It wasn’t unexpected information, and it explained the presumably low-level grunt who’d been assigned to us, based on his car. But the weird thing was, whoever this Jack was, he didn’tactlike a grunt. He had the same kind of watchfulness I associated with Angelo, a stillness in his body that suggested strong mental concentration, even though Jack projected a much more laidback, open-book persona.
“Well, we’re here now,” I said. “And we’re not leaving till we have what we came for.” I shifted and accidentally kneed the back of Jack’s seat again. “Oops. Sorry.”
Jack sighed. “You mind keeping your puppy crated while he’s in the car?” he asked Angelo.
“Hey,” I said.
“Bax, maybe you should sit back a little?” Angelo suggested.
I did so, glowering, while Jack talked on. “So listen, it’s getting on for lunchtime, and I bet that growing boy back there needs regular feeding. Am I right?” My stomach growled at the thought of food, and I slapped my arm around it, willing it silent. Jack grinned. “And you, Mr. Messina?”
“I could eat,” Angelo said.
“Okay, then,” Jack said. “Thing is, I don’t wanna inflict the sandwich shop on you where my regular crew hangs out. I’m thinking we head out to Glendale and stop at a place I know there, make some plans while we eat. Happy?”
“Whatever you think,” Angelo said, but under the lightness in his tone I heard the watchfulness return.
Like me, he wasn’t yet fully convinced of our safety with Jacopo.
Chapter Two
The lunch place Jack knew turned out to be a dingy bar with a mini-mart next door that sold refrigerated sandwiches. Jack said he’d cover us, so I picked the triple-decker beef, pastrami and bacon, which was the most expensive—although expensive was a relative term. But I had to pay him back somehow for the puppy comment.
Angelo passed on the sandwich and got a protein bar instead. Once we trooped next door to the bar, I started to think he’d had the right idea as I bit into my sandwich. Still, I was hungry, and I wasn’t about to drink my calories as Jack seemed inclined to do, ordering a beer for himself. Angelo stuck with water and I ordered a diet soda.
“The Boss called me yesterday,” Jack said once his beer had arrived, “so I got a head start on this Greco. He’s sitting pretty with the Bernardis while he’s here.”
“The Bernardis,” Angelo said, looking at me. “Makes sense.”
“Does it?” Jack asked.
“The Bernardis were originally a Clemenza satellite,” I told him, putting my sandwich down as I searched my memory banks for what I knew about the various Families operating out of Los Angeles. “During Prohibition, the Clemenza Boss sent his brother-in-law, Paolo Bernardi, out here to LA to set up a bootlegging business, start a few speakeasies. Bernardi and Clemenza fell out over profits, and the Bernardis broke away to do their own thing. They never became as powerful here in LA as the Clemenzas were in New York, though.”
Jack gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret. “And why’s that?”
“A few reasons. First, the Italian Mafia just never got as much traction here as they did back East or in Vegas, because there were fewer of them, and there was more competition with other criminal syndicates as Hollywood started to take off. Second, organized crime was always more stratified in Los Angeles because of the layout of the city. Compared to New York, it’s sprawling, more disconnected, and that made it harder to keep control over large territories. Crime here had less chance to get, well,organized. It’s fascinating, actually, when you look at the effects of geography and urban planning—”
“Oh, real fascinating,” Jack said, but at my glare he lifted his beer to me. “I mean it, Professor Biceps. I learned something here today.” Over by the bar, a customer—large, bearded and tattooed everywhere his skin was visible, banged a fist on the counter. “But maybe we should get back to Greco? Unless you got any more history to lay on me.”
The guy at the bar—a biker, judging by the patches on his jacket—was beginning to raise his voice. In one hand he held a pool cue, and he shook it at the bartender. “—cutmeoff!” I heard him snarl. Angelo and I glanced at each other. We were thinking the same thing. Trouble was coming.
“What do you suggest?” Angelo asked Jack in the meantime, as I kept an eye on the bar. “Where do the Bernardis tend to congregate?”
“You know what, hold that thought,” Jack said, as the biker grabbed the bartender by his shirt collar. Jack set his hat down on the table as he stood. Angelo and I were already halfway out of our seats as well, but he motioned us back down. “No need to trouble yourselves, gentlemen. You just enjoy the show.”
So Angelo and I watched Jack approach the biker, who was now hissing into the face of the terrified bartender.
“Our new friend might be about to get his ass beat,” I said to Angelo. “Think I should intervene? Pretty sure I could take the guy down.”
“I’m absolutely certain you could,” Angelo said, and his eyes traveled with appreciation over my arms. “But let’s watch Jack work, eh? We can intervene if necessary.” He sat back in his seat and turned back to the scuffle with interest.
He was a big guy, the biker, and I fully expected him to lay out Jack with a single punch. My brain was already observing and categorizing the various threats—pool cue, glasses, bottles; the biker wasn’t carrying a gun but could easily have a knife—when Jack reached him.
“There a problem here?”
“No problem,” the biker grinned, and then glared at the bartender again, who was trying to pull away from him. “S’long as this shit-for-brains gives me what I goddamn ordered.”
“Okay,” Jack said. “Why don’t we start with letting go of the guy? Think you’ve scared him enough.”
