Gina.”
“The only thing I did, Benny, was talk to Mayor Morelli.”
Harry looked at DeMarco and said, “Benny’s daughter needed a bone marrow transplant. The only acceptable donor was her brother, a complete thug, breaking rocks up at Attica. The kid was such adegenerate he wouldn’t help his own sister. I mentioned this to Paul, just in passing, and he personally goes up to the pen and talks the kid into donating. Didn’t promise him squat. After the kid’s paroled, Paul gets him a job with the teamsters. He’s been driving eighteen-wheelers for six years now, keeping his nose clean.”
Saint Paul of the Big Apple.
Harry waited until DeMarco disappeared inside the terminal at La Guardia, then pulled his cell phone off his belt. He flipped open the lid of the phone and his finger descended to punch the buttons, but then he stopped.
He really should talk to Paul about Joe. The fact that he was asking questions about Susan Medford wasn’t good and if it had been anyone other than his godson, he wouldn’t have thought twice about making the call. But Joe
was
his godson.
He also realized that he’d fucked up. Big time. Susan Medford had just been a name on a piece of paper, and Joe hadn’t really known anything about her until he shot off his big mouth. Paul would really be pissed if he knew what he had done.
But still—he should call Paul.
He unconsciously began to flip the lid of the cell phone open and shut, open and shut, oblivious to the little clicking sound.
If Paul should find out later that Joe had visited him and he’d kept it to himself . . . well, that wouldn’t be good. But what if Paul told him to go see the old man? He didn’t think that was likely, but you could never be sure. Jesus, he didn’t
ever
want to have to go see the old man about Joe. Joe was like a son to him.
Harry jerked in surprise when someone rapped on his car window, the sound like a man’s wedding ring tapping the glass. It was an airport cop, telling him to get moving, to get off the parking strip. Asshole. What did he look like? Some rag-head suicide bomber?
He closed the cell phone and clipped it back onto his belt.
Joe was a good guy. He wasn’t gonna be a problem.
Chapter 15
The pit boss had been chewing out one of his dealers for showing up late when he saw Eddie. Aw, shit. What was he doing here? He was alone at a five-dollar blackjack table and that’s what he was betting: just five bucks a hand. He obviously wasn’t here to gamble.
Eddie had to be the broadest man the pit boss had ever seen. Not fat, just
wide
. The damn guy’s shoulders had to be a yard across, and his chest and waist weren’t much smaller. He was like a big, square chunk of concrete on two stubby legs. But it was his hands that were scary: the size of catchers’ mitts, the fingers like mangled sausages, all splayed and bent up funny, crisscrossed with thick, ugly scars. He’d love to know who had been tough enough to fuck up Eddie’s hands that way, but he’d never ask. And he’d also bet—he’d bet every cent he had—that whoever had done it was dead and had died very painfully.
Oh, no. Eddie had just looked at him and moved his head, a little get-your-ass-over-here motion. He wanted to talk. Christ, why’d
he
have to be on duty tonight?
He walked over to the blackjack table. “Stacy,” he said to the dealer, “go powder your nose. Five minutes, no more.”
Stacy stacked her cards and walked away without a word. She was like most of their female dealers, in her forties, still good-lookingenough to turn a few heads but past her prime as a stripper. And like most dealers, the woman was a complete zombie. The cards would fly from her hands, and she’d tell the suckers whether they’d busted or not, and she’d pick up their chips if they lost or pay ’em if they won, but the whole time her mind was a zillion miles away, thinking about whatever these friggin’ gals thought about while they worked.
“Hey,
“The only thing I did, Benny, was talk to Mayor Morelli.”
Harry looked at DeMarco and said, “Benny’s daughter needed a bone marrow transplant. The only acceptable donor was her brother, a complete thug, breaking rocks up at Attica. The kid was such adegenerate he wouldn’t help his own sister. I mentioned this to Paul, just in passing, and he personally goes up to the pen and talks the kid into donating. Didn’t promise him squat. After the kid’s paroled, Paul gets him a job with the teamsters. He’s been driving eighteen-wheelers for six years now, keeping his nose clean.”
Saint Paul of the Big Apple.
Harry waited until DeMarco disappeared inside the terminal at La Guardia, then pulled his cell phone off his belt. He flipped open the lid of the phone and his finger descended to punch the buttons, but then he stopped.
He really should talk to Paul about Joe. The fact that he was asking questions about Susan Medford wasn’t good and if it had been anyone other than his godson, he wouldn’t have thought twice about making the call. But Joe
was
his godson.
He also realized that he’d fucked up. Big time. Susan Medford had just been a name on a piece of paper, and Joe hadn’t really known anything about her until he shot off his big mouth. Paul would really be pissed if he knew what he had done.
But still—he should call Paul.
He unconsciously began to flip the lid of the cell phone open and shut, open and shut, oblivious to the little clicking sound.
If Paul should find out later that Joe had visited him and he’d kept it to himself . . . well, that wouldn’t be good. But what if Paul told him to go see the old man? He didn’t think that was likely, but you could never be sure. Jesus, he didn’t
ever
want to have to go see the old man about Joe. Joe was like a son to him.
Harry jerked in surprise when someone rapped on his car window, the sound like a man’s wedding ring tapping the glass. It was an airport cop, telling him to get moving, to get off the parking strip. Asshole. What did he look like? Some rag-head suicide bomber?
He closed the cell phone and clipped it back onto his belt.
Joe was a good guy. He wasn’t gonna be a problem.
Chapter 15
The pit boss had been chewing out one of his dealers for showing up late when he saw Eddie. Aw, shit. What was he doing here? He was alone at a five-dollar blackjack table and that’s what he was betting: just five bucks a hand. He obviously wasn’t here to gamble.
Eddie had to be the broadest man the pit boss had ever seen. Not fat, just
wide
. The damn guy’s shoulders had to be a yard across, and his chest and waist weren’t much smaller. He was like a big, square chunk of concrete on two stubby legs. But it was his hands that were scary: the size of catchers’ mitts, the fingers like mangled sausages, all splayed and bent up funny, crisscrossed with thick, ugly scars. He’d love to know who had been tough enough to fuck up Eddie’s hands that way, but he’d never ask. And he’d also bet—he’d bet every cent he had—that whoever had done it was dead and had died very painfully.
Oh, no. Eddie had just looked at him and moved his head, a little get-your-ass-over-here motion. He wanted to talk. Christ, why’d
he
have to be on duty tonight?
He walked over to the blackjack table. “Stacy,” he said to the dealer, “go powder your nose. Five minutes, no more.”
Stacy stacked her cards and walked away without a word. She was like most of their female dealers, in her forties, still good-lookingenough to turn a few heads but past her prime as a stripper. And like most dealers, the woman was a complete zombie. The cards would fly from her hands, and she’d tell the suckers whether they’d busted or not, and she’d pick up their chips if they lost or pay ’em if they won, but the whole time her mind was a zillion miles away, thinking about whatever these friggin’ gals thought about while they worked.
“Hey,
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