'No cheese.'
'No wine?'
'No.'
He moved off, mumbling something in Italian. When he came back, he had my food. Morelli had linguini with white clam sauce. The waiter said something to Morelli, moved off again.
I cut into the veal. It was perfect, light and sweet. We ate quietly, talking about the magazine he worked for, his kids, the neighborhood.
The waiter cleared the plates. 'You want a hot fudge sundae?' he asked me.
'Tortoni,' I said.
He bowed. I never saw a guy do that and sneer at the same time before.
When we finished, I lit a smoke, waiting. Morelli leaned forward. 'We have a deal?'
I nodded.
He spoke quietly, one hand protectively guarding his papers. 'You want the whole package or just the bottom line?'
'Bottom line.'
His finger traced a path through the bread crumbs the waiter left behind on the white tablecloth. 'Sally Lou,' he said.
'Yeah.'
'Adds up?'
'I think so.'
Morelli sipped his espresso. 'Burke, explain something to me. I grew up with these guys, I got no illusions. That dog you got . . . the Neapolitan? I know one of the old boys, has one just like yours. Keeps him in the back of the house. Every day he sends one of the kids to the pet store. Comes back with a couple of live white rabbits. The old man, he throws the rabbits over the fence. The dog catches them in the air, crunches them like a trash compactor. The old man, he thinks it's the funniest thing he ever saw.' He took another sip of his espresso. 'I know they put up with Sally 'cause he's a good earner. What I don't understand . . . where's the market?'
'You know where it is.'
'No. I really don't. This whole porno business, most of it's bullshit. They make this triple-X film, tell the world it grossed fifty million dollars - it's just a laundry for dope money.'
'So?'
'So why mess with the heavy stuff? Kiddie porn, stuff like that? The penalties are stiffer, they're taking all kinds of risks. There can't be
Morelli's face was tight. Maybe having your own kids raises the stakes.
'There don't need to be that many,' I told him. 'Every one of them is a bottomless pit. It's not like dope - too much dope and you die, right? But these freaks, they can never get enough. One little piece of videotape, they can sell it again and again.'
'Sally Lou, he's bent that way?'
'I don't think so. That's the hell of it - the market's so good, the wise guys are getting into it. It used to be just the freaks, making their own stuff. Mostly with their own kids. Now it's a business. The Postal Inspectors, they nail the end users. That's all. It's like when the DEA busts a bunch of mules - the processing plant keeps making the coke.'
I ground out my smoke. 'I'll let you know,' I said.
His eyes held me. 'Where do they get the kids? For the videos?'
'Same way they get anything else. Some they buy, some they steal.'
'You going after Sally Lou?'
'No. He's not on my list.'
'He's on mine,' Morelli said.
128
The Pontiac didn't drive itself the way the Plymouth did. I poked it carefully through Little Italy, heading for home. Salvatore Lucastro. Sally Lou. A made man in one of the Manhattan families, but not a heavyweight. Years ago, he started moving in on the porno joints in Times Square. Nobody paid that much attention - he was operating with permission. It wasn't one mobster, it would be another. The sleaze-sellers paid off, the way they were supposed to. Then he went into business for himself, actually producing the peep-show loops, branching into full- length films, videos. Nobody had a good line on where his studio was. He was making so much money, the bosses let him run. The kiddie-porn stuff was recent, maybe last year. From what I heard around, it was his biggest grosser ever.
Sally Lou owned Sin City.
129
I swung by Mama's, parked in the back. I went into the kitchen, waited there while they brought her back. We went into the hall, near the entrance to the basement, standing by the bank of pay phones.
'I can't hang around, Mama.'
'What is this with Flower?'
'Just give me a minute, okay? One call.'
I dialed the Mole. Heard him pick up. 'Go,' I said. Hung up.
I turned to Mama. 'It's complicated. There's a man wants to fight Max. Like a duel, understand?'
She watched my face, waiting.
'He made, like, this public challenge, okay? So it's all over the street. Max fights him, he has to kill him. And everybody knows. Big trouble.'
Mama wasn't worried about Max killing someone. 'Flower.' It was all she had to say.
'This guy, he wanted to make sure Max would fight him. He said if Max didn't he'd kill the baby.'
Mama's eyes were black marble. A fire flared; then it was gone. 'Tell him Max here. Come any time.'
'It won't work, Mama. It won't go down that easy. I've got it put together now. Just a few more days, maybe a little bit more. He couldn't find Max in Boston?'
She shook her head.
'I'll take care of it.'
Mama bowed, showing respect. That I could bring it off. I turned to go, felt her hand on my arm.
'What name?'
'Mortay,' I said. 'Mor-tay.'
'What that mean?'
'In Spanish, it means 'death.'
Mama bowed again. 'In Chinese, means 'dead man.' I bowed back. Goodbye.
130
The back staircase was quiet. I checked the pieces of tape I left behind. Still in place. The trip-wires were still attached in the hall. I let myself in. Pansy was at her post. 'Where's Belle?' I asked her. The beast let out a halfhearted snarl. I bent to give her a pat. Her breath smelled like formaldehyde.
Belle was in the next room. On her back on the gym mat I keep there. Nude, covered with a sheen of sweat. 'Twenty more,' she said, her hands locked behind her head. She was doing killer sit-ups, up fast, down slow. Muscles rippled under the soft skin.
'How many do you do?'
'Two hundred a day, six days a week. The only difference between me and a fat pig is a small waist. I damn
