Bloodline by Warren Murphy Page A

job.
    And why did that policeman seem to know Don Salvatore? Perhaps the don is truly a big man in this city. And maybe he will have work for me.
    A few minutes later, Nilo was standing outside a large brick building. A brass plaque on the front of the building announced:
    MARANZANO
    REAL ESTATE
    Nilo could not decipher “real estate,” but he was able to work out the letters for “Maranzano.” He started for the large glass doors of the entrance but suddenly was brushed aside by two burly men who pushed their way out of the building.
    They both wore crisp pin-striped suits, and their faces, under their snap-brimmed hats, were hard and suspicious.
    At the curb they got into a parked car, and as one man clambered into the passenger seat Nilo saw a revolver in a shoulder holster under his jacket. The two men quickly drove off. Nilo watched them go, then turned back toward Maranzano’s building.
    This time he stopped short of the door.
    Who am I trying to fool? Don Salvatore has a big business, and what do I know about business? Why would he hire me? To do what? To dig more ditches for one of his businesses?
    In his mind, he weighed himself against the two men who had just driven away from the real estate office. Their suits … their strong faces … the gun he saw. Were these businessmen? he wondered. Did they work for Don Salvatore?
    There are too many things I do not know. I speak of being a man, but I am truly not much more than a child. What use has Don Salvatore for a child whose only skill is digging ditches? I will dig ditches until I die. It is America’s gift to Nilo Sesta.
    He turned from the door and started the long walk back to Crosby Street. Softly, the rain began to fall.
    *   *   *
    T OMMY F ALCONE PICKED UP the coffeepot from the stove, where it had been gently percolating itself into mud, and poured himself a thick steaming cupful and walked into the living room.
    Outside, the day had changed from sunny and chill to a long, slow, cold drizzle. The weather fit his mood exactly, and he sank down into the sofa, kicked his shoes off, and stared out the window, studying the rain.
    Tony Falcone came out of the bathroom rubbing his damp hair with a towel, looked over at his son, then went into the kitchen for his own cup of coffee. He sat down next to Tommy and said, “You look very serious. It must be all this philosophy that you are studying.”
    “Nothing so brilliant,” Tommy said. “I was just trying to figure out which bank to rob.”
    His father grinned at him. “It might be easier to marry a rich widow,” he said.
    Tommy laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After a pause, he said, “Do you think there’s one around that old man Mangini doesn’t have his paws on?”
    The elder Falcone scowled. He did not like his neighbor from across the street and went into Mangini’s Restaurant only when it was absolutely necessary. “The man gives philanderers a bad name,” he finally said, then quickly dropped the subject, as if it annoyed him.
    “Why this worrying about money all of a sudden?” he asked. “I thought between your army back pay and maybe working this summer, you wouldn’t have any trouble with money for school.”
    “I won’t,” Tommy agreed. “So long as I don’t go anywhere or do anything. Without cash … well, as far as girls are concerned, I might just as well have stayed up there with the Sisters of Quietude.…”
    He stopped suddenly, realizing what he had said, aware that he had mentioned a part of his life that he had planned to keep secret forever.
    “I mean…” he began.
    Tony smiled softly. “I know what you mean,” he said. “You don’t have to say anything.”
    Tommy took a small sip of his coffee before turning toward his father.
    “What do you know?” he finally asked.
    Tony shrugged his shoulders.
    “No,” Tommy snapped. “You said you know. Now, what do you know?”
    “I know most of it, Tommy. Look, it’s not something you want to