invariably screw up and give you regular instead of black when it would be a lot better if they screwed up and gave you black instead of regular? You could always put the cream and sugar in, but you couldn’t take it out. It didn’t make sense.
“I have to get a coffeemaker,” Ed said. He started to drink the coffee and the relieved accountant sat down. “This better be an onion bagel, though.”
“It is. I watched him put it in the bag.”
“What’d you get?”
“Plain, toasted, with butter.”
Ed unwrapped his bagel and wondered why Spitz and Simon had sent him the only goy accountant in midtown. Maybe because they knew it was going to be an all-nighter. They’d better be giving me a discount on the hourly, Ed thought.
“So, what’d you bring?” Ed asked.
The accountant looked worried.
“You said a bagel and coffee,” he said.
“Your research,” Ed said. “What did you think, I brought you over here to eat? What do you have?”
The accountant wiped his fingers off on a napkin and reached into his briefcase.
“Mr. Spitz worked these up for you,” he said.
There goes the discount, Ed thought.
“What you’ll see there,” the accountant said, laying a stack of papers on the desk, “is that there are about twenty companies delivering various goods and services to the Candyland construction site. We managed to track eight of them back to the source and we should have the rest in a couple of days.”
Ed made himself swallow some coffee on the theory that there was still caffeine in there with the milk and sugar.
“And?” he asked, because the accountant was just sitting there looking proud of himself.
“The eight we traced go back to something called Crescent City Management in New Orleans.”
Ed felt his stomach turn sour, and it wasn’t the coffee. It was the knowledge that organized crime in Texas was a colony of Carmine Bascaglia’s empire in New Orleans.
“Who’s behind Crescent City?” Ed asked.
“A group of lawyers,” the accountant answered. “It’s all there in the report.”
“Eat your bagel,” Ed said. He started to worry. Was it possible that the mob had the arm on Landis? Had they just muscled their way in to get the job, or were they sucking the blood out of him, as well? There’d be so many ways to do it—eight guys on a job that needed five … four supervisors on every electrical outlet … overcharges on materials … bill for top quality and deliver the cheap shit instead.…
But what was in it for Jack Landis? It didn’t make sense for him to rob himself. Unless …
Oh shit. It was so wonderfully evil that Levine had to smile. No, it couldn’t be, could it? All that money pouring through the telephone lines—just dial 1-800-CAN-DICE and make your contribution to organized crime? Get yourself a time-share in a condo that is never going to be built? Or if it is, is going to fall down on you the first time you sneeze?
Nah.
But Graham sees a lot of trucks coming and going with no time to unload, then he thinks he sees Joey Foglio get out of a limo on the site, and … what?
What could Joey Beans have on Jack Landis?
Oh shit.
Ed set down his coffee and reached for the phone.
There was always a lot of controversy about what to do with the San Antonio River where it made the big bend downtown. The city’s important wives, who were sensitive about living in a backwater, wanted to turn it into the Venice of the West. Their businessman husbands, who were tired of pumping the water out of their store basements, wanted to pave the damn thing over and use it as a sewer.
The wives won.
The local story has it that those civic-minded ladies put on a puppet show for the city council, but a lot of cynics would tell that it was some heavy-duty string pulling at home that turned the tide, so to speak. Anyway, the city of San Antonio hired a designer named Hugman to turn their fair burg into the Venice of the West, and damned if he didn’t do it.
The River
“I have to get a coffeemaker,” Ed said. He started to drink the coffee and the relieved accountant sat down. “This better be an onion bagel, though.”
“It is. I watched him put it in the bag.”
“What’d you get?”
“Plain, toasted, with butter.”
Ed unwrapped his bagel and wondered why Spitz and Simon had sent him the only goy accountant in midtown. Maybe because they knew it was going to be an all-nighter. They’d better be giving me a discount on the hourly, Ed thought.
“So, what’d you bring?” Ed asked.
The accountant looked worried.
“You said a bagel and coffee,” he said.
“Your research,” Ed said. “What did you think, I brought you over here to eat? What do you have?”
The accountant wiped his fingers off on a napkin and reached into his briefcase.
“Mr. Spitz worked these up for you,” he said.
There goes the discount, Ed thought.
“What you’ll see there,” the accountant said, laying a stack of papers on the desk, “is that there are about twenty companies delivering various goods and services to the Candyland construction site. We managed to track eight of them back to the source and we should have the rest in a couple of days.”
Ed made himself swallow some coffee on the theory that there was still caffeine in there with the milk and sugar.
“And?” he asked, because the accountant was just sitting there looking proud of himself.
“The eight we traced go back to something called Crescent City Management in New Orleans.”
Ed felt his stomach turn sour, and it wasn’t the coffee. It was the knowledge that organized crime in Texas was a colony of Carmine Bascaglia’s empire in New Orleans.
“Who’s behind Crescent City?” Ed asked.
“A group of lawyers,” the accountant answered. “It’s all there in the report.”
“Eat your bagel,” Ed said. He started to worry. Was it possible that the mob had the arm on Landis? Had they just muscled their way in to get the job, or were they sucking the blood out of him, as well? There’d be so many ways to do it—eight guys on a job that needed five … four supervisors on every electrical outlet … overcharges on materials … bill for top quality and deliver the cheap shit instead.…
But what was in it for Jack Landis? It didn’t make sense for him to rob himself. Unless …
Oh shit. It was so wonderfully evil that Levine had to smile. No, it couldn’t be, could it? All that money pouring through the telephone lines—just dial 1-800-CAN-DICE and make your contribution to organized crime? Get yourself a time-share in a condo that is never going to be built? Or if it is, is going to fall down on you the first time you sneeze?
Nah.
But Graham sees a lot of trucks coming and going with no time to unload, then he thinks he sees Joey Foglio get out of a limo on the site, and … what?
What could Joey Beans have on Jack Landis?
Oh shit.
Ed set down his coffee and reached for the phone.
There was always a lot of controversy about what to do with the San Antonio River where it made the big bend downtown. The city’s important wives, who were sensitive about living in a backwater, wanted to turn it into the Venice of the West. Their businessman husbands, who were tired of pumping the water out of their store basements, wanted to pave the damn thing over and use it as a sewer.
The wives won.
The local story has it that those civic-minded ladies put on a puppet show for the city council, but a lot of cynics would tell that it was some heavy-duty string pulling at home that turned the tide, so to speak. Anyway, the city of San Antonio hired a designer named Hugman to turn their fair burg into the Venice of the West, and damned if he didn’t do it.
The River
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