Besides, there was $650,000 out there waiting to be claimed.
SATURDAY p.m.
Here’s our credentials.
—HARRY PIERPONT, MEMBER OF THE DILLINGER
GANG, SHOWING A PRISON WARDEN A GUN
Smell the Roses
RAY PERELLI WAS PLEASED WITH HIMSELF. WITH ONLY word of mouth and a quick phone conversation, this bank robber guy was coming to him. Russian pricks were looking all over the city for him, and nothing. Perelli had him. Or was going to have him, in a manner of minutes.
Now. What the hell was he going to do with him?
Perelli had told the bank robber, “I’ve got what you’re looking for.” He knew the guy had to be looking for something. Otherwise, he would have lammed out of here long ago. Was it money from a recent heist? Is that what the Russians were holding over his head? Nah. Couldn’t be. Smart bank robber wouldn’t hang around for that, would he? What were the odds of recovering money from the Reds? Something else. C’mon, Ray, let’s pull an answer out of our ass.
After ninety seconds of deep thought, Perelli decided to make a phone call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, yeah, Evsei?” Perelli pronounced it evsee. This was not the correct pronunciation.
“Who is this?”
“Ray Perelli.”
“Who?”
Perelli wanted to say, Hey, fuck you, you vodka-slurping Russian cocksucker. But this was an information-gathering phone call. Insults would get him nowhere.
“We had breakfast, just a little while ago.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Perelli. Forgive me. I’ve been distracted, this business with my son.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I can only imagine.”
“What do you want?”
“I seem to have somebody you’re looking for.”
“What did you say?”
“That bank robber guy. One of my men rounded him up. I’m going to be seeing him soon.”
A pause.
“That is very good news, Mr. Perelli. I cannot tell you how much this pleases me.”
“Yeah, it’s great. Only problem is, I need a little something from you.”
“Ahhh,” the Russian said. “Cash.”
“No,” said Perelli, insulted for the second time this morning. “Just some info. See, I lured this guy here under what you might call false pretenses. I told him I had something he wanted. Only, I don’t know what he wants. Can you tell me?”
The Russian chuckled. “Oh, I have something he wants.”
“What’s that?”
“His pregnant girlfriend. You tell the bank robber I have a loaded gun to his girlfriend’s belly.”
Jesus Christ, Perelli thought. These Red bastards don’t fuck around.
“I guess that’ll work,” he said quietly. “But how do I prove it to him?”
“Hmmm. Hold on a minute.”
Perelli held. He had waved off the cash thing, but only temporarily. Yeah, this thing was going to come down to cash. He wanted to see how far the Russian prick would go, how high a price he would affix to the forehead of his son’s murderer. It wasn’t going to be $650, Perelli knew that much.
“Okay. I have something. If the bank robber doesn’t believe you, tell him, ‘Smell the roses.’”
“Say what?”
“It will mean something to him. Between him and his girlfriend.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve got a source here.”
Weird. But Evsei had no reason to lie about this. It would give Perelli something to work with.
“Great. And since you brought it up, what kind of price is on this guy’s head, anyway?”
“We can discuss that later.”
“Yeah. Well, you see, I kind of wanted to get that ironed out now.”
“When I see the bank robber, you will be amply rewarded.”
Amply. What the fuck did “amply” mean? What, was he going to kick in another $650?
Hose Down the White Tile
SAUGHERTY FOLLOWED LENNON AND THE PARKING GUY all the way down Broad Street into the depths of South Philadelphia. Saugherty noticed that Lennon had pulled a gun—the very Glock 19 he’d given him early this morning—on the parking attendant before they climbed into the car, and he could only assume that it was pointed at the guy the entire ride. Despite this, he obeyed all traffic laws, which was impressive, considering.
They pulled up to Ninth and Catherine, near a one-hundred-year-old South Philly restaurant called Dominick’s Little Italy. The place was very familiar to Saugherty. Famous for 1960s-era gangland powwows and grisly 1980s-era gangland hits, Dominick’s also served up some amazing Italian food. Saugherty had taken his ex-wife here for their fifth anniversary. He had enjoyed pointing out the local capos and wannabes sitting at each table. His wife had been too nervous to enjoy herself. “Will you stop pointing,” she’d hushed him, under her breath.
The thing that stuck most in his memory about Dominick’s Little Italy: all the white tile. It was everywhere—the floor, the walls … maybe even the ceiling, for all he remembered. White tile, bordered by black tiles. The main dining room looked like one big high school shower. Saugherty joked at the time that the white tiles just made it easier to hose down the blood after a mob hit. His ex didn’t think that was funny, either.
What was Lennon doing down here? Was he forcing the parking attendant to buy him a plate of raviolis?
There was a small dive bar catty-corner to Dominick’s. Saugherty parked the car. He was relieved to find that it was one of those old-man bars he loved—no fancy bar menu, no karaoke, no microbrews. Just wood paneling and two beers on tap. Coasters were about the fanciest thing in the joint. Squared white tile covered the floor. The ceiling was stamped tin, painted over. The stool seats were covered with puffy vinyl, and there were peanuts in black plastic bowls on the bar top. Best of all, there was a huge greasy window, partially obscured by a set of 1950s-era blinds, that gave Saugherty a front and side view of Dominick’s. When Lennon left the premises, Saugherty would know about it.
Which left only one thing to do: order a fucking drink already.
Saugherty asked for a boilermaker—a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. The bartender didn’t ask what kind of whiskey, what kind of beer. Saugherty liked that. The glass sank and tapped the bottom of the mug with a dull thud, like two submarines tapping each other underwater. Saugherty downed it, then asked for a shot of Jack Daniel’s and another beer. Jack and beer. That had been his drink of choice ten years ago, when shit with his ex had gotten out of control. He’d finish his shift, then head to the Ashton Tavern just down the road a piece from his house on Colony Drive.
The house that was burning.
Saugherty saluted it, and enjoyed the trip down memory lane. Every so often, he’d look across the street to see what was going on at Dominick’s.
Two Guns
LENNON WAS LED THROUGH THE RESTAURANT AND hallway and kitchen to a back office. A heavyset man wearing a crisp white button-down shirt was sitting behind an empty desk. This wasn’t the man’s usual desk. He was just borrowing it. “You’re Lennon,” he said. “I can tell by the face. Man, you look bad. Have a seat. You want something to drink? There’s a pen and paper there. Write down what you want.” The parking attendant left without a word.