Doyle went to his car, and got a VCR he’d borrowed from the casino. He hitched it up to the back of the video monitor, and made a copy of the tape.
“What are you going to do with it?” Doyle asked.
“Bury it in the backyard with the Prince’s address book.”
“But it’s evidence. You need to show it to Banko, or we could get screwed.”
Valentine understood what Doyle was saying. If someone in the department found out they were withholding the tape, they were finished as cops.
“But what’s it evidence of? We still can’t prove anything. We need to figure out what’s going on before we start shooting our mouths off to Banko.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“We need to start watching Mickey Wright.”
Doyle ran his fingers through his thinning hair. One of the annoying aspects of working in a casino was that everyone was watched, even people in surveillance. If they spied on Mickey Wright, the other people they worked with soon notice it.
“I think we’re risking our careers,” his partner said.
Valentine gave him a no-nonsense stare. “Four men died at the Rainbow Arms, and three of them were hanging out with Mickey Wright. I want to know why. Don’t you?”
Doyle shook his head in resignation. His conscience had been eating at him since day one. “I think this thing is bigger than us, Tony. That address book was filled with the names of New York mobsters. Do you really want to tango with those guys? We could end up with horse heads in our beds. Or worse.”
Valentine had already thought it through. They were in too deep to quit. He had killed a man over that stupid address book, and he wanted to know why.
“I’m not afraid. Are you?”
Doyle shot him an exasperated look. “All right, already. We’ll spy on Mickey Wright.”
Sparks steakhouse on New York’s tony upper east side was where you went to talk business, and eat a good steak. It was a mob joint, and had no windows on its bottom floor. Every day, the owners checked the dining room tables for bugs and hidden microphones before opening their doors. And, the food was good.
Sparks had a number of rules. Women were not welcome, unless they were draped on the arm of a local hoodlum. Men were required to wear jackets and ties, no exceptions. And, you were not supposed to raise your voice in anger, although it sometimes happened.
It was noon, the restaurant packed with hoodlums from each of the five boroughs. At his usual corner table sat Paul “The Lobster” Spinelli with two of his soldiers, Gino Caputo and Frankie Musserelli. Gino had elephant ears, Frankie six fingers on his left hand. Someday, these would be the two men’s nicknames, if they lived that long.
The Lobster was wrestling with a five pound monster flown in that morning from Maine. His bib was splattered with melted butter and tiny bits of white meat. He ate like a man going to the electric chair. The Lobster knew he was a spectacle, and he didn’t care. “These Philly fucks are messing with the wrong people,” he said through a mouthful of food. “I’ll whack every one of them if they don’t stay out of Atlantic City.”
The Lobster snapped open a claw, and a piece of shell flew onto a nearby table.
“Hey,” he called to the adjacent diners. “Any meat in that?”
The claw was dutifully examined.
“No,” the man at the table said.
The Lobster resumed speaking to his men. “I hate Philly. You know what I’m saying. It’s a rat prick town. I went twenty years ago. Nothing to do.”
Gino was eating a plate of garlic meatballs. He speared one with a fork, and ate it in small bites while sipping on a glass of draft beer. “I took my kids last year. My son looks at the Liberty Bell and says, ‘The crack in my ass is bigger than that.’”
The Lobster snorted and slapped the table.
“I love kids,” he said.
“Dumb fucking town,” Frankie added.
The Lobster lowered his voice, and his soldiers conspiratorially leaned in. “If those Philly fucks don’t pull out of Atlantic City, we’re going to drive over there and kill them in their fucking beds. We can’t let them muscle in on this thing we’ve got going.”
“In their beds,” Frankie said, like he wanted to be sure.
“Isn’t that what I just said, you dumb shit?”
“I just wanted to be sure, that’s all.”
“Don’t ever make me repeat myself.”
“No, sir.”
“What did I just say?”
“That I should never make you repeat yourself.”
“That’s right. And don’t forget it.”
“What about Nucky Balducci?” Gino asked.
The Lobster had lost his appetite and tore off his bib. He extracted an Arturo Fuente Opus X from his pocket
