Page 104 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
I feel the city in my bones the way you feel a childhood song.
The sedan is two blocks ahead, moving like it has nothing to prove.
The van hangs back to make any tail play honest.
They want the alleyways.
I want the river.
“Rafe,” I say. “Take Market, then cut them at Monroe. Don’t touch, just crowd.”
“Copy,” he says.
He drives like a man who likes his tires and hates everyone else’s.
“Tino,” I say. “Talk to me.”
“I’ve got your dent,” he answers. “He’ll bail to the service road to switch cars. He thinks he’s clever.”
“He’s not,” I say. “Pin the tail if he slows.”
We funnel them at a ramp that drops to a row of loading bays where meat once met ice.
No cameras that matter.
One night guard who drinks tea and reads crosswords and owes me three small things.
I text him one word.
Nap.
He texts back aZ.
Rafe takes the outside lane and makes himself a moving curb.
Tino appears where nobody expects and rides the sedan’s quarter panel without touching it.
The van behind them gets nervous and noses out to pass.
That’s its mistake.
It shows me the driver’s hands and the look of a man who didn’t rehearse this part.
I step out at the ramp and let the sedan choose.
Me or the wall.
He chooses the wall.
He brakes hard.
Doors open before the car stops.
The woman from Rizzo’s call swings out the front passenger side.
Cardigan.
Lanyard.
