Page 147 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
If a judge ever saw it, we’d both go to jail on penmanship.
My phone hums against the wood.
Rafe first.
“Your friend with the mustache called his boss. Ledger’s making waves. Somebody said ‘pause’ and didn’t whisper.”
“Good,” I say. “Sit on the corner. Don’t be heroic.”
“Born predictable,” he says and hangs up.
Next, the federal clerk who likes his rent on time.
He never does greetings.
“Accounts flagged. Two holds placed. Your boy Marco is learning new adjectives.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“You didn’t hear it from me,” he says and disconnects the way men do when their phones might testify against them.
The third is Luca, Santangelo captain with a talent for survival.
“I just heard an argument in a parking garage,” he says. “A loud one. Marco’s crew is choosing wives and alibis. A couple chose themselves.”
“He armed them with fear and forgot to feed them,” I say. “They’ll eat him if he stands still.”
“They’ll sell him first,” Luca says. “You want me at dinner tonight?”
“I want you neutral. Bring your ears.”
He snorts. “They’re attached.”
Elisa watches me the whole time.
She doesn’t ask for the details I won’t give over a table that hears too much.
She reaches and closes the folder like she’s tucking in a child.
“So,” she says, “we have a morning.”
“Rare animal,” I say.
We clean up like it matters.
Dishes, edges, a streak on the oven door.
Putting a room in order is the easiest lie you can tell the day.
By noon the air changes.
You can feel it in the way calls arrive without my dialing.
Tino texts a photo of Marco’s car in front of a building where bank managers go to hide.
A second later, I get a grainy shot of the same car leaving in a hurry.
The caption is not polite.
