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"Anthony, something has come up," Mr. Ricco Baltazari, proprietor of Ristorante Alfredo, said to Mr. Anthony Clark (formerly Cagliari), resident manager of the Oaks and Pines Lodge, over the telephone. Mr. Clark was in his office overlooking the third tee of the Oaks and Pines Championship Golf Course. Mr. Baltazari was in a pay telephone booth in the lower lobby of the First Philadelphia Bank amp; Trust Building on South Broad Street.
"What's that?"
"The financial documents you're going to send me…"
"They're on their way, Ricco, relax. The van just left, not more than a couple minutes ago."
"That's not good enough. It'll take him for fucking ever to get to Philly."
"What do you want me to do, get in my car and bring them my fucking self?" Mr. Clark said, a slight tone of petulance creeping into his voice.
"It's not what I want, Anthony. It's what you know who, our mutual friend, wants," Mr. Baltazari said. "He wants those financial documents right fucking now."
There was a moment's silence.
"The only thing I could do, Ricco," Mr. Clark said, "is put somebody in my car and send him after the van, see if he could catch it, you understand?"
"Do it, Anthony. Our mutual friend is very anxious to get his hands on those financial documents just as soon as he can."
"If I had known he wanted those documents in a hurry, I would have brought them myself, you understand that?"
"If I had known he wanted them, I would have come up and got the fuckers myself," Mr. Baltazari replied. "I just left him. He said I should tell you he wants them, as a special favor, right now."
"I'll do what I can, Ricco. You want I should call our friend and tell him what I'm doing, in case my guy can't catch the van? Or will you do that?"
"He don't give a shit what you're doing. All he wants is the fucking markers. How you do that is your business."
"I tell my guy to take them right to our mutual friend?"
"You tell your guy to bring them to me, at the restaurant. When I got them, I'm to call our friend."
"Ricco, I would be very unhappy if I was to learn that you weren't telling me the whole truth about this."
"Anthony, get your guy on the way, for Christ's sake!"
"Yeah," Mr. Clark said, and hung up.
Mr. Clark took a pad of Oaks and Pines notepaper from his desk, and a pen from his desk set.
On one sheet of paper, he wrote, "Give Tommy the envelope I gave you, A.C." and on the other he wrote Ristorante Alfredo, Ricco Baltazari, and the address and telephone number.
Then Mr. Clark went down to the money room off the casino. There he found Mr. Thomas Dolbare sitting all alone on one of the stools in front of the money counting table, on which now sat a small stack of plastic bank envelopes. Mr. Dolbare, a very large and muscular twentyeight-year-old, was charged with the security of last night's take until the messenger arrived from Wilkes-Barre to take it for deposit into six different, innocently named bank accounts in Hazelton and Wilkes-Barre.
"Tommy," Mr. Clark said, "what I want you to do is take my car and chase down the van. He just left. He always goes down Route 611. Stop him, give him this, and he'll give you an envelope. You then take the envelope to Mr. Baltazari. I wrote down the address and phone number."
Mr. Clark gave Mr. Dolbare both notes.
"Right."
"As soon as you have it, go to a pay phone and call me. Or if you can't catch the van, call me and tell me that too."
"I'll catch it," Mr. Dolbare said confidently. He was pleased that he was being given greater responsibility than sitting around in a fucking windowless room watching money bags.
"Don't take a gun," Mr. Clark said. "You won't need it in Philadelphia."
"Right," Mr. Dolbare said, and took off his jacket and the.357 Magnum Colt Trooper in its shoulder holster, and then put his jacket back on.
