mask a moment's lightheadedness, he leaned an elbow on the old Formica counter that held the espresso machine. He put down his coffee cup and began. "Most of you already know that my daughter Angelina is miss—"
His voice broke and he was ashamed. He drank some water and summoned rage to bully out the humiliating fear. Rage came easily as he looked out at his colleagues, sitting at card tables on ill-assorted chairs or leaning against the pool table where no one ever shot pool. These men were his allies, the closest thing he had to friends, but he would be ready in a heartbeat mortally to hate any of them, even his brothers, if it turned out that anything they'd done had led to Angelina's disappearance.
"—missing," he resumed, his voice edgier, louder. "We're here today to see if anyone has any idea where she is or how she got there."
His eyes panned accusingly, his mouth twitched, showing teeth. No one spoke. A few of the men had espresso cups in front of them, but they didn't pick them up, they didn't want to draw attention by even the softest rattling against the saucer. In the silence Paulie's anger and frustration swelled like mushrooms in the dark.
"Pete!" he spat out after a pause, and a thin young man whose nerves were chafed red on amphetamines jerked in his chair like a yanked marionette. "You still fuckin' with Pugliese unions?"
"No, Paul. No," said the wild-eyed soldier. "Funzie tol' me back off on that, I backed off months ago, I swear."
Paul sucked his gums, drank more water, turned on another of his minions.
"Butch, your Florida stuff—you makin' enemies wit' that?"
Butch was calm, well-dressed, and businesslike. "Everything's been divvied up," he said, "negotiated. I don't see that there's a problem."
Paulie paced. He didn't have much room, it was mostly just shifting weight from one foot to the other, turning his head from side to side. Noise of trucks and honking taxis came in from the street, people walked past the iron shutters talking loudly, heedless of these obsolete men with their quaint rituals and violent sorrows. Paul suddenly slapped the counter, slapped it hard enough so that tiny spoons did somersaults and attention was riveted as at the crack of a gun.
"Goddammit!" he said through a hard throat behind clamped teeth. "God fucking dammit!"
He leaned forward now, a thick hand raised as though to slap and pummel. Veins stood out in his forehead. His shoulders bunched up like the shoulders of a bear, his squat neck billowed with forced hot blood. "If any of you fuckers have been fucking up out there, if any of you have been using my name, turning people against me, I swear to Christ I'll have your fucking—"
A soft voice interrupted him. "Paul," it said. "Be fair."
It was Benno Galuppi talking. He was the only one who would have dared break in on Paulie's rant, the only one who could talk so softly and be sure that he'd be heard.
"You don't make accusations," the underboss continued. "You don't make threats like that."
Paulie Amaro was breathing hard, his arms and legs were pumped and nervous, like the limbs of a man pulled away from a fight that's just begun. He stared at Galuppi from underneath a blur of tangled, knitted brows. He didn't speak.
"We sympathize, Paul," Galuppi said. "We all do. We know how you must feel."
Bullshit , Paulie thought. Not a man alive knew how he felt, to contemplate with horror and self-hate the possibility that his own hoarded sins had crashed down and destroyed his child.
"But Paul," the underboss went on, "her disappearing, there's no reason to assume—"
"Then where is she?" her father almost whispered, his rage suddenly melted to undisguised desperation, grief.
People breathed shallow, tried not to move their feet against the scratched linoleum. To Paulie's men, to his brothers, it was as fearsome seeing him brought low as seeing him enraged.
Benno Galuppi softly cleared his throat. In the instant before he spoke again, he flicked his eyes
His voice broke and he was ashamed. He drank some water and summoned rage to bully out the humiliating fear. Rage came easily as he looked out at his colleagues, sitting at card tables on ill-assorted chairs or leaning against the pool table where no one ever shot pool. These men were his allies, the closest thing he had to friends, but he would be ready in a heartbeat mortally to hate any of them, even his brothers, if it turned out that anything they'd done had led to Angelina's disappearance.
"—missing," he resumed, his voice edgier, louder. "We're here today to see if anyone has any idea where she is or how she got there."
His eyes panned accusingly, his mouth twitched, showing teeth. No one spoke. A few of the men had espresso cups in front of them, but they didn't pick them up, they didn't want to draw attention by even the softest rattling against the saucer. In the silence Paulie's anger and frustration swelled like mushrooms in the dark.
"Pete!" he spat out after a pause, and a thin young man whose nerves were chafed red on amphetamines jerked in his chair like a yanked marionette. "You still fuckin' with Pugliese unions?"
"No, Paul. No," said the wild-eyed soldier. "Funzie tol' me back off on that, I backed off months ago, I swear."
Paul sucked his gums, drank more water, turned on another of his minions.
"Butch, your Florida stuff—you makin' enemies wit' that?"
Butch was calm, well-dressed, and businesslike. "Everything's been divvied up," he said, "negotiated. I don't see that there's a problem."
Paulie paced. He didn't have much room, it was mostly just shifting weight from one foot to the other, turning his head from side to side. Noise of trucks and honking taxis came in from the street, people walked past the iron shutters talking loudly, heedless of these obsolete men with their quaint rituals and violent sorrows. Paul suddenly slapped the counter, slapped it hard enough so that tiny spoons did somersaults and attention was riveted as at the crack of a gun.
"Goddammit!" he said through a hard throat behind clamped teeth. "God fucking dammit!"
He leaned forward now, a thick hand raised as though to slap and pummel. Veins stood out in his forehead. His shoulders bunched up like the shoulders of a bear, his squat neck billowed with forced hot blood. "If any of you fuckers have been fucking up out there, if any of you have been using my name, turning people against me, I swear to Christ I'll have your fucking—"
A soft voice interrupted him. "Paul," it said. "Be fair."
It was Benno Galuppi talking. He was the only one who would have dared break in on Paulie's rant, the only one who could talk so softly and be sure that he'd be heard.
"You don't make accusations," the underboss continued. "You don't make threats like that."
Paulie Amaro was breathing hard, his arms and legs were pumped and nervous, like the limbs of a man pulled away from a fight that's just begun. He stared at Galuppi from underneath a blur of tangled, knitted brows. He didn't speak.
"We sympathize, Paul," Galuppi said. "We all do. We know how you must feel."
Bullshit , Paulie thought. Not a man alive knew how he felt, to contemplate with horror and self-hate the possibility that his own hoarded sins had crashed down and destroyed his child.
"But Paul," the underboss went on, "her disappearing, there's no reason to assume—"
"Then where is she?" her father almost whispered, his rage suddenly melted to undisguised desperation, grief.
People breathed shallow, tried not to move their feet against the scratched linoleum. To Paulie's men, to his brothers, it was as fearsome seeing him brought low as seeing him enraged.
Benno Galuppi softly cleared his throat. In the instant before he spoke again, he flicked his eyes
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