Page 150 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby
“The violinist is busy,” I say. “He’s on the phone with your banker.”
Laughter travels the table like a string pulled tight and released.
Some men hide their grins.
Some don’t bother.
The mood has a temperature and it just dropped.
Marco shrugs.
“Everyone borrows names. Everyone pushes cash to friends. You did, once upon a time. What you don’t have is a fact that matters.”
I slide the second page to the Don.
“Here’s your fact.”
It’s the ledger line that shows cash moving from a shell Marco controls into a union slush.
The ink is dirty.
It looks like human nature.
“The shell paid two men you use to stage your noise. One of them bought a car last week. In cash. He parked it outside a meeting he shouldn’t have attended. That car is now on three cameras that belong to people who enjoy subpoenas. The Bureau loves that kind of algebra.”
A captain halfway down can’t help himself.
“He really bought a car?”
“Bad one,” I say. “Green. Off the lot, no plates, loud belt. You could hear it whisper from Court Street.”
More laughter, sharper now.
Marco’s smile gets thin.
“You make little jokes. You bring photocopies. I bring facts. The lady you sleep beside is now in a paper that asks questions we don’t want asked. She bought a scone and the city turned. I wonder who turned the city.”
Don Vincent doesn’t look at me.
He doesn’t need to.
“Leave the woman out of your mouth,” he tells Marco conversationally. “She’s a civilian. You know the word.”
Marco smirks.
“Civilians turn into saints around here, Don. You, of all people?—”
The Don holds up a finger.
The room falls off a cliff. “Marco,” he says, kind as a knife. “Don’t teach me my words. Tell me why your name is on a page that makes my food taste like chalk.”
Marco licks his teeth, looks for help that isn’t coming, finds none. “If my name is on any page, it’s because I handle what the boy is scared to touch. He talks to priests and nurses. I talk to men who make cities move. Someone has to do it.”
“So you used the Bureau to keep the lights on,” I say. “And you used a dead man to run your routes. You called it efficiency. It’s hunger with a tie.”
“It’s commerce,” he snaps. “It’s not personal.”
“It is now,” I say, and I keep my voice low. “You made it personal when you pulled her into your show. You parked your car where the cameras like to eat. You fed a slip with her notes to a paper that wraps fish. You wanted a scandal. You now have one. It has your name on top.”
