Page 140 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

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The woman at the desk takes the money and does not look at me.

The envelope is mine and not mine at once.

I slip away feeling like a ghost leaving a message.

Nico waits across the street.

He nods once when I meet him.

Tino watches with folded arms.

Rafe idles with the engine on, ready.

We move like a unit that has worked without applause long enough to be good at silence.

“Now?” I ask.

“Now,” he says.

We go back to the warehouse.

The bearded man is still there.

He is less cocky and more careful.

The lot smells smaller.

Nico steps into the light and speaks slowly.

He asks for names in a way that suggests he does not need to be pretending.

The man offers up a license plate and a driver’s name like he’s been chewing on it and decided it’s safe to spit out.

Nico writes it down and then lifts his head.

“You ever see Marco’s boys come through under someone else’s name?” he asks.

The man hesitates because most of these questions are hooks.

He says, “Sometimes. A courier comes with paperwork that reads like a ghost. One time it said Geno Petruzzi, but Geno’s been dead.”

“Exactly,” Nico says, and his voice has that thing that makes men fold. “So you remember the truck that had the blue tarp?”

The man remembers.

He tells us the route.

He tells us a time that matches a line in the ledger.

His memory is cheap and priceless because the things we need are ugly and men forget them for money.

We have the photograph, the café receipt, the courier manifest, and a witness who now owes us an extra breath.

It feels like a pile of proof you can carry under your arm.

We don't celebrate.

We have one more move.

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