Bloodline by Warren Murphy

except for meals, Nilo stayed away as much as he could. Tina was to blame for that. In his mind, she was just a tease, leading him on with her beauty and then going cute and coy and virginal at the last moment. He also feared that she might be saying bad things about him to Tommy.
    It’s because I saw her feeling herself up in the bathroom. People hate it when you find out their secrets.
    “Hey, Sesta.”
    Nilo stood up and turned around. It was Chambers, the straw boss. Nilo slowly took a puff on his cigarette.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” Chambers said. “Taking a fucking vacation?” Nilo did not answer, and Chambers said, “Not on my shift, you dumb wop. I get paid to produce. Now get back to work.”
    Without even thinking of his reply, Nilo answered, “No.”
    The word surprised Chambers; it even surprised Nilo. Chambers looked at him for a moment, then turned away.
    “Then get your ass the hell out of here,” Chambers said. “I’ll give you your chit, and you go back to the office and collect your stuff. You’re through. Fired. Now beat it.”
    It was not fair, Nilo thought. This is supposed to be America, where men are free. A man should not lose his job because he needs a cigarette. Who makes these rules?
    He could feel the rage boiling inside. There was a long-handled digging shovel on the ground, and he picked it up, ran after Chambers, and smashed the Irishman across the back with it, knocking him into the cold mud at the bottom of the ditch.
    Nilo walked to the edge and looked down at Chambers writhing in pain, paused thoughtfully, and then dropped the shovel down on top of him. For good measure, he also flicked his cigarette butt down at the man.
    After that, Nilo did not bother going around to collect the half day’s pay that was due him. Instead, he walked away from the site and kept on walking. Early afternoon found him in Midtown beginning to worry about how he was going to get along. His command of English still was not good, except for a fair number of obscenities he had mastered while on the job. All he knew was that he was never ever going to dig ditches again.
    He walked up Broadway, surprised at how lively and warm New York City seemed up here. Down a side street he saw a modest-looking diner, and his stomach reminded him that he had left his lunch back at the work shack. He went into the restaurant, sat at the counter, and ordered apple pie and coffee.
    He looked in his small money purse to check how much cash he had, and while he was fishing through it, he noticed for what must have been the hundredth time since he had put it there the card that Rocco had given him with the New York address of his benefactor, Don Salvatore Maranzano.
    Nilo looked at the card, but figuring out the address was beyond him.
    He asked a woman if she could tell him how to get to the address, but she shied away from him and walked quickly outside. Nilo had to admit that it seemed like a sensible thing to do since he looked and smelled like something that had just crawled out of a sewer.
    After his meager lunch, he went back to the street and began to ask passersby if they would help him. One by one they ignored him and walked off, and finally a city policeman came up to him and told him to move along.
    Nilo tried to explain in his halting English that he was looking for an address, and after a long few moments, finally succeeded in making himself understood.
    The cop looked at the card. “Maranzano, huh? A friend of yours?”
    Nilo nodded. “Sì. Yes,” he said hopefully.
    “That figures,” the policeman said. “They’re all as dumb as you.” He handed back the card. “Keep walking up Broadway. You’ll come to the number.” He pointed to the number on the business card and then to a street sign on the corner.
    Nilo nodded, fixed a big smile of thanks on his face, and walked off. But inside, he was seething. He knew the word “dumb.” He had heard it enough from Chambers on the ditchdigging