So what? I ask the part of myself that’s starting to sulk. What does it matter? I shake it off and turn to Nick. “Okay?” I ask, jolting him from whatever reverie he was in.
He shrugs. “Thanks, Jonesy,” he grunts over his shoulder, pulling me back toward the elevator. “Anyone comes again, you keep them here and you call me. Just like today; that was good work.”
“No problem, Mr. Fontana, no problem…” Jonesy’s jovial croak is cut off by the closing doors, but Nick and I wait until we’re back in his place before we speak again.
“Well?” I demand.
Wordlessly, he hands me a photograph and goes to hang up his jacket again while I look it over. “Who the fuck is Bill Harris?” I ask, following him back to the lounge.
“No clue.”
“Why does someone want you to kill him?”
“Again, no clue.”
“Who sent it?”
“Do I look like a goddamn psychic?” he snaps, and then sighs. “Look, Bianchi, I don’t know. Courier didn’t know, even when I, uh, encouraged him to think about it. We even called it in to his dispatch center and they didn’t have any info either. The return address is bogus and the name was John Smith.”
“Shit.”
“Yup.”
I’m already pulling out my phone to Google Bill Harris, but Nick puts a hand on my wrist as I start reading out the results. “You won’t find anything on this guy.”
“How do you know?”
“That ain’t his name. Come on, Harvard, look at the guy. He’s a Family man whatever else he is. No way his name’s Bill fucking Harris.” I study the picture again. I do see what he means. If I were casting for a Hollywood remake ofThe Godfather, this dude would be on the list for Background Heavy #1. “But,” Nick continues, “if he was making so much trouble around the City that someone wanted him taken out, I’d definitely know his face. So maybe he’s not in the game anymore. Or maybe he’s from out of town.”
“So that means…?” I prompt.
“It means we need to consult with history.”
“Mysterious. Does this involve more conversations in alleyways?”
Nick gives me a look from the side of his eyes. “Listen, Harvard, I know we agreed that today would be your day for running things,” he begins, but I already know exactly where he’s going with this.
“Let me stop you right there.” I pause just to let him sigh, then continue. “This is the first lead we’ve had and I think we should follow it up. Find out who he is, but more importantly, who might want him dead. Who would benefit. Agreed?”
His eyebrows go up. “Agreed.”
“Did you really think I was gonna say, ‘No, Nicky, I wanna stay here and take some more notes’?”
He grins at that. “Frankly, Harvard, just about everything you do and say comes as a surprise to me.”
I’m flattered, although I’m not sure if he meant it that way. “I’m a lawyer. That means I think on my feet, I pivot when I need to, and I chase rabbits down holes when I get a gut feeling that it might be the right hole. And I didn’t mean that in a dirty way, either.” I slap my hands together and give Nick an expectant look. “Well? Let’s get moving.”
* * *
I half expectedNicky to take us to a library after his comment about history, but we end up in Queens at place called Boccalone Italian Social Club. Queens is not my favorite place to be, and I’m not sure why Nick is so adamant that this is where we’ll get information, but he is. He assures me that if anyone knows anything about Bill Harris, they’ll be among “the old gossips,” as he calls them.
When we set foot inside, I start to see that he has a point. There are a lot of older folks, retirees, gray head after gray head sitting around watching races on wall-mounted televisions, eating lunch in an open restaurant area, and playing chess or checkers in the corners. And here and there I see a familiar face, the kind that gives me pause.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, after Nick has signed me into the place. His name is on the approved list as a permanent guest of his uncle’s, which made me give my first double take. And now I’m trying not to stare too hard at the white-haired man walking by on his way out to have a cigarette. “Is that who I think it is?”
Nick chuckles. “Depends who you think it is.”
I give up and stare after him, although I’m the only person in the lobby who seems remotely interested. “What the hell is hedoinghere, walking around without protection like that?”
