W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

At 7:15 P.M. Mr. Boyle was sitting in his shirtsleeves at his kitchen table concluding the administration of the day’s business when he heard the doorbell ring.

He was idly curious, but did not allow it to disturb his concentration. His work was important, and he took pride in both his accuracy, his absolute honesty, both to his clients and to his employers, and his timeliness. He had failed only twice to be ready when the man with the bag appeared at his door. His wife, Helen, moreover, had strict orders that he was not to be disturbed when he was working unless the house was on fire.

The kitchen table was covered with carbons of numbers selected that day, which would be forwarded, and with stacks of money, folded in half, and kept together with rubber bands. The folded stacks of money-the day’s receipts-were predominantly dollar bills, but with the odd five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills assembled in their own stack. There were also three stacks of tens, crisp new bills, bound by paper strips bearing the logotype of the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society, and marked “$500.”

These crisp new ten-dollar bills would be used to pay yesterday’s winners, those whose number had come up. This, Mr. Boyle believed, had a certain public relations aspect.

He could have, of course, paid the winners from the day’s receipts. There were a lot of people who would say money is money, it doesn’t matter where it comes from, so long as it can be spent. But Sonny believed that winners were happier to receive a stack of crisp new bills than they would be had he paid them with battered old currency, no telling where the hell it’s been. It made them feel better, and if they felt better, they would not only keep picking numbers, but would flash the wad of new bills around, very likely encouraging their friends and neighbors to put a buck, or a couple of bucks, on the numbers.

The swinging door from the dining room opened.

“Honey,” Helen said, to get his attention.

Sonny looked up at her with annoyance. She knew the rules.

“What?” he asked, less than politely.

“Mr. D’Angelo is here,” Helen said.

Marco D’Angelo was Mr. Boyle’s immediate supervisor. He normally drove the Buick which appeared ritualistically between 8:00 and 8:15 P.M., looking up and down the street as his assistant went into the Boyles’ residence.

As Sonny understood the hierarchy, Mr. D’Angelo worked directly for Mr. Pietro Cassandro. Mr. Pietro Cassandro was the younger brother of Mr. Paulo Cassandro, who was, as Sonny understood it, a made man, and who reported directly to Mr. Vincenzo Savarese, who was, so to speak, the Chairman of the Board.

Sonny didn’t know this. But it was what was said. And he had not considered it polite to ask specific questions.

Sonny glanced at his watch. Marco D’Angelo was not due for another forty-five minutes.

“He’s here? Now? What time is it?”

Mr. D’Angelo appeared in the kitchen.

“Whaddaya say, Sonny?” he said. “Sorry to barge in here like this.”

“Anytime, Marco,” Sonny replied. “Can I get you something?”

“Thank you, no,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Sonny, Mr. Cassandro would like a word with you. Would that be all right?”

“I’m doing the day’s business,” Sonny said, gesturing at the table.

“This won’t take long,” Mr. D’Angelo said. “Just leave that. So we’ll be a little late, so what, it’s not the end of the world. Finish up when you come back.”

“Whatever you say, Marco,” Sonny said. “Let me get my coat.”

Mr. Boyle was not uncomfortable. He had seen Mr. Pietro Cassandro on several occasions but did not know him. He searched his memory desperately for something, anything, that he had done that might possibly have been misunderstood. He could think of nothing. If there was something, it had been a mistake, an honest mistake.

The problem, obviously, was to convince Pietro Cassandro of that, to assure him that he had consciously done nothing that would in any way endanger the reputation he had built over the years for reliability and honesty.

Sonny did not recognize the man standing by Marco D’Angelo’s black Buick four-door. He was a large man, with a massive neck showing in an open-collared sports shirt spread over his sports-jacket collar. He did not smile at Sonny.

“You wanna get in the back, Sonny?” Mr. D’Angelo ordered. “Big as I am, there ain’t room for all of me back there.”

“No problem at all,” Sonny said.

He got in the backseat. Mr. D’Angelo slammed the door on him and got in the passenger seat.

They drove to La Portabella’s Restaurant, at 1200 South Front Street, which Sonny had heard was one of Mr. Paulo Cassandro’s business interests. The parking lot looked full, but a man in a business suit, looking like a brother to the man driving Marco D’Angelo’s Buick, appeared and waved them to a parking space near the kitchen.

They entered the building through the kitchen. Marco D’Angelo led Sonny past the stoves and food-preparation tables, and the man with the thick neck followed them.

Marco D’Angelo knocked at a closed door.

“Marco, Mr. Cassandro.”

“Yeah,” a voice replied.

D’Angelo pushed the door open and waved Sonny in ahead of him.

It was an office. But a place had been set on the desk, at which sat another large Italian gentleman, a napkin tucked in his collar. He stood up as Sonny entered the room.

The large Italian gentleman was, Sonny realized with a sinking heart, Mr. Paulo Cassandro, Pietro’s brother. He had just had his picture in the newspaper when he had been arrested for something. The Inquirer had referred to him as a “reputed mobster.”

“Sonny Boyle, right?” Mr. Cassandro asked, smiling and offering his hand.

“That’s me,” Sonny said.

“Pleased to meet you. Marco’s been telling me good things about you.”

“He has?”

“I appreciate your coming here like this.”

“My pleasure.”

“Get him a glass,” Paulo Cassandro ordered. “You hungry, Sonny? I get you up from your dinner?”

“No. A glass of wine would be fine. Thank you.”

“You’re sure you don’t want something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, maybe after we talk. I figure I owe you for getting you here like this. After we talk, you’ll have something. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Marco tells me you’re pretty well connected in your neighborhood. Know a lot of people. That true?”

“Well, I live in the house my mother was born in, Mr. Cassandro.”

“The name Frank Foley mean anything to you, Sonny?”

Sonofabitch! I didn’t even think of that!

“I know who he is,” Sonny said.

“Me asking looks like it made you nervous,” Paulo said. “Did it make you nervous?”

“No. No. Why should it?”

“You tell me. You looked nervous.”

Sonny shrugged and waved his hands helplessly.

“Tell me about this guy,” Paulo said.

“I don’t know much about him,” Sonny said.

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Well, he’s from the neighborhood. I see him around.”

“I get the feeling you don’t want to talk about him.”

“Mr. Cassandro, can I say something?”

“That’s what I’m waiting for, Sonny.”

“I sort of thought you knew all about him, is what I mean.”

“I don’t know nothing about him; that’s why I’m asking. Why would you think I know all about him?”

“I got the idea somehow that you knew each other, that he was a business associate, is what I meant.”

“Where would you get an idea like that?”

“That’s what people say,” Sonny said. “I got that idea from him. I thought I did. I probably misunderstood him. Got the wrong idea.”