“Every time I come here, I find myself thinking about what a cool yard this is,” Ed says. “Makes me wanna do something with my own place.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Too fucking lazy,” he says with a chuckle.
Papa eventually saunters out. Deano trots over to join him—another bloodhound hot on the scent of fresh meat. My father appears surprised but happy to discover that Ed is still here. They get along well, and I’m pleased that my retired father has someone to hang with. They’re of an age, and Ed appears to enjoy the company as much as Papa does. He seems to be in no hurry to wind things up. It’s not as if he’s charging us much, so I’m happy to play along.
“Plummer, he late again?” Papa asks Ed in his fractured English. After forty-plus years in the US, he still hasn’t mastered the language.
Ed nods, then points at the grill, where I’m just visible within a blanket of smoke as I battle to keep from charring the burgers. “Your kid needs a bigger grill, Francesco. Stop being a cheap bastard and get him one!”
“Yes?” Papa asks him with an appraising glance my way.
Ed nods. Papa nods. There must be a generational wavelength at work here. I may be getting a new grill!
Papa wanders back into the house. Deano stares after him but isn’t prepared to abandon his burger quest.
Jake Plummer lets himself into the backyard a minute later. The detective is in his mid-fifties, maybe five feet eight inches tall, is well on his way to bald, and is dressed in a nondescript gray suit that probably came off the rack at a department store. Cheap suits seem to be his detective uniform. “Ski!” he exclaims.
Ed turns to look at his friend. “Hi, you culturally insensitive son of a bitch!”
Plummer’s frosty mustache twitches as he laughs. He swears that his use of “Ski” to refer to Ed is nothing more than commentary on his friend’s rather prominent nose, whereas Ed insists it’s a slur on his Polish ancestry.
Plummer makes a point of sniffing the air, which is still thick with smoke pouring out of the grill. “Smells pretty damned good out here.”
“Good timing,” I tell him as I start transferring the cooked burgers into a CorningWare serving dish. “Want one?”
Plummer takes another sniff and smiles. “Don’t mind if I do.”
“Would one of you guys mind poking your head inside to let everyone know that we’re ready out here?” I ask.
When Ed nods and starts to stand, Plummer puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Got something I need to talk to you two about without anyone else listening.”
Ed settles back into his seat. I plop the lid on the CorningWare bowl and set it on the side shelf, where the heat from the grill will keep the burgers warm. Something in Plummer’s demeanor puts me on edge.
“A pal of mine from Chicago PD intelligence dropped in on me this afternoon,” he begins. “That’s why I’m late.”
Ed cocks an eyebrow. “And?”
“Some organized crime wise guy gave him a heads-up about a visitor from Italy who’s in town putting out feelers about Francesco.” Plummer studies me intensely. “Any idea what that’s about?”
I might have an idea, but I need to think this through before answering.
Plummer pauses for a beat to let me answer before he continues, “My first thought was that this has to be bullshit, but then my guy told me a little bit about who this character is supposedly associated with. You familiar with an outfit in Italy named Ndrangheta, Tony?”
My sphincter muscle contracts. Yeah, I know who they are—mafioso on steroids.
“Those are some nasty bastards,” Ed mutters.
Jake nods in agreement, then turns back to me. “No screwing around here. What’s this about?”
How the hell do I handle this? On his last night in jail during his murder trial, Papa had told me a horrible story about the rape and kidnapping of his sister from their hometown of Orsomarso in Italy when he was twenty years old. She was taken by members of the Cosche, a local offshoot of the national Ndrangheta. Papa had found her and killed the man who abducted her. He’d then spirited his sister and mother away to a monastery in a different Italian province before he fled to the United States with a price on his head. I tell Jake and Ed the story and end with a request to keep the information as confidential as they can. They both nod.
“So, you think we need to take this seriously?” Ed asks.
Plummer is looking at me as he nods. “Good call telling us about this, Tony. I get the feeling it was a tough call for you to make.”
I nod. No shit. The story was meant for my ears only and I’ve respected Papa’s confidence ever since. Much as I’d like to continue doing so, this is no longer about keeping a secret. If the Ndrangheta has finally caught up to Papa, he may not be the only person at risk.
“If you’re worried about legal jeopardy in the US over what Francesco did, don’t be,” Plummer says. “It happened ages ago and thousands of miles away. It’s nothing I’m inclined to act on.”
Ed weighs in. “The fucker deserved to be blown away.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Plummer agrees. “Anyway, the question is: What are we gonna do about this?”
“Why is this coming back on Papa now?” I ask. “It’s been almost fifty years.”
Plummer purses his lips. “Francesco’s trial was pretty big news. Maybe word got back to the wrong ears in Italy.”
“Most likely to this Orsomarso place,” Ed says. “I’ll bet this is personal. Some old asshole from back in the day wanting to settle a score. An outfit like the Ndrangheta ain’t likely to bother with shit like this, but if they did, they wouldn’t have come fishing for information. They would’ve just sent someone to take Francesco out.”
Plummer nods thoughtfully. “Ski’s
