Son of the Mob by Gordon Korman

Kendra’s shoulders, but she’s totally rigid. I start to consider that this might be a bad idea. A local college girl is singing Motown—and she’s actually pretty decent—when I softly suggest, “Maybe we should get out of here.”
    Kendra points to the stage. “Is she really that good?”
    â€œI never said she was—” Then I realize the true meaning of the question. “Kendra, you blow her away.”
    She takes a deep breath, combs her blond hair with her fingers, and straightens her blouse. “If I stink, I hate your guts for bringing me here.”
    I get a warm glow. If the reverse holds true, she’s going to love me.
    When Hannibal pointed his elephants at the Alps and yelled giddyup , he had the same look in his eyes as Kendra, marching over to that microphone.
    She’s a showstopper. Well, not exactly, but nobody throws any fruit at her, and that’s a big deal with this crowd. She starts off nervous, but really loosens up, belting out everything from “What a Girl Wants” to “Stairway to Heaven.” By her third or fourth song, she’s picking up a core of fans. Remember, this place is also a bar. We’re not drinking, but everybody else is, and the crowd’s appreciation of the music seems to rise with their intoxication level.
    â€œYou’re a smash!” I crow.
    She grabs my arm. “Get up here!”
    â€œBut I can’t—”
    â€œI need a backup singer!”
    Well, maybe Kendra doesn’t stink, but I do. I take a few direct hits from maraschino cherries, but nothing touches her. Highly selective abusers, this crowd.
    We’re back at the table when in walks a tall cadaverous man in black slacks and turtleneck. I almost inhale my straw when I recognize the guy. It’s a good thing there’s music on because I think I scream. It’s Uncle Pampers.
    The thought of Uncle Pampers in a karaoke bar kind of makes me want to laugh and be sick at the same time. He holds a special place in Dad’s organization. He doesn’t hang out with the other uncles. I’m pretty sure they’re afraid of him. Quite frankly, I think Dad might be too. That’s where the nickname comes from. If you open your door and see Uncle Pampers standing there, you—ahem—you get the picture. “I hope he’s got his Pampers on,” the uncles used to joke whenever he got sent to pay a visit to somebody.
    At least, that’s Tommy’s version. I only talked to Dad about Uncle Pampers once, and he got pretty uncomfortable about it, as if we were discussing the birds and the bees. The official job description is “problem solver.” As in: “You got a problem, you call up your uncle Pampers, and he makes it go away.” I’ve also heard it as “troubleshooter,” with an ominous emphasis on shoot , although Tommy assures me that Uncle Pampers prefers to work more quietly. Mario Calabrese, for example, was strangled with the cord from his own Walkman while jogging. Naturally, the case remains unsolved. But if it’s true that Dad gave the order, the job was almost certainly carried out by Uncle Pampers.
    Nobody ever said explicitly that the “problems” he solves are actual people. I kind of figured it out from the way the other uncles, their wives, and even Dad stay away from him. At family gatherings he plays with the little kids. I used to assume he loves children, but now I realize that they’re the only ones who can look at him without thinking about what he does to make a buck.
    And here he is at Rio Grande. I shrink a little lower in my seat. The last thing I need is a friendly how’s-it-going chat with a professional killer. That’s a definite dating no-no—right up there with having an unconscious guy in your trunk. Especially when the date is with Kendra, whose father probably has a file on Uncle Pampers that’s even thicker than the