McCormick was obviously trying not to look excited. “Do you think we’re going to Little Italy? The Bowery?”
“I think we should concentrate on following their tail without getting noticed,” Joe muttered.
“Right.” After that, the kid was quiet, the cords in his neck visible as he craned to keep an eye on Moretti’s car. Joe kept at least one vehicle between them at all times, sometimes more.
The drive was easy. One straight shot down 6th Street, for about two miles. If Moretti’s driver had suspected a tail, they’d have turned a few times in an attempt to shake it off. Instead, the Rolls pulled to a stop in plain sight across from 77 MacDougal Street, in the Italian South Village.
“Italian Rifle Club,” Joe said as he parked the car about half a block away. He pointed at the three conjoined Gothic Revival rowhouses adorned with full-height cast-iron balconies on all three levels.
McCormick peered through the windshield. “I don’t see a sign.”
“Trust me.”
“I do.”
The young man was growing on Joe, that was sure. “It doesn’t have a sign out front, but it’s been in this location since last year. Its official name isTiro A Segno, which means ‘Fire at the target.’” He paused to watch Tony Moretti enter the building. “It’s members only in there. This is as close as we get until he comes out again.”
“If it’s a club with membership, we can find out who the other members are to see who his associates might be.”
“But we’re not about to waltz in there and ask for a list,” Joe added. “We don’t want to risk Tony getting suspicious.”
A bang on the roof of the car shot adrenaline through Joe. In the next instant, a hand gloved in black was knocking on Joe’s window.
“Can I help—Mr. Moretti.” Joe rolled down the window. “Nice to see you again.”
“Hey, Joe.” Ray Moretti laughed. “I thought that was you. Are you here for the club? You’re Italian, right? Caravello?”
“Half Italian.”
“Can’t half Italians be members? They got a thing for purebreds or what?”
Joe shrugged. “I’m not a member yet. My friend here is definitely not Italian, so...”
Ray leaned down and looked at McCormick. “Nice to meet you. This is the first time I’ve seen you without Dr. Westlake. You two still working together?”
“No,” Joe said truthfully. “She has enough to do with her own job. I released her as a consultant.”
“Well, win some, lose some, right? Say, I don’t want to be rude, Joe, but I’m freezing out here. Why don’t you boys come in and be my guests. Get a coffee, read the paper.” When Joe hesitated, Ray added, “It won’t be a problem. I’ll vouch.”
Joe smiled.
Inside the rifle club, a warm glow pervaded an atmosphere of newsprint, roasted coffee, and men’s cologne. Newspapers in English and Italian draped a rack near the front door. Loud conversation grew louder as it ricocheted off wood-paneled walls. Framed photographs celebrated famous members, past and present. There was Enrico Caruso, the opera tenor. There was Fiorello La Guardia, formerly on the New York City Board of Aldermen, currently serving in Congress.
Tony Moretti wasn’t in sight.
While Ray vouched for them with a stocky Italian wearing a shoulder harness beneath his jacket, Joe glanced at McCormick and sent him what he hoped was a reassuring nod. A nod that said he hadn’t planned on dragging the kid into this place, but he’d safely see him out again.
They went deeper inside, passing through smaller rooms with round tables lit by votive candles and wall sconces. Hearty greetings followed Ray. This was gold. Joe studied and memorized everyface. It could be Joe had seen them before in a daily lineup. But they wouldn’t recognize him. That’s why the detectives wore masks. He couldn’t ask for a better in to see who Ray’s friends were. The assignment for tonight had been to watch Tony. But friends of one brother might be friends of the other.
“So, Joe, what’s your pleasure?” Ray turned a broad smile on him. “You’re not going to raid the joint for booze, are you?”
“That’s not why I’m here.” But he didn’t doubt that a little gin, if not something stronger, made its way into the coffee mugs.
“Didn’t think so. Say, how about a little target practice for you and your friend?”
So far, McCormick had not been named, and Joe didn’t mind keeping it that way. The less the Morettis knew about the young officer, the better. Call it paranoia, call it instinct. But Joe didn’t like the idea of these brothers getting familiar with such a young, impressionable cop.
“Come on. You’ll blow off some steam.” Ray led them down the dark stairway, toward the percussive sound of shooting.
