“Because he?s the most likely one of the bunch to take over as
bought the farm. That?s unless there?s something we don?t know,” I added.
“Such as?” asked Dutch.
“Such as somebody else in the family pushing the old man across and taking over.”
“Oh,” said Dutch, “
I went on, running down the list of felons who were now in residence in Doomstown:
Johnny Draganata, the tough, no-quarter Moustache Pete from the old school, and professor and priest
t all the Tagliani soldiers, the final authority on tradition and protocol; Rico Stizano, also known as
the Barber, because that?s what he had once been in Chicago, until he married Tagliani?s sister. Now
his speciality was gambling. A big family man. They all were.
Tony Logeto, Tagliani?s son-in-law, „as a cannon and a muscle man, married to Tagliani?s oldest
daughter, Sheila, and a specialist in loan sharking, extortion, and anything that required more muscle
than brains. Logeto saw himself as big ladies? man. A lot of ladies apparently did too.
“Anthony Bronicata is another old-timer,” I told them. “He?s a onetime soldato with a lot of notches
gun his gun. In dope circles he?s known as the Peg, short for I1 Pegiore, which means the Worst, and
that—in the trade—means don?t mess with him. He?s king pusher, pipeline to the street, and we?ve
never been able to put a finger on him for anything—possession, conspiracy, distribution, nothing.
Bronicata?s front is always a restaurant. The only good thing I can say about him is he mikes pretty
fair fettuccine. You want him? If we can nail his ass, Lie?s yours.”
I had very little recollection of O?Brian. In my mind I remembered him as a short little Irishman with
a blustery red face and had teeth. Dutch?s photo showed that lie had a pug nose and a go-to-hell smile,
and his picture was the only pleasant one in the hunch, but I didn?t let that fool me for a minute. As
the newest member of the clan, he still had to prove himself, and that made him more unpredictable
than any of the rest.
Dutch observed, “All these guns around, and it didn?t help Tagliani for a minute.”
“Never does if they want you bad enough,” I said.
I pulled two new photographs out of my briefcase and held them up.
“These two look familiar to anybody?” I asked.
There were no takers.
I held up the clearer of the two photos, that of a round-faced man in his sixties with a pleasant smile,
his snake eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
“This is Tuna Chevos,” I said. “We?ll turn him up.”
“How would you know that?” Charlie One Ear asked.
