both under the impression that Joe was still in Detroit, still working on cleaning up the Big Sid mess, but no one had seen him in days. They would have to contact him in the usual way, through an answering service in San Francisco. Joe always called back within hours, or no more than a day. DiEbola believed this service passed the message to another service, which passed it to another service and that to another. How long this chain was, he didn't know, but it was normally efficient. Only this time nothing happened.
What could this mean? Was Joe Service involved in the murder of Carmine? Was he acting at the behest of other bosses, perhapsannoyed at Carmine's disregard of the council ukase on the street trade? DiEbola's first impulse was to call his confidential contacts in the other mob satrapies around the country, feel it out. He might be able to get a hint that one or more of the other bosses were behind this. But then he decided no. It wouldn't do, in these first few days in office, to betray this kind of alarm. No one in Detroit had argued against DiEbola's assumption of power, but this was not necessarily true elsewhere.
Instead, he called in the man whom Guiliano had replaced as driver, one Peter Merino, a middle-aged man who had driven for Carmine for many years. He was a cousin of Carmine's wife.
The interview took place in Carmine's old office, at Krispee Chips, under the eye of the rat. Peter was very nervous. He had called in sick the morning of the killing, he said, because he was sick. Not only that, his whole family was sick—his wife and his two kids. They were sick to their stomachs.
“What is this, food poisoning?” Humphrey asked with horror. In his mind nothing could be more evil than food poisoning. If you couldn't trust your food, what could you trust?
“Bad milk,” Peter said. “I'm sure it was the milk. The kids was throwin’ up, the old lady was throwin’ up, I was heavin’ my guts—an’ all I did was put a little in my coffee! The kids had it in their Froot Loops! It coulda killed ‘em!”
“What did you do with the milk?” Humphrey wanted to know.
“The old lady threw it out,” Peter said. “I was mad as hell, I was gonna sue the dairy, the store, everybody. But she's that way, she poured it down the drain before anyone used any more of it. Hell, the fuckin’ cat threw up and shit all over the house!”
This was ominous. Humphrey called on the widow of Carlo, the bodyguard. Had Carlo been ill that morning? No, she said, but maybe he was a little sleepier than usual. She had been sleepy too, even though they'd had coffee together, as usual. She'd gone back to bed, which she never did.
Humphrey visited Carmine's widow, the beauteous art collector Annamaria. She said she had noticed that Carlo seemed a bit slow when he came by with Guiliano that morning. When Carmine asked why Guiliano was driving, Carlo had just yawned and said he didn't know. Carmine was annoyed but that was all.
Humphrey didn't find out any more than that, but it was enough. Someone had been diabolically clever, he saw. A faithful, competent driver is sick; a bodyguard is a bit slow; not enough to raise the alarm, but enough to lower the defenses and increase the odds for a successful hit. A very daring and flamboyant hit, practically on the boss's threshold.
So, a clever killer and at least one accomplice to drive. A small person. A very smart person, bold and ruthless. If you knew Joe Service at all, you knew he was small, very clever, bold, and ruthless. When Humphrey didn't hear from Joe Service in the next few days, he was forced to make a reluctant connection.
This information had to be passed to the rest of the leadership around the country. It was a little sticky at first. But Humphrey was able subtly to communicate the idea that it was the fault of Carmine, who had evidently alienated Joe Service and then enlisted him in some unknown enterprise—Humphrey hadn't known a thing about it, or so
What could this mean? Was Joe Service involved in the murder of Carmine? Was he acting at the behest of other bosses, perhapsannoyed at Carmine's disregard of the council ukase on the street trade? DiEbola's first impulse was to call his confidential contacts in the other mob satrapies around the country, feel it out. He might be able to get a hint that one or more of the other bosses were behind this. But then he decided no. It wouldn't do, in these first few days in office, to betray this kind of alarm. No one in Detroit had argued against DiEbola's assumption of power, but this was not necessarily true elsewhere.
Instead, he called in the man whom Guiliano had replaced as driver, one Peter Merino, a middle-aged man who had driven for Carmine for many years. He was a cousin of Carmine's wife.
The interview took place in Carmine's old office, at Krispee Chips, under the eye of the rat. Peter was very nervous. He had called in sick the morning of the killing, he said, because he was sick. Not only that, his whole family was sick—his wife and his two kids. They were sick to their stomachs.
“What is this, food poisoning?” Humphrey asked with horror. In his mind nothing could be more evil than food poisoning. If you couldn't trust your food, what could you trust?
“Bad milk,” Peter said. “I'm sure it was the milk. The kids was throwin’ up, the old lady was throwin’ up, I was heavin’ my guts—an’ all I did was put a little in my coffee! The kids had it in their Froot Loops! It coulda killed ‘em!”
“What did you do with the milk?” Humphrey wanted to know.
“The old lady threw it out,” Peter said. “I was mad as hell, I was gonna sue the dairy, the store, everybody. But she's that way, she poured it down the drain before anyone used any more of it. Hell, the fuckin’ cat threw up and shit all over the house!”
This was ominous. Humphrey called on the widow of Carlo, the bodyguard. Had Carlo been ill that morning? No, she said, but maybe he was a little sleepier than usual. She had been sleepy too, even though they'd had coffee together, as usual. She'd gone back to bed, which she never did.
Humphrey visited Carmine's widow, the beauteous art collector Annamaria. She said she had noticed that Carlo seemed a bit slow when he came by with Guiliano that morning. When Carmine asked why Guiliano was driving, Carlo had just yawned and said he didn't know. Carmine was annoyed but that was all.
Humphrey didn't find out any more than that, but it was enough. Someone had been diabolically clever, he saw. A faithful, competent driver is sick; a bodyguard is a bit slow; not enough to raise the alarm, but enough to lower the defenses and increase the odds for a successful hit. A very daring and flamboyant hit, practically on the boss's threshold.
So, a clever killer and at least one accomplice to drive. A small person. A very smart person, bold and ruthless. If you knew Joe Service at all, you knew he was small, very clever, bold, and ruthless. When Humphrey didn't hear from Joe Service in the next few days, he was forced to make a reluctant connection.
This information had to be passed to the rest of the leadership around the country. It was a little sticky at first. But Humphrey was able subtly to communicate the idea that it was the fault of Carmine, who had evidently alienated Joe Service and then enlisted him in some unknown enterprise—Humphrey hadn't known a thing about it, or so
Similar Books
