Then Bucci came in with more news about Beniamino Vercillo. The cops were trying to keep things quiet, but Neri’s mob had good sources. They mentioned the oddest part of the case: that the killer had been wearing some kind of ancient theatrical costume. This was, it seemed to Neri, a message, surely. The situation was more serious than he had foreseen. For a while, he was dumbstruck, floundering in his own doubts with no one to turn to. He blamed himself. As soon as he’d known a war could be on the way—as soon as those reports of American hoods coming in through Fiumicino reached him—he should have acted. If conflict was inevitable, the advantage always lay with the party that struck first. The Americans understood that lesson instinctively. Instead, he’d hesitated, and now they’d punished him in the most brutal and unexpected of ways.
Vercillo was a civilian. If they’d wanted to make a hit in order to prove a point, there were plenty of accepted targets they could naiclass="underline" neighbourhood capi, underlings, street men, pimps. Instead they picked a skinny little accountant. It made no sense. It was offensive. Neri had no time for Vercillo personally. He wasn’t even a real employee. It had never occurred to Neri to warn the man to stay at home for a while, to keep his head down until the air cleared. However bitter a war got, it just didn’t involve people that far down the ladder. This was an unwritten rule, a line you never crossed.
Like killing someone’s relative, a wife or a daughter, Neri thought.
Bucci watched him, impassive, stolid, waiting for instructions.
“Boss?” he said finally.
“Give me a chance,” Neri replied with a scowl. “You got to think your way through these things.”
The big tough hood from Turin was silent after that. Neri was glad of his presence. He needed a man of substance in his trust.
“How are the boys feeling?” Neri asked.
“About anything in particular?”
“The mood. Morale.”
Bucci squirmed a little. Neri recognized the signs. They weren’t good. “They get bored easy, boss. Men do in situations like this. They get hyped up like something’s going to happen. When it doesn’t they get to feel awkward. Like they’re wasting their time.”
“I’m paying them well to waste their time,” Neri grunted.
“Yeah. But you know their kind. It’s about more than money. Besides, one of them’s cousin to that poor bastard Vercillo. He’s got a score to settle.”
“So you’re saying what, Bruno?”
Bucci considered his answer carefully. “I’m saying that maybe it’s not a good idea to sit here waiting for the next thing to happen to us. They’re good guys but I don’t want to push them too far.”
Neri’s cold gaze didn’t leave Bucci for a second. “Are they loyal?”
“Sure. As loyal as anyone gets these days. But you got to recognize their self-interest. You got to massage their egos too. These are made men. They don’t like thinking they’re just doing security work or something. It’d help me no end if we saw a little action. Let these assholes know where they stand.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Neri lied. Something else was bugging him. How had they known about Vercillo? He was a back-room guy. From the outside he looked straight. How did Wallis find him? Maybe Vercillo was less discreet than Neri expected. Maybe he’d been selling information on the side, and found out how dangerous that game can be. “You got any information about who’s doing this? Names? Addresses?”
“Not yet. The street’s not talking much out there at the moment. Hell, if it’s some people the American brought in for the job, our people probably don’t know them anyway. If you want my honest opinion—” Bucci dried up.
“Well?”
“We’re not going to get any more information than we have right now. People are bound to be sitting back on the sidelines, watching. They want to see who comes out on top. No one’s going to want to do you any favours, not unless they’re in with us deep already. It doesn’t make sense.”
Neri said nothing.
“You don’t mind me being frank,” Bucci said carefully.
“No,” Neri moaned, “it’s what I need. Jesus, these are people who’ve been sucking my blood for years!”
“Look, boss. You got plenty of respect with the guys here. Provided they don’t get pushed too far. Outside—” He didn’t say any more. He didn’t have to.
“Respect,” Neri grumbled, his face like thunder. “Tell the truth. Do they think I’m too old or what?”
Bucci hesitated.
“They don’t think that,” the man from Turin said eventually. “But they think about what comes next. You got to expect it. Anyone would in the same circumstances. Also, there’s rumours.”
“Rumours?” Neri wondered.
“The people I got in the cops are being real secret about this. Falcone isn’t letting anyone near except those close to him. And the DIA.”
Neri shook his head in disbelief. “The DIA? What the fuck has this got to do with them?”
“They think they got our books from Vercillo.”
Neri laughed. “Sure they got our books! Can’t do a thing with them. The little guy put a code on them or something. He was good with numbers. That was his thing. He told me. They could work on it for years and they’d never get nowhere.”
“They got the code. The DIA’s trying to work it all out now.”
“What?” It was impossible to work out what this all meant. Vercillo had been doing the books for almost twenty years. He was a meticulous man. He logged everything. Emilio Neri understood instantly that if the DIA and the cops managed to peer into that black hive of past misdeeds they could throw all manner of shit in his direction: fraud, tax evasion. Worse.
“Are you sure?” Neri asked in desperation.
“I’m sure,” Bucci replied. “Also they want to nail you over this dead girl. They seem to think they got something there. This dead professor guy left some photos or something. There’s this other girl, the one that’s missing now. They think she’s down to us too.”
Neri was outraged. “Do I look like the kind that goes around snatching teenagers off the street? Why’d I need to do that?”
“They think… it points in our direction,” Bucci said carefully.
Neri understood what he was saying. “And does it?”
“Not with anyone under me, boss.”
Neri raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“But I don’t get to control everyone. Mickey, for example. He’s just a loose cannon. God knows what he gets up to when none of us are around.”
“Such as?”
“We know about the hookers. I think maybe he’s back on the dope too. Maybe he’s been doing other stuff.” Bucci paused, reluctant to continue. “I don’t know where he is half the time. Do you?”
“No,” Neri grunted.
“And this thing years ago with the dead girl. It was before my time. But they seem to think he was there.”
Neri shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I understand. Look, boss. I don’t feel right saying this kind of thing. It’s between you and him. It’s just that… Mickey affects the way the guys are thinking right now.”