“What do you want?”
“I seem to have somebody you’re looking for.”
“What did you say?”
“That bank robber guy. One of my men rounded him up. I’m going to be seeing him soon.”
A pause.
“That is very good news, Mr. Perelli. I cannot tell you how much this pleases me.”
“Yeah, it’s great. Only problem is, I need a little something from you.”
“Ahhh,” the Russian said. “Cash.”
“No,” said Perelli, insulted for the second time this morning. “Just some info. See, I lured this guy here under what you might call false pretenses. I told him I had something he wanted. Only, I don’t know what he wants. Can you tell me?”
The Russian chuckled. “Oh, I have something he wants.”
“What’s that?”
“His pregnant girlfriend. You tell the bank robber I have a loaded gun to his girlfriend’s belly.”
Jesus Christ, Perelli thought. These Red bastards don’t fuck around.
“I guess that’ll work,” he said quietly. “But how do I prove it to him?”
“Hmmm. Hold on a minute.”
Perelli held. He had waved off the cash thing, but only temporarily. Yeah, this thing was going to come down to cash. He wanted to see how far the Russian prick would go, how high a price he would affix to the forehead of his son’s murderer. It wasn’t going to be $650, Perelli knew that much.
“Okay. I have something. If the bank robber doesn’t believe you, tell him, ‘Smell the roses.’”
“Say what?”
“It will mean something to him. Between him and his girlfriend.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve got a source here.”
Weird. But Evsei had no reason to lie about this. It would give Perelli something to work with.
“Great. And since you brought it up, what kind of price is on this guy’s head, anyway?”
“We can discuss that later.”
“Yeah. Well, you see, I kind of wanted to get that ironed out now.”
“When I see the bank robber, you will be amply rewarded.”
Amply. What the fuck did “amply” mean? What, was he going to kick in another $650?
They pulled up to Ninth and Catherine, near a one-hundred-year-old South Philly restaurant called Dominick’s Little Italy. The place was very familiar to Saugherty. Famous for 1960s-era gangland powwows and grisly 1980s- era gangland hits, Dominick’s also served up some amazing Italian food. Saugherty had taken his ex-wife here for their fifth anniversary. He had enjoyed pointing out the local capos and wannabes sitting at each table. His wife had been too nervous to enjoy herself. “Will you stop pointing,” she’d hushed him, under her breath.
The thing that stuck most in his memory about Dominick’s Little Italy: all the white tile. It was everywhere— the floor, the walls … maybe even the ceiling, for all he remembered. White tile, bordered by black tiles. The main dining room looked like one big high school shower. Saugherty joked at the time that the white tiles just made it easier to hose down the blood after a mob hit. His ex didn’t think that was funny, either.
What was Lennon doing down here? Was he forcing the parking attendant to buy him a plate of raviolis?
There was a small dive bar catty-corner to Dominick’s. Saugherty parked the car. He was relieved to find that it was one of those old-man bars he loved—no fancy bar menu, no karaoke, no microbrews. Just wood paneling and two beers on tap. Coasters were about the fanciest thing in the joint. Squared white tile covered the floor. The ceiling was stamped tin, painted over. The stool seats were covered with puffy vinyl, and there were peanuts in black plastic bowls on the bar top. Best of all, there was a huge greasy window, partially obscured by a set of 1950s-era blinds, that gave Saugherty a front and side view of Dominick’s. When Lennon left the premises, Saugherty would know about it.
Which left only one thing to do: order a fucking drink already.
Saugherty asked for a boilermaker—a shot of whiskey dropped into a mug of beer. The bartender didn’t ask what kind of whiskey, what kind of beer. Saugherty liked that. The glass sank and tapped the bottom of the mug with a dull thud, like two submarines tapping each other underwater. Saugherty downed it, then asked for a shot of Jack Daniel’s and another beer. Jack and beer. That had been his drink of choice ten years ago, when shit with his ex had gotten out of control. He’d finish his shift, then head to the Ashton Tavern just down the road a piece from his house on Colony Drive.
The house that was burning.
Saugherty saluted it, and enjoyed the trip down memory lane. Every so often, he’d look across the street to see what was going on at Dominick’s.
Lennon sat down, but he didn’t pick up the pen. He waited.
“Really. Go ahead. Anything you want. They’ve got a fully stocked bar here.”
He picked up the pen and the legal pad beneath it. He scribbled a few words on the surface, then flipped the pad to show his host:
The guy smiled. “I’ll tell you right now, I don’t have your money. Did I give you the impression I had your money? I don’t think I did.”
In some ways, this was a relief. The $650,000 was still out there somewhere. Lennon scribbled some more. He turned the pad over.
“That’s more like it. Get some food in your belly. If you don’t mind me saying, I’m assuming you don’t always look like a bum. Or smell like one.”
The guy picked up a phone, punched in three buttons, said “Come here,” then gave a teenaged boy in a white coat Lennon’s order. The guy specified Boar’s Head chicken breast, then turned his attention back to Lennon.
“You know, my daughter gave me a book last Christmas. What the hell was it called? Something like
Lennon had. He was a voracious reader of true crime and history—that’s how he had spent his wasted winter. Catching up on his reading, both crime stuff and a stack of science fiction novels. (Katie liked the sci-fi, too—Dick, Bester, Sturgeon—so they traded paperbacks back and forth at a feverish pace.)
Lennon didn’t write anything on the pad. He preferred to listen. Sooner or later, this guy was going to get to the point.
“Okay. Maybe you don’t read much. You’re busy. I’ll get to the point. The Russian mob has your girlfriend. Intes Studios, down on Delaware Avenue. Suite 117.”
