now. Not when you’re in this kind of trouble.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle things.”

“Pat i is a dangerous guy.”

“Yeah? Wel , I’m a pret y dangerous guy myself. Not.”

He laughed, and Til ie did too.

“When you’re like this, you are dangerous,” she said.

THE ELEVATOR OPENED and Annet e stepped into her father’s stubby embrace. “How’s things in the Motor City?” he asked.

“I came to talk,” said Annet e. “Not on the phone.”

“So let’s talk.”

“I got a freshen up first,” she said.

Annet e went upstairs, put on her mother’s black silk dressing gown and a pair of satin slippers, and touched her neck with My Sin. Her father whistled when she came into the den. “You’re a beautiful woman,” he said appreciatively.

“As beautiful as she was?”

“Your mother, rest her soul, never had your inner beauty,” said Tommy the Neck. He poured them each a glass of Chianti and raised his in a toast. “To my lit le glass of Chianti and raised his in a toast. “To my lit le girl.”

She raised her own glass and said, “To the Center Cut.”

Tommy sat down next to her on the leather couch. “So, what’s so important?” he asked.

“Everybody’s missing,” she said.

“Who’s everybody?”

“Catel o, for one. I haven’t seen him since the day before yesterday when they read the wil . Nobody knows where he is. And Bobby’s gone, too. I think they might be of together, planning something.”

“Bobby doesn’t have the bal s,” said Tommy.

“Maybe he does. He hasn’t been himself lately Or it could be that Catel o’s got him.”

Tommy stroked his chin, contemplating the situation in al its complexity. Final y he said, “We got a do the job on Ho a before Catel o. You already know most of the details from Rel i. What you don’t have is the time. Maybe Catel o got that from Bobby, maybe not. But we don’t need it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Annet e.

“Cal Ho a’s o ce, tel his secretary Al Rel i’s stuck in Sicily. He wants you to go to the meet instead of him,

’cause it’s a deal that won’t wait. Say that you got a reschedule, move it up. Let Ho a pick the new time and place. He won’t be scared of you, just make sure he knows you’re coming alone.”

“What if Catel o cal s him, too?”

“What if Catel o cal s him, too?”

“Don’t worry. I’l get word to Jimmy that Catel o’s out,”

said Tommy. “That this is strictly your deal and Rel i’s.”

“Okay, I meet Hof a, I’m alone. Then what?”

“Tel him you wanna take one car, you can talk on the way. Try to make it yours, but don’t insist. Drive him out in the country, we choose the spot in advance. When you get there, take him.”

“Me?”

“Why the hel not?” said Tommy “You can handle a gun as good as any guy. Just give him one to the head, and bye-bye, Jimmy.”

Annet e stared at her father. “Do you real y mean it?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. After you do him, stick him in a body bag,” said Tommy. “He’s a lit le guy, but it’s dead weight, so you’re gonna have to tug. Close up the bag and wait, Ralph and Jo-Jo wil come by. I’m sending them to Detroit to dispose of the body, but I don’t want them to know who they’re disposing of.”

“Ralph and Jo-Jo are blood,” said Annet e.

“Yeah, but there’s gonna be heat on this you wouldn’t believe,” said Tommy. “The only two people in the world I trust a hundred percent are sit ing in this room.”

Annet e sat in silence for what seemed like a long time.

Her father was sending her, a woman, out to make her bones in the biggest hit of the century. “I don’t know what to say,” she mumbled.

Tommy shrugged his neckless shoulders. “You earned Tommy shrugged his neckless shoulders. “You earned it,” he said simply.

“I won’t let you down,” Annet e said.

“I got al the con dence in you,” said Tommy. “Now, remember, you’re gonna be the last person they know of who saw Ho a, so natural y the rst nger’s gonna point at you. But if there’s no body, there’s no crime, that’s the law. You dropped him back o at the Red Fox. For al you know he skipped the country with Teamster money, or he’s holed up with a broad somewhere. Maybe they believe you, maybe not. But they can’t do a thing if they ain’t got the body.”

“There’s half a dozen places I can think of to ditch him,”

said Annet e.

“If you can think of ’em, so can they. Every cop in America’s gonna be looking to get famous nding Jimmy Ho a. We got a put him where nobody’d ever even dream of looking.”

“Like where?”

Tommy grinned widely, exposing his yel ow, nubby teeth, and said, “I got an idea.” He crooked his nger and leaned over to whisper his secret in her ear. She bent toward him, but at the last moment she turned her head so that her face met his. “Oh, Daddy,” she breathed and opened her lips.

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-six

MENDY AND MOUSE were at the Bul Pen eating steak and eggs when the phone rang. It was Rudy. “Excuse the interruption,” he said, “but you think you could swing by here?”

“Something the mat er?” asked Mendy.

“De nitely,” said Rudy. “Something is de nitely the mat er.”

Rudy was waiting outside the clubhouse when they arrived. Mouse took a look at the sign and said, “The Toussaint l’Ouverture Freedom Al iance of Oakland Avenue?”

“That’s our new name,” said Rudy apologetical y. “The lady from the Ford Foundation said it sounds more militant. They some badass hard-liners over there. But don’t worry, we stil New Breed Purples when the foundation people ain’t around.”

“Hey, you got a go with what works,” said Mendy. “I remember when Lefty Levine opened up a gambling joint cal ed the Theodor Herzl Hebrew Aid Society just down the block here. He hired a rabbi to stand out in front like a cigar store Indian. So, what’s the problem?”

“Y’al bet er see this for yourselves,” said Rudy. He

“Y’al bet er see this for yourselves,” said Rudy. He unlocked the door and led them inside. The place was empty except for a noticeably subdued Delbert, who sat at his desk in the front.

“Hiya, Delbert,” said Mendy.

Rudy shot Delbert a contemptuous look and said,

“Catel o stil in my of ice?”

“He’s back there.”

“Come on, say hel o,” Rudy said. They fol owed him to the o ce, where Luigi Catel o sat slumped in a chair, his eyes shut, his plump features twisted into a grimace.

Mouse said, “Luigi, you don’t look too good.”

“You got a speak up a lit le,” said Rudy, “him being dead and al .”

Mouse stumbled, bumping into Mendy, who took him by the shoulders and guided him into a chair. Mendy inspected the body and said, “What croaked him?”

“Ask Delbert,” said Rudy.

“Fear croaked his ass,” said Delbert resentful y. “He supposed to be the baddest dude in the ma a. How the fuck I know he scared of animals?”

“Delbert put him down in the cel ar and let Ali o the chain,” said Rudy.

“The kangaroo did this?” said Mendy. “I don’t see no marks.”

“Ali never laid a hand on him,” said Delbert. “Hel , he’s a damn vegetarian, he don’t bite. He wasn’t gonna do nothin’.”

nothin’.”

“So what happened?” asked Mendy.

“Like I told you, the motherfucker died of fear. He just grabbed that fat chest of his and flopped on the floor.”

“Jeez,” said Mendy. “That’s a new one.”

Mouse mut ered, “May God have mercy on his soul.”

“Amen,” said Rudy. “Now, what we gonna do with him?”

“Catel o’s people know he was coming to Waterford to see me. My ass is in a sling,” said Mouse.

“Oh, yeah?” said Delbert with evident relief. “You hear that, Rudy? We ditch the body, nobody ain’t gonna suspect us, man. It’s al on this motherfucker.”

Rudy said, “The Mouse ain’t gonna say a word, that what you think? Not even mention us at al ?”

Delbert said, “Shoot his ass and ditch ’em together.”

Mouse drew his pistol and said, “Hey, you chocolate cock-sucker, anybody gets shot around here it’s gonna be you.”

“Man, put that away, nobody’s gonna shoot anybody,”

said Rudy. “Delbert, the Mouse come al the way over here to give us a hand, and you talkin’ about what? Shoot the motherfucker?”

“Shit,” said Delbert. “I told you we don’t need to be get in’ mixed up with these damn dagos.”

Mendy snapped his ngers and said, “Hey, did I ever tel you about Dr. Fred Marcoo?”

Mouse, Delbert, and Rudy al shook their heads.

Mouse, Delbert, and Rudy al shook their heads.

“Back during Pro’bition, Dr. Fred Marcoo was a sawbones who used to hang out at Jew Mary’s cathouse.

He was a real prominent guy, but regular. Sometimes I sold him Scotch, he drank Haig & Haig. One time he took an appendix out for a cousin of mine, also named Mendy Pearlstein, I might have mentioned him.”

“Man, what this got to do with the corpse?” asked Delbert.

Rudy gave Delbert an admonishing look and said, “Go on, man, tel us about Dr. Magoo.”

“Marcoo. Anyways, this one day he comes in and I can see he’s feelin’ blue. He says, ‘Mendy, today a patient of mine just keeled over and died in the middle of an examination.’ I said, ‘Jeez, that’s tough. Whaddya do in a jam like that?’ And Dr. Marcoo told me something I never forgot. He said, ‘When a patient dies in your o ce, always drag him out in the hal and lay him down so it looks like he was on the way in to see you.’ ”

“Man say, ‘Drag him in,’ ” said Rudy. “That’s some deep strategy.” He was grinning.

“See, Catel o wasn’t murdered, he’s just dead,” said Mendy. “Anybody could have a heart at ack. The question is, who nds him, and where? Mouse, you know where Carmine Pat i’s stayin’?”

“At the Ponch,” said Mouse. Cal ing the Pontchartrain Hotel by its nickname made him feel like an insider.

“Okay, give him a ring, tel him Catel o’s on his way

“Okay, give him a ring, tel him Catel o’s on his way down to see him about something urgent. Tel Pat i to meet him in the parking garage in an hour. Then stick Catel o in the trunk of your car, drive him over there.

Delbert, you fol ow in Catel o’s car. When you get there put Catel o behind the wheel of his Caddy, turn the radio on, wipe for prints, and you’re al set.”

“Let the man think Catel o died on the way in to see his ass,” said Rudy.

“Sure. Then he’s Pat i’s problem,” Mendy said.

“Slick,” Delbert conceded.

“Thanks. Mouse, you bet er use a pay phone; the hotel switchboard keeps a record.”

Rudy ipped Mouse a quarter. “Go up to the Gulf station on Woodward. They customer-friendly when it comes to white people.”

“One thing, though,” said Mouse. “If that doctor just dragged the guy out into the hal like that and washed his hands of the whole mess, how come he was so upset?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Mendy. “See, it turned out that his wife had just totaled her new Buick that afternoon.”

Rudy nodded. “That’l mess up a mood,” he said.

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-seven

ON WEDNESDAY, JULY 30, Annet e Tucci awakened with a mouth ful of fur. Scratch, curled up next to her, had somehow wedged the tip of his tail between her teeth.

Gently she stroked the cat until he stirred. He arched his back and purred as he slid his wet tail onto the satin pil ow.

Annet e glanced at her clock radio—ten-thirty. At this moment she was stil a ma a widow, one of many; in a few hours she would be the most powerful woman in organized crime.

She owed it al to her father. He was a giant, a genius, the greatest man she had ever known. Compared to him, Rel i and Catel o were lit le boys squabbling in a school yard. She was only glad that she could repay his love and trust by delivering Detroit into his grand scheme.

Someday, many years from now she hoped, she herself would rule the Center Cut. It was the destiny of the Niccolas.

Annet e rose slowly, drew a bath, soaked her lean, strong body in rose water, and toweled o in front of Scratch’s hungry stare. Wrapped in white terrycloth, a violet turban on her head, she watched the sailboats on violet turban on her head, she watched the sailboats on Lake St. Clair as she ate half a Fruit-of-the-Month Club honeydew and sipped special y roasted Colombian cof ee.

Three cups later, Annet e went to her dressing room and chose a conservative black silk suit, a white blouse that came to her neck, and sensible shoes. She wore light makeup, and her only jewelry was a smal gold necklace that had belonged to her mother. When she inspected herself, she saw an at ractive, unspectacular woman. It was a look designed to put the priggish Hof a at ease.

Next, Annet e loaded her purse, a smal black custom-made Gucci given to her by her cousins Ralph and Jo-Jo, who had own in from Chicago the night before. The Gucci had a special pistol mount that al owed her to aim and re without taking the gun from the purse. She also packed two Ziploc bags, a tube of lip gloss, a rol of sugarless wintergreen mints, a smal jar of hand cream, and a butcher knife. Then she snapped the purse shut, kissed Scratch on the nose, and walked out of the house ready to make history.

THERE HAD BEEN nobody waiting for Carmine Pat i this time when he arrived at Metro Airport, nor had he expected anyone. He had only been gone six hours, after al , just long enough to y into Newark Airport and confer with the ve old men of the Commission in a private room at La Luna Restaurant in Paramus.

La Luna Restaurant in Paramus.

Two of them, Edward “the Judge” Polumba and the notoriously taciturn Sam Spadol ini, headed New York Families. The others were Alfredo Orel ini of Providence, representing al of New England; Michael “the Actor”

DiBlanca of Los Angeles; and Wil ie “Knuckles” Bontera from Dal as. Into their hands had been entrusted the executive decision-making of the American underworld.

“I wouldn’t have requested such an urgent meeting, but the situation in Detroit requires a decision,” Pat i had said, with a formality appropriate to the occasion. “Frankly, I have no idea what to do.”

The Commissioners nodded in approbation; humility in a young man was a prized, and increasingly rare, quality.

“Speak freely,” said Don Polumba.

“These Detroit people are crazy,” said Pat i. “They’ve kil ed each other o . First Don Tucci—al right, that could have been a natural death. Then Rel i gets shot in a warehouse by his cousin. At the funeral, Catel o tel s me he’s in charge. Three days later he turns up dead in his car in the parking garage of my hotel. The doctors say it was a heart at ack.”

“But you doubt this?” said Don Polumba.

“When I found him, his car radio was tuned to a black radio station,” said Pat i. “From what I know of Catel o, h e wasn’t the kind of man who listened to Curtis May eld.” The old men nodded. Not one of them had ever heard of Curtis May eld. Silently they congratulated ever heard of Curtis May eld. Silently they congratulated themselves on choosing this perceptive young American as their emissary.

“If Catel o was murdered,” said Orel ini, “who did it?”

Michael DiBlanca said, “With al the respect, I don’t see what di erence it makes. Unless somebody here has a personal interest in the mat er?” They looked at one another and shrugged. “We had a deal with Vit orio Tucci.

His Family does the Ho a contract by the end of the month. Tomorrow’s the thirtieth, and Ho a’s stil walking around. Which means the contract’s no good. Which means we do what’s necessary.”

Wil ie Bontera cracked his knuckles for at ention and said, “The Tuccis got another forty-eight hours.”

“The Tuccis are al dead,” said DiBlanca irritably. “Pat i just said so. What’re they, gonna come back from the grave to do the job?”

“Is that right?” asked Don Polumba. “Are they al dead?” As the senior member, he was the Commission’s informal chairman.

“The only remaining Tuccis of any consequence are the daughter-in-law, Annet e, and the grandson, Bobby,” said Pat i.

“A woman and a boy,” said DiBlanca.

“She’s the daughter of Tommy Niccola, don’t forget,”

said Orel ini.

“Al the more reason to move now,” said DiBlanca. “I’m not speaking from greed. I control Los Angeles, what do I not speaking from greed. I control Los Angeles, what do I care about Detroit? But we can’t al ow chaos.”

“No,” said Bontera. “We made a promise to Vit orio Tucci. Okay, he’s dead, but nobody sit ing around this table is immortal. Each one of us wil be in his shoes sooner or later. We don’t live up to our word, nobody here wil be certain his plans for the future of his Family wil be respected. And then there wil be chaos.”

“Let’s be practical,” said Orel ini. Although he had been born in Sicily, his control of New England had won him a reputation for Yankee pragmatism. “We’re only talking about two days here.”

“Unless the Tuccis ask for an extension,” said Bontera.

“They got that right.”

“What Tuccis, for Christ’s sake?” said DiBlanca.

“The grandson,” said Bontera. “If he’s interested.”

“I don’t think he is,” said Pat i. “But Annet e’s another story. She’s ambitious for the boy.”

“I stil say we take over now, before a vacuum sets in,”

said DiBlanca.

“And I stil say a promise is a promise,” said Bontera.

Don Polumba looked at his fel ow New Yorker. “Sam?

You haven’t said a word.”

“Respect the deal,” rasped Spadol ini.

“Yes,” said Polumba. “We gave our word, we must respect our word. We’re not politicians here, we’re Men of Honor. Carmine, go back to Detroit, speak with the mother and the boy. Explain our arrangement with Don mother and the boy. Explain our arrangement with Don Tucci. Give this Bobby another two weeks. If he hits Hof a, we back him for boss. If he’s not interested, we o er a fair buyout. Something to keep Tommy the Neck quiet.”

“What if Annet e decides that she wants control of the Tuccis herself?”

“Impossible,” said Wil ie Bontera. “A woman can never be the head of a Family.”

“For once I agree with Wil ie,” said DiBlanca.

“Don Tucci would have been the first to say so,” Orel ini said.

Don Polumba nodded. “It is the grandson or no one,” he ruled.

Pat i said, “If the boy doesn’t want it, what about the Hof a contract?”

“You do it.”

“Me?”

“Acting for us. After which Detroit wil become an open city. You wil represent our interests there. That is, if you feel you are capable.”

“I am honored by your faith in me,” said Carmine Pat i, trying to conceal his dismay. Running an open city was the most thankless job in organized crime. “But—”

Sam Spadol ini cleared three months’ worth of cigar phlegm from his massive lungs and raised his eyelids to half mast. “You leave us worry about the honor, kid,” he rasped. “You just concentrate on not fucking up.”

Don Spadol ini’s admonition stayed with Pat i during Don Spadol ini’s admonition stayed with Pat i during the ight back to Detroit, and it was stil ringing in his ears when he arrived at the Pontchartrain and found a message to cal Annet e Tucci at home. “This is a coincidence,” he said when he got her on the phone. “I was going to cal you tonight.”

“It’s time we got together,” she said. Her manner was brisk and peremptory. “Meet me in the hotel bar in an hour.”

Pat i was on his second dry martini when Annet e walked in, accompanied by a vaguely familiar, bul et-headed man with the build of a washing machine. She left him at the door, took a seat, and motioned for Pat i to join her. As he approached she looked him over slowly.

“Six-one?” she said.

“Six-two,” Pat i said with a boyish smile.

“Broad shoulders, narrow waist. You were a footbal player, right?”

“In the distant past,” said Pat i, warming up the smile and put ing some twinkle in his blue eyes. “You look like you might have been a cheerleader.”

“I look like a cheerleader? What are you, a moron?”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“You meant it as a come-on.”

“You’re the one who started with the body talk,” said Pat i.

“I was trying to gure out if I wanted to screw you later on,” said Annet e. “I don’t, so let’s get down to business.”

on,” said Annet e. “I don’t, so let’s get down to business.”

“Wow, you come on strong, lady,” said Pat i, stil smiling.

Annet e leaned across the table until their faces were just inches apart. “Don’t patronize me, sonny. You talk to me with respect. I’m a fucking widow.”

“Sorry,” said Pat i.

“Okay, let’s start al over,” said Annet e. “How was Jersey?”

“What makes you think I was in Jersey?”

“Him,” said Annet e, nodding toward the washing machine. Now Pat i knew why the guy looked familiar. “I can tel you what you had for lunch. So, how’s the Commission?”

“Nervous,” said Pat i.

“They can stop worrying,” said Annet e. She opened her purse, extracted two smal Ziploc bags, and passed them to Pat i. He examined them in the faint candlelight, raised his eyes to meet her steady gaze, and said, “Hof a’s?”

Annet e nodded. “You know what they say—a nger’s worth a thousand words.”

“You giving these to me?”

“One to a customer,” she said, picking up the second bag with her long red ngernails and replacing it in her purse. “Go ahead, get it printed, just to make sure.”

Pat i put the bag in his jacket pocket. “When did it happen?”

“This afternoon.”

“This afternoon.”

“Who did it?”

“I did,” said Annet e. “One bul et, right between the eyes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What do you want me to do, bring you his head in a doggy bag?”

“Where’s the body?”

Annet e shook her head. “You don’t need to know.” The truth was that she didn’t know herself.

“Al right,” said Pat i. “Say I believe you. Now what?”

“The contract’s ful l ed, right on time. That means that Detroit stays under Tucci control. Go back and tel the Commission. I’m in charge.”

Pat i shook his head. “They’l never approve it. It’s not fair, but there it is.” To his surprise he felt sheepish. He had just come from a meeting with ve of the top crime bosses in the country, and Annet e Tucci had more force and charisma than any of them.

“I don’t need their approval,” she said.

“You know what they’l do? If you make a move like that?”

“What?”

“Declare Detroit an open city.” Pat i frowned and said,

“Probably put me in charge.”

“I do the job on Ho a, and you take over because you’ve got a dick,” said Annet e. “You think that’s how it’s going to work?”

going to work?”

“Hey, I don’t want Detroit,” said Pat i. “Refereeing turf ghts between every Family in the country? In a shithole like this? It’s the worst thing that could happen to my career.”

“Then tel them no dice.”

“I can’t,” said Pat i. “I’m responsible to the Commission.

Ho a was only half the deal; nding a new boss’s the other half. And it can’t be you. To these older guys that would be heresy, like a woman pope.”

“Yeah, that would be terrible,” said Annet e. “But, that’s not how everybody feels. My father, for example.”

“Oh?” This was something new.

“Yeah, oh. He’s in my corner al the way.”

“Your father’s a powerful man,” said Pat i careful y.

“But the Commission is made up of powerful men. I’d hate to see a clash of wil s. That way everyone loses.”

“Yeah, but some people are gonna lose more than others,” said Annet e. “You know who’s gonna lose big time?”

“Who?”

“The guy I decide to dig up Ho a and rebury the corpse on his property and then drop a dime. That guy’s gonna get his ass in a sling. Maybe it’l be Don Polumba. Maybe it’l be that Actor from L.A. It could be anybody.”

“I don’t believe you’d do that.”

“Why, ’cause it’s against the rules? The rules don’t apply to me, remember? Besides, al this Sicilian voodoo crap is to me, remember? Besides, al this Sicilian voodoo crap is a thing of the past. This is a business, and I’m taking it over, no mat er what some Mustache Petes in Jersey say.

Chicago’s backing me. So if the Commission wants to fight, they bet er bring their lunch. Is that clear?”

“Couldn’t be any clearer.”

“Good. Then run your cute ass back to Jersey and make it clear to the Col ege of Cardinals.”

It was a dismissal, but Pat i didn’t budge. “No,” he said.

“It’s the wrong message, and I’m not going to deliver it.”

“I warned you about patronizing me,” said Annet e.

“I’m not; I’m giving you advice, which is what I get paid to do. If I tel the Commission what you just said, there wil be a war. Maybe you and your father can win, but I doubt it. Even if you do, the price is going to be exorbitant.”

“So what’s your advice, counselor?” Annet e’s tone was sarcastic, but Pat i could tel she was interested.

“You said two things I agree with completely. First, this is a business mat er. The Commission feels the same way.

They’re like a hands-o board of directors. They don’t want to get involved in Detroit, they just want ultimate oversight. Give them that, they won’t interfere.”

“How?”

“By using Bobby as your front man.”

Annet e snorted. “What’s the mat er with using my father?” she asked.

“He’d scare them to death,” said Pat i. “There are a lot

“He’d scare them to death,” said Pat i. “There are a lot of bosses around the country who consider Don Niccola a threat. He’s already got too much. Listen to me, use Bobby. It doesn’t have to be permanent.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It goes back to the second thing you said. This old-country stu can’t last. As the dinosaurs die o they’re going to be replaced by a generation of Americans who don’t give a damn about macho taboos.”

“Guys like you,” said Annet e.

“Exactly like me,” said Pat i. “When we’re in control, you can step forward on your own.”

Annet e stared into the hazy darkness of the bar. Then she said, “I don’t believe you guys are gonna be any bet er than the Mustache Petes, and I’m not waiting around to nd out. I appreciate you don’t want a war, and I value your advice. Come up with a solution that doesn’t leave me in the kitchen, I’m ready to listen. But until then, I’m in charge and I intend to stay in charge.”

Pat i opened his hands in a gesture of resignation.

“You’re the boss.”

“I like you when you’re being obedient,” said Annet e.

“Why don’t you come to work for me? You’d make a good consigliere.”

“I’m honored,” said Pat i, “but I’m happy where I am.”

“Okay,” said Annet e. “I can always use a friend next to the Commission.” She smiled sweetly and added,

“Especial y one whose prints I’ve got on Jimmy Ho a’s

“Especial y one whose prints I’ve got on Jimmy Ho a’s Ziploc finger bag.”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-eight

MENDY OPENED THE Bul Pen at six-thirty. Ten minutes later, Klein the Teamster lawyer came in. Mendy hadn’t seen him since the funeral, and he had never seen him this early in the morning.

Klein took a seat at the counter. When Mendy came over Klein lowered his voice, although no one was nearby, and said, “You hear the news?”

Mendy shook his head.

“Somebody nabbed Hof a yesterday.”

“Jeez,” said Mendy. “Who’d do a thing like that?”

“What are you, kidding? Who wouldn’t? The guy’s got more enemies than communism. You haven’t heard anything?”

“Where would I hear?”

“You were seeing a lot of the don before he croaked,”

said Klein. “I gured maybe he might have mentioned something.”

“Aw, we went to a couple bal games,” said Mendy.

“Jeez, the Tigers stink this year. I’m sorry Vit orio had to go out in such a bum season. What can I get you?”

“I think I’l skip breakfast,” said Klein. “I want to drop in on a couple more guys, see who knows what.”

in on a couple more guys, see who knows what.”

“You workin’ for the Teamsters on this?” asked Mendy.

Klein stood, straightened his toupee, and clicked his dentures into place. “This is strictly freelance,” he said.

“It’s like the schvartzes say, ‘Knowledge is power, brother.’ ”

Mendy watched Klein’s Buick head down Michigan Avenue. Then he cal ed Bobby in Ann Arbor.

“It’s not even seven,” Bobby said in a thick voice. “I had a gig last night.”

“Sorry, but we got a eat salami and eggs,” said Mendy.

“Soon as possible.”

“Salami and eggs?” said Bobby. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a code. It means I need to talk to you in person.”

“It can’t wait?”

“There’s nothing that can’t wait. The only thing is, what happens while it’s waiting?”

Bobby laughed and coughed at the same time. “You into Zen now? Okay, I’l be there in an hour.”

“Don’t speed, drive careful,” said Mendy. “And Bobby?

Somebody knocks on your door, don’t answer it.”

BOBBY AND TILLIE got to the Bul Pen around eight. They were red-eyed from lack of sleep and gave o the aroma o f marijuana, which mingled with the diner’s usual morning blend of bacon grease, brewed cof ee, burnt toast, morning blend of bacon grease, brewed cof ee, burnt toast, filter cigaret es, and generic aftershave.

“Salami and eggs,” Bobby said in a stage whisper.

Mendy said, “Til ie, Bobby and me need to discuss something. Why don’t you grab some breakfast at the counter. I got nice western omelet es today.”

“We’re in this together,” said Til ie. Bobby nodded.

“Nah,” said Mendy. “You’re not in it. If Bobby wants to put you in later, that’s his business.”

Til ie said, “I can’t burn my bra ’cause I’m not wearing one, and besides, I’m hungry. So you have your manly chat and get me when you’re nished. I’l be the lit le lady by the jukebox with her mouth ful of flapjacks.”

“Jeez, I hope she ain’t mad at me,” said Mendy, as Til ie sauntered over to the counter.

“If she were, you’d know it,” said Bobby. “What’s so important?”

“Yesterday somebody snatched Jimmy Hof a.”

“I didn’t hear about it on the radio,” said Bobby.

“The radio don’t know about it yet.”

“Then how do you?”

“A guy stopped by.”

“Wel , we know it wasn’t Rel i,” said Bobby. “It must have been Catel o, huh?”

Mendy shook his head. “It wasn’t him.”

“How do you know?”

“It don’t mat er, I just do. So who does that leave?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

“I don’t know. Who?”

“Your mother or Carmine Pat i. Those are the only ones I can figure.”

Bobby scowled. “What do I care who did it? I don’t give a shit if Ho a got abducted by Martians, it’s got nothing to do with me.”

Mendy pressed his lips together and widened his eyes.

“Pat i cal ed me this morning. He wants to sit down. He should be here any time. In fact, here he is now.”

Bobby saw Carmine Pat i walk in, looking crisp and fresh in a white linen suit. “Asshole,” he said. “He hit on Til ie.”

“Let him do the talking,” said Mendy “And keep the personal stuf out of it.”

Pat i saw Til ie at the counter and did a smal double take. “This is a surprise,” he said.

“Surprise? I’ve been sit ing here waiting for you since seven. Don’t tel me you forgot our date.” She waited for the confusion to spread over his face before saying, “Relax, I’m here with Bobby.”

“Does he know about us?”

“What’s to know?”

Pat i pul ed his face together as he walked toward Bobby and Mendy. “We haven’t real y met,” he said, extending his hand. Mendy gave it a shake. Bobby put his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Cof ee?” said Mendy.

“Black. I’d like to talk to Bobby alone, if you don’t

“Black. I’d like to talk to Bobby alone, if you don’t mind.”

“No way,” Bobby said. “Either you say what you want to say in front of Mendy or skip it.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Pat i. “No o ense to Mendy, but this is just between us.”

“Hey, I got a joint to run,” said Mendy to Bobby. “You and me can talk later. I’l send one of the girls over with the cof ee.”

“Quite a character,” said Pat i. “A real old-timer. Listen, Bobby, I came to talk to you about your family.”

“You got bal s,” said Bobby. “As you would say.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Pat i said. “Back east some very important men are going to ask me who’s taking over the Tucci Family business. What do I tel them?”

Bobby shrugged. “Tel them whatever you want; it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, it does. Your grandfather named Alberto Rel i to succeed him, but we both know that won’t happen. The same goes for Catel o. You’ve got the strongest claim now; after al , you’re the last Tucci.”

“The last Tucci,” said Bobby. “Sounds like an anthro course. Aren’t you forget ing the ever popular Annet e Niccola Tucci?”

“I’ve spoken to her. Frankly she wants to run things herself.”

“Fine with me.”

“It can’t happen. The men I work for won’t accept it. It’s

“It can’t happen. The men I work for won’t accept it. It’s either you or the Commission takes over. Personal y I’m hoping it wil be you.”

“What do you care?”

“I’ve got my reasons; there’s no point in going into them now. The point is, the Tucci Family controls an empire out here. If you want it, I and the men I represent wil support you. You’l have al our help in get ing started, learning the business. I know it’s not what you had in mind but—what’s so funny?”

“You are,” said Bobby. “You actual y think I’d consider becoming a mobster? Aside from the fact that I’d probably get myself kil ed in about ten minutes, it’d be a giant drag.

I’d have to spend al my time with scumbags like Rel i and Catel o and my mother and you. Forget it.”

Pat i remained impassive. “That’s your final word?”

“No, my next-to- nal one. My nal word is ‘o .’ As in

‘Fuck of .’ ”

Chapter

Chapter

Twenty-nine

TOMMY NICCOLA TOOK Annet e’s cal in the sauna. “Can you come in for a celebration dinner on Saturday night?” she asked.

“Why not come here?”

“Johnny Baldini’s preparing something real y special,”

she said. “Besides, I want Bobby to be there.”

“Bobby can’t get on a plane?”

“Bobby and I haven’t been get ing along,” said Annet e.

“I didn’t want to worry you, but he’s not himself. The other day he cursed me.”

“Your own son cursed you?” said Tommy, incredulous.

“In public,” said Annet e. “I know he’s al wound up, what with Vit orio dying and al , but he’s get ing out of control. Lately he’s been spending most of his time with a kike sharpie named Mendy Pearlstein.”

“Mendy the Pearl?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve seen him around over the years. He used to hang out in Chicago with Sam Giancana’s cousin Mel. Strictly smal change.”

“I want to make things right between Bobby and me,”

said Annet e, “but he won’t listen. I wish you’d cal and said Annet e, “but he won’t listen. I wish you’d cal and invite him for Saturday. He won’t say no to you.”

“Yeah, I suppose I could do that,” said Tommy. “After al , you been such a sweet girl lately. Ralph and Jo-Jo say you did great.”

“It was your plan,” she said. “I just fol owed it. Are you gonna tel me what happened afterwards?”

“Not on the phone,” said Tommy. “Wait til Saturday.”

Tommy hung up, poured himself a grappa, and switched on the news. Stil no word that Ho a was missing. By tomorrow there’d be cops looking for Lit le Jimmy al over southern Michigan. In a week the FBI would mount a nationwide dragnet. The idea made Tommy grunt with pleasure; he didn’t care if they brought in the marines, nobody was gonna find the body.

The plan had been simple, real y Ralph and Jo-Jo col ected the body bag from Annet e, put it in the trunk of their Cadil ac, and drove to Chicago, straight to the Molinari Funeral Home, which was owned by the Niccola Family. They handed the body over to Louie Molinari, who switched it with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old kil ed in a car accident. The kid was so badly mutilated he was due for a closed-casket funeral. The burial went as scheduled, except that the casket contained Jimmy Hof a.

“The boss is a fuckin’ genius,” Ralph said to Jo-Jo on the way home. “Nobody’s gonna look for a guy in somebody else’s grave.”

BOBBY PUT DOWN the phone and said to Til e, “That was Grampa No-Neck. I’m being summoned to my mother’s on Saturday night to, quote, make the peace, unquote. You’re final y going to meet dear old Mom.”

“I’m invited?”

“I told him the only way I’d come is if you and Mendy do.”

“Mendy? Why Mendy?”

“It’s a balance-of-forces thing. Knowing my mother and my grandfather, they’re going to gang up on me.”

“Why not just blow them of , then?”

“I hate to say this, but they’re the only family I’ve got. I don’t have to like them, but I do have to go. Besides, I’m curious.”

“What do you think they want?”

Bobby shrugged. “Maybe they want me to move to Chicago. Or give up the Tucci Foundation. Or tat oo

‘Mother I Love You’ on my biceps. Whatever it is, the answer is going to be no. And the Niccolas don’t like no.”

“In other words, you expect an ass-kicking and you want us there as bodyguards,” said Til ie.

“Soul guards,” said Bobby. “They’re not interested in my body.”

“Til ie Tilman, Soul Guard. It’s got a ring to it. What do you wear to a mafia family drama?”

“A great big silver cross.”

“A great big silver cross.”

“I’m not pretending I’m Catholic, if that’s what you want.”

“Hel no. For protection.”

“Protection from what?”

Bobby grinned without humor and said, “Vampires.”

LEON MITSAKAWA WAS at his desk reading about the Tigers’

9-0 defeat at the hands of the Yankees when his bodyguard, Henry, brought Johnny Baldini in. He had been expecting Baldini. When he had cal ed Annet e Tucci to tel her the fugu had arrived, she had told him Baldini would be out to pick it up. “Give him my lit le package separately,” she instructed. “Tel him it’s a pair of diamond earrings.”

Mitsakawa had been doing business with the Tuccis for ve years, ever since the Tokyo syndicate sent him, very much against his wil , to Detroit. From his o ce near the world headquarters of General Motors he imported food and supplies for the restaurants that catered to visiting Japanese engineers and auto executives. He also provided the ex-pats with other services. He took their bets on sporting events, sold them cocaine and heroin, and found them big-busted American women or young American boys. He had never before been asked to import fugu, but he was more than glad to do it. Without the su erance of the Tuccis, he would nd it much more di cult—and the Tuccis, he would nd it much more di cult—and dangerous—to make his living.

The large vacuum pack from Japan contained ve pounds of expertly cut, perfectly safe sh; $2,100 with shipping. The smal box cost twice as much. It held two hundred grams of sliced, toxic fugu liver—enough to lethal y poison half a dozen people. Mitsakawa had been ten years old when the Americans bombed Nagasaki, leaving him an orphan. Importing a Japanese sh to wipe out Americans was, to him, an ironic pleasure.

Mitsakawa handed the packages to Baldini and said, “I understand you are a great chef. I envy your guests.”

Baldini ushed; he loved compliments. “What’s in this lit le one?” he asked.

“A piece of jewelry for Mrs. Tucci,” Mitsakawa lied smoothly. “A token of my esteem. She is a remarkable woman.”

“She sure is,” Baldini said, and frowned. Lately he had barely seen Annet e. Even when they cooked together she had been distant and uncommunicative. Then, suddenly, the fugu arrived, and a change had come over her. She was excited, almost giddy, and once again a ectionate.

Baldini knew she was counting on him, and he wouldn’t let her down; on Saturday night he would cook the greatest meal of his life. He left Mitsakawa’s cramped o ce with a light step and drove Annet e’s T-Bird back to St. Clair Shores whistling Puccini. It never occurred to him that he was being fol owed, but even if it had, he never that he was being fol owed, but even if it had, he never would have spot ed Nobody Nussbaum.

Annet e’s was quiet and almost dark when Baldini arrived; she sat on a sofa stroking Scratch, who purred on her lap in a way that gave Baldini a jolt of irrational jealousy. He tapped one of the boxes and said, “I’ve got it.”Annet e looked up; her brown eyes were soft, unfocused. “You’re a sweet boy,” she said. “Come over here.”

Baldini swal owed hard. His palms were wet. As he approached he saw her skirt was above her knees. She was not wearing panties. “Come and kiss the cat,” she said huskily.

It was kinky, even for Annet e, but Baldini was beyond caring. He plucked up Scratch and planted a kiss on his strenuously resisting mouth.

“Let go of him, you idiot,” snapped Annet e.

“You said—”

“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!” Annet e caught herself, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m sorry, baby. You go get naked. Mama’s gonna take good care of you.”

Scratch hissed at him as he went, humbled but hopeful, into the bedroom. Annet e watched him with a combination of mirth and contempt. Johnny was a gifted cook, but he was also a complete clod. For the next twenty-four hours she intended to make sure he was a happy clod. After that—wel , there wasn’t going to be an happy clod. After that—wel , there wasn’t going to be an after that for Johnny Baldini.

Chapter

Chapter

Thirty

MENDY RANG THE doorbel at a quarter to seven, his arms ful of long-stem roses and a bot le of chil ed champagne.

Annet e welcomed him with a smile that stopped at her eyes.

“Jeez, you got a terri c spot here,” said Mendy.

Although he had known Roberto al his life, he had never been to the big house on the lake.

Annet e took the champagne, the owers, and his fedora and ushered Mendy into the living room. Bobby and Til ie smiled in welcome. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

Mendy sat on a couch next to Scratch, who was wearing a diamond col ar for the occasion. “Jeez, he’s a beauty,”

Mendy said, stroking him softly. “Abyssinian?”

“Yes. Are you a cat lover?” said Annet e.

“From way back. I once had an employer named Jew Mary used to keep cats. I used to take care of ’em for her.”

Tommy snorted; guys who took care of whorehouse cats weren’t in his social class.

“Can I get you a drink?” asked Annet e.

“J&B, Jewish booze. Hey, Don Tomás. How’s tricks in the Windy City?”

the Windy City?”

“I’m going back tomorrow,” said Tommy. The party had barely started, and he was bored already. Bobby had always been a strange, distant kid, and tonight he seemed glazed over. His girl was a looker, but she kept staring at Annet e, making Tommy wonder if she might not be a lez.

He had heard someplace that it was common among hippies. He wanted nothing more than to get dinner over with and fly back to the real world.

Bobby’s stomach churned as he watched his mother pour Mendy’s drink. When Bobby had arrived, twenty minutes earlier, she had startled him with a rare kiss on the cheek and an even rarer apology. “I went too far the other day,” she said. “I’m sorry. Truce?”

“Truce,” Bobby had mumbled, wondering how stoned he real y was.

Then Annet e had completed his astonishment by turning to Til ie and saying, “You’re lovely. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for a long time.”

Now Annet e handed Mendy his drink and said, “We’ve got a treat for dinner. Johnny Baldini’s prepared a Japanese feast.”

“Is that like Chinese?” asked Tommy.

“You’l love it,” said Annet e. “The sh alone costs four hundred dol ars a pound.”

Tommy brightened. “Four hundred bucks? Leave it to my baby.”

Annet e smiled and raised her glass. “I propose a toast.

Annet e smiled and raised her glass. “I propose a toast.

To harmony in the family. The most important thing.”

They drank and Mendy said, “Where’s the powder room?”

“Down the hal on the left, next to the kitchen.”

“I’l nd it,” said Mendy. He ambled down the hal , past the bathroom to the kitchen, stuck his head in, and saw a large, soft, ushed young man in a white apron. “You must be Chef Baldini,” he said. “I’m Mendy Pearlstein.

Smel s delicious.”

“Thanks,” said Johnny shyly.

“You and me are in the same racket. You ever hear of the Bul Pen Deli?”

Baldini shook his head.

“It’s over by the bal park on Michigan Avenue. Stop by anytime, I’l x you somethin’ good. Not that I’m in your league. Vit orio used to say I was the worst cook in Detroit, and that you’re the best.”

“Did he real y say that? About me, I mean?”

“What, I’m gonna make up a thing like that? Hey, I hear you’re cookin’ up a special Japanese fish.”

“It’s cal ed fugu,” said Baldini. “It’s a puf erfish.”

“Jeez, I never even heard of it.”

“They don’t sel it in America,” said Baldini. “I’m serving it two ways, as sushi and then poached.”

“I hate to show my ignorance al over again, but what’s sushi?”

“These,” said Baldini, pointing to a serving plat er of

“These,” said Baldini, pointing to a serving plat er of lit le rice cakes topped with sh. Some were decorated with cucumber, some with avocado.

Mendy eyed the plat er suspiciously and said, “They ain’t raw, right?”

“Actual y, they shouldn’t be cut until just before serving, to keep them total y fresh, but Annet e insisted on preparing the sushi herself, and she wanted to get it done before you arrived.”

“Don’t worry, nobody wil know the di erence,” Mendy said. “That’s my mot o as a cook. What’s that over there?”

“It’s cal ed a microwave oven,” said Baldini, frowning.

“It’s used for heating soup.”

“How does it work?”

Baldini turned to demonstrate. As he did, Mendy quietly slipped two pieces of sushi into the pocket of his yel ow sport jacket.

“Hey, I’m gonna get out a your way,” he said. “I know how I feel when some but insky comes in the kitchen while I’m workin’. Besides, I got a go empty my bladder.”

WHEN MENDY RETURNED to the living room, Tommy looked at his Rolex, scowled, and said, “Whaddya, got prostate trouble?”

Mendy ducked his head and blinked. “My age, what don’t I got? I stopped by the kitchen to pay my respects to Chef Baldini.”

Chef Baldini.”

Annet e frowned. “You know him?”

“Just his rep. He’s a wel -known guy in the food business. He showed me the fuju fish.”

“Fugu,” said Annet e.

“Fugu. Right. Hey, what’d I miss?”

“We’ve been trying to get these two to talk about what they’re going to do after col ege,” said Annet e. “Right, Dad?”

Tommy nodded. It didn’t look to Mendy like he had been trying too hard.

“They’re being so damn secretive,” Annet e said, “I think there’s a wedding in the air.”

“You a Catholic?” Tommy barked at Til ie. He couldn’t have cared less, but he recognized that, as family patriarch, it was his place to interrogate her.

“I’m an atheist.”

“Me, too,” said Bobby.

“Jeez, I never knew that,” said Mendy, stroking Scratch.

“That’s stupid,” said Tommy. “If there’s no God, who invented odds?”

Annet e nodded emphatical y. “Exactly right.”

“Hey, I’m hungry,” said Tommy. “How’s about some of this mil ion-dol ar fish of yours?”

Annet e took a deep breath and ran over her dinner plans. First, the soup, then the sushi, avocado for her and her father, cucumber for Bobby and his friends. Within a few minutes of the rst bite they’d feel a tingling on their few minutes of the rst bite they’d feel a tingling on their tongues and dizziness, their throats would choke shut, and fatal paralysis would quickly set in.

The medics, when they arrived, would be sympathetic to the grieving mother. So would the police. Natural y they would want to know who procured and prepared the poison sh. Reluctantly she would name Johnny Baldini.

Poor Johnny. Ironical y, tragical y, he too would be dead, a victim of his own negligence. A mother’s tears would rol as she told the detectives that Bobby and Til ie were wonderful kids with their whole lives ahead of them. If only Johnny had been more careful. If only she had served perch.

Annet e rose and clapped her hands. “Okay, dinnertime,” she said. She led them into the dining room, seated them, and went to the kitchen. While she was gone Mendy slipped the two smal pieces of fugu from his pocket and of ered them to a grateful Scratch.

In the kitchen Baldini said, “I wish you would have let me bring in a serving girl at least.”

Annet e kissed him passionately and said, “If you had, we couldn’t do this between courses.” Then she carried the soup to the dining room.

Tommy was the rst to comment on the miso. “Your cook forgot the meat and vegetables,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be a light broth,” said Annet e.

“What’s this stuf floating around?”

“It’s cal ed tofu.”

“It’s cal ed tofu.”

“I think it’s delicious,” said Til ie.

“Me too,” said Bobby, to annoy his grandfather.

“Atheist soup,” Tommy grumbled.

“They just opened a Japanese restaurant in Ann Arbor,”

said Til ie.

“Yeah, they’re springin’ up,” Mendy said. “It’s gonna be popular I bet.”

“Never catch on,” Tommy said. “Not with crappy soup like this.”

“There’s a saying my mother had,” Mendy said. “About food and smel , you can’t argue.” The others looked at him blankly, and he shrugged. “In Yiddish it rhymes.”

Bobby grinned. “That what you tel your customers when they complain?”

“I’ve used it once or twice,” said Mendy.

Annet e began col ecting the empty bowls. “Now for the sushi,” she announced gaily.

Johnny Baldini greeted her with a needy expression.

Once again she kissed him passionately. Then slowly, teasingly, she slid a piece of fugu-and-cucumber sushi into his helpless mouth and whispered, “We’l have some fun when they leave.”

Suddenly they heard a high-pitched choking sound.

Annet e rushed into the dining room and saw Mendy Pearlstein kneeling next to Scratch, who was lying motionless on the oor. Frantical y she placed her ear against the cat’s chest. When she looked up at Mendy against the cat’s chest. When she looked up at Mendy there were tears in her eyes. “He’s gone,” she said.

“He was fine a minute ago,” said Bobby.

“What, he’s dead now so he shoulda been dead a minute ago?” said Tommy. “That makes a lot a sense.”

“Could be something he ate,” said Til ie.

“That’s impossible,” said Annet e. “Nobody feeds him but me.”

There was a pause and then Mendy said, “Wel …”

Annet e saw the look on his face and snarled, “What did you do, you crazy old bastard?”

“I just gave him a piece of the fugu,” said Mendy. “I mean, how often does a cat get to eat a high-class sh like that?”

“You did what?” she shrieked.

“Jeez,” said Mendy. “It was dinner. I didn’t know it was poison.”

Bobby and Til ie exchanged a look. Bobby said, “You did, though. You knew, didn’t you, Mom?”

“Hey,” said Tommy. “That’s your mother you’re talking to.”Bobby ignored him. “How about it, Mom? Cook some poison fish for your nearest and dearest?”

Tommy jumped up, grabbed Bobby with one hand, and swung with the other, a short, powerful right to the face.

Blood spurted from Bobby’s nose. “Don’t you ever talk to your mother that way,” he said. “Where’s that fuckin’

cook?”

cook?”

“It’s not Baldini’s fault,” said Annet e. “Scratch was al ergic to fish.”

“Bul shit,” said Bobby. “He ate fish al the time.”

Tommy shot Bobby a murderous look. “Curse your mother again, and I’l break your back,” he said. Then he charged into the kitchen. There on the oor, a horrible grimace on his face, lay Johnny Baldini.

“Him I didn’t feed,” said Mendy.

“Maybe he’s al ergic to fish too,” said Bobby.

Tommy started for Bobby, but Mendy seized his arm in an intentional y painful grip. “He’s your grandson, Don Tomás,” he said with soft reproach. “You don’t want to hit him again.”

“You don’t see what’s going on?” Bobby yel ed at Tommy. “Are you that fucking stupid?”

“He’s crazy,” Annet e said. “Baldini made the sushi.

What did he do, poison himself?”

“Hey,” said Mendy, “he told me you xed it.” Annet e glared at him, and he put his gnarled hand on his heart.

“Honest.”

“Is that right?” asked Tommy.

“The sushi’s ne,” said Annet e. “Here, look.” She grabbed a piece from the cut ing board and gobbled it down.

“Try one with the cucumber,” said Mendy.

“Fuck you,” said Annet e. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. Get the hel out of my house. And take anything to you. Get the hel out of my house. And take my son and his atheist whore with you.”

“Eat the one with the cucumbers,” said Tommy.

“What?” said Annet e.

“Eat the one with the cucumbers. Show these jerks how ful of shit they are.”

“No,” said Annet e. “I consider that an insult.”

“What, you think I don’t trust my own daughter? Give me one, I’l eat it.”

Til ie plucked a piece of sushi from the cut ing board and handed it to him, but Annet e snatched it away.

“What’s the mat er with you?” asked Tommy.

“How many times do you have to hear it?” said Bobby.

“She was going to poison us.”

“Not you,” Annet e said to her father. “Bobby and Pearlstein made a deal with the National Commission.

They were going to take over the Family, leave us out in the cold. You would have lost the Center Cut.”

“I’m cal ing the cops,” said Bobby.

“No cops,” snapped Tommy. “What the hel ’s the mat er with you?”

“It ain’t his fault, Don Tomás,” said Mendy. “He don’t know no bet er, he’s a straight kid. You think a kid like him’s gonna make a deal with the National Commission?”

Tommy stared at his grandson. Then he said, “You three, get out a here. Don’t talk to nobody. G’won.”

“I’m not let ing her get away with this,” said Bobby.

Mendy took him by the elbow and said, “Come on, Mendy took him by the elbow and said, “Come on, Bobby, this ain’t between us anymore. Let’s go get some salami and eggs.”

“And smoke a jay,” said Til ie. “Jesus, Bobby. No wonder you didn’t want to introduce me to your family.”

WHEN THEY WERE alone Tommy said, “You were going to kil Bobby.”

“You can’t stand Bobby. You never could.”

“He’s blood,” said Tommy. “My only male heir.”

“So what? You never cared about that Sicilian son-worship crap. You always treated me like an equal. That’s what I love most about you.”

“Good. That means you understand why you got a eat the sushi. I’d say the same thing to a son.”

“What?”

“I hate repeating myself,” said Tommy the Neck.

“Daddy—”

“Don’t Daddy me, Annet e. You did the Ho a job, I give you al the credit. But on this here, you fucked up very bad. We got a dead body in your kitchen and no explanation. The cops start investigating, it opens up a can of worms. It’s got a end with you. Then al we got is a cooking accident.”

“We can ditch the body—”

“You left three witnesses.”

“Don’t worry, I’l take care of them.”

“Don’t worry, I’l take care of them.”

“I can’t a ord a war in Detroit between you and Bobby.

I promised the Commission I’d keep the peace.”

“You what?”

“Yeah,” said Tommy “I cut a deal with Don Polumba. I do Hof a and Detroit comes under me.”

“Under us,” said Annet e. “I’m the one who did Ho a. I did him for you and me, the Niccolas. We’re in this together.”

Tommy shook his head. “You’re a mother who was gonna kil her own son. How can I trust you?”

“So you’re gonna kil me instead?”

“I ain’t a mother,” said Tommy. He reached out and grabbed Annet e by the hair, pul ing her toward him. “Eat the fuckin’ fish, Annet e.”

Annet e slithered out of his grip and grabbed a sashimi knife from the cut ing board. Tommy smashed her hand on the counter, and the knife fel to the oor. With brutal strength he locked her head under his left arm and, as she ailed at him, pried her lips apart with his stubby ngers and forced eight hundred dol ars’ worth of fugu down his daughter’s throat.

Chapter

Chapter

Thirty-one

TEN DAYS AFTER the disappearance of Jimmy Ho a, Annet e Tucci was laid to rest in a private ceremony at ended by Bobby and Til ie, Mendy, Ann Til man, Rudy, and Mouse Campanel a.

Tommy the Neck wasn’t there. The day after he returned to Chicago he was gunned down in the street near Wrigley Field. His bodyguards, Jo-Jo and Ralph, died too, taking the secret of Jimmy Ho a’s nal resting place with them.

Tommy’s funeral was the biggest event in the history of the Il inois oral industry. The single largest wreath came from Carmine Pat i, who was now unhappily instal ed as the National Commission’s caretaker in Detroit. His card read: “Last respects to a man whose reach truly exceeded his grasp.”

Annet e Tucci’s ceremony was, by contrast, modest to the point of being spartan. Al that was left of her was an urn of ashes. After the cremation, when they al repaired to the Bul Pen for a memorial meal of brisket and mashed potatoes, Bobby placed the urn on the counter.

Ann Til man peered into it and said, “There doesn’t seem to be very much there. She must have been a tiny to be very much there. She must have been a tiny woman.”

“She was on a diet at the time of her death,” said Bobby Ann frowned and said, “What are you going to do with the remains?”

“Donate them to veterinary science. A professor in Ann Arbor is going to turn her into experimental kit y lit er.”

“How awful,” said Ann.

“It’s what she would have wanted,” said Bobby.

Mendy said, “I know you guys are atheists, but I stil think we should have had a clergyman present. Too bad Lips Lipsky ain’t around.”

“Lips Lipsky,” Rudy said, rol ing the name o his tongue with anticipation. “Tel us about Lips Lipsky.”

“Lips was the rabbi of the wiseguys’ shul back during Pro’bition. He only had two rules—never talk to the cops, and never lie to God. Very holy guy.”

“My man,” said Rudy. “Mendy the Pearl, got him a memory for every damn occasion.”

“I suppose I should be shocked,” said Ann Til man.

“After al , I am a mother. But I’m not shocked. In fact, I’m amused. Aren’t I awful?”

“I stil can’t believe you’re going to Rio,” said Til ie.

“It is a cliché, I know, but I’ve always wanted to go to Carnival. Your father was always too busy with his Swiss oozies to take me. But now I’ve taken him, in a manner of speaking.” She squeezed Mendy’s arm a ectionately. “I do wish you’d come with.”

do wish you’d come with.”

“Aw, what am I gonna do down there?” said Mendy. “I don’t even speak Brazilian. Besides, me and Rudy got work to do.”

“Like what?” asked Mouse.

“Education,” said Rudy. “You lookin’ at the president of the Oakland Avenue People’s Academy. And this here is Professor Pearlstein, academic dean.”

“What’s the scam?” asked Mouse.

“Its no scam, my man. The People’s Academy has been established to convey the experience and skil s of previous generations to the untrained youth of the inner city.”

“Yeah,” said Mendy, a sparkle in his eyes. “It’s a chance to give something to the community besides heartburn and gas.”

“A vocational school for gangsters?” said Til ie. “Cool.”

“We refer to it as practical criminology,” said Rudy. “I got that from the lady at the Ford Foundation. Along with one mil ion, three hundred thousand dol ars.”

“You gonna be turnin’ out your own wiseguys,” said Mouse. “Hey, you planning on taking Italians?”

“Certainly,” said Rudy. “Fostering interethnic relations is a part of our mandate.”

Bobby said, “I’m hurt you guys went to the Ford Foundation. What’s wrong with the Roberto Tucci Foundation? Mendy’s a trustee, after al .”

“Aw, you got bet er things to do with your dough,” said Mendy. “Besides, I’m resigning—I’m gonna be too busy Mendy. “Besides, I’m resigning—I’m gonna be too busy teachin’ school. Til ie, why don’t you take my slot?”

“Me? I don’t know the first thing about being a trustee.”

“Aw, it’s a snap. I done it at Jackson. Al you got a do is not run away.”

Til ie ru ed Bobby’s long hair and said, “I’m not split ing. This is where the action is.”

After lunch Rudy left for a meeting with Delbert, who was chairman of the tenure commit ee; Mouse went to the Tucci Building to tel Carmine Pat i what he had learned; and Til ie drove her mother out to Bloom eld Hil s. When they were alone, Bobby said to Mendy, “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That the sh was poisoned. How could you know that?”

“Hey, I’m a chef, don’t forget,” said Mendy. “I know bad fish when I see it.”

Bobby shook his head. “Bad lox, maybe. I’l bet you never even heard of fugu before the other night.”

Mendy grinned. “You’re turning into a shrewdie,” he said. “Your grampa would be proud of you.”

“You didn’t answer my question though,” said Bobby.

“How you knew.”

“I got lucky with a coincidence. This guy I know, Nobody Nussbaum, they cal him that on accounta he’s got a forget able face, he was trailing your mom’s car when Baldini drove it over to Leon Mitsakawa’s place.”

Baldini drove it over to Leon Mitsakawa’s place.”

“Who’s he?”

“A Japanese fel a, very nice guy. Him and me have scalped tickets together a few times. He’s the one told me about the fugu. Course he didn’t tel me who it was for, but I put one and one together.”

Bobby laughed. “Mendy the Pearl. Wel , you said you’d have a home-court advantage in Detroit.”

“You live in a place this long, it gures you’re gonna know people.”

Bobby lit a joint and took a deep hit. “This has been some summer,” he said. “Are you real y going into this school thing?”

“Why not?”

“How’d you like a music teacher?”

“Sure. Your band can play at the junior prom,” said Mendy.

“Seriously, I could help out—”

“Aw, you got bet er things to do with your life.”

“I’m not talking about forever. But I feel like there’s stil some things I can learn.”

“From me? Nah, I got nothin’ left to learn you—you already know what it took me al my life to gure out.

And the funny thing is, you got it from her,” he said, tapping the urn.

“Got what?”

“The golden rule,” said Mendy. “Live by the sh, die by the fish.”

the fish.”

“That’s it? Live by the fish, die by the fish?”

Mendy smiled and said, “What were you expecting, Shakespeare? Hey, go catch up with Til ie.”

“Aw,” said Bobby.

“Aw yourself,” Mendy said. “And don’t forget to stop by now and then. I’l fix you somethin’ good to eat.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

WILLIAM WOLF is the pseudonym of a journalist and author who wishes to remain anonymous. His reluctance to reveal his true identity is unrelated to anything he may know about the actual events surrounding the disappearance of Jimmy Hof a. Real y.

Table of Contents

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Thirty-one

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