... On Saturday he was back out at the big-box bookstore, distributing flyers that read DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU in big block letters, with a picture of Helen Burmeister and her shattered car window below. Tommy had copied the picture from the local paper and printed them up himself, with overblown warnings guaranteed to give the average reader (a suburban mom, according to statistics) the screaming heebie-jeebies. After pinning a few dozen under windshield wipers in the parking lot he treated himself to an ice cold root beer in the store’s café.
... But before he could take so much as a sip, a deep voice behind him said, “Mind if we join you?”
... Tommy looked up and thought Oh, shit.
... Pete Morello, six foot four and still solid as a pile of bricks, a big lieutenant in Brooklyn, disappeared six years ago. They said he’d been taken out by that bastard Bosco. Apparently they were misinformed.
... Vito “The Libido” Fontana, wiry, skin tanned the color of mahogany. The pimp of Long Island. Pulled over for speeding in his Alfa Romeo convertible with two underage girls and a kilo of coke. He figured prison would ruin his good looks and sang to save his neck.
... Carlo Garibaldi, short, fat, and very, very quiet. A killer. Until that moment Tommy thought he was still on the job back in New York.
... “Jesus,” said Tommy. He stuffed the rancid sandwich back in his bag and looked around at the three of them. Three more mouths to say his name, and no chance to shut them, not with them all here together. And if just one of them still had a friend back home… “How… what are you guys doing here? Together?”
... Fontana waved a hand. “Fuckin’ Feds. Always got one eye on the budget. They keep us close to the office, they got more left for the Christmas party. This town ain’t that big, sooner or later we’re bound to bump up against each other.”
... “But we’re not… I mean, they told me not to talk to anyone from back home. What if they find out? I don’t know about you, but I’m not real keen on seeing Manhattan again any time soon.”
... “They’re Feds,” said Morello. “They won’t find out. Hell, if they had any brains they’d be working for us.” After a moment he shook his head. “I mean, for our former associates. Goddamn it to hell.”
... That brought a chuckle from the other two. “Old Pete here misses the old days,” said Fontana. “He’d go back if he could.”
... “Rotting in jail would be better than this place,” said Morello. “And a lot less boring. There I’d be a big man, to be treated with respect. Out here, the only time anyone wants to talk with me is to ask if I want the senior citizen discount at the buffet.”
... “Fine, Pete, bitch about the glory days later,” said Fontana. “Hey, did you hear about Sal?”
... “Sal?” said Tommy.
... “Porcaro. Went by Samuel Porkins out here. They say he dropped dead of a heart attack.” Fontana laughed. “I figure he topped himself when he couldn’t get it up any more. He always said a life without pussy wasn’t worth living.”
... “Sal Porcaro said that? But he’s so… so fuckin’ old.”
... “You didn’t know him when. Believe it or not, back in the sixties that guy was a smooth operator. Drove a little Italian sports car, did the Brylcreem thing – you shoulda seen it. I swear he plowed half the debutantes in New York. Joe Namath was gettin’ Sal’s sloppy seconds.”
... Morello leaned forward. “Anyway, now that Sal’s gone we have an opening, and we thought we’d see if you were interested.”
... “An opening?”
... Garibaldi wheezed. “We want you to join our book club.”
... “Book club,” said Tommy. “Join your book club. You’re kidding, right?” He glanced around at their faces. They weren’t kidding.
... “We seen you in here a few times,” said Morello. “We all got to have some way to pass the time. Give it a try, you might. Meet us up here tonight around ten. I’ll bring some beer and we’ll sit around and shoot the shit. Beats sitting at home in front of the tube.”
... Tommy frowned. “The club meets here?”
... “Yeah,” said Fontana. “The manager had a few debts. We took care of it, now he owes us a favor.”
... An idea appeared in Tommy’s head, fully formed. Ten o’clock tonight. Plenty of time.
... “Guys,” he said. “I’m in.”

* * *

... Tommy opened the door to his apartment and stuck his head in. “Marie?” he said. “You home?”
... No answer. Probably out shopping again.
... As he stepped back into the passage and closed the door he nearly fell over Grace. She was dressed sensibly today – navy blue polo shirt, khaki pants, sneakers. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
... “No, it’s all right,” said Tommy. “You’re working today, eh?”
... She grimaced. “I was, but they canceled. So I was wondering, do, uh… do you still want that massage?”
... “Yeah,” said Tommy. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”
... “Well, come on then,” she said.
... As Tommy crossed the hallway, he felt a buzzing in the air, like static electricity, getting stronger with every step. Then the door closed behind them, he put his arm around her waist, and the charge went through them both.
... They made their way to the bedroom, hands groping, struggling out of clothes, stumbling into furniture. Then they were on the bed, naked, her skin as soft and smooth as he had dreamed. Tommy kissed her on the cheek, on the neck. He kissed her nipples, her head arching back as he bit down gently. He kissed the flatness of her belly. Then he went lower.
... He pushed his tongue through the thicket of her hair to the warm tenderness beneath. “Oh,” she said. “Oh!” Her heels dug into his shoulders.
... He worked on her diligently, finding the rhythm as she moved beneath him, his hands gripping her buttocks as they tensed. Then quickly, more quickly still, until she cried out once, then again, a third time.
... Then she fell back on the bed, limp.
... Tommy chuckled to himself. He laid his head across her abdomen and listened to her heart thumping. “You like that?” he said.
... “You’re something special, that’s for sure,” said Grace. “I see why they call you Tommy the Tongue.”
... His breath stuck in his throat. He looked up into the muzzle of a small chrome pistol.
... “All the girls back at the Al Fresco club on West 51st still talk about you,” she said. “You sure do make an impression.”
... “What…” Tommy swallowed. “Who sent you? What do you want?”
... “I got what I wanted,” she said. “Everything I need. Now I want you to get out of my place.”
... “What?”
... “Get the fuck out of here. Run, motherfucker! Run!”
... And Tommy ran, out of the bedroom, across the hallway, into his own apartment, his prick slapping against his thighs at every step. He threw the door shut behind him and ran to his bedroom, to the bedside table and the drawer where he kept his gun. And he waited.
... Silence. Nothing. No one.
... For half an hour he stayed like that, gun pointed at the bedroom door. When he couldn’t stand it anymore he tiptoed out and locked the front door. Then he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt.
... Ten minutes, staring through the peephole at Grace’s door across the hall. It was closed; he didn’t think he’d closed it. He knew he ought to call Barton, but how would he explain? How would he explain it to Marie?
... Finally he unlocked the door and opened it silently. Crossing the passage he looked around. Nothing moved. At Grace’s door he palmed the knob and twisted slowly. The door wasn’t locked.
... He hadn’t looked at her apartment much. Now he saw that the furnishings were no older than the ones in his own apartment, bought new not six weeks ago. There were no clothes in the closets, no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions. No one lived here.
... The bed was stripped down to the mattress, the sheets and bedspread gone. His clothes were neatly folded in the center. Tommy grabbed them and hustled out of there.
... He still had a lot to do.