"One more thing."
"Come on, man. You promised."
"This isn't Boy Scouts, Sonny. What's your partner's name?"
"My partner-"
"The guy with the gun. The one whose arm I broke."
"Oliviero," he groaned. "Sal Oliviero. Sally O he goes by."
He'd volunteered something. It told me he wasn't holding back.
"What do they call you?" I asked.
He looked down.
"I'll find out anyway. Don't prolong this."
"Sonny the Gun," he said.
Jenn hooted. The best revenge.
"All right," I said. "Stay still." I took hold of his shaking hand and told him to look away.
"Away where?"
"Anywhere but your finger, Einstein."
He looked down at the ground, then closed his eyes and sucked in his breath. I grasped the injured finger. Fixing a dislocated finger is not as easy as it looks in televised sports, where they yank it, tape it and send the guy back in. You have to bend the finger backwards, like you did in hurting it, grip it from behind and push the base forward. In lay terms, it hurts like fucking hell. I told Sonny to count to three and at two and a half I put his finger back into place. His eyes went wide and a guttural sound escaped his clamped jaws. Pain ran through his body like a tremor.
I took all the cash out of his wallet and handed it back to him.
"You're taking my money too?" he whined. "After what you did?"
"For the coffee stains," I said. I told him to stay seated and used a digital Nikon to take his picture, then told him he could go. "Ice your finger and take a few Tylenol," I said.
"Fuck you," he mumbled.
"I could just as easily have done your thumb," I said. "Then you'd need a surgeon."
"Fuck you again."
Some people. You just can't please them.
Once he was out the door, Eddie said, "Things were a lot quieter when there was a photographer here."
I said, "Who's the hero now?"
Jenn came over and put her arms around Eddie. He was a foot shorter than she was and his head nestled nicely against her breasts. She patted his back and held him there.
"Jenn?" he said.
"Yes, Eddie?"
"You going to shoot me for this?"
"No, Eddie."
"Not that it matters," he beamed.
CHAPTER 19
The lunch trade at Giulio's had ended and the restaurant was closed as the staff prepared for dinner. As I sat in Dante Ryan's small office, the smell of tomato sauce, garlic, frying onions, simmering broth and sizzling meat filled the air. I had never gotten around to the lunch I'd brought back to the office and regretted it now as the fragrant smells had me all but salivating.
"Okay," he said. "Let me just double-click… here we go." Up came a photo I had emailed him of an unsmiling Sonny "the Gun" Tallarico. "He said he worked for Lenny Corazzo?"
"Yes."
"Didn't tell you who he is?"
"No."
"I'd have gotten it out of him, you know."
"Even if he didn't know it?"
"Even if. And the other guy was Sal Oliviero."
"That's what Sonny called him."
He stared at the photo a little longer then shook his head. "Let me make a call," he said.
"Okay."
He looked at me.
"What?"
"I can't make it with you sitting here."
"Oh."
"Take a seat outside a minute. You want a plate of something? Mimi can probably scare up some cannelloni or something."
"I could manage cannelloni." Manage it? I'd eat anything put in front of me and the plate it came on.
"Mimi?" Ryan called.
An attractive, dark-eyed, young woman poked her head in the doorway. "You bellowed?"
"Mimi, darling, fix my friend Jonah up with some cannelloni before he drools on my computer. Spinach and ground veal okay with you?" he asked.
"Oh, yeah."
Ten minutes later, Mimi brought me a plate with four steaming pasta rolls smothered in a rich tomato sauce. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.
"A glass of water would be fine."
"Sparkling or plain?"
"Sparkling, thanks."
"Perrier or San Pellegrino?"
"Whatever's open."
"Natural or flavoured?"
"You're killing me, Mimi."
"It's just you're a friend of the owner's," she said. "He said to treat you real good."
"Plain San Pellegrino is fine."
By the time she returned with my drink, two of the cannelloni were history. The other two had joined them by the time Ryan summoned me back into his office.
"Close the door," he said.
I did.
"You piss someone off in construction lately?" he asked.
"Entirely possible."
"Lenny Corazzo is a son-in-law to a guy named Mike Izzo."
"As in Izzo Construction?" The trucks working the site at the Birkshire Harbourview had all been emblazoned with his orange and black logo.
Ryan nodded.
I couldn't believe it. Rob Cantor had sicced goons on us. And if he was capable of that, maybe the horrible thought that had been crowding my mind-that a man could kill his own daughter to protect his business-was also true.
"Listen, Jonah," Ryan said. "Everything that went down last summer, everything you did for me, you remember what I told you? I said I owed you and you could call on me for anything, anytime. You remember that?"
"I do."
"Now construction, as you may know, is a rotten fucking business. Mobbed up, I mean. Doesn't matter where you're talking-here, New York, Chicago-any big city, it's the same. Every truck that rolls, every load of soil dumped, every ton of concrete poured, there's a tax. Sometimes ten per cent of the total cost. The Gambinos, the Bonannos, all the big crews and their affiliates, they've been mixed up in it since forever. So if Mike Izzo doesn't like you, don't think he'll stop with those two low-lifes. What I'm saying, I guess, is that even though I'm technically retired from the life…"
"Stay retired," I said. "You worked hard to get out, I don't want you going back in on my account."
"I could make a call or two. Find out how big a hard-on Mike has for you."
"All right. And maybe one other thing."
"Shoot."
"You may want to rephrase that." I took out the gun that Sal Oliviero had dropped in the office. "Can you get rid of this for me?"
He examined it closely. "You kidding? A Beretta 92FS? That's one fine pistol, man, replaced a lot of revolvers on a lot of police forces. The army didn't like them 'cause they sometimes broke down under extreme conditions, but for the streets of Toronto they're just fine. This one is already broken in but not abused. The guy you took it off will be kicking himself."
"That's fine. I only got to kick him once."
"You should keep this, you know."
"I already have one I never carry."
"The Cougar I gave you?"
"Don't give me that look."
He hefted the pistol, turning it back and forth, letting light play off its chrome finish.
"You sure you don't want it?" he said. "One at home, one at work kind of thing?"
"I'm sure."
He took a ring of keys off his desktop and opened a drawer, from which he extracted a grey metal strongbox. A second, smaller key opened this. He took out an envelope full of hundred-dollar bills, counted off five and offered them to me.
"That seem fair? Brand new, it retails about six bills in the States."
"You're the expert," I said, taking the bills. Found money for World Repairs.
"Doesn't make sense to me, giving up a fine weapon like this," he said. "Why don't you give it to your partner?"
"We've managed without them so far."
"Managed,"he said. "The woods are full of people who manage. Most of them in shallow graves."