“You see that?” Boyle said.
“Yeah.”
“Whoever it is, he just put his head in and told them they had company.”
I adjusted my eyes to the light as we neared the house, gravel splitting beneath my feet. “It’s Frank Martin,” I said.
“Martino,” Boyle said. He chuckled and shook his head. “Martin. Fuckin’ goombahs and their names.”
We brushed past the Lincolns and moved toward the porch. I left my hands in the pockets of my overcoat as we walked up the steps. Frank’s arms hung loosely at his sides. His corduroy car coat was open, exposing the khakis and a dark blue shirt. The Airweight was in the nylon holster, unsnapped, tucked into the side of his khakis, and Frank made no effort to hide it. He touched his fingers to the grip, then let his hand fall back at his side. We stopped on the porch in front of him. Frank looked at me.
“Salesman, huh? I knew you weren’t no fuckin’ salesman. No such thing as fifty off.” A big band sound with a vocalist came softly through the front door.
“Can we go in?” I said.
Frank looked at Boyle for the first time. “You’ve got heat under your coat-I can see it. Take the guns off and leave ’em at the door.”
“I’m a cop,” Boyle said, his voice deepening a note. “I wear a gun, and it doesn’t come off. We came to talk to your boss. You want to start somethin’ before we get into that, start it now.”
Frank swung both hands nervously, carefuvou'0el not to swing them near the Airweight. He looked away from Boyle and put his hand on the knob of the front door. Frank turned the knob and opened the door. “Go on.”
Boyle stepped first, and I followed. Sinatra was the vocalist, and he was singing “It Happened in Monterey” at a low volume through the Sony’s black speakers on the bar. Goloria was sitting on one of the chairs near the two blank television screens, his bones etching their angles on a cheap brown suit. A tan shirt and a yellow-and-brown rep tie hung beneath the suit. The tie was crooked at the knot.
Solanis stood behind the bar, wearing a black sport jacket and a tieless deep red shirt, buttoned to the neck. His buckshot scars matched the redness of the shirt, but the rest of his face was finely lined and almost serene, his black hair damp with gel and lazily combed back. He moved the swizzle stick around slowly in a rocks glass filled with scotch whiskey and watched Boyle move into the room. I closed the door behind me and withdrew my hands from the pockets of my overcoat.
Goloria stood quickly, touched the knot of his tie, and slid four fingers of the other hand behind his belt. “Boyle,” he said nodding. “We didn’t expect you so soon. You should have called. We could’ve set a time, when we could all talk together.”
“Where’s Bonanno?” Boyle said.
“Not here.”
“I can see that. His car’s out front.”
“He got picked up by friends,” Goloria said. “What can we do for you?”
Boyle moved toward Goloria and stopped a few feet away. I walked over to the card table. Solanis watched me do it, a restful smile growing on his face. I picked some red chips up off the table and ran them around in my fingers, glancing up the stairs to the landing. The lights were out and the landing was deep in shadow.
“How’s the wife and kids, Goloria?” Boyle said.
“Same as yours, I guess. Same as anybody’s.”
“And Wallace?”
Goloria paused to narrow his eyes. “You want a drink, Boyle? You look to me like you could use a drink. Jack’s your pleasure, isn’t it?” He glanced over toward the bar and grinned with effort. “Solanis, fix Detective Boyle here a Jack Daniels.”
Boyle said, “Keep your hands on the bar. I drink with my friends. This is business.” Solanis’s face remained expressionless as a stone.
Goloria rubbed the heel of one brown shoe against the instep of the other. “Tell us what you two want.”
“Stefanos wants what I want,” Boyle said. I didn’t know where he was going with it, and I don’t think he did either, but he had their attention. Standing there, a head taller than Goloria, his feet spread wide and firm on the wood floor, Boyle was like a bull, staring them down on their own turf.
“You’ve got to get clearer than that,” Goloria said. wn turf='0em'›
“All right,” Boyle said. “Stefanos came to me with the details of your operation. He knew the reporter that was looking into it, and he got curious. Pretty soon the Pie Shack arsons and the bookmaking came to the surface.”
“So?”
“You always were a piece of shit, Goloria.” Boyle took a step forward but kept his voice low and even. “Shaking down bartenders, threatening informants, that’s one thing. Making book and setting fires, that’s another. It depends on where you draw the line. I draw the line at all of it. You got no problem with turning your head and getting your palm greased, that’s up to you I guess-as long as nobody gets hurt.”
“Keep talking.”
“Solanis over there-murder one on the reporter. You buried the evidence, and you planted some that was phony.”
Goloria sighed and ran one finger down a crease in his gaunt face. “You still haven’t told me a fuckin’ thing, Boyle. Now I’m going to ask you again-what do you want?”
Boyle said, “Low as you are, Goloria, you’re still a cop. I’m not about to turn you in, if there’s any other way.”
“You talking about a payoff?”
“I’m talking about options.”
A heavy dull sound pushed in from beyond the front door. Goloria and I turned our heads in the direction of the sound; Boyle stared ahead. The song from the box ended and another one began, Sinatra’s “I’ve Got You under My Skin.” Goloria grinned and turned his attention to the bar. “Turn it up, Solanis,” he said, snapping his fingers. “This one really jumps.”
Solanis walked slowly to the Sony and hiked up the volume. I heard movement from the second floor and looked up, but there was nothing, and then the sound of the movement was drowned out by the music. When I looked back Solanis was walking back to his spot behind the bar, staring at me.
I stared back and said, “We’ve got a problem here.”
Goloria said, “We don’t need a private cop in this, Boyle. It’s between you and me.”
“What kind of problem you got, Stefanos?” Boyle said, smiling a little now, ignoring Goloria, getting into the rhythm he had talked about.
“The security guard,” I said, feeling that rhythm, and a warmth in my face.
“What about him?” Solanis said, his voice dry as a December leaf.
“Shut up,” Goloria said, turning his head to the bar. The Nelson Riddle arrangement swelled in the room, horns rising, Sinatra bending his vowels as he jumped back into the verse. I put my hands on the belt loops of my jeans, hiked them up, and ran my right hand around the waistband to the back, feeling the checkered points of the Beretta’s serrated grip. I rested my thumb on the grooved hammer.
“If I’m going f Is sto get involved in this,” I said, “there better not be any loose ends. I talked to that security guard myself. He’s a broken-down drunk. He’ll talk, eventually.” In my peripheral vision I saw motion from above. I kept my eyes on Solanis.
Solanis smiled. “He won’t talk.”
“I told you to shut up,” Goloria said.
“Maybe you better let me handle it,” I said.
“No need,” Solanis said, the smile gone now, a sudden emptiness in his black eyes. “I took care of him, the same way I did that reporter.” The black eyes narrowed. “That nigger screamed when I gave him the knife. He screamed like a girl.”
“Goddamn it, Solanis, shut up!” Goloria said.
Boyle crossed his arms and reached into his coat. Then he drew his guns, pointing them at Goloria. Solanis’s hand slid under the bar, and he began to crouch down.
